#and loafed on marias lap

[sophbun]

tbh.......................loaf

#shadow the hedgehog #sonic the hedgehog #sonic #my art #baby shadow #what if he wasnt bipedal when he was born huh #what if he walked on 4 legs #and loafed on marias lap #thank you for listening

[dreamyshape]

Hi! If/when you're ok with it, could you do something, for like, say Bug and Marco were hanging out and Bug accidently fell asleep on him? Like a one-shot? Only if you're ok with it though.

Sorry this took forever! School has been a pain in my ass so I got behind on asks!

Nother bug and Marco one shot!

Looks like you’re the ‘Bed’bug now!

“Hey, bedbug, that leg of yours feeling well enough for a day out? Bodie wanted all of us to have ‘family bonding’ or something like that.” You look up at the slim gator from the book you were reading and nod. He uncrosses his arms and holds out a scaled hand to pull you up from your sitting position before turning and speed walking out of the room with you closely behind. When he opens the door he stands to the side so that you can exit and then closes the door behind you. Letting your eyes adjust to the harsh sunlight you notice Bodie and Timmy are lounging in a nearby River. You can’t help but giggle to yourself when Timmy splashes Bodie, who retaliates tenfold. Not wanting to strain your leg playing in the water, you opt to sit with Marco and Maria in the shade. Walking over to the tall willow tree, you settle a foot away from Marco and close your eyes to feel the sun against your face. Maria caws beside you and you open your eyes to look at the black bird. You gently pet her with your index finger before leaning back against the tree. Maria, being a creature of opportunity, hopes into your lap and decides to become a loaf. You lightly giggle and Marco looks up from his sketch book before looking back. You lift your head up towards the water and smile as Timmy and Bodie wrestle (Timmy is losing badly) and absentmindedly pet at Maria’s feathers. She’s soft enough that the tension from your shoulders vanishes and you relax against the hard bark of the willow tree. You close your eyes again and listen to the faint buzzing of insects flying bye. Everything is so peaceful that you can’t help but close your eyes.

Marco pauses his sketching and looks over at you, realizing that you have fallen asleep and are now leaning against his shoulder with Maria happily cawing in your lap. He feels the scales along his face heat up as his shoulders tense from the contact. He hears Timmy give a high pitched whistle, “Getting lovey dovey over there?” Marco can only give a glare, he doesn’t want to shout and wake you up. “Come now Tim Tim, let’s not tease Marco.” Bodie tries and fails to hide the wide smile plastered on his face. Marco looks back down at you, you look so peaceful with your eyes closed and cheek squished against his shoulder. He looks down at Maria and watches her stretch her wings out before hopping off your lap. The sudden disappearance of the crowd weight stirs you from sleep. You pull your head of Marco’s shoulder and stretch your arms above your head, hearing your joints pop. You look back over at Marco and take note of his heated face. “You alright there?” Marco coughs and quickly nods his head. You can hear Timmy and Bodie laughing to themselves and then the splash of water as they exit. “Looks like all of us have been out here for long enough. The sun is already going down. Let’s all head inside.” Bodie shakes off and grabs a towel he put out earlier. You stand up before turning and hold your a hand for Marco. He takes it and hoists himself up, taking a moment to stretch. You and Bodie start to head inside while Timmy walks over to Marco. “You call them bedbug but for a while you were their bed.” Marco takes his sketch book and whacks Timmy with it, causing Maria to cackle. “Alright, alright! Quit it!” Timmy whines before running to catch up with you and Bodie. Marco stands there for another minute before speed walking after him.

When I said Maria was loafing I meant this:

#asmr roleplay #gator boys #obsidian lantern #asmr #asmr rp #mage bunkshelf #capitalmaudios

[tamagochiie]

a line without a hook | part three.

part three. “merely tolerable, really.”

chapter synopsis. Had you known freedom tasted like this, you wouldn’t have bothered to form an attachment with Mr. Ackerman. Was there really a point in what you were doing? 

word count. 7.5k

tags. swearing, angst, tones of misogyny

notes. This is a very late post, and I apologize for that, but I hope you enjoy this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it. As for the upcoming chapter for this week, there may been another delay. I’ve been swamped with a lot of assignments and its my finals week, so I hope you all understand :/ 

back to master list

<< part two. | part four. >>

Your mother always told you gossip to women is like honey to a swarm of flies: you can catch more of them depending how sweet the scandal is. But she never thought to tell you what it'd be like if you were the honey, that the women would stick to you, drinking the life out of every little thing you do and unpack it together with their girl friends over afternoon tea and biscuits.

Your name, along with Mr. Ackerman's, had travelled from one tongue to the other in the last four days.

Each story are more intricately fabricated than the last. You heard all sorts of things, too many thing to keep track of — something about Mr. Ackerman's family background and more so yours, but you didn't want to pay heed over something that didn't come directly from the man himself.

And just the other day, while you commuted to town to deliver Reiner's forgotten lunch, you overhead a group of women whispering that you were already singing with the church bells.

You had shuddered at the thought and assumed it was something your mother must've cooked up given how she easily melted at Mr. Ackerman's feet when he came to visit a few days ago.

You and Mr. Ackerman were both aware that his visit, and all the kind and loving words he had said before you and your family, were merely for show. And that it was for purpose of sweeping your house clean of all trespassers and violators of your freedom.

But nonetheless, even with a letter that came to heed you of his visit, you were still left utterly speechless.

Mr. Ackerman had strolled into your cozy home, he hadn't been swathed in his usual drab choice of clothing, but settled with more pleasing fashion that didn't say,"I'm pessimistic and moody, and I've got a reputation for killing for sport".

He had been bathed in shades of blue, but still leaned on the darker side of the color spectrum. It had been a good change save for his signature cravat, and it led you to wonder just how many he owned.

You came to the conclusion he owned quite enough to be stitched together and make a thick and long blanket to last through the winter.

However, what had left you gobsmacked and rapidly blinking in succession was not Mr. Ackerman's slight change of style, but the little smirk across his lips while he spoke to your mother. His tone hadn't been clipped and did not drip in annoyance, but was a twinge softer — completely out of pocket for a man with a reputation for being dark and brooding.

Sasha, on the other hand, had been easily tickled in pure curiosity by Mr. Ackerman, poking and prodding him with peculiar and rather personal questions. You had expected he'd yell at her, seeing he'd be the kind of person to do that.

But he didn't snap. It was obvious his patience had been wearing thing, so he kept his replies quick and short just like his temper.

Pieck never spoke a word, but had instead observed the exchange as she sat on the couch, sandwiched between Connie and Jean while your mother had done her best to entertain Mr. Ackerman in small talk even though the man reeks of disdain for it.

Though Mr. Ackerman had successfully wooed your mother, and probably the rest of your sisters and Connie, Reiner was anything but.

Your brother protectively glued himself to your side, glaring down at Mr. Ackerman with a vexed look plastered across his scruffy face. Unfortunately, Reiner's attempt to be intimidating had fallen short and made you not only you, but Mr. Ackerman, suppress a stifling laugh.

Regardless of your brother's wishes, Mr. Ackerman's visit had been deemed fruitful. Your mother's eyes as well as her heart completely set on Mr. Ackerman and Mr. Ackerman alone.

To which both requests you firmly nodded and smiled at.

But your smile had been quick to fade.

You agreed to this little sham because you admired your freedom, but ever since Mr. Ackerman's visit, despite no men coming to bother you from the early hours of the morning till the late afternoon, you find yourself anything but free.

Your mother, the seventh circle of your personal hell, has taken it upon herself to berate you—tells you to make more of an effort on your appearance. She'll comment on how you sit, how you speak or how you eat, and every other thing you do.

You may have been liberated by the lusting grips of men, your mother's iron clad hold on even the thought of you being a few steps away from marriage is much tighter, and much more stubborn than you ever imagined.

So you spend your days hidden in your room, away from your mother and the rest of the world.

Sometimes you'll read or stare out the window, and when you do decide to step out of your little bubble, you'll be sure to check if the coast is clear from any possibly ambushes from your mother.

Though the only time you really do go out is to check the mail to see if Mr. Ackerman has written to you — he has not — or spend some time with your great love, your horse, Maria.

But for the most part, you plant yourself on the couch right up against window sill with your back slumped on the wall and legs sprawled out. You stare outside, not really looking at anything in particular.

Maybe the chickens.

You heavily sigh, fogging up the class as you gaze idly, twirling the ends of your hair. You grow jealous of the chickens and the roosters because at least they have their freedom. Their simple minds and their simple lives; the lay eggs and crow at dawn.

Damn chickens, you seethe in thought.

There's a faint knocking on your bedroom door that cease your internal tanget. You turn your head as the door creaks open, revealing your sister, Sasha, poking her head out between the gap. A friendly smile adorns her pink lips as she holds a plate of food in her hands.

"Can I come in?" She asks, already stepping inside. "I brought you food. You've been cooped up in here for too long, I thought you might be hungry."

You chuckle and motion her to come in.

Sasha moves briskly and steps inside before shutting the door behind her. She tiptoes across the room and over to you. She lightly taps your foot to make room and you swing it off the couch.

She places the tray between the two of you. A few loaves of bread, some grapes, and other fresh fruit that you assume she's stolen from the batch Reiner's supposed to sell.

She swipes the loaf of bread, breaking it in half and hands you the bigger piece before chewing her's down.

"You alright?" She asks, her words muffled by the bread. "Mamma's gotten under your skin, hasn't she?"

You bob your head, humming in response as you eat the bread bit by bit, taking your time.

Sasha follows your line of sight, checking to see what you've been so keenly staring at. Only to find that it's just a bunch of chickens running around.

"I'm overwhelmed," You confess breathily. You pull your legs up to your chest and rest your chin onto your knees. "I don't like the feeling one bit."

"Is it because of Mr. Ackerman?" Sasha looks at you with concern outlining the softness of her face. You don't really reply, just lulling your head in thought. "You surprise me, you know."

"I do?"

Sasha hums delightfully as she takes her last bite of her bread before moving onto the grapes.

"For someone who admires her freedom and never spared an interest in even the thought of forming an attachment, you latched onto Mr. Ackerman rather quickly." Sasha had always been mistaken for an idiot at a surface level, but she's a lot more perceptive than people give her credit for — than you give her credit for. And for once, you hated it. "One could even say that it's a bit...odd. But you've always been off, so maybe it isn't so out of the blue."

"Oh, how you read me so well," You say, sarcasm oozing from your words. You take a quick bite of bread.

"What's he like?"

You shrug your shoulders, pouting in thought. "I've only ever met him thrice," You point out, laughing at the curiosity avidly pooling from her eyes. "There's not much I can judge. If anything, I think you'd know more than me since you've pummeled the poor man with one too many questions."

Sasha takes the tray of food and scooches closer to you before putting it on her lap.

"But that's different! You've gotten first hand experience. Is he really like all the rumors?" She asks, a little too keenly. "Is he really as mean as they say? Because when he visited the house, he seemed too stiff for comfort."

You snort and are quick to cover your mouth to keep the bread from spilling from your lips.

"Mm, well, Mr. Ackerman is man of few words and very few expression, but he seems...genuine?" You don't mean for it to come out sounding like a question, but the more you speak, the more you're hit with the realization you know absolutely no idea who the man is.

All you're really left with is his hatred for attention, and your mutual need for peace. Everything else you try to think of comes up short.

Mr. Ackerman hasn't written a letter to you since his visit. It's not like he said he was going to, but a very small and naive part of you thought he would.

Sasha continues to rain down on you with more questions, but it isn't as persistent as you'd expect her to be. Its either her line of concentration snaps too quickly for you to formulate a response, or she's just too excited to hear more.

You answer what you can until you can no longer think. Eventually you're too tired to talk about you and the subject of the conversation shifts to Sasha.

"Hey, Sasha," You carefully speak between chews, minding the grape in your mouth. Sasha's eyes, still colored in hunger as she takes another loaf of bread, darts to look at you. "What about you, though?"

"Hmm?"

"You and..." You shift in your seat and lean in. "You and Nicolo - are you two really - Oh! My God, are you alright?"

Sasha nearly chokes on her bread. Clenching her fist, she beats her chest to help soothe the burn in her throat, coughing for air.

"Sasha!"

"I-I'm fine!" She finally says, swallowing thickly. "Sorry, yes, I'm fine."

"Do you need water?" Sasha shakes her head as she rests her hand on your shoulder to keep you still in case you choose to leave. You move even closer to rub her back to ease her, but once she does, a smirk plays across your lips and chuckle stumbles from your lips. "So, I guess it's true. You and Nicolo really are —"

"Shut up!" Sasha interjects, her head snapping up to look at you with wide eyes and flushed cheeks. "Please! I've had enough of mamma pestering me about this— ever since Pieck decided to tattle on me! If you're going to being just as annoying as her than—"

"I won't be!" You argue, your tone playful and lilting. "I'm only asking, and you're taking forever to say anything!"

"Well, fine! Alright." Sasha sharply huffs in defeat as she tosses her bread onto the tray and sets it back onto the couch. "Yes, okay, I suppose I might have feelings for Nicolo, but I don't know. I can't tell."

"You can't tell...?"

Sasha lets out another breath as she slumps against the wall. Her head tilts up to look at the cracked ceiling before looking back down to you, her bottom lip caught between her teeth as she picks the right words to convey how she feels. She nervously twiddles her thumbs while doing so.

"How do you even know when you like someone?"

You blink at Sasha, taken aback by her question while she looks at you eagerly.

You realize, after a few breaths, you don't have a definite answer because unlike Pieck, you've never really experienced the feeling yourself. You always lived vicariously through fictional characters you read in novels, and Mrs. Bloom's sweet story of how she met her husband.

But other than that, you come up short—you can't tell at all.

"I think I'm the wrong one to ask." You confess, causing Sasha to look at you quizzically as confusion stirs in her mind. "I haven't really found the answer myself, I'm sorry."

Sasha sighs dejectedly.

"It's best to ask Pieck, isn't it?"

"As me what?" Pieck's voice, delicate and laced in curiosity, has your heads turn to the bedroom door.

It seems you were both too deep into your conversation to hear her knocking.

Pieck stands by the door, her olive green dress flows in the gentle window coming from the opened window, her hair into the usual messy, low ponytail that falls down her shoulders; her eyes heavy-laden with sleepiness.

Your eyes trail down to her hand, finding a pile of letters tightly held in it.

"Pieck, what's that?" You ask, dismissing her question with a question.

"Now hold on," Pieck hides the letters behind her back, pressing herself against the door to create even more distance—as if the wide expanse of the room wasn't enough. "What's the question?"

Sasha rolls her eyes. "It's silly."

"Well, if it's from you, I'm sure it is."

Sasha grumbles at Pieck's sarcastic retort, and you watch as your two sisters begin to bicker.

"If you're going to be an ass, I won't tell you." Sasha crosses her arms and twists her body away from Pieck and towards the window, her eyes falling to the clucking hens.

Peick nimbly trots across the floor and over to Sasha's side, crashing into her and quickly wrapping her arms around her shoulders, nosing through Sasha's hair bunched up in a high pony as she rests her chin onto her shoulder.

"Go away!" Sasha growls, her face contorts a sour expression as her attempts to shove Pieck off fails.

"Oh, c'moooon," Pieck coos, peppering kisses over her little sister's cheek, "won't you tell me? I hate being left out, especially when it's the two of you."

Sasha grunts as she tries to pry away from Pieck, but only to be caught in sloppy kisses on the cheek and the temple of her forehead. Though Sasha visibly shows disgust, even you can see that she loves being showered in affection from Pieck.

Pieck, being the eldest and holding the most responsibility, had always held you both with great love and adoration.

"Alright!" Sasha yells in surrender, tangled in the arms of her sister and somehow in a headlock as Pieck sits behind her. "I'll tell you, I'll tell you! Let me go and give me room, please."

Sasha elbows Pieck away from her, giving her enough space to breathe, and you snatch the tray off the couch and onto your lap to keep it from falling.

And as Sasha begins to explain her little dilemma, Pieck comfortably sits herself behind her, propping her chin back onto her shoulder and winding her arm around her waist as she listens intently. Pieck's gentleness doesn't go unnoticed by Sasha, and you watch as she sinks in the hug.

Pieck clicks her tongue, her eyes look at you as she falls into a thought, not deep enough to overthink and get carried away as she finds the answer.

"Hmmm, love and likeness can be complicated, but only if you let it be." You tilt your head at Pieck as she continues on her train of thought. "But you can tell if you like someone if you enjoy being with them and find their company pleasant. Do you find Nicolo's company pleasant?"

Sasha mindlessly hums in thought as her head lulls back on Pieck's shoulder.

"I do, actually." Sasha admits without hesitation. "I think..." She takes a beat to suck her teeth as she continues to think about it a little more, "I like the food he makes and that he, well, never seems to be bothered by me..."

"He's always so kind—like his eyes. His smile's nice, too, I suppose. Whenever he speaks, whether it's about food or well, other things, I can't help but listen."

There it is, the shimmer of affection in her light brown eyes and the oh-so-subtle smile across her lips. You almost miss it, but the world stills around you as you're caught in her bubble.

Pieck gives you a knowing look, smiling playfully.

Without saying a word or even slipping a sound, you and Pieck come to the agreement that Sasha'll have to come to her own realization that he loves him. The question is when she'll arrive at it.

Sasha brushes it off, not wanting to muddle herself any longer. She plucks the letters from Pieck's grasp and eagerly swifts through the pile while humming thoughtfully, completely ignoring Pieck's groan of disdain.

It's the usual; a couple of people from your father's family, inquiring when you're to sell the estate, one from your distant aunt from your mother's side that never bothers to actually visit, but diligently sends letters whether it be rain or shine, and one for —

"You've got a letter!" Sasha chirps, snapping her head up to look at you before shoving it into your hands. "It's from Mr. Ackerman! He's finally written to you!"

You throw your legs over the edge of the couch, sitting upright and fixing your hair as if Mr. Ackerman's just right there, watching you as you open his letter with shaky breaths and nimble fingers.

You quickly but carefully open his letter, scanning through his words and your eyes bulge out of it's sockets.

"What's it say?" Pieck inquires, excitement dripping from her lips as she scooches closer to try and peak at the letter. "Will he be visiting again?"

You shake your head.

"Well, don't be shy!" Sasha whines, "What is it?"

You open and close your mouth, blinking frantically as your shock still rides through your body. "Mr. Ackerman would like me to visit him at his estate next Tuesday."

When your mother heard news of your presence being requested by Mr. Ackerman, she took it upon herself to teach everything you needed to know about being "prim and proper". She stole your remaining days of peace and prepped you as best as she could.

When it came time for you to leave, she was adamant that you opt to take horseback instead of taking the carriage. All, especially your brother Reiner, were completely against it when they noticed the storm clouds reeling in. But your mother was deeply rooted in her stance, firm like a tree that not even the wind of your brother's disdain could change her mind.

So there you stand, having been caught in the rain, dripping from head to toe as the Smith estate towers over you, as if it's ready to swallow you whole in one go. You have to crane your neck back in a particularly painful angle to get a good look of the entire building, and you’re sure you’re only seeing the very tip of the iceberg.

Your mother warned you it would be much larger than you were used to - you just never imagined it to look like something out of a book.

Shivering and tightly wrapping your coat over you to trap any warmth you might have left with one hand, you swiftly knock on the door with the other. A shuddering breath escapes you when the door creaks open, revealing a servant to greet you in.

“Ah, Miss,” The servant’s eyes widen in fright, flinching back.  His gulp is audible even with the thundering behind you. He scans you from head to toe, and he doesn’t bother to mask his sneering at your drenched frame and all the mud collected at the hem of your skirt. “You must be Miss Blouse, yes?” You greeted him with a sneeze, and briefly apologized. “Come quickly before you catch a cold.”

But your second and most aggressive sneeze yet tells him you might already have one.

“He’s been expecting you,” Is all the servant says before guiding you down that hall.

You rub your eyes, wiping your hairs sticking to your face as you take in the sight before you. The air in the estate is chilly and deadly quiet - enough to hear the sound of your clothes dripping with water and to catch the servant clicking his tongue at you.

You hold your breath; you didn’t think the estate could get any bigger, but it does. The hallway is vast and seemingly endless; portraits of many different men and women - all who you assume were probably family members of Mr. Smith because of the signature blonde hair and blue eyes - canvas over the great walls.

Giddiness tickles down from your chest and into your stomach as you trail behind the servant, your arms swaying to the side with a little skip in your step. You try your best to catch a peak at every room and hall you pass by, but everything moves in blur.

You can’t tell if you’re tired from your travels or if it's the pace you’re walking in. You take deep breaths, trying to pull yourself together as the servant ushers you into the drawing room.

“Mr. Ackerman will be here shortly,” is all he leaves you with, not bothering to spare another breath.

You’re surrounded by more paintings and books, but a particular painting catches your eye. It’s a portrait of a woman relaxed on a chair; she looks nothing like the ones outside.  She has soft features and kind eyes, her lips supple and plump with an endearing smile. Her dark hair flows down to her shoulders, framing her face.

You squint your eyes, inching towards it with your hands clasped behind your back to avoid reaching out to touch it. The longer you stare, you find a weird sense of familiarity in her. But you just can’t -

“You’re wet.” You snap your head towards the gravelly voice to find Levi standing by the door with his brows pulled down in horror. “You’ve tracked in so much rain water, I thought a dog had stalked in.”

“Oh, I’m quite fine - achoo! Thank you for asking - achoo!” Your feeble attempt to shoot down his sarcastic remark is embarrassingly interrupted by your persistent sneezing. You wipe your nose with the back of your glove, earning a look of disgust from Mr. Ackerman. “Excuse me, I got caught in the rain.”

“I couldn’t tell,” He clips with a tight lip. “You could catch a cold -”

“Achoo!”

“It seems you already have…” Mr. Ackerman groans, and you find yourself picking at your fingers in embarrassment, your head lowered to the floor. “Follow me, I’ll give you something to change out of.”

Mr. Ackerman wastes a single breath, nor does he allow you to. But instead, with the utmost jaded expression on his face, he turns on his heels and leaves the room, expecting you to follow. You have to admit, with a fuzzy feeling buzzing in your head and the sudden sensitivity to the ache in your bones, it takes you a moment to pick up what he says and follow suit.

Has it always been this chilly?

A tremble in your damp coat, exhaling tremulously as you trot down the hall behind Mr. Ackerman. Your struggle for warmth doesn’t fall on dear ears, but it does motivate him to pick up the pace, up the winding steps and into another hallway.

Your shoes continue to click against the marble, passing by paintings and statues; for a moment you mistaken yourself to be wandering around a museum and not someone else’s home. But your head is spinning and you can’t appreciate the art even if you wanted you - you can’t even glance at a painting without wanting to vomit.

Mr. Ackerman comes to a jagged halt, causing you to nearly stumble against him. He glares at you over his shoulder.

“Sorry,” You mutter before stumbling a few steps back to give him space.

“Wait in there,” He instructs dryly, “and I’ll get someone to help you in a bit.”

“Oh, I - I don’t understand -”

“You have a cold,” He points out, “and I don’t think you’ll appreciate it if it were me helping you change out of your clothes.”

Your cheeks flush and your heart paces quickly in your chest; embarrassment overwhelms you and you wish the ground would swallow you up. He’s too direct and it makes your knees a little wobbly along with the rest of your body - you’ve turned into jello.

“Just wait in there and there’ll be a maid to bring you clothes. I’ll meet you again once you’re done.”

“Oh, uh, thank you.” You whisper, your eyes finally snap from the floor and meet Mr. Ackerman’s same old arid visage, but there’s a tenuous, unfamiliar gleam in his eyes you can’t seem to read.

He sternly nods, but just before trodding off you call after him, “Mr. Ackerman?” Your voice hushed and trembly.

“Yes, Miss Blouse?” He watches you expectantly, his head faintly tilting to the side. “Is there something else?”

Ironically, despite Mr. Ackerman coldness and indifference, you can feel that he cares - his warmth. And you can’t help but feel dangerously eager, a little selfish even, for wanting more. You can’t help but want to push further, but you’re reminded of the rumors and prefer not to push your luck.

“Thank you,” You say with a smile, a genuine one that catches him off guard, but not that you can tell with your glossy eyes.  “Thank you fo - achoo! I appreciate your kindness, Mr. Ackerman.”

There’s a very, very subtle blush that spreads across his cheeks that reaches the tips of his ears, and maybe if it wasn’t for the odd lightly in the hallway, you would’ve caught it. But once again, Mr. Ackerman thanks his lucky stars and gulps, “Don’t mind it too much,” and spins on his heels before striding down the hallway.

You watch till his footsteps fade and his slender frame disappears as he turns the corner before finally looking at the door beside you. You stare at the door knob, your hand fidgeting over it before finally taking it in your hand and opening the door.

You gasp in awe, your eyes going round - the room can eat your house in a single bite. Even the bed that sits at the center, headboard pushed up against the wall, is bigger than the one your share with Pieck. Maybe bigger than the bed your mother and father shared.

You step inside, pushing the door shut behind you before twirling and taking in all the green and gold in the room. You’ve never seen so much gold - you’ve never seen gold in general, but here you are completely surrounded by it.

The strident knocking on the door causes you to still, staggering over your feet to find a familiar face greeting you with a cheerful smile, balancing a folded pile of clothes in their hand.

“Hange!” You squeak in shock, nearly losing your balance.

“Miss Blouse,” They playfully salute to you before entering in completely. “I saw you come in earlier and Levi said you’d be in here, so I thought to help. Though he did oppose, I'm not one to follow orders anyway.”

They cleverly wink at you, stretching their arm out to hand you the clothes and you meekly take it.

“How are you feeling?” They ask, taking a seat on the bed, “You can change over there, behind the partition,” They point to the other side of the room where it stands beside the window, and you quickly shuffling behind it.

You finally peel off your clothes, finally being freed by way your damp clothes and the way it clung to your body. You sigh heavily, tremulously.

“So, how are you feeling?” Hange’s voice echoes in the room from where they sit. They lean back on the heel of their palms, lulling their head bad carelessly as they wait for your response. “Levi said you might have a cold, and luckily for you, I’m a doctor.”

You hum in response, your focus directed on changing your clothes as quickly as possible.

“I’m, uh, I think I’m okay,” There’s a tingling in your skin and an unbearable ache in your bones. Your whole body feels sensitive; you’re not sure if you feel chilly or too warm. But you don’t want to be a burden, especially since you’re already borrowing someone else's clothes.

Whose are these anyway? You can’t imagine these are Hange’s, it’s way too small.

“He said you were sneezing!” They say, their voice slightly raising. “That you were sneezing a lot.”

“Probably just allergies!” You try and laugh it off, hoping Hange doesn’t press any further. But much to your displeasure, Hange isn’t one to simply let things go.

But the moment you step out from the partition, tying your hair up to keep from staining the dress, Hange strides over to you, placing her wrist onto your forehead and hums.

“You’re sick.”

“I’m fine.” You press.

“You’re a liar.”

“I'm not!” The whine that escapes your dried lips, takes enough energy from you to have your vision grow spotty and have your knees give in. Hange loops their arm around your waist and you slump onto their chest for support. “Right, maybe I am a liar,” You admit breathily, your eyes fluttering shut. “I’m really sorry, this is extremely impolite and my mother would kill me if she found me like this.”

“Never mind what your mother says,” They sigh before helping you over to the bed, “nothing good will come of thinking about what your mother says,”

You laugh softly, finding irony in their words.

The cushions are warm and comforting, pulling you into ease as you’re swayed by your need for rest. You try to combat it by blinking away, but drowsiness overtakes you like an unrelenting storm and you fall perilous to it the second your head sinks into the pillows.

You're greeted by a sharp, persistent ache in your head and a stubborn throb in your bones. You moan in discomfort and writhe beneath the cotton bed sheets.

You feel something cold dripping down your head, but before you can reach to check, you feel a wet cloth being placed on your forehead. You crack your eyes open and draw a bitter breath to find Mr. Ackerman towering over you. His brows pulled into a deep line of focus and his eyes colored in determination as if its taking all his verve to adjust the way the towel sits on your head.

He looks down at you and his expression softens.

It softens?

"You're awake," Mr. Ackerman notes. Maybe its the sickness, and that you're probably imagining it, but does Mr. Ackerman's tone sound a lot gentler? Its almost as if he's concerned for your well-being — almost as if he's worried and relieved you're finally awake. But his face remains unreadable, devoid of emotion. "You've been asleep for quite some time, but your temperature seemed persistent. Hange said as long as the rag is frequently changed then you should be better. How are you feeling?"

Does that mean he's been changing the rag? He said it should 'changed frequently' —

You arch your back when the ache in your bones come back stronger than ever. You whine in pain and drown back into the mattress.

"I don't feel too well," You croak, swallowing dryly.

"Do you need water?"

You can only nod.

Mr. Ackerman swiftly reaches for the glass of water that sits on the bedside table. You try and sit up , your bones feel like chalk as it grates against each other. You try to take it from him, but he raises his free hand to stop you. “Let me,” is all he says to you before bringing it up to your lips.

Baffled, you still drink it.

Your thoughts are still too foggy to draft a single thought. But all you is know your heart’s drumming in your chest and your breath is hitched in your throat for an entirely different reason that’s far from your cold.

You sigh in relief after a few gulps, muttering a ‘thank you’.

“Mr. Ackerman, you said that I’ve been asleep for quite some time,” You recount, looking at him puzzled, “How long have I been asleep?”

“Two days.” He replies flatly, as if he's not bothered by it at all.

“Excuse me?”

Mr. Ackerman hums as he falls back into his chair grabbing the book beside him before opening it up to the page he left off.

“You needn’t worry,” He eases without looking up to meet your eyes, as unbothered by the worry screaming in your eyes. “I’ve already written a letter to your mother the moment you fell asleep and informed her of your current state.”

“And what did she say of it?”

“She deeply apologizes for overstaying your welcome, but is pleased to know you’re in good hands.” Mr. Ackerman turns to the next page before he crosses his legs. His eyes flicker up to look at you to find irritation seeping out of your through eyes narrowed at an empty space on the floor, chewing on the inside of your cheek “I assured her that **you are in good hands, Miss Blouse.”

“I’m sorry,” You apologize again for the umpteenth time as you stressfully run your fingers through your hair. “My mother must’ve planned this in hopes that I may grow closer to you.”

Mr. Ackerman cocks his brow at you, “Are you blaming your mother for your cold? Shouldn’t you be blaming the weather, or that you rode on horseback on a rainy day?”

"I cannot blame my mother for my cold or the weather, but I can blame her for scheming along with it." You sigh, leaning your head back onto the pillow, "My mother is an opportunist, so she must've seen the rain clouds as her 'moment to grasp'. She was adamant that I take horseback and not that carriage. My mother is many things, but most importantly, she's a scheming woman."

Much to your surprise, Mr. Ackerman smirks at your words. He smirks.

He licks his thumb before turning the page of his book, his eyes ghosting over the words without much intention to actually read.

"What are you doing?" You ask, twisting to face him, your hand tucking beneath the side of your face.

"I'm reading." He isn't.

"Here?"

"Would you rather I not keep you company?" His grey eyes blink away from the page and up at you. "Isn't this the whole point of your visit, to get o know each other?"

"W—Well, yes, but I didn't think you'd take our proposition quite literally." You voice falls soft at the end of your sentence and you feel yourself shrink in embarrassment.

"How else are we to make them believe we've formed an attachment?"

"Oh, well—"

"Is my company a bother?"

You shake your head. "Is mine?"

Mr. Ackerman chuckles and if it weren't for the whirling of your brain, you would've caught it. "Merely tolerable, really. You best get some rest, Miss. Blouse."

When you awaken again, it’s a little later in the afternoon and the sun is harshly bleeding through the glass window and casting over your face.

The first thing you notice is not the freshly changed rag resting over your forehead, but the empty chair that Mr. Ackerman sat himself earlier. You pout and you feel a little disappointed.

Disappointed?

What?

You prop yourself up on your elbows, drawing a sigh of relief. The smell of fresh sheets permeate your lungs and your tilt your head back before tilting it back up again.

Through your hooded gaze, your eyes scan through the room. You finally appreciate just how beautifully decorated it is. Shades of complimentary greens canvas the room and soft golds accent the room here and there. It’s ingrained in the walls and on the doors, and coloring the the bed posts, too.

With nimble fingers, you peel the covers off and a wave of cool air washes over your body.The floor is just as cold when your feet meet the carpet. You shuffle around the room, nosing through things but never really touching anything. You're too scared you might accidentally break something.

But the thirst of your curiosity has yet to be quenched, so you find yourself straying out the room, trotting down the hall and twirling around the space gleefully.

The estate is something written in the books. If it wasn't for the dreary, unsettling air hanging over you as thick as fog, the feeling would be magical.

Too busy to play make believe in your head, you find yourself too far off the path. Everything looks the same, and you eyes widen in panic.

Think, think, think, you chant inwardly, twisting your head around for something familiar.

Panic rises from your chest and lodges into your throat, and the last thing you need is to fall onto Mr. Ackerman's bad side.

But before your knees can shake in such unnerving trepidation, faint whispers echoing down the hall and towards you pull you from your thoughts. The voice are so faint and low, you nearly mistaken it to be elves.

You listen intently and follow the source, passing through a few more paintings and doors to lead you to a fragment of light bouncing off the wall and onto a door left ajar. You come to an immediate standstill when you recognize the voice — it's Mr. Ackerman.

Every inch of you tells you to turn around and walk away, but you aren't your mother's daughter for nothing. So the greater part of you belonging to her tugs you close, stealing a peak through the little gap as you hold your breath.

"When did you hear of this?" Mr. Ackerman's voice is gravelly, laced in annoyance. You hear him sharply huff followed by the sound of a hand slamming against the table, causing you to jolt in place. "How long have you known?"

"Not long," The unfamiliar, gruff voice says, and Levi grumbles. "Be thankful I'm telling you now and not waiting any longer. How could I with all your dallying? Since when have you taken any interest in marriage?"

"I haven't." He clips, tone dry. "The point is —"

"The point is, he's back and the last thing you need to do is wasting your time in courting a woman. Honestly, Levi, since when have you been so reckless?"

"Erwin," Mr. Ackerman grits, "my personal affairs have nothing to do with you. Who I choose to spend my time with has nothing to do with you."

"It has everything to do with me!" Mr. Smith seethes, yelling in a whispers. "If you cannot do your job, then how can I trust you? Do you not remember the reason why we're here?"

"I'm not an idiot."

"It seems that you are," Your eyes widen at Mr. Smith's counter, "she's slept here for two days, and you for two days, you've watched over her instead of doing what I've instructed you to do."

"She was sick." Mr. Ackerman argues flatly.

"Hange is a doctor for a reason."

"And I don't trust them for a reason."

You can only assume it's Mr. Smith who sighs dejectedly and clicking his tongue agitation. It only further piques your interest, and you wish it doesn't. But you can't help it, hearing that Mr. Ackerman stayed by your side while you rested made your cheeks burn and you can't help but grin to yourself, completely overjoyed.

You mentally kick yourself for being so much like your mother.

"You cannot hold that burden with you forever." Mr. Smith sighs.

"Whatever," Is the weak counter Mr. Ackerman spits back. "I'll take care of it tonight — the one of Governor Pixy's."

"Be sure to make yourself like an artificial night when you do." Mr. Smith commands, his voice smooth and stern. "You mustn't be caught."

"When have I ever been?"

You quickly leave, sprinting down the hall the moment you hear a chair grating against the floor.

Your heart drums in your chest and you breath tremulously. You heard something you shouldn't have even if it was only in incoherent pieces. Truly, it could be anything, but with the rumors circulating around him, it shouldn't be so surprising.

So why is it?

You find yourself in a more familiar part of the estate and you breathe out in relief.

You’re about to head back into your room when you stumble past a room, catching a glance of a grand piano standing tall from the corner of your eye. You retract your steps and turn your head to get a better look, your lips falling into an 'o' when you do.

She's beautiful, you think.

It’s an alluring, glossy ebony piano — one Sasha finds herself drooling over to play on whenever she sees one. She'll hate you so much when you tell her about it.

Against your better judgement, with all the bells warily ringing for you not to, you walk over to the piano, your hand shadowing over the wood. You take a seat before the keyboard just to take a good look at her. You have no intention to play her, really. Even if you wanted to, you couldn't for the life of you.

Your eyes flicker to the fall board of the piano and find a name engraved in gold.

"Petra," you whisper. "It's very nice to meet you. You're very beautiful, aren't you?"

"What the hell are you doing?" You shoot up from the chair and snap your head up to find Mr. Ackerman fuming at you. His eyes dark with rage and his jaw screwed shut, gritting at you. "I asked you a question."

"I— I didn't touch anything." You peep. You feel incredibly small underneath his scrutinizing gaze. You wish the ground would swallow you up right then and there. "I, I really didn't—"

"Get the fuck away from her." Mr. Ackerman speaks lowly, his voice quietly trembling, but you can't hear it. 

Even if you hadn’t done anything wrong, you feel as if you’ve been caught red handed. Fear buzzes in your head and fogs up any line of thought. 

"I'm sorry?"

"GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM THE PIANO!" He bellows, his eyes as fiery as his anger, causing you to stumble back and nearly trip up on your feet. "Who the fuck do you think you are, wandering into places you have no business? Is this what you shitty farm people are like? You get a chance to walk into a place thrice the size of your home and they think they could just parade around?!"

"I—I didn't mean to —"

"You and your family are fucking disgusting."

There are many things you're willing to put up with. You don't mind if someone were to come after you and call you out, but coming after your family is completely different. So your kindness and the very last bit of your patience snaps like a twig.

"I would imagine you're the disgusting one." Your voice is still small, but you’re building up to your confidence, peeling your eyes away from the patterned carpet to stare daggers right back at Mr. Ackerman who stills completely.

"Excuse me?"

"I'll admit I've overstepped and I deeply apologize for that," You begin, your voice no longer wavering in fear, "but how dare you? My family’s been nothing but kind to you."

"I think you've mistaken that I fucking care."

"I've heard many things about you, too many, for that matter. Yet I never labelled as anything as derogatory as what you've called me." You draw out a sharp breath, closing your eyes for a moment to steady you heart before continuing, "I think its disgusting, I think,  that such a man as yourself, who've I've heard has been through hell and back, would think so lowly of people that's no different than him."

You never dared to listen to the rumors or any of the gossip. Even when your mother would try to entertain any of it, you’d stop listening or leave the room if you could. But if Mr. Ackerman was willing to aim for such a low blow, you couldn't think of a reason why you shouldn't do the same.

"I think you’re 'fucking disgusting' for forgetting where you came from."

Mr. Ackerman clenches his jaw and balls his fits tight til his knuckles paint white. He's ready to fire bullets into your self-esteem, but before Mr. Ackerman can even utter a syllable, a servant appears behind him, clearing his throat to cut of the momentum.

"Apologies for the intrusion," The servant says, his tone monotonous and dry, "but it Miss Blouse's brother is here to collect her."

You widen your eyes at the servant, and your expression softens. 

“Reiner’s here?” You voice is small again. 

“Yes, Miss.”

"Perfect." Mr. Ackerman huffs, his whole body still tense. "Get the fuck out."

You snap your gaze back to Mr. Ackerman, sneering, "Gladly."

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[gothamsglam]

How Wonder-land-a-ful!

Transferring to SHIELD high did many things for Tony, one of them was reuniting him with James Rhodes. Just not how he wanted to.

Ever After High/Marvel Fusion. Ironhusbands, of course. (You don't have to know much about Ever After High to read this, think just some fairy tale AU and you'll be fine!)

AO3 LINK IN NOTES

I wanted to churn out one more story for the end of 2020, I thought something more silly would be a great way to end this uh year.

This idea has stuck with me for a while, and I finally wrote it.

Hope you enjoy!!!

~Vix

SHIELD High was so bland . Yes, it was grand of course, structured like the classically large fairy-tale castles of Ever After. The hallways were marble with lockers and vines lining the walls and trees and plants growing willy nilly around the school. Chandeliers hung from the high ceilings, and large arched windows showed off the beauty of the lands around them. In the distance, Tony swears he can see Sleeping Beauty’s castle.

But SHIELD high was just bland in comparison to home. To Wonderland . Not even the personalized dorms could make up for the fact that school was all year long— ew , who made that rule—instead of one day a year. Tony missed the nonsensical beauty of SI High, where the hallways ran instead of you, where you had to find the paintbrushes in passing period to paint the doors—free art credits!—, and the cafeteria that was switched with the auditorium.

But the castle-teria at SHIELD was just a long hall with rows and rows of marvel benches, pillars in the corners to honor the greek storylines and pay tribute to the last generation of Fairytale legends.

It was so boring. And just looking at it made Tony want to *poof* right there and then.

“Hi Tony,” Steve Rogers asked, coming behind him in the castle-teria, “Need a place to sit?”

Oh and this, this was another thing Tony wasn’t fond of. Transferring to SHIELD high meant he actually was walking among the children of fairy tale legend.  Disgusting.

Father was too fond of them, far too fond of them. Back when Wonderland and Ever After had many open portals between one another—back before the curse on Wonderland by the Evil Queen of the HYDRA family. Howard was an ambassador , the git.

Howard didn’t get the White Rabbit legacy as Tony did, no, Uncle Jarvis had. Howard was a part of the Wakandan court, one of many peace ambassadors to the other royal families, particularly the ones in Ever After. Oh, the tales Tony was told as a young bunny, of the Rogers Family’s legacy brought forth by the apple, of the Red Hooded Romanoffs, and the Rose pricked Wilsons.

Tony was glad he didn’t have to walk among them at SI High, he was content to only have to see them in the crowd at Legacy day. Tony was actually really excited for Legacy day, his own legacy wasn’t following his father, but rather his mother and Uncle Jarvis. Signing his page in the Storybook of Legends was a milestone Tony didn’t mind looking forward to.

However Tony also understood why James Barnes, heir to the Evil Queen, wouldn’t want to sign. To each their own, he supposes.

But ugh, SHIELD high had too many Princes, he hated it.

His nose twitching, Tony ducked away from Rogers—who was bigger, blonder, and oh the clocks was that a red crown on his stupid head? “Thanks, but no thanks, golden boy. I’ll just—uh—”

He looked out at the rows and rows of tables, at the heads of up-dos and flower pins, and the sea of gelled down curls and impeccable sleeves. Seriously how does no one have a stain on their shirt? It’s mud-loaf day!

There! Out in the crowd, a hand popped out waving him over, Tony grinned, popping up a bit and rushing away from the other guy, “See ya, Rogers!”

“Bye…?”

Resisting the urge to stick out his tongue, Tony padded away with swift steps, the click of his shoes drowned out by the noise of the castle-teria. Reaching the table in the back, he grinned at the sight of familiar friends.

He wasn’t the only one apart of the exchange program of course, in fact, he was the second wave of students, prepared by letters sent by the other students. Tony had his own assigned group of the next exchange student. A lovely little trio of kids. Peter would not stop asking about the royal classes offered at SHIELD and MJ was more interesting in the classes offered by Maria Hill. Tony wouldn’t know, of course, he switched out of those classes the second day after running into pig shit mid-chase. For a house on chicken legs, it was surprisingly very fast.

Virginia ‘Pepper’ Potts was donned in swirls of light peach and blue with subtle armor around her waist and shoulders. Her hair was curled, pinned away from her face in a half updo, with the rest falling around her and nearly touching the table as she leaned in to pat the now empty spot across from her.

“Tony!” She exclaimed, freckles dancing across her face as she broke out into a smile, “got lost?” She teased.

Tony blew a raspberry, “Pssht, no, How could I get lost here? Wonderland was more interesting, this place is just boring,” he waved, twirling his fork in his food.

T’challa laughed, the matte gold detailing on his black jacket catching the light beans from the windows, it covered his purple and black card-like patterned dress shirt “That’s what you think, Stark. But with everything looking the same, you’ll pass by the same five classrooms over and over without noticing.”

Tony also laughed, “True. Remember, how—when you missed the upside-down sidewalk outside of bio-mechanics—you could end up in fishing class because of the fountain step? Every time the freshmen would come in dripping halfway through class.”

“Oh, does everyone still call them fish?” Sharon asked, pulling out Earl the dormouse from her empty teacup. He hopped up her shoulder to hide in her mini top hat. Her suit jacket was draped over her shoulders—rather than it being on the bench—and her cream shirt had mini hats detailed, blending in with the folds as it was only a few shades darker.

“Classically,” Tony replied with a wink. They turned back to their conversations, gossiping about their peers such as Maximoff—from Cinderella’s line—who was enamored with Vision—from the hunter’s line. Scandalous.

Tony halfheartedly listened to the discussion but was really on the verge of nodding off. His roommate—Justin Hammer, stupid son of the Cheshire cat—kept playing pranks on him and ruining his things with paint bombs. He almost got a fairy fail in physics because his latest essay had swamp goop over it! He had to stay up rewriting it, which wouldn’t be a problem normally but he had stayed up trying to make weld a new type of gear for his pet project.

Tony must have dozed off for a bit, because when he blinked open his eyes, he was resting on his elbows, folded under some familiar fabric. Blinking blearily at the side of his tray, Tony sat up. Well, that’s embarrassing, so much for his reputation. Pushing a hand through his hair, he avoided glancing around and instead went to look at his lap and pull out his pocket watch. However, someone else reached out to poke his side, resulting in a leap and an ‘eep!’.

“Hey there, sleeping beauty!” Rhodey smirked at him, “I think you and Wilson were supposed to have each other’s destinies. That was some impression you were doing.”

Damn him, Damn it all. Of course , Tony would fall asleep right then and there, drooling over his arms in front of James Rhodes . Of course the first time he’d see the precious son of the Alice bloodline—after literal years in different worlds—would be when he’s conked out in front of his dripping mashed potato tray in the flipping Greek castle-teria. Unbelievable, Tony.

And Rhodes— Rhodey —has the literal audacity to sit there with a playful smirk on his face. Sit there in his v-neck— v-neck!!! —map patterned shirt that should make him look like a dork but he doesn’t , and a necklace that dips over his collarbone —and oh stars —his hair .

Tony really should say something, “Uh—Hi, honey bear?” His voice cracks, because of course, it does.

“Hi, Tones,” Rhodey replies with a smile, and it’s dazzling . Tony just might scream.

Everything is muted, he couldn’t tell you if Pepper and Sharon were still talking, if T’challa had left the table or if lunch was even over. It feels like, for a brief moment, there’s only Rhodey.

Rhodey, who’s turning around to address someone else. Tony also looks away, trying to keep his ears from burning up and turning red.

“Tony, were you drawing in your mash potatoes?” Rhodey looks over, pressing slightly against Tony to peer over at his tray.

Which prompts Tony to dart out and pull the tray towards him with a, “Nooooo?”

Rhodes looks back at him, raising an eyebrow, “Really?”

“Maybe~?”

That prompted a laugh out of him, gaining the attention of Pepper sitting a bit away from them. “Oh, Tony’s still doing that? I thought that was only a Wonderland thing.”

“Hey!” Tony wrinkled his nose and glared at her, silently grateful at the fact that pulled him out of mentally gaping like a fish at his best friend—are they even best friends anymore? Rhodey probably has like a billion of them at SHIELD. “I can do it anywhere. It’s called art.”

“You wouldn’t know art if it slapped you in the face.”

Tony opened his mouth, literally about to say, ‘I mean if Rhodey slapped me in the face I would say he’s art.’ before he’s stopped by the one jellybean of a brain cell in the back of his mind.

Well that and Rhodey’s “If anyone can bring wonder with them to SHIELD, it would be Tony.”

Which, oKAY , Tony needs to stop exploding inwardly and actually say something, “Um, speaking of wonder, does anyone know anything about that one well myth?”

“The well of wonder?” Sharon asked, polling her hand from her mouth where she was probably stifling giggles, which rude, ok.

T’challa also answered, “I believe I might be of help. Why are you asking Tony?”

Tony darted a look at Rhodey—he can’t see his face because he’s looking at T’challa, but he swears that under the table his fist clenches. Weird—before looking at T’challa, “It’s a surprise,” He winked.

And it was! But for Rhodey. He was supposed to have it done pre-meeting him at lunch, but thanks to Hammer he missed his mental deadlines. It wasn’t like he had sought out Natasha Romanoff beforehand to ask about James’ schedule so he could know when they had lunch together or anything, absolutely not.

See—back when in Wonderland—, Tony and Rhodey would galavant about, exploring the lands and falling down many rabbit holes, quite literally. Tony remembers how in his workshop, Rhodey would always love seeing Tony design the swords and spears for the Wonderland card-guards—the Dora Milaje. However what Tony specialized in was watch-making, specifically enchanted watches. Watches with personality, with faces that weren’t just hands and numbers or mini mirror-pods, but near people like. Pixel-faires born of Tony’s creation. DUM-E was his first.

‘You’ was meant for Rhodey, he’d been making them ever since he heard he was chosen for the second era of exchange students. It really shouldn’t have taken so long, but without the wonder of Wonderland and his workshop, it was harder.

So when he heard about the well of wonder, the last remain flow between the two worlds, he knew he had to find it. Too bad it disappeared every night, popping up all over Ever After.

“It would be best to go with someone Tony,” Sharon said, “The well likes to frequent the forest.”

“I could go with you!” Rhodey exclaimed, well not exclaimed, that was just Tony projecting. Mostly... Maybe? No, probably.

“Really?” Tony asked, “You don’t—?”

“It’s my free period anyway," Rhodey shrugged, “Besides you’re already using my jacket, so now you can wear it in the forest too!”

“I—” Tony looks back at the table, and oh.

Oh , that’s what he was sleeping on.

T’challa mentioned stopping by their—his and Rhodey’s—dorm so they can get directions. There’s more regaling of the well, and mentions of seeing Bruce Banner and Thor frequenting the area, which ooo? But all Tony really remembers is seeing Rhodey reaching over, draping his jacket over Tony’s shoulder.

“It’s a date,” Rhodey grinned with a dazzling smile.

~FIN~

So do you like who is who? I didn't recast everyone, but I might continue this AU so maybe I will later down the line! Please let me know what you think in the comments and leave a kudo too! Love you all!!!

#tony stark #tony stark fic #ironhusbands #ironhusbands fic #tonyrhodey #tonyrhodey fic #tony stark x james rhodes #james rhodey rhodes #james rhodes #fanfiction #marvel/ever after high fusion #ever after high #marvel #mcu #vix writes #my writing #long lost #link post

[pookapics]

Sugar, Butter and Flour - A CEO!Steve Rogers x Baker!Reader (Christmas Series) Chapter 1 ~ Opening up!

Summary: Steve Rogers is a Grinch, he pushes through the Christmas holidays with a smile for his young daughter, Sarah. The widower doesn’t enjoy the holidays and would rather focus on his work at the ‘Avengers Law Firm’ but with an upcoming ‘Christmas Wrap Party’ at the firm, his path becomes entwined with (YN) (LN), the owner of a small bakery who’s catering for the event and has managed to steal the heart of Steve’s young daughter. Will he fall for the young baker? Or will his bitterness toward the Christmas holidays and his grief keep him from finding happiness again during the ‘happiest time of the year’?

Warnings - Nothing! This is just fluff~ Reader and Steve do not meet in this chapter though!

Word count - 6,038

Masterlist - https://protectthelesbians.tumblr.com/post/189337379588/are-you-wanting-a-heart-warming-fan-fiction-just

________

YOUR POV

Opening up the shop in the mornings was the most stressful but rewarding part of your day. The hustle and bustle of the city contrasted the almost serene and homely atmosphere of the bakery. Smells of freshly baked buttery croissants wafted out of the door, leaving a scent trail for the hungry passerby to follow. Flour dusted in your hair and hands, which you quickly dusted off onto your apron before waving to fellow shop-owners across the street, to Mrs Crazinski, who owned the flower shop or Mr McCloud, who owned the traditional-styled butcher shop. The shops in this corner of the city were like a little community, hiding amongst the busy streets of New York in plain sight.

Picking up a piece of chalk, you started to write up the special ‘Sweet Treat Of the Day’ upon the chalkboard, the treat of the day was never the same, always coming up with something new and tasty for your customers to try. Sometimes you spent hours the night before testing and trying out new ingredients which would make people’s mouths water at just the name alone. Just as you were writing up the special, your tongue poking out of the side as you focused on the chalkboard, trying to write it perfectly when suddenly the door crashed open which made you drop the chalk piece to the floor with a squeak.

“MORNING!?” A flurry of auburn hair ran in, a yellow scarf wrapped tightly around their neck, it was your best friend Dot or Dottie as you called her sometimes, she was a highly rambunctious woman and your partner in crime. She helped you out on the ‘business’ side of your business, your focus was mostly on the treats themselves and baking “Morning Dot, nearly scared me half to death.” You teased and picked up the chalk piece you dropped and resumed writing up the new ‘Sweet Treat Of the Day’ which you wrote in soft cursive.

Dot scoffed and put her bag down and pulled off her scarf “So, what the special today (YN)?” She leant against the counter and watched as you put the chalkboard up in its rightful place, facing the door “Today’s special is cinnamon spiced apple pie bites.” Dot let out a face of pure delight “Oh my god those sound heavenly! I don’t know how you do it, (YN).” You giggled in response “I just bake with the heart, when I get the idea I run with it. Want one to take with you?” You knew the answer already and approached the dessert cabinet which held your freshly-made treats. Dot nodded happily as she watched you gently take one out of the cabinet and wrap it in festive paper, starting to ring her up on the till.

“Already in the festive mood I see?” She looked around the bakery which had tinsel and decorations littered around the place, Christmas lights strung up above over the sit-in area of the bakery as well. Flushing gently, you nodded “I like to get in the festive season, it makes people more cheerful.” Pushing the buttons on the cash register “And I like to make people feel happy when they’re in here, a break from all the stress out there.” Pointing where the sound of car horns was coming from and the general sound of traffic.

Smiling, Dot got out her purse “I think you always succeed at that, you could even make the grinchiest person smile I bet! So! How much do I owe ya?” Unzipping her purse, ready to pay. With a gentle ring, the total came up “That’ll be $3.50.” watching as your friend pulled out a five “Keep the change” Dot winked which made you laugh “Well! Aren’t you being rather generous?” cashing the 5 dollar note into the register, Dot snorting “What can I say? The holiday’s makes me feel generous!” The two of you laughing as you handed over the wrapped up treat in a small paper-bag. You turned your head suddenly when you heard your phone going off and then hearing the oven timer go off “Dot, be a pal and see who’s messaging me, I’m not letting these loaves burn!” You always put your phone to the side near the office, the kitchen and ovens needed your attention more than your phone did.

Scuttling back into the kitchen, grabbing your oven mitts and opened up the large oven and took out the trays on trays of beautifully risen bread loaves, each dusted golden on-top. As you took out the last tray, you could hear Dot squealing happily, which made you call out “Dot? You alright?” Leaving the bread to cool for a moment, going to check on your friend and go see what was going on. Poking your head round front, seeing your friend clutching your phone in her hands with an awestruck expression upon her face “Uhm Dot?” looking at her as she turned her head to look at you

“The Avengers Law Firm want you to cater for their Christmas party…”

You coughed on your own spit, shocked beyond belief.

‘THE Avengers Law Firm’ wants you to cater for them! YOU!?

“W-What?! No! You’re not being serious!” The law firm was notoriously wealthy, the clients were high-end officials, hell even politicians used the firm for their needs. You’d never catered for this big of a client, this was a big opportunity for the bakery and you couldn’t give up this big of a deal. Dot was as shocked as you were “You have to respond!” shoving the phone into your hands which were still covered in oven-mitts, you quickly shed the oven-mitts “How did they find out about the bakery!?”

You were shocked, how would a big law firm like the Avengers find out about your bakery? You stared at the email which was sent by a representative from the company, your eyes scanned through the email, picking out the important parts.

‘Dear Miss (LN),

I am a representative from the ‘Avengers Law Firm’ and hoping to start correspondences with you concerning an offer for your bakery ‘Fairy-Cakes Bakery’ to work with our law firm for a catering job for our annual Christmas party. This is the biggest event for our company and we wish to share the opportunity with your business. If you wish to further communications and start working with us on the event, email back and we can organise a meeting with a representative who can agree to the terms. Thank you and hope to receive a response shortly.’

Maria Hill

(Representative for ‘Avengers Law’)

You looked up from your phone “I-I don’t know how to email back?! What if I sound like an idiot!” Looking at Dot, who took the phone “Hey Hey! Calm down, I deal with business emails all the time, I can sort this out! You focus on opening up the shop! We can do this!” Dot reassured you, you nodded and flipped the sign around to say ‘Open’. You let out a deep breath “Okay… I can do this! We can do this! I’m taking this offer!” Dot cheered as she typed out an email as you turned the ‘CLOSED’ sign around to say ‘OPEN!’.

This morning was definitely one of the most eventful opening mornings for the bakery yet.

____________

Steve’s POV

I was up making myself some coffee, dressed in my shirt and trousers, my tie not tied yet. Still in the process of waking up and getting adjusted and enjoying the morning-time for a little bit before the rush of work began. Sipping my black coffee, I relaxed at the kitchen-counter and enjoyed the peace and quiet for a moment

“DADDY!” A loud squeal could be heard from upstairs, peace never lasts when you have a tiny child tornado in your house. I turned to watch the stairs as the sound of little feet padded against the floorboards upstairs, a little figure appearing at the top of the stairs. The little girl with golden curls, matching my hair perfectly, said hair covering her eyes a little so she used her forearm to push the hair away from her face, letting out a large cheesy grin. That cheesy grin made me smile “Morning Sunshine, careful going down the stairs remember!”

His little girl.

His Sunshine.

His Sarah.

Sarah held onto the banister and headed down the stairs carefully, watching her feet as not to tumble down the stairs, she hopped onto the landing when she reached the final step, she rushed over to where I was sitting at the kitchen-counter. Sarah climbed up onto my lap, she was dressed in her ‘Winnie the Pooh’ onesie as it was starting to get cold outside and I didn’t want her getting too cold in the night. I brushed my hand through Sarah’s hair and smoothed it back away from her face “How did you sleep sweetheart?” Wrapping my arm around my daughter’s waist gently, holding her safely on my lap as she looked up at me “I slept good, Daddy!” giggling and stared up at me, she had her mother’s hazel brown eyes.

Humming softly, I held Sarah close “You’re getting to spend the day with Uncle Bucky today! You excited?” I began to softly tickle her sides as she squealed “I love Uncle Bucky!” It was the weekend and of course I was still working on a case so I asked Buck to babysit her today, not that Bucky minded. He loved his niece to death honestly and would do anything for her.

Holding Sarah on my hip, I decided that breakfast needed to be sorted out “What do you want for breakfast, Sunshine?” he asked and watched as Sarah tried to decide “Strawberry Jelly on toast!” She pointed to the loaf of bread “I can definitely get that ready for you, Sunshine. Want some fruit as well?” Placing Sarah down as I went to get started on her breakfast, she nodded and waddle around and went to watch some morning cartoons as she waited for her breakfast patiently, plopping down in front of the TV.

Putting the bread in the toaster, I finished off my coffee and watched over Sarah as she watched ‘Sofia the First’ on the TV. I began cutting up a banana for Sarah’s breakfast on a chopping board, plating everything up as I waited for the toaster to pop up, sighing.

Sarah was 5 already, in Kindergarten and growing up so fast. Too fast for my liking. I didn’t want my little girl growing up so fast. It felt like only a few moments ago, I was holding her for the first time, her head dusted with soft golden hair, no doubt I was her dad. The toaster pinged as the bread popped up, grabbing it quickly, I spread the strawberry jelly on for her “Alright Sunshine! eat your breakfast at the table!” Seeing her scuttle to the kitchen table, meaning I wouldn’t have to watch ‘Paw Patrol’ for the 8th time in a row. Placing the plate of food down in front of Sarah “want juice!” Sarah squealed and looked up at me from her seat “What’s the magic word?” Quirking my brow and watching as my daughter giggled “Pwease!” I nodded and ruffled her hair, getting her some orange juice.

“Good Morning!” Bucky burst in, his leather jacket in the crook of his elbow, wearing one of his burgundy Henley shirts, his hair swept back into a bun to keep it off his face, he grinned as he heard the squeals of little Sarah “UNCLE BUCKY!!!” obviously excited to see her uncle again, strawberry jelly on her cheeks from her toast. Chuckling, I embraced Bucky “Ready to spend the day out with Sarah?” Bucky hugged his best friend for a moment “Of course! Me and Sarah are going to have the best time together today! Just the two of us!” Bucky grinned and rested his back against the fridge as I checked my phone, it was from Maria saying that the caterer agreed to a meeting.

But we only had one person who could go out of the business today to go meet with said caterer, we always preferred to have a pair meeting with collaborators. And since this was a bakery, we needed someone to test the confectionery before we signed anything for certain. That’s when the idea hit.

“Hey Buck, could you possibly do me a favour when you’re out with Sarah?” Asking Bucky, knowing that as soon as I mention who would be joining the two, he would not be happy “A favour? Want me to do a grocery shop too?” Acting sassy and quirking his brow, making Sarah giggle into her toast. Rolling my eyes, I continued “We’re hiring a bakery to cater for our Christmas Party but we need someone to test out their goods before we sign anythin-” Bucky interrupted “I’m sold! You know I have a sweet tooth Bud, and so does Sarah. We’re perfect for the job aren’t we?” Sarah squealed and nodded “Yep yep!” finishing her toast.

“But you’ll have to go with someone who’ll sort out the business part so… I’m asking Sam to join the two of you.” I saw Bucky’s face drop, him and Sam had a rivalry of sorts, like siblings which keep trying to outwit each other, I always had to break apart any scuffles they had with each other, flashbacks to thanksgiving dinner last year made me shiver.

“NO!”

“YES!! UNCLE SAMMY!!”

Bucky looked betrayed at Sarah’s exclamations “But don’t you want a day with your favourite uncle?” He pouted towards Sarah, watching as she pondered up what to say back “No! I want to spend the day with my favourite uncles!” Bucky knew he couldn’t fight Sarah on this, not when he knew that if he said no, she’d pull out what he called the inherited ‘Steve Rogers Puppy Dog Eyes’. Anyone and everyone lost to those eyes.

“Fine… Bird-brain can come with.” Bucky was not impressed but Sarah wanted him there and Steve needed this for work. I smiled at him and nodded “Thanks Buck.” texting Sam that the plan was a-go and to get to his apartment as soon as possible. Watching as Bucky wiped Sarah’s face clean with a napkin since she had jelly all over her face “Well sunshine, you should go get dressed since Uncle Sam’s on his way!” Sarah nodded and scurried off to go get changed, she was quite independent for a kindergartner and liked getting dressed herself, together they usually laid an outfit out for her the day before just to make it easier for her in the mornings

“She’s grown up so fast…” Bucky sighed and watched as Sarah climbed up the stairs on her own “I remember her first taking her steps, it was on your birthday.” looking over to me, I remembered that day, I cried when she took her first steps “She’s still my baby, she always will be…” sighing as I heard Sarah giggling upstairs to herself. Hearing the front door open, I turned my head to see Sam walking in “Morning Steve! Sarah getting ready?” He wiped his shoes off on the doormat “Yeah she’ll be down in a sec.” Still sat at the kitchen-counter as I watched Bucky and Sam catch eyes, it felt like a stand-off.

Like cat versus dog.

Sam cleared his throat “Bucky.” Bucky frowned and glared at Sam “Samuel…” I just rolled my eyes “Can you two behave for Sarah’s sake?!” I honestly sounded exasperated, annoyed by the two of them. They both glared at me for a moment before they sighed, crossing their arms “Fine. We’ll behave!” still glaring at each other slightly but their eyes softened when Sarah came waddling in, wearing a cute pink polar bear jumper with a dungaree dress “Uncle Bucky! Can you help me with my hair!!” Holding pink hair ties, brush and a bow in her hands, needing help with her messy blonde hair. Bucky was immediately by Sarah’s side and had her on his lap, brushing out her hair and pulling her hair gently into two ponytails, sliding the bow into her hair as well “There! Now let's get your jacket and shoes!” Sam grinned and grabbed Sarah’s jacket and shoes for her “Hey Sarah-bean! Come get your jacket and shoes!” He called out, watching as Sarah rushed to cuddle Sam’s legs, happy to see him.

I watched my two best friends help Sarah with her coat and shoes, I grabbed Sarah’s backpack for her, it was a paw patrol backpack and was her favourite “Here you go Sunshine, you have fun with your uncles alright?” smiling and holding my arms out for a hug, Sarah launched herself into my arms “I will Daddy! Have fun at work!” She hugged me happily, I kissed her forehead gently as I watched her pull away and walk off with Sam and Bucky. Waving them off at the door, I turned to check the clock, I needed to be in work by for an hours time for a meeting with a client.

That was definitely enough time to make myself another coffee.

________________________

BACK TO THE BAKERY~~

YOUR POV

It had been a few hours since I had Dot write up that email response for me, Maria had gotten back to me and said that the representative would be out to the bakery in the next couple of hours to discuss the catering job and to test some of the bakery’s treats. You would be lying if you said you weren’t nervous about a company official coming into your small bakery, you were scared they’d rip into you. You kept serving up to your customers, chatting with your regulars who came in a lot when they were in the area, packaging up their orders. Christmas music softly playing in the shop, getting everyone into the Christmas spirit slowly “Here you go Barry! I hope your wife enjoys the cheesecake!” Handing the bag of treats over to Barry, who nodded “Its wouldn’t be a date night without one of your cheesecakes, (YN)!” He put a tip in the jar and took the bag, walking out of the shop happily. Waving him off, you put the cash in the register and heard the timer go off, that would be the shortbread.

Heading back into the kitchen, sliding on your mitts, you started to pull out the trays of baked shortbread cookies, the buttery smell wafting into your nose delightfully. The bell which notified when a customer entered went off, you turned your head “I’ll be there in just a moment!” you called out and put the cookies on a rack to cool off, quickly dusting caster sugar on-top of them before leaving them to cool. Walking up to the front, you took off the oven mitts and stuffed them into the string of your apron, you could hear 3 different voices. You entered the front of shop and now could match 2 of the 3 different voices to faces. There were two tall men, they had a sense of tension between them which was palpable, you held back a giggle but then heard a soft voice from just below the counter speak out “Uncle Sam! Uncle Buck! Look at all the caaaake!” Peeking your head over the counter, you came face to face with a big pair of hazel brown eyes and golden hair “Hello there!” you spoke softly, the little girl giggled “Do you make all of these cakes?” Smiling, you nodded “I do! I make everything fresh everyday!” your words made the little girl’s eyes widen “Really?!” You couldn’t help but smile at this little girl, she was just a bundle of sunshine.

Glancing up to the two guys “What can I do for you gentlemen?” Asking them, resting my elbow against the counter, watching as one of them stepped forward “Hello I’m Sam Wilson, I’m partly here on business, I’m a representative for ‘Avengers Law’.” You gulped and looked at him “I-I see.” you tried not to stutter but failed, Sam chuckled “But as you can see, I’m also here with my niece, she’s our taste-tester.” The little girl giggled at that, the other guy who was with them picked her up and held her on his hip with ease “I’m the other uncle, Uncle Bucky as you probably heard.” he shrugged his shoulders.

You nodded and slightly relaxed, realising there wasn’t a heavy pressure being placed on you right now “Shall we start with the taste test?” you quirked a brow which made the little girl nod fervently, excited to try some sweet treats “Now what’s your name, little taste-tester?” Asking the little girl, who looked at you happily “Sarah! What’s your name?” smiling you responded “Nice to meet you, Sarah! I’m (YN)! Would you like to pick some things for you and your uncles to taste test?” Little Sarah nodded quickly and wriggled out of Bucky’s arms so she could walk over to the dessert case, her little chubby hands on the glass as she stared at the pure variety of sweet treats, never seeing this many desserts in one place before.

Bucky laughed and watched his niece stare at the sweet treats in wonder “This place is like Willy Wonka’s factory!” he noted which made you and Sam snort “I get that comment a lot!” Glancing to Sarah, who was still trying to decide on what to test “So how long have you guys been open?” Sam asked and walked up to the counter “We’ve been open for a whole year actually! I’m happy that my little business is thriving!” giggling softly and dusting off your apron. Sam and Bucky nodded and smiled, Sarah called out “I’VE DECIDED!” She called out and was pointing at the cabinet, you walked over “Let's get your order ready then! What do you like the look of?” Doting on Sarah, picking up your kitchen tongs and taking out the cakes and desserts which Sarah chose and plated them up, putting them on the counter “Shall I bring these to a table?” Sam and Bucky agreed and herded Sarah over to a table, sitting down, the Christmas lights hung from above gave certain spots on the floor and table a soft red and green glow. You carried the plates over to the table and placed them down, giving each of them a fork and spoon to use.

Sarah had chosen 3 desserts.

Her first choice was a British classic, a slice of Victoria Sponge cake, the sponge itself was soft and moist with the top dusted in powdered sugar for decoration. The jam or jelly in the middle was a simple strawberry jam sandwiched together with a smooth buttercream, the two layers of the cake gently sandwiched together but not hard enough for the cream and jam to spill down the sides of the bottom layer. You hoped to introduce a British classic to your customers and possibly introduce a new favourite cake into their lives.

Her second choice was a donut, one of your late-night creations that you came up with. The donut itself was the perfect thickness, not too thin and not too thick. The flavouring was the special part of the donut, it was caramel apple flavoured. Inside the donut, there was an almost apple-pie filling inside with a caramel sweetness peeking through which would sate any sweet-tooth’s cravings.

The last choice Sarah made was a cookie, this was a limited edition Christmas cookie, it was created when you remembered the sweets and candy you ate growing up. The soft and still warm cookie was flavoured and inspired by ‘Terry’s Chocolate Orange’, you remember opening one of those around this time of year, sometimes getting them in your stocking. The chocolate bits in the cookie were melty, oozing when you broke the cookie apart, the chocolate infused with an orange zest and flavour. You hoped this would feel nostalgic to some people and make people smile.

You sat back and watched them take bits of your desserts, awaiting a reaction from them, most of your customers left with their desserts so you never got to see their reaction to trying out your creations so you were excited to see Sarah, Bucky and Sam’s reactions. Sarah’s little face lit up, she was digging into the Victoria sponge cake happily with her fork clutched in her tiny hand, crumbs all over her cheeks. Bucky on the other hand, had his hand on the donut and the filling was covering his lips and dripping a little bit into his facial hair which made you snort a little. Sam was trying out the cookie and was in awe when he broke apart the cookie and saw the gooey chocolate dribbling from the cracks when you pulled it apart. You bit your nails, watching them with a smile on your face, swaying to the soft sound of Christmas music playing.

“You like em?” asking the three of them who nodded, swapping around the desserts so they’d all get a taste of each of the chosen desserts, you giggled “I’m glad!” Bucky turned his head “They’re just… wow!” He wiped the filling from his facial hair with his finger and licked it off. Sam nodded “For once in my life, I agree with Bucky!” Bucky glared at Sam’s comment, who just smirked at him in response. Sarah had her mouth full of cake, cheeks covered in crumbs, legs swinging back and forth on the chair. Sarah finished her mouthful “They’re scrumptious!” You snorted a little, so did the boys, not expecting that word to come out of her mouth “Well I’m glad I get your seal of approval!” using your apron to gently wipe the crumbs off of her flushed chubby cheeks, she squealed “that tickles!” You finished wiping her face clean of cake crumbs “There.”

You turned to Sam “Has the taste test changed whether or not you want to work with me?” You were much more relaxed so joked around with them, Sam laughed “It definitely solidified us wanting to hire you for the catering job! Those were delicious!” He reached into his satchel “I suppose the fun stuff has to end for a little, boring business stuff now.” You nodded and glanced to Sarah “I have a small reading nook over there, I’m talking business with your Uncle Sam now.” Sarah nodded happily and dragged Bucky with her to go read, he was happy to be escaping the business stuff.

Sam brought out the paperwork to go over, you remembered what Dot had told you and knew what to look out for in a contract, Dot had a business degree so you trusted her advice. Flicking through the paperwork, eyes flickering across the page and taking in all the legalities of the job and the pay you would be receiving for said job. You’d only catered for weddings so you weren’t used to the extensive contract which was placed in your lap but you got through it and agreed to any terms and asked about anything that raised concern. And with a simple signature, you’d made the deal with ‘Avengers Law’, officially catering for their event. You even shook hands with Sam, officiating the deal.

Sam called over Bucky and Sarah “Business talk is over! You guys still up for seeing Frozen 2?” Asking Sarah, who’d been pestering Steve about wanting to go see it but suddenly she pouted “B-But I wanna stay here with (YN)!” She whined, the boys didn’t know what to do but you stepped in “Hey kiddo, going to the movies sounds fun! I wish I could go see Frozen 2 but I have to work! And hey, if you ask your daddy or your uncles, you’re welcome to come back here sometime and bake with me?” You suggested, kneeling on the ground and getting down onto her level, not towering over her. She gasped “Really?!” excited at that idea, you nodded and smiled “But only if you’re good and go have fun with your uncles!” She nodded and rushed over to stand with Sam. Bucky helped you to your feet “You’re really good with kids.” he noted, you smiled “I get a lot of customers with children, I learnt a few things.”

Bucky smiled slightly “Can we take something to go?  I think Sarah’s dad definitely needs to try one of these treats.” You smiled “Of course! What kind of flavours does he like? He got a sweet-tooth?” Bucky shook his head “He prefers savoury or deeper things like dark chocolate I suppose.” he tried to explain, but even with just a tiny description, you had a few things picked out already “I have a few things in mind.” walking back to the dessert cabinet, you picked out a few things “Here’s a bourbon and maple syrup donut, a personal favourite of my adult customers.” Bucky nodded as you wrapped it up in the festive wrapping paper, humming Christmas songs to yourself faintly “Do you think Sarah would like something for later? An after-dinner treat for being a good girl?” Sarah’s ears perked up at that “Can I Uncle Buck? Uncle Sam?” Looking between them for reassurance, they both nodded “Pick something, kiddo.” She rushed back up to the cabinet and pointed to the gingerbread men “One of those, please!” showcasing her manners and politeness “Thank you for being so polite, Sarah! I’ll get that right for you Little Miss!” Using your tongs to take one gingerbread man out and wrapped it up in the festive paper which made Sarah smile “The paper has candy-canes on it!” she squealed and peered up at the counter from where she stood “Indeed! Its coming up to Christmas after all!” smiling widely at the little girl who then spoke “How did you know I’ve been a good girl today?” tilting her head. You smiled faintly and knew exactly what to say “Well. A jolly man in a red suit told me you’d been a very good girl and only good girls get dessert after all!” Seeing her little face light up at that  “Santa told you I’d been good!?” she squealed and bounced up and down “Yes he did! Continue being a good girl for your uncles okay?” You winked, she nodded happily as you handed over the wrapped gingerbread man to her, giving Bucky the wrapped donut. Bucky reached for his wallet “How much do I owe you?” he opened it and prepared to pay when you held your hand up “Its on the house! Please just make sure you guys enjoy your day and the rest of the holidays.” smiling, watching as Bucky put his wallet away “Thank you Miss (YN), I hope you have a good day.” He walked towards the door as Sam followed, Sarah began to wave “Bye Miss (YN)! I’ll ask my daddy about coming to bake with you!” She waved and held her gingerbread man in her other hand, walking out of the shop with them.

“Bye! Have a nice day!” Waving goodbye to them, sighing softly, that little girl really did make you smile, she was just so darn sweet. Watching out the window, watching as Sarah happily skipped down the street, heading to their car. Turning away from the window, you headed round back to grab the trays of shortbread, which were probably fully cooled by now, preparing them for display. Hearing the bell go off again, you knew it was a customer, probably a regular in for their usual coffee and cake.

And you couldn’t help but smile even wider when you chatted with them, still buzzing and full of happy giggles from spending time with little Sarah, she really was a little ray of sunshine.

__________________

Steve’s POV

Arriving back from work, I parked in the apartment building’s secure parking lot before heading up, briefcase in one hand and my phone in another. Opening the front door gently, I called out “Guys! I’m home!” Wandering in, I came to find Sarah asleep on Bucky’s chest, who two was passed out, she was in her Elsa dress, obviously went to see Frozen 2 today as planned. Sam was in the kitchen, sipping a coffee “Hey man, yeah she crashed immediately after dinner, her face was nearly in her spaghetti.” Sam had cleaned the dishes clearly and left them to air dry on the rack “Thank you for today, so did you go to the bakery?” Sam nodded “Steve, the owner is extremely kind and their food is divine, you made the right choice choosing them to cater for the Christmas party.” I smiled “Good. What did Sarah think?” I asked, Sarah’s sweet-tooth was always the best judge “She loved everything placed in front of her but she loved the owner more, she was begging to stay and bake with her.” He chuckled softly, I smiled, “Well I trust my daughter’s opinion on sweet things.”

Sam smiled “Shall we get them to bed?” Pointing to the sleeping figures of Bucky and Sarah, both cuddled on the couch sleepily. Grinning, I wandered over to the couch and picked up Sarah, holding her to my chest gently and trying not to jostle her “Let's get you to bed, Sunshine.” carrying her up the stairs to her room. The walls of the room were painted with pictures of animals and mythical creatures, I’d painted her room for her when she was very little and I was on paternity. Memories flooding back to me as I picked up her onesie, helping her out of her Elsa dress gently and putting on the onesie, had to make sure she was kept warm throughout the night. New York winters can get very cold, especially for little ones like Sarah. After gently zipping up the onesie, I placed her down into her princess bed, pulling the covers over her and sliding her favourite teddy bear since birth, Bucky Bear under her arm. She immediately cuddled into it, I kissed her forehead softly and switched on her star night-light, quietly leaving her room, making sure the door was cracked open a little “Goodnight my Sunshine…”

I left her to sleep, walking down the stairs to see Sam trying to lift Bucky “I’ll give him a lift home, I can bring him back tomorrow to collect his car.” I nodded and helped Sam get Bucky to the lift “By the way, the baker picked something out for you, something to fit your tastes. Its on the counter.” Sam waved goodbye as the lift descended, taking Sam and Bucky to the parking lot, leaving me standing there in my apartment. I turned to the kitchen and found the little package on the counter, decorated in festive candy-cane wrapping, I wasn’t one for the holidays but the details of the packaging made me chuckle gently. Unwrapping it carefully, I pulled out a donut, I quirked a brow in curiosity and leant in to take a gentle bite.

Flavours burst into my mouth with a single bite, the faint sweetness of maple syrup coating my lips but it was nicely complemented with the smokey and deep taste of bourbon, I’d never tasted a donut like this before. Again, I didn’t usually enjoy sweet things, but the balance of the sweet maple syrup and the deep bourbon liquor made me go in to take another bite. This baker, the one who seemed to enchant his best friend and his daughter, definitely knew how to pick out a treat for those who didn’t like things ‘too sweet’.

I thought to myself for a moment, it entered my head as I took the final bite of the donut ‘I guess I just might have to go meet this baker and buy another one of these’ and as I thought, I turned to stare out my window. And as I did, the first snow for December began to fall gently, the snowflakes floating past the window-glass and cascading down, refracting light like shimmering glitters.

The Christmas season had officially and properly begun.

END OF CHAPTER 1 ------------------------------------------------

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#steve x reader #Steve Rogers #steve rogers x you #steve x you #steve rogers x reader #captain america x female reader #captain america #Marvel MCU #marvel fanfiction #ceo!steve #eventual romance #ceo!avengers #baker reader #christmas fanfic #christmas #avengers fanfiction #fanfic #fanfiction #steve rogers fluff #fluff #singledad!steverogers #ceo!steverogers #ceo!au #fluffy #avengers x reader #au #singledad!au #dad!steve rogers #dad!steve #reader insert

[hockeylvr59]

Promises part 4 || Auston Matthews

Requested: [ ] yes [x] no

Authors Note: Welp...here’s part 4 yinz. Ft. Morgan Rielly (hope this satisfies you for now anon) with mentions of Mitch Marner, Frederik Andersen, and Zach Hyman. Let me know what you think.

Warnings: none

Word Count: 2224

Taking care of Owen was honestly the brightest part of each and every day. He was the happiest baby and watching him grow was such a blessing.

The day before he turned two months old you’d asked Auston to bring you a puck home. Though he was confused, he had complied, leaving it on the island so you’d find it. The team had left for a road trip early the following morning and Auston was at dinner with a few of the guys when you’d attached him into a group chat with his parents and sisters as well as some of the guys whose numbers he’d insisted you needed if you were going to be taking care of Owen frequently.

Since you weren’t there to see it, you could only imagine Auston’s reaction when he saw the photo of Owen lounging on the couch with his Carlton stuffed bear next to him and the puck with a silver ‘2’ written on it laying on his stomach. Things had been too crazy for anyone to think about documenting Owen’s first month development but it was something that you wanted to make sure happened from here on out. Especially with Auston on the road so much, you thought it would be a good way for him to reflect and look back on Owen growing up.

The photo received glowing comments from Auston’s family as well as some of the guys who loved that you had included hockey into the theme. You already knew what you were going to do at months three and four and you were sure Auston would love those as well.

____

You’d officially been helping to take care of Owen for a month the first time you’d met any of Auston’s teammates. With the boys having an off day besides an early practice you weren’t even supposed to be over at Auston’s that day since he could take care of his son when the nanny left.

Plans changed though when the nanny, Maria, called you around 3pm because Owen had been screaming his head off for nearly two hours. Nothing she did would calm him which was strange because you’d seen her with Owen and he had taken to her well.

Since you were done with class for the day, you’d told her that you would head over and see if you could get him to sleep. Within five minutes of you taking Owen, he’d stopped his tantrum and was curled against you sound asleep. Maria murmured something about how he’d just missed you and while you hated to admit it, it seemed like she had a point. She seemed exhausted and seemed like she had a headache so you assured her that she could head home and you would stay with Owen. As she left she informed you that Auston had mentioned having the guys over around dinner time.

You were dancing around the kitchen with Owen watching you from his swing when Auston came home. He was talking loudly with Mitch Marner, Morgan Rielly, Frederik Andersen, and Zach Hyman and you rolled your eyes.

“Don’t you know you’re supposed to be quiet in case the baby is sleeping…” You called out scolding them teasingly, honestly thankful that Owen had woken from his nap shortly before because you would be annoyed if they had woken him after how long it had taken you and Maria to get him to sleep.

“Y/n, what are you doing here?” Auston asked when he came around the corner to find you layering noodles with pasta sauce, ricotta cheese, and a mixture of italian sausage and ground beef. If the guys were going to be here for dinner you figured homemade lasagna was better than them ordering pizza out.

“Maria called me when Owen wouldn’t stop screaming.” You declared with a shrug, turning to grab a bag of italian cheese out of his fridge. “And before you ask or insinuate, no she wasn’t doing anything wrong, she was super patient with him, he just was being fussy and evidently missed me.” After adding the final layers to the lasagna, you popped it into the oven and set the timer before looking back at him. “And she had the start of a migraine coming on so I told her to go home and that I’d stay here.”

“Oh.” Auston murmured and before he could say anything else his teammates had descended on the kitchen.

“There’s the little man…” Mitch declared spotting Owen and seeing the baby crinkle his face up you chuckled to yourself as you turned to fetch a bottle as Owen’s cries echoed through the room. Mitch immediately jumped back declaring that he hadn’t even touched him and after running the bottle under hot water and testing it on your wrist you held it out to him.

“He’s just hungry. If you pick him up and feed him I’m sure you’ll be his new best friend.” You assured him. Once his teammates helped him get a handle on Owen, you handled the bottle over to let Mitch feed him and then turned back to the kitchen to cut up some vegetables for a salad.

“You don’t have to do all that…” Auston whispered softly from beside you.

“I don’t mind, but if you want me to leave so you can have boys night that’s fine.” You stated, wiping your hands on a dish towel as you glanced over your shoulder at him. The last thing you wanted to do was interfere with his life. You were friends and you watched Owen but that was all and so if he wanted some time alone with his teammates you certainly couldn’t fault him for that.

“No. No. It’s fine.” He assured you. “I just...you already do so much. You don’t have to make dinner for all my teammates too. We could have just ordered out.”

“Yeah because that’s good for you…” You stated smirking. “I’d rather you guys not be sluggish tomorrow because you ate unhealthy take out with way too much sodium. It’s not like throwing together a lasagna is hard Aus…”

Throwing his hands up in defeat he murmured a thank you before heading to chat with his teammates and supervise his best friend feeding his son. It wasn’t long before the empty bottle was being placed beside the sink and you called out a reminder to bump Owen because otherwise getting him to sleep tonight would be as difficult as it was this afternoon and you really didn’t want a cranky baby tomorrow because he didn’t sleep enough today.

With dinner completely prepped, you slipped back to the guest bedroom where all your things were in order to relax for a few minutes while the lasagna cooked. With your door cracked, the noise was muffled and you were able to flop down on the bed to try and get some reading done for your classes the next day.

With your focus on your reading material you didn’t look up until there was a rap at the door and Morgan Rielly popped his head into the room.

“Um..y/n the timer on the stove went off and no one was sure if it meant food was done or…”

Sliding off the bed after marking your spot in your book you followed him back to the kitchen.

“It’s almost done, I just need to pull the foil off and put it back in with some garlic bread.” The bread was homemade as well, a loaf of french bread with fresh garlic butter. It didn’t take long for the oven timer to be set again and once everything was taken care of you grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge.

Looking toward the couch, Freddie now had Owen cuddled into his chest while the baby slept again and the rest of the guys had started to play NHL 19. All of them except for Morgan who had followed you and was watching as you finished making dinner.

“Did you want some help getting plates and stuff out?” He asked you, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans.

“That would be great. Do you know where everything is?” You responded sure that he probably did but not wanting to leave him hanging if not. The fact that he proceeded to all of the correct cabinets to get out six sets of everything answered your question.

Morgan set everything on the counter in the form of a buffet line, even grabbing the salad you’d made from the fridge. Then he’d disappeared to the living room for a moment before he was back pulling bottles of water and a few beers from Auston’s fridge. Seeing you already had your own he just smiled at you and winked causing a slight blush to unconsciously grace your cheeks.

Soon after, the timer on the stove went off again and as you pulled things from the stove, Morgan set out a few more pot holders onto the counter so that you could rest the lasagna there while the bread stayed on the stove.

“Thanks for the assist.” You told him before going to call the rest of the team in to get some food.

When you returned to the kitchen he was offering you a plate and after raising an eyebrow at him you took it gratefully.

“You cooked, it’s only fair you get the first serving.” He explained. “Also assists are kinda my thing.” His reference made you laugh and you tipped your head to him in acknowledgement.

“Fair enough.” You mused, heading to sit down on Auston’s loveseat, ready to dig into dinner since you hadn’t really eaten since breakfast. The baby monitor on the coffee table showed Owen in his crib and you sighed grateful that the baby was getting the sleep he’d missed out on this afternoon. Hopefully it didn’t mess his schedule up too badly.

Each of the guys stumbled back into the room, plates overloaded with food and you were grateful that you had seemingly gone overboard worried that it wouldn’t be enough. Morgan was the last to return and the only seat left was the one right next to you so he lowered himself into it trying not to topple the plate balanced on your lap.

Apparently all it took to shut a group of hockey players up was to provide food for them to shove into their mouths. NHL network played on the tv and while you were sure they were watching it, no one seemed too invested. Seeing as you had a normal person’s amount of food compared to their heaping servings, you were the first to finish and you placed your dishes in the dishwasher before tossing your now empty water bottle into the recycling bin.

The guys had pretty much decimated the food so you consolidated what little was left to one tray before working on cleaning up everything else. Having turned some music back on quietly, you sang along as you cleaned and after about fifteen minutes the sound of footsteps approaching finally appeared. Again it was Morgan, now carrying a stack of plates. When he reached you, he bumped you to the side with his hip.

“You cooked, we can clean up.” He insisted. You really didn’t mind but the look on his face told you not to argue with him. “Also, thanks, that was probably the best meal I’ve had in months.” The sincerity behind his compliment surprised you. All of the guys had thanked you for dinner and the way they were inhaling it told you it was good but Morgan was taking the compliments to the next level.

“You’re welcome. It really wasn’t anything that special.” You stated, downplaying your efforts as always. You knew that you could have just left them to fend for themselves by ordering pizza or chinese and maybe it was silly but you felt like Auston deserved better than that. He’d been balancing a lot on his plate and you knew he wasn’t eating the way he should most nights.

“Hey, I’m serious.” Morgan insisted as he finished rinsing each dish before adding it to the dishwasher. “Auston is lucky to have you as a friend. He’s told us everything you’ve done for him and we both know you didn’t have to. Shit we’re his teammates and I’m positive we haven’t done a fraction of the things for him that you have.”

Auston had thanked you time and again so you knew he appreciated you. At the same time though, Morgan’s acknowledgement felt different. Almost like he was really seeing you. Seeing you in a way that Auston never had.

“I’m gonna go check on Owen and then get back to my reading. Thanks for finishing up dishes.” You whispered, taking in one more glance at Auston’s teammate before slipping down the hall to the nursery. Owen was still asleep and you ran your fingers over his cheek before going into the spare bedroom and closing the door.

There were a million things you needed to do and you knew you should sit down and start reading again. Instead you took a moment and leaned back against the door, your eyes falling shut as you let out a shaky breath. “What the hell was that Morgan Rielly?”

#auston matthews #auston matthews imagine #toronto maple leafs #toronto maple leafs imagine #morgan rielly #morgan rielly imagine #nhl imagines #nhl imagine #hockey imagine #hockey imagines #tleafs #006

[tjb1619]

~Chapter 5~ I walk inside as soon as I get home and set my bag down on the floor, to which Ayethusa scampers out and lies near the fireplace. I take my shoes of near the door as I hear shuffling in my uncle's room. "Uncle Matt?" I call out, leaning against the table. "Uncle Matt, are you here?" "Amberle," he says, grunting as he is pulling an old trunk out of his room. "Welcome home. How is Maria?" "She is getting better everyday." I eyeball the trunk as he stands up, stretching. "What's in the chest?" "Oh, just some old clothes I have been meaning to get rid of." he says, waving away the question. He kneels down and pops it open, pulling out the piece of clothing sitting on top. It's a white long sleeve shirt with ruffles at the ends of each of the sleeves. It is also so worn that there are holes in various places. I pick up the next piece of clothing to find a pair of dark brown pants with....holes in the knees. I laugh. "Geeze, how many articles of clothing do you have with holes?" I ask with a laugh, only being half-serious. "Most likely," he answers, seemingly a little embarrassed, "this entire trunk is nothing BUT holey clothes. So, what happened a Maria's?" Yep, he was embarrassed. "Nothing, really. I watched Bonnie for a few hours while Maria went shopping." I sit down and cross my legs on the floor and, as soon as I do, Ayethusa gets up from where she's curled up by the fireplace and curls up in my lap. 'That reminds me...' "By the way, Maria knows." He looks at me and raises an eyebrow. "Maria knows....what?" he asks. I explain what happened as I was leaving Maria's. After I finish, he is quiet for a minute. "And she is okay with Ayethusa?" he asks, trying to understand. "Perfectly." I answer. "Does she know about Bart?" he asks. "Yeah," I answer, "because she asked me if you knew about Ayethusa. So, yes, I told her about Bartholomew. She actually seemed to like Ayethusa, so maybe if you brought Bartholomew over there at some point she will get a chance to meet him." "I will give it some thought." he says, seemingly interested. "So, have you made any progress on your magic yet?" he adds, changing the subject. "No," I answer, "but I was thinking of trying meditation, to clear my mind." "Are you getting distracted?" he asks. "Well," I say, furrowing my eyebrows, "it's more like my mind wanders and I can't focus." "So you are getting distracted." he confirms, crossing his arms. "I guess, in a way." I glance down at the floor. "Hey, can I ask you something?" "Go ahead." "If you were in my position, what would you do?" I look up at him as I ask. "If it were me," he says slowly, thinking of what to say, "I would think about what I have tried versus what I haven't tried and figure out what to do from there." I am quiet for a minute, thinking. "I am to going to do some meditating in my room for a while." I finally say, getting up. "All right." I head to my room and shut the door. After opening my bedroom window, I sit down on my bed, crossing my legs. I set my hands on my knees and close my eyes, trying to clear my mind. I focus on listening to the sounds of nature. I listen to the birds chirping and the leaves rustling in the trees. Soon, I feel more relaxed. The more I listen, the more I come to notice how each sound that is made is different, unique. I start to realize that everything I hear is sounding familiar, like, if I listen long enough, I would be able to understand it. "...erle. Amberle." Slowly, I open my eyes and realize my uncle was standing in the doorway of my room, grinning. "Uncle Matt?" I ask, curious. "What is it? Is something wrong?" "You have been in here for a while and I wanted to see if you were hungry, or if you wanted to stretch." he answers. "A while?" I repeat. "How long is a while?" "Oh," he says, slowly, "about three days." "Three days?!" I exclaim, eyes wide. "How is that even possible?!" "I am not sure." He furrows his eyebrows. "All I know is you came in here to meditate because you couldn't focus. And you have been in here since." I stare at my bed for a minute in silence. "Do you want to talk about what happened?" he asks, breaking the silence. I explain to him everything I experienced during my meditation; every sound, every feeling. After I finish, he is quiet for a few moments. "Do you think you would have been able to understand any of what you were hearing if I hadn't have interrupted?" he finally asks. "That's just it." I answer. "I am not sure. I mean, maybe. In time. Problem is I don't know HOW MUCH time. It could be days, weeks, months. Or, worse case senario, even years. If I were to meditate consistantly, with very little breaks, I might be able to get the hang of it eventually. But, as to the exact time it will take me...I don't know." I sigh. "Hey," he says, walking up and sitting down on my bed next to me, "don't worry about it. I know you will figure it out. Just don't go wearing yourrself out trying to understand everything, okay?" "Okay," I promise. "Deal." "That's my girl." he says, pulling me into a hug. "Do you feel a little better?" he asks after a minute. "Yeah," I answer, "I do." We pull away. "You hungry?" he asks, standing up and walking towards the door. My stomach growls so loud that I can feel it as well as hear it. My uncle laughs. "I will take that as a yes. When you're ready, come down and I will have something made for you." He leaves the room, closing the door softly behind him. After he leaves, I wash up and change my clothes into a long sleeved white shirt, brown corset and black pants with my dark brown boots. I brush my mess of hair and try to pull it back into a ponytail, but the rubber bands keep snapping, so I decide to just leave my hair down. 'Fine. Be wild, then.' I set down my brush and head down stairs. After I finish eating eggs and toast, I tell my uncle I am going over to Maria's to see how she and Bonnie are doing. I grab my bag, letting Ayethusa get settled inside and head over. Over the course of a couple of months, I meditate about five times. Each time, the meditation lasts about a week. During each session, get closer and closer to understanding each of the sounds of nature. In between sessions, I go over to Maria's to help out. "Hey, Amberle!" I am in the middle of washing laundry when I faintly hear my uncle calling from inside the house. "I am outside, uncle Matt!" I call back. After a minute or two, I hear the door close and I glance behind me to see my uncle walking up. "What's up, uncle Matt?" I ask, when he's close enough that I don't have to yell. "How long until you will be done with that?" he asks, hands on his hips. "I just started this about twenty minutes ago. Why?" I respond, questioning his sudden interest. "I have stuff I need you to do for me in town." he says, holding up a piece of paper. "Like?" I inquire. "Will you go into town for me?" he fires. "That depends." I fire back. "Will you finish the laundry if I do?" "Only if you go." he says, confidently. I glare at him for a minute. "Fine." I huff. I drop the article of clothing I was scrubbing on the washboard and stand up. He holds out the piece of paper he had been holding and, before I take it, I rub my wet hands all over his face, making him wince. Once my hands are dry, I snatch the paper out of my uncle's hand and go into the house to get ready to go into town. "Thanks for that, by the way!" my uncle calls as I leave. "Welcome!" I call back, grinning. As I head into town, I check the list of things my uncle wanted me to do for him. 'See if there is any mail, get bread, pick up some eggs, pick up some more white candles, paint (black, brown and blue), water pouch, saddle, and a blanket (for underneath the saddle).' My eyes narrow at this list. 'Is something wrong, Amberle?' Ayethusa asks. I read the list to her in my head. 'Okay?' she asks. 'What's so wrong with that?' 'What's my unlce need paint for?' 'Maybe he has a secret project he is working on?' she suggests. 'I mean, you have been meditating a lot lately.' 'True.' I agree. 'And that would give him plenty of time to get a project done.' 'Mhmm.' 'Hey, while I have been meditating, have you noticed anything weird that my uncle was doing?' I ask. 'No,' she answers, 'not that I am aware of. Although,' she adds, 'I have noticed he seems to be spending a lot of time in the forest behind your house, usually while you're meditating.' 'Really?' I ask. 'That's interesting. Hey, you'll need to wait on the edge of town. There's too much on this list, and you won't be able to fit with everything else.' 'Okay,' she says. 'I can hang out in the forest while you take care of all of that.' When I get near the outside edge of town, I open my bag and let Ayethusa scamper off into the forest. I watch her run around for a minute, chasing squirrels up trees, scaring nearby birds. Once I get into town, I first pick up the paint, then I get three more candles. After I get a decent enough saddle blanket, I see if there is any mail. I find a letter for my uncle from someone I don't recognize, so I just put the letter in my bag. I pick up a loaf of bread, then a few eggs. As soon as I walk into the shop with all the water pouches, I immediately notice no one is around. "Hello?" I call, looking around. "Is anyone in here?" 'Maybe I should come back later...?' I thought, looking behind the counter. "Can I help you, dear?" I look up to see an older lady with long, salt and pepper hair and more that a few creases on her skin, showing her age and wisdom. I notice she is holding a book and cup in her hands. "Oh, I am sorry," I apologize, "I didn't see anyone when I first walked in, so I wasn't sure if there was anyone in here." "No worries," she says, with a laugh. "I was just reading to pass the time. Don't usually get very many customers. What can I do for you?" "Well," I start, holding my uncle's shopping list, "my uncle wants a water pouch, but I am not sure which one he wants. He didn't really specify." "Well, I have an assortment of wineskins," she says, setting her cup and book down on the counter. "Why don't you walk around and see if there is one you think your uncle might like the best?" I walk around and look at all of the different water skins, picking up each one to inspect it. They all look the same except for the size; some are bigger than others. One of the skins I pick up is a medium sized skin with no designs or markings of any kind. However, it feels just as heavy, or even heavier than the larger skins. Curious, I shake it a little to discover it has liquid already in it. "This skin," I say, holding it up so she can see it, "already has liquid in it. None of the other skins have been filled up." "Does it?" she asks. I bring it to her. "So it does." she says, after shaking it next to her ear. She hands it back to me. "Have you decided on which one you want?" "I think I will take this one." I say, holding the filled water skin. "All right, then," she says. "That will be two silver." I place the coins on the counter in front of her. "Thank you. You have a nice day." After leaving the shop with the water skins, I pick up a saddle and carry it over my shoulder on my way home. On my way home, though, I have to stop several times. 'Man,' I thought, sitting on a rock, 'I forgot how heavy a saddle is!' I pull out the water skin I bought and chug down some water. I become surprised when I discover the water to be fairly cool. I sigh with relief. 'Uh-oh!' Ayethusa says, running for the trees. 'Someone's coming.' As if on cue, I hear horses and the creak of a wooden wagon. I also notice the sound seems as if it was coming from town. I turn around to see a guy about my age, maybe a little older with medium brown hair a little past his ears, a wide brimmed straw hat on, wearing a white short sleeved shirt and dark brown pants. "Is everything all right, miss?" he asks, when he's come closer and pulled the horses to a stop. He glances over to the horse saddle sitting on the rock next to me and sits straighter. "You're not carrying that saddle by yourself, are you?" "Uh," I stammer, not sure if I should trust him, "y-yeah, but my uncle's house isn't too much farther, I think I will be fine." "How much farther?" he asks. "About a mile or so." I answer. "Really, I will be fine." "No," he says, climbing down off his wagon, "let me give you a ride." He starts walking towards me and my saddle. "No," I say, getting up, "really, I will be fine." He lifts my saddle and walks back over to his wagon, placing it in the back. 'Ayethusa, can you make it back to my uncle's on your own?' I ask my companion. 'Yeah,' she says. 'Good,' I say, 'cause it looks like this guy is not taking no for an answer. Stay hidden, wait until we are out of sight, and get back as fast as you can, while remaining out of sight. Got it?' 'Yep,' she answers back. "Ready?" he asks, standing next to the front of his wagon. "Well," I answer him, "since you are not going to take no for an answer, then yeah." I walk over and climb into his wagon. He climbs on and sits next to me and gets the horses moving. "So, where are you headed, if I may ask?" I ask, after a minute. "To visit my godfather." he answers. "My name is Brian, by the way. Brian McCallum." He holds his hand out. "Amberle." I say, shaking his hand. "Amberle Thomas." "So," he says, watching the road, "why were you out there by yourself when I showed up?" "Oh," I answer, folding my hands in my lap, "it's just my uncle and me out here, so he has me go out and do all the shopping in town, while he does most of the harder chores around the house." "If it's just you and your uncle, where are your parents?" he asks, glancing at me. "Dead." I respond. "My mother died when I was a girl, and my father died from a work accident less than a year later. I am an only child. My uncle is all the family I have left." "I'm sorry." He gets a look of sympathy on his face. "It's all right." I give him a smile. "You didn't know." "Still," he says, watching the road, "that's not something a pretty girl like you needs to go throough at that young an age." We are both quiet for a while, each of us not knowing what to say. Then, I start seeing part of my uncle's land. "My uncle's house is just ahead." I tell him. As we pull up to the house, I start yelling for my uncle. "Uncle Matt! I'm home!" Brian pulls the horses to a stop in front of the house and we climb down. "I didn't know you were bringing company." I hear my uncle as he steps outside. "Not at first," I say, as Brian grabs the saddle out of the wagon. "But, trying to carry that saddle by mysef was difficult." "Oh, that's right!" Matt lowers his head for a second before looking at me. "I'm sorry, dear, I forgot I wrote that down." He pulls me into a hug. "It's all right," I say, laughing. "I'm just glad I had help." Brian sets the saddle down next to the house. "Thank you," my uncle says, pulling away from me and turning to Brian, "for helping my-" "Uncle Matt, this is-" "Dear God," my uncle says, "Brian? Is that you?"

#writer #writers on tumblr #i am an author #novel #novelist #book #booklover #story #fantasy #dragons

[fairywine]

Leitha

AO3 Link

“Between Neudörfl and Gattendorf, the Leitha River had formed the historic boundary between Austria and Hungary after 1048. The river become a symbol of the boundary so that the two halves of the dual monarchy were often referred to as Trans-Leithania (Hungary), and Cis-Leithania (Austria).” -Andrew Frank Burghardt, The Political Geography of Burgenland

“You won’t have to stay long. Just enough to be...seemly.”

Hungary turns her head from where she had been gazing out the gilt-framed window of the carriage. Outside the heart of Pest streams by, the buildings glowing with lights shining cheerfully in the night’s darkness. She lifts a steady brow at her prime minister, who to his credit meets it unflinchingly. But both she and Gyula Andrássy have been through enough to know there are far worse things to receive than a cool stare.

“I know what is needed of me, Count Andrássy.” Hungary rests gloved hands neatly in her lap, smooths out the finely embroidered half-apron that is part of her traditional court dress. A little over a year ago, and for centuries preceding it, the only aprons she usually wore had been plain white cotton, soft from frequent washings, a rag in one pocket and a knife in the other. A maid’s apron, suitable for a humble servant. Now look at her. “The Dual Monarchy need not fear any lapse in manners from the Kingdom of Hungary.”

Andrássy is too consummate a politician to let his feelings show, but Hungary knows what he’s thinking. That from the perspective of the western half of the empire it’s only a matter of time before the wild Magyars act out again.

“The compromise has managed to hold for a year,” Andrássy carefully says. “Tonight, we have passed out first great hurdle. What lies before us now is the importance of building upon what we’ve accomplished.”

Hungary can’t help but look outside again. It’s a balmy summer night in Pest, the streets thronged with people. Everywhere Hungary’s flag abounds, the peerlessly beautiful piros, fehér, zöld with her coat of arms center to declare its sovereignty to the world. Through the lavish shell of Andrássy’s carriage she can hear a lively csárdás being played on a violin, can see people dancing and children running around.

For all the festivities, the underlying emotion in the air is a tension pulled tight as piano wire. People are commemorating the first anniversary of Austria-Hungary more out of a sense of obligation than joy. Overall, even the brightest moods are shot through with an uneasy edge. By the standards of Magyar celebrations, June 8th, 1868 is a poor showing. As with so many things concerning her land, Hungary accepts this is the best anyone can do, given the circumstances.

“There’s no need for such reminders,” Hungary says. “Compared to what I’ve been through in the past, even this half-loaf of a union is like a happy dream. And once my authority is more fully settled, well…”

“Half-loaf?” Andrássy repeats.

“Better than none,” Hungary explains, earning a short but hearty laugh from the prime minister. “And already paying dividends. I can be polite and toast to the glory of the Osztrák-Magyar Monarchia if it means having what’s rightfully mine again.”

The carriage bumps a little on the last bit of road before they pass onto the awesome span of the Chain Bridge. The jostling is uncomfortable despite as well built a vehicle as Andrássy’s, more so when one is tightly corseted and layered up with what feels like a thousand starched petticoats. Hungary makes a mental note to remind her king that public works projects are a reliable way to build up local goodwill, specifically nice, smooth roads.

Andrássy inclines his dark head in agreement as they cross the Danube. “Especially once the matter of Croatia’s status is finalized. I have great hopes of the settlement we’ve arranged.”

“Which, God willing, shouldn’t be too much longer,” Hungary grouses, resting her head tiredly against the back of her seat. It makes the pins holding the elegant coiffure her hair has been braided stab into her scalp. But that’s mild compared to some of the headaches her southern Slavs have given her since the Compromise was made official. “Croatia demands so much from me he’s practically declared independence himself.”

“Horvát Királyság asks for all he can, knowing he will ultimately end up with much less,” Andrássy assures her. “You may stay confident knowing you ultimately hold the winning hand.”

The carriage leaves the Chain Bridge much more easily than it had entered, making the leftward turn on the road leading to the Royal Palace. Noticing Andrássy studying her, Hungary follows the path of his gaze to where it rests on her hands. Covered by her short-length evening gloves, the bulge of the ring on Hungary’s right hand is still unmistakable. A year’s time of wearing the band and she still feels the weight of it like an anchor.

“It is likewise encouraging that we’ve had no interference from,” a delicate pause, “Other quarters.”

Politicians will be politicians no matter what. Andrássy is exquisitely outfitted in his díszmagyar, mente coat draped over one shoulder, dolman shirt of fine silk and pants of rich velvet-a fairytale prince of medieval times. But his dark, intense eyes show he to be a thoroughly modern statesman beneath the pageantry. Under Andrássy’s süveg fur cap Hungary can practically see his mind roaring away, always examining every angle and choice. This happens often enough, the men who look and see a young maiden rather than the centuries old land she truly is, but it never stops being annoying. Or unwanted.

“My husband, you mean,” Hungary says directly. “No, Austria has been the very soul of reticence. I’ve barely seen him a handful of times since the wedding.”

Andrássy wants to probe more, it’s obvious. But how to do it while balancing his gentlemanly ideals-and to his adored Nation-seems to elude him. It’s just as well, as the carriage has finally completed its ascension up Castle Hill to pull into the main courtyard of the Royal Palace, its stately facade glowing brightly from within as well as the many light poles placed about the enclosure.

It takes only a moment for the guards to observe Andrássy’s coat of arms on his carriage door and ascertain they are not just in the presence of the prime minister but the Nation herself. Sweding, the vehicle’s door swings open to reveal a line of eight footmen on either side, at fullest attention for their most honored guests. Ever the Magyar gentleman, Andrássy helps Hungary out, an act she greatly appreciates considering the long train of her dress. A deep bow before holding his arm out for her to take, and Andrássy leads them both behind yet more footmen into the castle proper.

The Royal Palace has worn many faces since Hungary roamed the stone halls of the residence constructed by King Béla IV six hundred years ago as a young girl. (Who had been still firmly convinced she was a boy.)

It hadn’t lasted, but later kings had replaced the structure with newer palaces in the same location, following the artistic trends in vogue at the time of their respective reigns. King Sigismund had made it a Gothic masterpiece fit for the Holy Roman Emperor, Matthias Corvinus a Renaissance-influenced wonder for his Italian bride. All beautiful, in their own ways.

Then Mohács happened, and in the ensuing 158 year tug of war between Austria and Turkey over Hungary’s lands, the castle was destroyed down to practically nothing. Even the splendid Baroque building Maria Theresa had rise from the ruins had fallen to her ever-tragic luck. Like so much else, it had been a victim of Austria’s suppression of the 1848 rebellions. Yet restoration and reconstruction had their effect, the proud Neoclassical palace rather neatly mirroring Hungary’s own shift from servility to full autonomy and ruling half the empire.

Hungary can’t really say how she feels about it overall, not with the failures and sorrow of 1848 so fresh in her mind. At least it is preferable to ruination. Perhaps with time she can know her own heart on the subject, and maybe even grow to love it. The Royal Palace can’t help being what it is-it’s up to Hungary to make the most of things.

The hundreds of beeswax candles setting the interior aglow make the French Rococo-style glitter brilliantly. Between the crystals and lights and gold it feels like another world. A world whose reason for existing is to declare the power, wealth, and prestige of its owner. That said owner is ultimately her is a face Hungary still can’t fully wrap her head around. She has yet to abandon the natural reflex to look at such splendor and think of how much wax will be needed to make the mahogany wood gleam, how much soap and water to mop the marble, and plenty of rags for dusting every last blessed knickknack in the room.

“Are you ready?” Andrássy murmurs at a volume meant for Hungary’s ears alone. With a barely concealed jolt she realizes they’ve arrived at the main ballroom entrance, only moments to go before they’re announced. Not for the first time, the Nation is grateful for her prime minister’s natural attentiveness.

“Of course,” Hungary says, fixing a smile on her face that strikes an appropriate balance between brightness and dignity. Seeing little point in putting the moment off, Hungary gives a regal nod the pair of footmen waiting at attention. With a single smooth motion they swing open the gilt-laden double doors.

“Her Royal Apostolic Highless, the Lands of the Crown of Saint Stephen, the Kingdom of Hungary!”

There must be at least two hundred people in the ballroom, which is somehow even more intensely lit that the rest of the Royal Palace. Yet a worshipful silence falls upon them as one. Even the musicians falter for a moment in their playing of a Donizetti Quartetto before remembering themselves and returning to their instruments. Keenly aware of every eye, Hungary doesn’t let her calm smile slip.

“His Excellency the Right Honorable Count Gyula Andrássy de Csíkszentkirály et Krasznahorka!”

Hungary can easily see the entrance as the guests must. Andrássy, the very essence of the noble Magyar magnate. So darkly handsome with just a hint of danger in his smouldering gaze to contrast the opulence of his dress. Guiding in the Nation, so grand and beautiful in her court dress and veil, bearing a diamond and pearl tiara befitting her status as a royal land. The Kingdom of Hungary, having endured hundreds of years of humiliation and torment, finally being accorded the rank deserved to her by the will of God Himself. She can practically envision the tableau being painted, complete with title. Hungaria Being Guided By The Saving Hand Of Her Greatest Patriot.

Italics and all.

It’s not like Hungary doesn’t understand. To have their beloved Nation standing before them, clad in finery and commanding the respect, however willingly given, due to a Great Power...it’s a dream of centuries fulfilled. Falling short of the long prayed for independence, but at least a start in righting so many wrongs.

While the room is overflowing with the crème de la crème of Buda and Pest society-and thus anyone who’s anyone in Hungary-most have never seen their Nation with their own eyes. A concept of statehood made flesh and blood always takes adjusting to. But for those who have met Hungary, who have been by her during times far removed from the elegant gentility of the ballroom, it’s a tiring reaction. Mόr Perczel, only recently back from exile, had seen her bloodied and half-dead at the Battle of Temesvár. Given Hungary moonshine from his flask to dull the pain of the bullets being removed from her skin. Yet like all the others, revolution veterans and aristocrats alike, he looks upon her as if she’s some sort of goddess. Flawless. Divine.

It makes Hungary think of Austria, strangely. For all her husband’s myriad flaws (ones she’s accumulated quite the list of over centuries of living in his house), he’s at least never put her on a ridiculous pedestal. Certainly he’d have no sort of discomfit with this kind of pomp and importance. It does amuse Hungary to think of him up in Vienna for his own celebrations, having to take congratulations for a successful diminishing of his own power with lordly grace. How each anniversary felicitation must sting at proud, pretty Ausztria!

Hungary’s inner mirth proves fortifying to her spirits, and she is able to get through what seems like an endless stream of well-wishers without feeling miserable. And she does truly enjoy being among her people, especially those who so dearly love her. Ferenc Deák greets Hungary as gently as she was his own daughter. Mihály Zichy declares his desire to paint her, and her eyes can’t help but dance at his cheek. Even Franz Liszt makes a valiant effort at conversing in the Magyar tongue before giving up and switching to German.

Hungary does not mind this part of public engagements, but it is tiring. Helping herself to a glass of wonderful white wine from Neszemély off a passing waiter’s tray helps revive her. But there is still a rather glaring absence, one Hungary had hoped would be resolved by now.

“Her Royal Majesty has yet to make an appearance?” Hungary asks Deák quietly, taking advantage of the rare solitude they share.

“I understand she is to be expected in short order,” Deák says with a dignified shrug. “Of course, that is always what is said at events like as this.”

“Worry not, my dear friend,” Hungary says, an idea striking her. “Such instances are when those of my ilk prove most valuable.”

“Is that so?” Deák looks Hungary over skeptically, knowing well what her face looks like when she’s about to push propriety.

“I insist,” Hungary says, passing her empty glass off to yet another waiter. “It is nothing less than attending to my duties as a partner of the Dual Monarchy.”

Deák doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t stop Hungary’s discreet exit out of the ballroom either. After all, there are few who better know the relationship of country and monarch as he. In this, Hungary’s judgment should be deferred to. 

To some it might be surprising to have so few people around in such a large palace. Only those privileged enough to be frequent guests of the royal private apartments know that is the resident’s particular preference. When Hungary makes her way into the suit, she only sees two ladies-in-waiting in attendance. Just past them is the queen’s personal hairdresser Franziska Feifalik, tools of her trade held in white-gloved hands. Upon Hungary’s entrance all rise before falling into graceful curtsies.

“Kingdom of Hungary,” Franziska says in German, being one of the queen’s few servants who doesn’t speak Hungarian. “How may I be of service?”

“All I think I need is to follow you,” Hungary says lightly.

“I’m sure you wouldn’t even need to do that much, your Royal Highness,” Franziska smiles. “It is no great mystery.”

Franziska indeed guides Hungary through the royal quarters into the exact room she guessed she would end up. While it is as fantastically ornate as every other room in the palace, there are enough personal touches to give it a gentler, more inviting air. It’s a dream of nursery, eminently suitable for a tiny princess.

The most beautiful woman in the world is inside it.

Upon seeing Hungary, her impossibly perfect face relaxes into a smile so lovely the Nation momentarily loses the ability to remember what words are.  Or how one puts them together coherently. Thankfully her reflexes remain, and Hungary dips into a deep curtsey before the Empress of Austria and her own Queen.

“Ah, my dearest Hungary,” Elisabeth says softly in her flawless Hungarian, pressing a gentle kiss to her cheek. “As always, it is so good to see you.”

“Indeed, Sisi,” Hungary says with equal quietness, glad to dispense with the needed demonstration of formality. The queen is one of her truest and deepest friends. The adoration of the Magyar people for the “Beautiful Providence” of the land is so strong it can overwhelm Hungary as a person. But she truly treasures the intimacy, and knows Elisabeth does too. As one they lean over the cradle where the Archduchess Marie Valerie sleeps as soundly as any other infant.

“I know I should have made my appearance already,” Elisabeth says, brushing the faintest touch across her daughter’s forehead. “One look at her sweet face and I couldn’t break away for anything.”

“I wouldn’t either from such an angel,” Hungary agrees. Elisabeth has endured so much loneliness, misery, and deep loss, the kind that transformed Franz Joseph’s naive Wittelsbach bride into the brilliant, distant diamond of a women she is today. For now at least, her face glows with a rare joy that makes her already incredible beauty almost impossible to withstand.  Hungary can only pray that it lasts, for the strong woman who has proven to be the great salvation of the Hungarians.

“I can already see so much of Franzi in her face,” Elisabeth says, and even Hungary couldn’t really discern the true emotion in her tone.

“I’ll have to think on that next time I see his Imperial and Royal Majesty,” Hungary offers neutrally. “I’m due for a meeting in Vienna next week.”

“How stalwart you are, dear Hungary. To bear the burden of dealing with both your husband and mine at the same time.” With one last caress of her daughter’s downy hair, Elisabeth sits down in a nearby chair. A tall woman, this makes it much easier for Franziska to do some final touch-ups on her famously long, lustrous, chestnut-brown hair. As usual it is pulled up in elaborate, heavy braids, through with the adept hairdresser has wound several pearls. Examining the queen with an artist’s critical eyes, Franziska sets about making the tiny changes necessary to take the style from merely beautiful to sublime.

“I hope things have been...acceptable, with Austria,” Elisabeth adds, dark eyes looking compassionately at Hungary. The Nation is well aware how familiar her queen is with unhappiness in a marriage. It is just one of the many sorrows Sisi has been plagued with since joining the House of Habsburg.

“I got everything I hoped for out of my first wedding anniversary,” Hungary says honestly. “I still have my status, attended to my people, and spent time with you, my Queen.”

“I suppose that is enough,” Elisabeth replies. Of course she understands.

“Austria probably still hasn’t recovering from having to bend his will a fraction. If he has brought out poetry and flowers I might have fallen over with shock,” Hungary says, smiling a little to ease her dear friend.

There had been times in the past where Austria has been kind. Even sweet and tender. Counting off sheep to his maid and wards so they could sleep. The times when he would listen to Hungary sing as she worked, trying not to make obvious he was listening and liked it. Helping bandage up the wounds she had received kicking Prussia out during the War of Austrian Succession. Making such grand promises under Maria Theresa’s reign, ones that moved her heart as easily as a green girl’s.

If only Hungary could have married him a century ago. She had such hope then, such wonderful dreams. Had been ready to let ‘Austria, sir’ all the way into her heart. If only he had kept his promises, instead of letting the problems of his empire fester as he bound Hungary tighter.

Which leads them to here and now. A thousand years, and she and Austria can’t even talk to each other without a government mandate involved. It wasn’t what Hungary would have ever hoped for. But like so much else, it’s what she’s got.

Elisabeth rises, hair ministrations complete, and Hungary links arms with her.

“Now let me show my dedication and loyalty by escorting my exquisite queen to her most adoring citizens,” Hungary says grandly. It will be enjoyable, and a welcome respite of the impossible boil of emotions thinking of Austria always puts her into.

Hopefully.

By the time Hungary makes it back to the home she has in western Buda, her head rings a little with the weight of her hair, and much more with too much wine imbibed and unavoidable tobacco smoke breathed in. She barely remembers to wave Andrássy’s carriage off before her butler lets her in. He, her maids, and the house itself had all been wedding gifts, befitting the grandness of a full partner in a Great Power. More likely because the whole of Austria would probably die of mortification to have their Nation married to someone living in a tidy but small country house in outer Pest who dressed and cleaned for herself.

Still, Hungary’s grateful for it in this instance. Her every need is immediately seen to: butler taking her thin silk shawl, one maid escorting Hungary up to her bedroom to help her undress while another brings up a tray with an steaming cup of coffee and some crackers. Hungary downs it as her maid carefully removes her expensive jewelry to be safely locked away. The beverage does take the edge off her headache, at least.

“I hope the celebrations went well, your Highness,” the maid says cheerfully, setting the end of Hungary’s train to the part of her dress where she fastens it up and out of the way. It makes it less likely to be stepped on during her tasks, as well as easier for Hungary to sit during them. Doing so, the Nation looks into her dressing room mirror. Still beautifully clad, a perfect Magyar princess. But what is she now, anyway? Not a stranger to herself, but not holding all the answers either.

“Yes, very,” Hungary responds, realizing she let the question hang for far too long. Lost in her work, the girl just hums in response. Carefully she removes pin after pin from Hungary’s hair, leaving it to tumble down to waist in a mass of cinnamon-hued waves. The style the humble Habsburg maid had worn, but combined with the finest court dress available in all the Lands of the Crown of Saint Stephen. Suddenly, Hungary can barely breathe, the edges of her vision going black.

“I’m going outside for some air,” Hungary says abruptly, rushing to stand. Startled, her lady’s maid only has time for a squeak before the Nation flees the dressing room. Dashing down the stairs, she shoves the front door open to head into the gentle night. Chest heaving, Hungary looks around, takes in the quest of Buda in the late hour. Only faint noises from the occasional passing carriage disrupt the silence.

Instinct wins. Hungary runs. Runs in the way of Nations, beings who are people and state but also the earth. Who can shrink leagues down to nothing, who can cross their territories in minutes and continents in a hour. There is nothing in her mind but flight, heading west. Esztergom, Tatabánya, Komárno, Győr, all blur before Hungary’s eyes before disappearing just as quickly. The mindless panic starts to lessen around Sopron, and by the time she reaches the woods of Királyhida, the Nation has slowed to a normal walking pace.

Immediately, the pain of running so hard in a corset makes itself known, even if Hungary doesn’t lace herself as obsessively tight as her queen. Somewhere along the way her dainty dancing slippers fell off, leaving her stockings torn and feet bleeding from several cuts. With a groan, Hungary tears the useless hose off and tosses them aside along with her garter ribbons. Then a couple of petticoats for good measure, since if she’s going to look a fright it may as well be a comfortable one.

Hungary pats down her hair in what is probably a futile effort, and ruefully surveys her gown. Grass and mud stains dot the hem, and on her left there’s a rip about as long as her palm. Hungary isn’t really worried-her staff is clever and skilled enough to repair the damage-just annoyed she couldn’t at least have kept things together long enough to change into a less expensive and delicate dressing gown. She sighs, feeling the weight of everything on her shoulder get just a little bit heavier.

Hungary should return to Buda, but...it’s so nice out, so peaceful. Just sitting down for a moment and letting her aching body recover sounds heavenly. In the distance, she can hear the sound of running water. Hungary knows it well, has known it nearly her entire existence. It is but a short walk through the dark woods to reach the river.

The Leitha streams by as it has for millennia, shimmering like fine blue silk under the fat waxing moon. It’s been a dry year, the water much lower from the banks than it usually is, but even that doesn’t diminish the sight. There’s an outcropping of nice, flat rocks right at the edge of the waters. Hungary imagines children jumping off them on hot summer days, fishermen resting while patiently waiting for their lines to tug. It makes her smile a little, and after carefully gathering her dress up and sitting down she takes inspiration from the Királyhida locals and dips in her feet.

Nothing can describe how refreshing and cool the Leitha waters feel against Hungary’s sore feet and calves. Away from the frenzy of her daily life, with the peaceful woods around her and the simple pleasure of a river-soak, the Nation closes her eyes and lets the tension of the anniversary drain away.

A rustle snaps Hungary out of her comfortable reverie. Not loud, but standing out amidst the ambient noises of nature. The night has been such she’s tempted to dismiss what she sees, but no. There is Austria on the western bank of the Leitha, every bit the impeccable Imperial aristocrat in his gala uniform. Collar starched, whites crisp, medals polished to a gleam only his evening shoes match in sheer shininess. It makes her feel the total disarray she’s in all the more keenly.

“Austria, sir-” Hungary stops herself forcefully, pressing her lips together. She’s not a maid anymore, dammit. The last thing she should be doing is stammering at her husband like scullery wench caught above stairs, regardless of how messy she looks. She’s Austria’s equal now, and will act it.

“Good evening, Austria,” Hungary tries again, calm and polite. “I hope your anniversary festivities were enjoyable.”

This looks like about the last reaction her spouse expects, but he rallies near instantly.

“Very much indeed, thank you,” Austria answers, nothing in his voice indicating his personal feelings on the matter. He may as well have mentioned the weather for all the emotion he’s displayed. Violet eyes flick up and down, examining her with glowing alarm. “Are you in need of assistance?”

No withering comment on Hungary’s less than perfect appearance? Pre-marriage Austria (pre-this specific marriage, she mentally amends) would have never let that slide. Dishevelment had always indicated serious character flaws in his ordered world.

“I’m fine.” Hungary draws her knees up to her chest, and though Austria looks politely away he definitely takes a moment to do so.

“You were throwing your,” Austria pauses. Some aspects of Nationhood are beyond the ability of any language to capture, even for Nations themselves. “Your land-authority about with great abandon. When I felt you heading in the direction of the border I thought you were under attack.”

“Attack?” Hungary echoes, looking down at herself, then adjusting to what it must look like from her husband’s perspective. Suddenly his reaction made much more sense.

“I could not imagine you would come so near my half of the empire otherwise.”

“...it was just...something I needed to do,” Hungary says, really not wishing to explain her actions in great detail. She winces slightly as her still raw soles rub painfully on the stone. The cuts she had gotten must be deeper than she thought. For a Nation it’ll be no time at all to heal, but none of them are immune to pain. “I’ll be off in a bit. You don’t need to worry about anything.”

“You are my wife. It would be remiss of me not to be concerned,” Austria says. His tone is still even, but Hungary recognizes the look on his face. Austria is worked up about the situation. And a worked up Austria can be very, very unpredictable.

Sure enough, Hungary proves to be correct. Austria pulls off his gloves, tucking them neatly into his belt. Despite his stiff uniform he manages to kneel down and start unlacing his shoes with great speed.

“What are you doing?!” Hungary yelps, jaw actually dropping when Austria pulls off his shoes and socks.

“Merely being sensible,” Austria says, holding the articles in the crook of his arm. “Even on a warm night leather would take a while drying out, to say nothing of the condition it would be left in. And walking in wet socks is simply unpleasant.”

Beyond astonished, Hungary can only watch with eyes that must be saucer huge. Austria-fastidious, immaculate Austria-strolls into the Leitha with as much nonchalance as if he were walking along the Ringstraße. They’re at one of the shallower points of the river, the dry year lowering the level even more, but Austria still ends up soaked up to his knees. Hungary can’t help it and lightly slaps her cheek. The very real twinge of pain proves this isn’t some hallucination brought on by oxygen loss via running in a tight corset. Even then she can barely believe its real.

Austria emerges from the river and sets foot on the eastern bank-Hungary’s side of the Leitha. Setting his things down on another rock, her husband motions her over silently as he kneels.

“Your foot, if you please,” Austria says in response to her blank look. “One at a time.”

“They’re wet,” Hungary says in feeble protest, but lifts her left leg up anyway. Right now it at least means Austria isn’t looking at her face, gone crimson with the force of her blushing.

Almighty God, what a fool Hungary is. Having complicated feelings about Austria, a Gordian-knot like tangle of emotions and memories both good and bad, is one thing. Her most powerful neighbor, one she shares a direct border with. Naturally their fates would always be linked, one way or another.

But for all the past they share, the injuries and indignities Hungary has endured because of Austria...she never learns. One gentlemanly act, one of those rare moments where he lets the iron-clad armor of his rank and power relax, and the anger starts slipping away. And a great kingdom, a warrior who had been so fearsome people had prayed to God to be spare from her arrows, is reduced to a maiden with chest fluttering and head filled with rosy, hopeful dreams.

How many times had Austria made his promises, only to forget them at best or break them at worst? And how many times had Hungary fallen for it? The only thing that is different now is Austria hasn’t found a way to wiggle out of his obligations. At least, not so far.

It’s cool reasoning. Hungary only wishes her racing heart wouldunderstand what her mind does. Staring at the top of Austria’s dark head, bent over while long pianist’s fingers handle her with such care, makes any sort of progress on this front impossible. His right hand grips her calf to hold it steady, wedding band cool on her hot skin, and  Hungary’s embarrassment multiplies tenfold. Which is beyond ridiculous, given Austria has, to put it politely, definitely had his hands on more than a bare leg in the past. At least during the times things were good between them.

“It seems your cuts are not very deep,” Austria says, mercifully unaware of Hungary’s line of thought. “Clean as well.”

“I’d have never guessed from how you were fussing,” Hungary says as Austria checks her other foot. She’s not eager to get back home home on them, but she’s definitely been able to ignore worse under harder conditions. “Marriage hasn’t made me soft yet.”

“Oh, I do pray not,” Austria murmurs. His face is hard to see from the angle she’s at, but Hungary is positive she catches a faint smile curling at the corner of his mouth. “It is a great shame, but unlike your other enemies I do not think you will be able to take your frying pan and pound your feet into submission.”

Hungary’s eyes narrow to green slits, but Austria pays her dangerous expression no mind. Taking out a handkerchief from his pocket, Austria unfolds it all the way before gripping it firmly at the middlemost portion of the top. It’s a beautiful piece of snowy linen, elegantly embroidered with a scarlet Ö monogram, and when her husband rips it neatly in half Hungary can’t help her cry of dismay.

“It is merely a handkerchief,” Austria says, looking surprised. Which means his eyes lift a fraction of a second before falling into their usual place of stately calm. Carefully he winds a strip of linen around Hungary’s left then right foot, after which he examines the results critically. “Fortunately you have small feet and it was just enough fabric, or this might have not worked out so well.”

Hungary stares down at her bound feet, which do feel better for the impromptu bandages. The Ö stands out like a brand, but can she even argue it doesn’t have some justification? If Hungary was able to be truly independent and stand on her own without Austria in the picture, she would have done so successfully by now. Instead here she is, lost by the river and having to be bailed out by her husband again. To Hungary’s horror, her eyes start to well up. Not here, not in front of him.

“Thank you for your h-help,” Hungary says, and oh God her voice chokes up. Austria starts, and there are very few things Hungary wouldn’t give right now to just throw herself in the Leitha and never come out again. “I-it was very...very…”

The one time Austria actually looks flustered and Hungary can’t even savor it. His mouth opens and shuts several times as she fails to get herself under control. Austria stands, and for a second Hungary thinks he’s about to leave her to her mortification. Then he sits next to her on the rock, as gingerly if she’s a stack of dynamite and he’s a lit match. Then Austria slips a hand underneath the flap of his bright white Field Marshal dress jacket and pulls out a silver flask to hold to Hungary silently.

On an evening less filled with strangeness Hungary would have been utterly dumbfounded. But their one year anniversary has decidedly not fit into that category, and so she wipes hard at her eyes before grabbing the flask. The Marillenschnaps Is very good, richly scented with the aroma of ripe apricots, sliding smoothly down the throat even as it lights a fire in the blood. So good in fact, Hungary Decides to compliment it by taking another swig, and then a third. She passes it back to Austria, who polishes off the rest of it.

“I didn't want to marry you and you didn't want to marry me,” Hungary says. There is no rancor to be heard in her words, and she feels none. It's a truth, plain and simple. If anything it's a relief to not to keep it locked away, when the two of them know better. She stares at the Leitha foggily, the schnapps being quite a bit stronger than she had credited. Hungary only wishes Austria had a second flask secreted somewhere on his Imperial person.

“An accurate summation,” Austria agrees, looking for a second something like melancholy. He gives his head a quick toss, evidently also feeling the effects of the apricot spirits. “Which brings us to the question at the heart of the matter. Where do you want to go from here?”

“I don't know,” Hungary says honestly. “And even if I did, it would only make a difference if it complimented what you want.”

One hundred years ago. If only they could have worked out the Compromise then. Hungary would have run into Austria's arms as joyfully as any bride, Maria Teresa smiling down at them both as the benevolent mother-Queen. It might not have been all she wanted, but still plenty enough.

“Just think of one thing, of the here and now. If you can,” Austria says, almost as if he needs her to do it for them both. To voice what he could never bring himself to.

“ I'd like... I'd like to be able to talk with you like this again. without needing alcohol, or me losing my slippers and looking like I crashed right into a bush,” Hungary answers slowly. She thinks of Franz Joseph and Elisabeth, how the love once there withered without understanding and balance to make it flourish. Thinks of her beautiful queen, who has suffered such misery, and the emperor in his loneliness. Too far apart now to ever reconnect on a marital level.

Hungry doesn't know if she could let herself love Austria with the whole of her wild heart. But she doesn't want to live a life of coldness, tied to a distant stranger who she used to know. Truly falling is too much to dream of now. What isn't then?

“Can we try being a better husband and wife?”

Austria looks at her, face unguarded for once.

“Neither of us is naive enough to hope for... for human things, a human marriage,” Hungary elaborates. This is what things have come to for them, the Magyar warrior who isn't brave enough to say ‘love’. “But I can try to be a good partner to you. If you're a good partner to me.”

Austria absorbs this silently, removing his glasses. His hand drifts towards his pocket before he evidently recalls his handkerchief is currently on his wife's person. He settles instead for wiping the lenses on his jacket before returning them to the bridge of his nose.

“Then we will both make the effort, and…” Austria thinks. “Here at the Leitha, a year from now. We will meet and decide what step to take next.”

It's not the world, but they're much too wizened by this point to make the lofty promises of starry-eyed romantics. This plan, however, is believable. Sensible. Not much to lose, but potentially much to gain. Hungary nods in approval, holding her arm out as boldly as any man. Austria hesitates for a moment, but reaches out to clasp her hand in his. Husband and wife shake on their plan, and to hope.

“Happy anniversary,” Hungary says, and if her smile is small it is also genuine. Her  brow knits slightly as she looks up at the sky, trying to judge the time.” I think it's till the day.”

“For another four minutes and...sixteen seconds more,”Austria confirms, checking his pocket watch.

“I suppose I owe you an anniversary gift,” Hungary muses, wiggling her feet in their former-handkerchief bound glory. “Not that I have anything much on me at the moment.”

“Perhaps a kiss, then?”  

Hungary turns to Austria in a flash, but a single glance reveals her husband to be in total seriousness. Well, whatever his angle, the least she can do is match it.

“One. And I pick where.”

“To be renegotiated in a year's time,” Austria counters. Hungary thinks it over before nodding her assent to his terms.

“My right hand, for however long is left in the day.”

“A minute and forty-nine seconds,” Austria murmurs, snapping the light of his pocket watch shut. “If you are ready?”

Hungary holds out her hand, still gloved in fine, thin, white kid leather. Austria takes it, long, nimble fingers dancing over her palm Like he wanted to memorize the feel of it. To her surprise, Austria doesn't merely take his kiss and be done with it. Instead, he glides slightly past her wrist, to the small line of pearls buttoning it up tightly.

“Austria,” Hungary starts, blush swiftly reviving. Her husband merely hums, undoing one button at a time with no sense of haste. “You only have-”

“ I know the time. Any good musician has an innate sense of its flow,” Austria says, with a calm that's nearly infuriating compared to the little sparks Hungary feels when his bare fingers brush against the tender skin of her inner arm. “I assure you, I will keep to our terms.”

Hungary wants to point out she should have had the sense to define said terms much more stringently. But the retort refuses to form as Austria slowly loosens the glove’s fingers one by one, sliding it off with what feels like infinite slowness.

Now that Hungary's hand is bare to the world-bare but for her wedding ring- Austria takes it in his own. It's a hand that still holds the history of Hungary's previous station: sword calluses, rein-marks, dry spots from doing the laundry in huge boiling copper pots. He grips her hand reverently, lifting it gently to his mouth.  

Hungary shivers as she feels the air of the tiny sigh Austria lets out. Then he finally presses soft lips to her hand, and lightning runs straight up and down her spine. Damn him for playing so unfairly, and her for so easily giving into it!

Austria slowly separates from her hand, still letting it rest in his. Their eyes lock, and for a single, crystalline-fragile moment there is no one else in the world but the two of them.

“I think you must have gone over your time,” Hungary says, barely recognizing her voice for how breathy it's become.

“Actually, I had five more seconds,” Austria tells her after taking a look at his watch. Not his voice has gotten somewhat breathy too and dropped noticeably goes a long way to making Hungary feel better about her own reaction. “And now, midnight.”

Much like Cinderella, the magic ends at the stroke of midnight. Austria and Hungary look at each other ruefully, a tacit acknowledgement that  their time in the woods is over. For now.

Hungary makes a point to slip her own glove back on, but allows Austria to rebutton it simply because it's hard to do on her own. Despite the quiet intimacy having passed, her body feels lighter than it has in a long, long time. her feet don't hurt nearly as badly as before, which helps.

“Would you care to be escorted back to Buda?” Austria asks courteously, face showing he already knows what the answer will be.

“No, I'll take myself home,” Hungary says before adding, “This time.”

However this ends up working out, Hungary doesn't think she'll ever forget the look of delighted joy that flashes over Austria's face before disappearing in the blink of an eye.

“Then farewell,” Austria says, with a bow so elegant it would make any courtier burst into tears of joyful appreciation.

“Until next we meet,” Hungary responds and curtsies in return, quite nicely considering the mess of her appearance.

Good-byes exchanged, Austria turns to the west.  Hungary turns to the east. the temptation to glance backwards one more time reigns, but neither knows if the other gives in to it. Another moment passes, and then the bank by the river is empty as if no one had ever been there at all. The Leitha flows on as it always has, patiently keeping its place of sanctuary safe until a year's time has passed once more.

Me: AusHun Week! So great! I can’t wait to write some stuff for one of my favorite ships ever! Me: *writes a bittersweet character study of Hungarian history in which Austria doesn’t even appear till the last third, twice* Me: I’m so good at this. :) :) :)

Anyway, as much as AusHun is a hardcore Ship of Ships for me and I love Cute Domestic Old Marrieds AusHun, to say their relationship has had its ups and downs would be a considerable understatement. And the circumstances leading to the Compromise of 1867 definitely stemmed from one of the worse lows of Austro-Hungarian relations. To say Austria came down on the Hungarian rebels during the Hungarian War of Independence in 1848 like a ton of bricks would be unkind to the bricks. Hungary was this close to breaking free, enough that if Austria hadn’t managed to get reinforcements from Russia to tag in she would have done it. And then he executed the rebel generals, put out death warrants for those who managed to escape like Andrássy and Kossuth, and stripped Hungary of her ancient rights and constitution to rule her under brutal martial law.

And thus things might have bopped merrily along for Austria except for a little one-two whammy called the Austro-Prussian War and the Second Italian War of Independence. His empire being on the verge of total collapse as well as shut out from the German Confederation Prussia had unified put Austria in a conciliatory sort of mood, for some reason, and negotiations with the Magyars were opened. Hungary, for her part saw an opportunity with a limited window of time in Austria’s weak position. Still remembering how easily her army had been routed by Russia’s, and recognizing if she didn’t make a move the one or more of the many Slav groups in the Kingdom of Hungary would move to deal with the Austrians instead, was also open to a settlement.

That anything would have even been agreed was far from a given. Though Emperor Franz Joseph recognized an agreement with Hungary was needed to keep the Austrian Empire from absolutely splintering, he was and always would be a hardcore autocrat who viewed giving up even a fraction of his authority as blasphemy against his divine office. The vast majority of (the Magyar part of) Hungary wanted nothing less than full independence, and had very fresh memories of the 1848 rebellions as well as a strong hatred for Austria. (The Slav parts of Hungary, as well as the Romanian parts, were shit out of luck and stuck in a state that argued for freedom and self-determination...if you were a Magyar, and keep dreaming for that autonomy otherwise. Except don’t, because it’s not going to happen. Now go and practice Hungarian some more!

(As for Croatia (or Horvát Királyság/Kingdom of Croatia as Andrássy calls him here) was the only minority group in the Kingdom of Hungary who did have something of a protected, autonomous status, being that Croatia actually entered a personal union with Hungary in 1102 instead of being conquered. After the Austro-Hungarian Compromise was passed, a separate Compromise was arranged between Hungary and Croatia, resulting the creation of the Kingdom of Croatia-Slavonia. Which was liked in Croatia even less than the Austro-Hungarian Compromise was in Hungary.)

But fortunately for Hungary, she had two absolutely brilliant and indispensable statesmen, Ferenc Deák and Gyula Andrássy, who were both pragmatists who felt a sustained autonomous Hungarian state would only be possible as long as defense and foreign affairs were shared with Austria. Even more fortunately, Hungary had a vital advocate in Empress Elisabeth of Austria, who had fallen in love with the land of Hungary and the Magyar culture and was relentless in seeing Hungary’s cause advanced to her husband Franz Joseph. And thus the Austro-Hungarian Compromise was reached, signed by Deák and Andrássy and ratified by the restored Hungarian Diet on May 29th, 1867, and officially capped off with the crowning of Franz Joseph and Elisabeth as King and Queen of Hungary on June 8th, 1867.

Even though the deal was done, tensions were still high and remained that way for a long time. Ask anyone familiar with Austro-Hungarian history who the Compromise was a better deal for (or if it was a good deal period, and if it just fueled the problems that utterly crumbled Austria-Hungary in WW1 or if those problems would have just happened anyway) and you’ll get a different answer every time. I wasn’t able to find what specifically was done to celebrate the first anniversary of the Compromise, but presumably the occasion was marked so yay for artistic license.

Piros, fehér, zöld is the red, white, green of the Hungarian tricolor. The stripes were made horizontal to avoid being confused with the Italian flag. The Dual-Monarchy era flag also had the Hungarian coat-of-arms right in the center.

Technically speaking, Buda Castle was just known as the Royal Place for most of its history, including during the Dual Monarchy.

Díszmagyar is the traditional Hungarian court dress, and very beautiful. The dress Hungary is wearing here is this one, originally worn by the Countess György Majláth to the original coronation of Franz Joseph in 1867. Hey, the Nation deserves the most swag dress at her anniversary party, after all.

I think most Hungary fans know about the Battle of Mohács in 1526 against the Ottoman Empire, but it absolutely can’t be stated enough how utterly devastating it was for the Kingdom of Hungary.  In a single day the kingdom was torn into three, the king was dead, much of the nobility had been killed as well as the at least 14,000 soldiers who also died in combat, and the entire country was basically free for the taking-which the Ottomans and Habsburgs did. It would take nearly four hundred years for Hungary to become fully independent again. The only thing remotely comparable in Hungarian history was the Treaty of Trianon after its loss in World War I, which saw Hungary stripped of two-thirds of lands it had possessed for centuries, and is still a very sore point for Hungarians today.

I went back and forth on how the Kingdom of Hungary should be addressed in a formal situation, the people who think of these things having never thought how the Nation itself would need to be called. I settled on “Highness” as an appropriate title for an immediate member of the royal family-though really wouldn’t the royal family be members of Hungary? “Apostolic” in the title is specific to the Kingdom of Hungary alone. I did my best? I’m also not sure if Andrássy’s address is accurate either, considering he was both the prime minister and a count, but this was my best approximation.

“The Lands of the Crown of Saint Stephen” was the official title of the Hungarian half of Austria-Hungary.

Mihály Zichy was a Hungarian painter who did do more traditional portraiture, but is probably better known for his considerably more naughty drawings. (Which I actually find quite wonderful). Just be aware if you decided to google them with SafeSearch off.

Franz Liszt was born in a German speaking part of Hungary and was never able to speak the language (though he tried to learn), but very much thought of himself as a Magyar and a Hungarian patriot.

Elisabeth of Austria was the Empress of Austria and Queen of Hungary. And she really was the most beautiful woman in the world. Just look at her! Unfortunately, the minute she met her cousin (oh, royalty)/the Emperor of Austria Franz Joseph in 1853 (at a meeting that was supposed to cement an engagement between him and her sister Helene), and he decided he only wanted to marry Elisabeth, her life was set upon a course of stifling misery and eventual tragedy. Sisi as she was known (and NOT SISSI, which she never referred to herself by), had grown up in a very relaxed, informal household under her father the Duke Maximilian Joseph in Bavaria. (Seriously, take some time to read about it, it’s pretty wild). A shy, naive, fifteen year old country duchess from Bavaria was thrust into role of Empress of Austria in a little over eight months.

It went about as well as one would expect. Sisi was utterly isolated at the Austrian court, not comfortable around crowds and formal situations, and in general treated as an child unfit for her role. This was compounded by her mother-in-law/aunt, the Archduchess Sophie, who never hid her opinion of Elisabeth as anything more than a vessel to produce heirs and acted as Empress in official functions as well as politically more than the actual Empress. Even more unfortunately, for all Franz Joseph loved Elisabeth (and did for the rest his life, long after any chance of mutual romance was dead), he never understood her, her needs, or that he should make any sort of compromises on his end to make their relationship work. Franz Joseph was always quick to defer to his mother over his wife, including the part where Sophie essentially took Elisabeth’s first three children away from her and raised them herself. As you can guess, this not only made things worse, but engineered a huge disconnect between Elisabeth and most of her children that would have severe consequences later.

After the Crown Prince Rudolf was born, leaving Elisabeth free of the responsibility to produce any more heirs, the older, wiser, and more cynical Empress had by this point acquired the fortitude and political capital to do as she pleased. Restless by nature, she traveled constantly and avoided Vienna and her husband at all costs. The only thing that brought her back was the cause of Hungary. She had fallen for the wilder, romantic country, one very much in tune with the sensitive and dreamy Elisabeth compared to rigid, traditional Austria. Recognizing they’d have a powerful advocate in Elisabeth, who at this point was at the peak of her beauty and enormously popular in Hungary, Deák and Andrássy in particular (who she become close with to the point they were rumored to be lovers, though nothing has ever been proven) reached out to her. Acting as an intermediary between Austria and Hungary, Elisabeth was absolutely essential to making the Compromise happen and seem a legitimate deal for Hungary even in its unpopularity.

Part of this assistance was agreeing to have another child. Elisabeth quickly became pregnant after the Compromise was passed, and more significantly chose to give birth to her child at Buda Castle. It was the first time a royal child had been born in Hungary in centuries, and the notion was seriously raised that had it been a boy the child could have become king of an independent Hungary, separating it from Austria. As a girl was born, the Archduchess Marie Valerie, it was a non-issue. (Ironically, Marie Valerie, who was born in Hungary, baptised in Buda, and only allowed to speak Hungarian to her mother, grew to have a severe apathy for Hungary in part because of the persistent rumor that Andrássy was her real father. Even as she grew up to strongly resemble Franz Joseph and the rumor died, the apathy lasted. But they’ve still kept the bridge with her name on it between Hungary and Slovakia, which I guess is nice?)

If you somehow couldn’t tell Sisi is one of my two favorite historical figures, by the way...well yeah, she is. (The other is Valdemar Atterdag, for the curious).

Királyhida is the now-Austrian town of Bruckneudorf, but in the Dual Monarchy days was in a German-speaking region of western Hungary. Regardless of the local language preferences, the town was required to have Magyar name.

@emperorfranzjoseph: @ErzherzogtumÖsterreich  bitch stole my look #ÖsterRUDE #whoworeitbetter #fieldmarshaleleganza

I figured “Austria, sir” would serve as a nice substitution for “Austria-san” as far as tone and place of social rank is concerned. And yes, over many centuries Austria and Hungary have done the do with each other. If you don’t think Austria was in boner city after seeing Hungary wail on Prussia during the War of Austria Succession, well, congrats on being totally wrong.

Thank you to all who read this fic and all the brave souls who actually got all through the notes section. You guys are the real MVPs. And I swear I’ll try to do an actual happy AusHun that features a kiss racier than the hand...someday...

#aushun #aushunweek2018 #aph austria #aph hungary #fanfic #historical fic #elisabeth of austria #axis powers hetalia #doing this on tumblr was a nightmare and i hate this site #can i leave

[pickalilywrites]

Can you write about Armin sneaking away to feed stray cats and being caught by Mikasa?

🐱💓

Strays

AruMika. Canonverse. 

1755 words. 

It’s been more and more difficult to get food. The rations have gotten smaller despite the many lives lost during the land restoration projects. Fewer people meant more food to go around. That’s how it should happen anyway, but the rich take the leftover rations that were meant to go out to those who were sent out. In time, they grew greedy and began to take from the rations meant for the poor that were still living within the Walls, believing that they wouldn’t notice. Of course, the peasants and the refugees would notice. They grow hungrier than they did before, thinner and more tired, but they can’t do anything at all. The most they can do is survive.

Armin does his best to keep his chin up. He collects the rations every morning while Mikasa and Eren sleep. He splits the rations up as evenly as possible between them even though there’s hardly enough to give them each a full meal fro the entire day.

Some days are worse than others. There are days when he only walks back with a simple loaf of bread that is supposed to last them the entire day. It makes him feel guilty even though it’s not his fault. Mikasa always tells him not to worry and Eren does the same, telling Armin that they’ll grow old enough to join the military soon. When they’re in the military, they’ll be fed well because half-fed soldiers could never protect the Walls. In time, they’ll be able to fight off the Titans, reclaim Wall Maria, and plant food and raise cattle so that no one will ever have to grow hungry. Big dreams, Armin knows, but he doesn’t have the heart to discourage Eren. With their stomachs empty and their hearts broken, hope is the only thing that they have now.

He’s grateful that he has Eren and Mikasa at the very least. His grandfather was among those who had never returned during the land restoration project. There are times when he thought he could never eat again, believed that he was alone in the world, but Eren and Mikasa would reach out in his darkest times and remind him that if they were alone, at least they were alone together.

Alone, but together, Armin thinks as he stares at the stray kittens abandoned in the dirty alleyway he passes while he’s bringing the food home. They’re small and skinny, their eyes barely open and wobbling around on paws that are too big for their bodies. He thinks that it’s good that they’re together because they surely couldn’t survive on their own, but he doubts they can survive with just themselves either. He can’t worry about them though. He can’t afford to when he and his friends hardly have enough to eat as it is. The kittens probably have a mother anyway, so he’s most likely worrying about nothing.

He hurries away to where Eren and Mikasa are, determined to push out the thought of the dirty kittens from his mind, but he hears their tiny desperate mews rising above the sound of the bustling market and he finds himself turning around, running towards them without thinking. When he reaches the dark alleyway, he finds the kittens huddled in a crumpled cardboard box that they use as a makeshift house. How pitiful they look.

Armin pulls out the loaf of bread from his mouth. It’s only one today and it would be difficult to make it last the day even if it’s just to feed his friends and him, but he doesn’t know if the kittens will even get any food at all. He breaks off the tip of the bread loaf, crumbling it up so that the kittens won’t have any trouble chewing, and sprinkles it onto the bottom of the box. He smiles when he watches the cats crowd over to the bread crumbs, munching on it as if they hadn’t eaten in days.

Looking around, Armin finds an empty can and taps it upside-down on the ground to make sure there’s nothing in it. He pours in a little water from his canteen into it, placing it carefully into the box. He watches as a few of the cats stumble over to the can, taking turns drinking from it. He laughs when he sees some of them nudge others out of the way, some of the kittens flipping over clumsily.

He reaches out a hand to pet a cat on the head and smiles when it leans its head up against his hand. The kitten seems to like his warmth. Other kittens soon begin to gather around his hand, waiting for a chance to be petted. They sound like little motors as they purr, loving his touch.

Armin finally stands up, wiping his hands off on his shirt. “I’ll come back,” he promises them. He needs to hurry back home before Eren and Mikasa notice he’s taking longer than usual.

When he returns, he finds that Mikasa and Eren are still sleeping. That’s good. Now they won’t notice that they have even less food than usual. He ends up giving Mikasa and Eren their usual portions, subtracting the kittens’ portion from his own. It’s not right to take food from Mikasa and Eren when they didn’t even know about the cats, Armin thinks.

After Mikasa and Eren finally wake up, they all sit together and eat breakfast. It is Mikasa that notices how small Armin’s piece of bread is.

“How come you have such a small slice, Armin?” she asks curiously.

“Ah, she’s right,” Eren says. He frowns when he sees just how little Armin is eating. “You need to eat as much as we do, Armin. Don’t sacrifice yourself for us. You’re just as important as Mikasa and me.”

“Oh, I just ate a bit this morning while I was carrying the food over,” Armin says hurriedly. He puts a hand on Eren’s arm, stopping his friend from breaking off a piece of his bread. “Don’t worry about me, really. I was just a bit hungry and ate mine before. Your portions are the same though, so it’s fine.”

They both inspect their own portions – Mikasa’s still untouched but Eren’s with a few bites in his bread – and notice that what Armin says is true. This is enough for Eren, who shrugs and continues to eat more, but Mikasa doesn’t look entirely convinced. She watches Armin carefully during the rest of the breakfast and Armin does his best to act natural, not knowing how Mikasa would react if she knew he was giving away his food to a bunch of stray cats.

He makes sure to be discreet when he breaks off a small his share of bread and sneakily hides it away in his pocket for later. Eren is oblivious to it all. He continues to eat and talk like normal, but Mikasa’s intense stare makes Armin nervous. If she suspects anything though, she never says a word. She just observes him quietly with those cool gray eyes of hers and eats her meals while Eren babbles in the background.

Armin thinks he’s in the clear by the end of the day. He had snuck out in the afternoon after lunch to feed the cats once more. They had mewed and purred when he came back like they remembered him from earlier that day. He told Eren and Mikasa that he had to run an errand and neither of them said anything, so he believed himself to be in the clear. It’s only when he sees the dark shadow creeping up from behind him that he realizes he was wrong all along.

“M-Mikasa!” Armin stammers. He stands up and turns around, shoving the last pieces of bread back into his pocket. He backs up so that he’s close enough to cover the box of kittens but not enough to crush the cardboard anymore than it’s been crushed. He hopes she hasn’t seen the cats already, but he fears he’s too late. “What are you doing here?”

“You’ve been acting strange lately,” she frowns. She pushes past him, peering into the box. Cautiously, she reaches out a finger, brushing the forehead of a kitten gently. “Is this what you’ve been hiding from us?”

“…Yes,” Armin says, ashamed to have been caught keeping secrets. He can’t tell if Mikasa is angry or upset by her tone. He kneels next to her, watching her as she plays with the kittens. They seem happy to have found a new friend. Some of them try to climb on her, looking for food. “They were all alone, Mikasa. I couldn’t just leave them. I don’t even know if their mom is still around. When I found them, they looked like they hadn’t eaten in days.”  

Mikasa doesn’t say anything. She simply just holds out her hand to him. “Give me the bread you have left in your pocket,” she orders.

He does as she tells him and she breaks up the bread even more, holding it in the palm in her hand and allowing the kittens to eat from her hand. When they’re all done, they begin to purr, rubbing their heads against her arms. Armin sees Mikasa smile and sees it as a good sign. It means she’s not mad at least.

“They’re not alone anymore,” Mikasa says quietly. She watches as the kittens crawl onto their lap, fighting each other for a good spot. She picks one up and cradles it in her arms. Turning, she looks at Armin. “They have you now. And you’re not alone either. You have Eren and me, so don’t keep secrets like this from us.”

Armin blushes, ashamed. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles, looking down.

Mikasa reaches out a hand, grabbing Armin’s hand and squeezes it. “Let’s bring them home and tell Eren, okay? We’ll all feed them, so you don’t have to give up your food by yourself anymore. They’re not strays anymore. We’ll take care of them.”

A grateful smile spreads across his face. “Okay!” he says. He’s the one who ends up carrying the box of kittens even though Mikasa offers to carry it for him. She ends up carrying one of the kittens in her arms as they make their way back home.

No, he remembers. He’s not alone anymore, he thinks as he smiles at Mikasa beside him. He’s not alone and he’s glad. He was wrong when he thought hope was the only thing he had left. He has his friends too.

[iishipallthethings]

The Wager Chapter 16

Story Summary:  Another Day of the Dead is finally here. La Muerte goes to the land of the living and is shocked to see Maria, the jewel of the town, unsatisfied with her marriage with Manolo. Another wager is struck and La Muerte finds herself falling hard for a human. 1 year after movie! Main ship: Maria X La Muerte (kind of slow burn) but there is another :)

Chapter title:I’m Sorry

Coffee?

It was now the Day of the Dead. Mary wanted nothing more than to disappear into her castle but Maria had specifically asked her to come with her and the others. Mary could not say no.

So she was standing outside Maria’s mansion, knocking on the door with one hand and clenching a bouquet of roses in the other. She waited a minute before Joaquin opened the door. He smiled at Mary and beckoned the woman inside. He was wearing a very stained apron, however the uniform underneath was as pristine as always.

“We’ll be ready to leave in a few minutes,” he said, leading her towards the kitchen. “We’re making some traditional foods for our families and it got a little out of hand.” Joaquin’s eye caught sight of the roses. “Whose are those for? Maria said you don’t have family here.” His eye fell to the floor as he gave an embarrassed cough. “Sorry, I just meant,”

“It’s okay, Joaquin,” Mary interrupted his unnecessary apology. “They’re for General Posada, Maria’s father.”

Before Joaquin could respond and possibly make the situation more awkward, the smell of food drifted over to them. They entered the kitchen and Mary stopped in her tracks.

The entire place looked as if a tornado had passed through it. There was batter splatter on several places on the walls and the sink held a precariously tilted stack of dirty dishes. Mary was somewhat surprised to see that the counter where the three had placed finished plates of food to be clear of any mess. Mary spotted Maria bent over to grab a metal sheet from the oven, warm loafs of bread perfectly cooked to a nice brown situated on them. There were three different types of bread, or rather it was apparent that three different people made the same type. Joaquin’s came out the best with noone being surprised. Maria’s was a bit lumpy, along with Manolo’s, but they still looked good.

Maria grinned at Mary and took off her oven mitts after setting the bread down to cool. “Mary, we weren’t expecting you for half an hour.” Without hesitating, she pulled Mary into a hug, turning her head to kiss her cheek.

“I know, but I couldn’t stay in that apartment for another moment.” It was true. Since she received the page from Xibalba a month ago, Mary had been restless. Her mind was constantly wondering back to how that future could possibly occur and how it could be avoided. Like before, Maria had noticed and asked if Mary wanted to talk about it. Mary had declined, fearing that talking about the page or even trying to give a half truth would cause everything to spiral out of control. Maria had relented but her patience only made Mary’s heart ache more.

It took another half an hour to clean the kitchen, even with Mary helping. Chuy tried to help as best as he could, like licking off the splatters from the walls where he could reach. Joaquin tried to chase him out but as soon as he turned around, Chuy would dash back in to lick at another splatter. After five times of chasing the pig out only for him to run back in, Joaquin gave up and left the pig to happily lap at the batter on the walls. He did vow to wash the entire kitchen once over when they came back, earning laughter from the other three. The cleaning gave the bread more than enough time to cool down enough to safely transport. The four people and Chuy headed out of the mansion and made their way to the cemetery.

Other families joined their journey and soon there was a steady river of people walking and holding their offerings. Mary felt some stares from people when they noticed she only held a bouquet of roses. She almost somewhat jokingly told Maria that she should slip away and get some other offerings but the river became several streams as they passed under the archway to San Angel’s cemetery.

Joaquin, Manolo, and Maria split away from each other, the three heading to their respective family graves. Mary and Chuy followed Maria as she strolled to her father’s grave. Mary could not help but recall how Maria had looked at the last Day of the Dead. She was glad that Maria seemed much happier and that she had a hand in creating that happiness.

Mary and Chuy stopped a few feet away from the grave, giving Maria some privacy to place the offerings in front of the grave. Afterwards, Maria closed her eyes and tried to feel her deceased father’s presence. Mary saw General Posada stand next to his daughter, lifting a hand to rest on her arm in a comforting gesture. The corners of Maria’s lips tilted up in a small smile, somehow knowing that her father was with her.

“You can come closer, you know,” Maria told Mary and Chuy, opening one eye to look at them.

The two walked to the grave, keeping respectfully silent. Mary laid her bouquet of roses in front of the statue. She studied the statue more closely, trying to ignore the fact that she could see General Posada standing not five feet away from her.

“He was a good man,” Maria whispered. “I know most daughters say that about their fathers, but he truly was a good man. He helped build the town’s brigade to stop Chakal and his bandits from raiding the town.” She nodded towards the hook that replaced General Posada’s hand. “He even gave up his left hand to protect this town and its people.” A few tears budded in Maria’s eyes but she made no move to wipe them away. “Even though it hurt him, he sent me away to Arroba to become a proper lady. It took me so long to realize that he only did it because he thought it would be best for me. It would have been safest for me to be a proper lady.” Maria chuckled. “But I have his blood. I could never be a proper lady. I was a fighter, just like him.”

Mary, not caring who might have been glancing at them, wrapped an arm securely around Maria’s shoulders. “He’s proud of you.”

“How do you know?” Maria’s question had some humor in it but it also shined with her curiosity.

Mary shrugged. “I just do. Any father that has a daughter like you can only be proud.”

The two women listened to the people around them talking quietly but happily, feeling their deceased relatives coming from the Land of the Remembered to visit them. Several children, the same ones from the previous year in fact, were running about in a game of tag. Mary could see Carmelo waving at her from a few tombstones away to where Manolo’s family was. She had to resist the urge to wave back. Mary looked back and noticed that General Posada was watching her, a frown on his face. This took her aback but she schooled her features.

After seven minutes, Maria looked over at Manolo, unable to see his family standing around him. “I should be the dutiful wife and see if he needs anything.”

“I thought the husband was supposed to check up on the wife,” Mary teased. She heard General Posada huff in annoyance at her.

“I’ll be back soon,” Maria said, sneaking a kiss on Mary’s cheek before moving towards Manolo.

Chuy glanced between the statue and Maria and decided to trot after the woman, giving a bey of goodbye to Mary.

Mary watched and once she was sure they were out of earshot, she looked at General Posada. Now that his daughter was not in the vicinity, he fully glared at Mary. She glanced away, almost ashamed, before meeting his gaze again.

“I don’t care that you’re La Muerte in disguise,” General Posada said evenly. “If you hurt my daughter I swear I’ll,” he continued in a mutter that Mary could not understand but the message was quite clear.

A flash of the illustration passed in her mind’s eye. That damn page was never far from her mind. She turned her head to look at Maria and Manolo laughing at something, but the laughter was tinged with sadness. She looked back at General Posada. “Can I have your blessing,” she asked suddenly, unaware that the words were out of her mouth until she heard her own voice asking the question.

“No.” There was a frankness to the answer that shocked both Mary and General Posada. It shocked General Posada because he had refused a goddess’s request and it shocked Mary because of the swiftness he gave his answer.

“Why?” Mary had to know. She was afraid of the answer, she knew what it was, but she had to know.

General Posada gave her a quick glare  as if she was a teenager caught out late with his daughter and not the ruler of the realm he presided in. “Because what you’re doing is wrong.” He waved his hooked hand to his daughter. “You’ve been lying to her this entire time. Even before you two started seeing each other.”

“I had to,” Mary replied.

It was General Posada’s turn to ask, “Why?” The expression he gave her made it clear that whatever excuse she could possibly give was not going to be enough.

Mary almost did not answer. At first she had no excuse. Her wager with Xibalba had all but won, she made Maria happy as she could and she was happy as well. Xibalba had left her and now she was free to explore her feelings with Maria. All in all the only reason why she had not told Maria she was La Muerte was because she was afraid. And she blamed that twice damned page.

Just as she was about to open her mouth to explain herself, General Posada continued. “If you truly care for my little girl, maybe even love her, you’ll tell her the truth.” With that, Posada left the realm of the living.

Mary stared at the spot that General Posada had previously occupied for a minute. She looked back at Maria and noticed that she had ended the conversation with Manolo and was heading back over to her. Mary glanced around the area, hoping that Posada would return as his daughter neared. When it became evident that he wouldn’t, she knew she had to tell Maria the truth.

“Sorry that I was gone for so long, Mary,” Maria said. There was only happiness in her eyes and Mary felt cold. She leaned against her lover, looking back up at the statue of her father. She sensed something was amiss with Mary and looked at her. “What’s wrong, mi amor?” Maria whispered the last bit and it stung Mary more than she expected.

“I need to show you something,” Mary answered. She took one last gaze at the statue before leading Maria away from the cemetery. Luckily, the families around them were too busy celebrating and praying to notice the two women slipping away.

Mary and Maria did not exchange any words as they walked. Maria was growing more and more concerned as Mary led her first through the town and than out on the bridge leading away. Finally, the two stopped in front of the old tree.

“What’s going on, Mary?” Maria asked. Her instincts told her she didn’t want the answer but she was going to get it nonetheless.

Instead of answering, Mary kissed Maria. Soon she backed Maria against the tree, her heart hammering in her chest in desire and fear. Mary broke the kiss, studying Maria’s eyes. There was desire in them too, so much that Mary was enticed to go back to the apartment and forget all of today. However, there was a burning curiosity in them too, and Mary knew she could not leave this place until she told Maria what was in her mind.

“Please,” Mart begged, her voice trembling, “please understand why I did it.”

“Did what?” Now there was fear in Maria’s voice as she stared back at Mary, the desire and endearment still present in her eyes. She probably thought whatever Mary had to tell her was some dark secret but nothing that could split them apart. Mary prayed to whatever god that could hear her that Maria was right.

Mary kissed her desperately one more time. “Close your eyes,” she whispered, her forehead pressed against Maria’s.

Maria did as she was asked and Mary took a few steps back. She tried to snap her fingers but she was too nervous that no sound was made. Mary had to try again before a sound rang out, much louder than what should have been produced.

“Open them,” La Muerte said.

Maria frowned at the change in voice but her gut told her it was still Mary. A part of her wanted to keep her eyes closed, to tell Mary to stop whatever trick she must be playing. Still, her eyes fluttered open and then gaped wide at the goddess standing before her. For a miraculous second, Maria thought Mary must have somehow used makeup and changed her clothes to look like La Muerte. She appeared different than when Maria remembered seeing her two years ago. The eyes were much dimmer and the marigold flowers in her hair were dull, like they were on the cusp of dying. But there was no denying that this was indeed La Muerte, the ruler of the Land of the Remembered.

“I don’t understand,” Maria finally said, taking a step back. Her eyes dashed around, searching for Mary even as her heart told her she wouldn’t find her. She focused back on the goddess. “Where’s Mary?”

La Muerte looked saddened for a moment before replying. “I think you already know, Maria.” She said the name like a lover would and everything fell into place in Maria’s mind.

“What? You, you can’t be Mary!” Maria exclaimed. She could feel the panic raise inside her, along with betrayal. She searched into La Muerte’s eyes and gasped as she recognized them. They were different to be sure, but they held the same fondness as did Mary’s.

“Maria, please, listen to me,” La Muerte said, seeing Maria accepted the truth of her identity. “I didn’t want to lie to you.” She took a step forward, intent on pulling Maria into her arms like she’s done a hundred times before. Maria took a step back, holding up a hand and stopping La Muerte without having to say a word.

“Why?” Maria asked, tears welling in her eyes.

“I had a wager with Xibalba,” La Muerte began.

“Another one!?” Maria yelled out, cutting La Muerte off before she could get another word out. “How could you?” She gestured between them. “Were you - this entire time did you - did this mean nothing to you? Was this just some sort of sick kick for you?”

“No!” La Muerte tried to take a step forward again and Maria took a few steps back. Each one hurt as if Maria had struck her. “The wager was if I could make you happy.” The words were wrong, she saw that in Maria’s eyes. “I only meant to be your friend but then I fell for you, Maria. I wanted to tell you the truth for so long. Please, I lov-”

Maria shook her head wildly, her eyes now angry even as several tears fell. “Don’t! Don’t you dare tell me you love me after all you’ve done.” She shook her head again, hands coming up to grip at her locks, her vision blurry as she recalled every moment she spent with Mar- no La Muerte, and all of them tarnishing at this confession. Maria stilled and looked up at La Muerte, fear now the main emotion on her face. “Xibalba, you’re married to Xibalba!”

“Yes but we’re not together anymore. You don’t have to fear him,” La Muerte tried to console Maria. “I will never let him harm you,” she vowed.

Maria saw some of the fire return to La Muerte’s eyes and could not help but sense the truth in those words. It was a small comfort, but nowhere big enough.

La Muerte saw the walls start to come up around Maria’s heart. In a last ditch effort, she flashed forward in a cloud of marigold petals. Too fast for Maria to stop her if she wished, La Muerte pressed their lips together. She poured everything into the kiss, all her love for the woman in front of her, all the happiness that Maria made her feel, and all the hope for their future.

SMACK!

Maria gaped at her own hand after it had smacked against La Muerte’s face, ending the kiss instantly. She turned her eyes up to the goddess, her face pale and her body slightly trembling. When La Muerte reached out for her, surely to punish her for attacking, Maria gave a trembling gasp of fear and held up her hands instinctively.

The illustration.

“No,” La Muerte whispered in despair. Her arms went limp at her sides as she looked at the horror on Maria’s face at what she had just done. At the fear of La Muerte retaliating. “I won’t hurt you. Please, mi amor, don’t be afraid of me.”

Maria flinched at the words ‘mi amor’ and La Muerte felt her heart break. “I never want to see you again.” With that, she turned and ran away.

La Muerte only watched her go, a hand pressed against her throbbing cheek.

#la muerte #thewager #book of life #maria posada #joaquin mondragon #Manolo Sanchez #general posada

[aww-writing-no]

Easter, Part I: 

“And as the final event in the first annual Avengers Make A Wish Easter Eggstravaganza, I give you your contestants!” Rhodey announced into the microphone as the Avengers waved to the cameras outside Stark Tower.

Each of the Avengers was decked out in their combat gear, along with a brightly colored basket and microphone headset with bunny ears attached. Mounted between the ears was a small camera.

On the other end of the video and audio feeds were a eight kids in the community room of the Maria Stark Children’s Hospital. They were decked out in matching microphone headsets, and had a computer screen in front of them with the video from the hero’s cameras. Parents and siblings were clustered around, trying to get in on the action (siblings) or endlessly snapping photos (parents).

Earlier that morning the Avengers had stopped by the hospital to decorate a bunch of eggs with the kids and their families. Then they paired off to be the mobile egg acquisition team-member (MEAT) for one of the kids, or the leader of acquisition friend (LOAF). (You could tell Tony had a hand in organizing the event.) While the LOAFs had lunch with their respective MEATs, volunteers had gone to hide the eggs in the lawn outside Stark Tower.

After lunch the volunteers came back to set up the electronics in the community room while the Avengers threw a party in the lobby for everyone in the hospital. Steve got conscripted into manning a face painting table, while Bruce was surrounded by a gaggle of children from the oncology ward who wanted to tell him about their radiation treatments.

A little girl with two big puffs of curls on her head and only one leg was sitting next to Bucky and petting his metal arm in wonderment. He looked distinctly uncomfortable when Clint dropped onto the couch next to him holding a boy with a tracheostomy tube who was squeaking at him and signing about a mile a minute. Clint grinned and signed back one handed while settling him in a comfortable position on his lap.

“Loosen up, Grumpy Cat,” Clint told Bucky.

“How’m I supposed to loosen up?” Bucky asked helplessly. He was terrified he was going to break one of these children. Most of them were so tiny. He didn’t remember kids being this tiny back in the forties. “Why’d they leave an assassin in a group of fragile kids?”

“‘sassin,” the little girl said happily, levering herself up using Bucky’s arm and wrapping her arms around his neck. Bucky tucked his arm under her for support and she nuzzled his face. “‘sassin,” she repeated.

“That’s right,” Clint informed her. “Bucky here is always sassin’ someone or other. Also,” Clint turned his attention to Bucky, who was frowning at him, “the arguably scarier assassin is over there teaching ballet to a bunch of kids in wheelchairs. You’ll be fine.” Clint nodded towards the corner of the room where Nat was indeed teaching ballet to a small group of children. They were all holding flower garlands over their heads and paying rapt attention to what she was saying.

“I still say this is a terrible idea,” Bucky complained, looking at the chaos in the room.

“What makes you say that?” Clint joked. Nothing could possibly go wrong with a room full of overly excited children and a bunch of superheros. Nothing at all.

Redwing was swooping around the lobby as Sam showed a group of kids how to operate the controller. There were a few near-misses that Sam surreptitiously corrected from the backup controls on his wristguard, but nobody’s life appeared to be in danger. Clint absentmindedly wondered if Sam would be willing to bring Redwing to the range for target practice sometime.

Thor was sitting crosslegged on the floor in front of one of the couches while a preteen girl wearing a colorful scarf around her head braided elaborate cornrows in his hair. Mjolnir was placed in front of him, and a line of children were taking turns trying to pick it up. Clint watched with no small amount of jealousy as every single child lifted the hammer over their head and their parent snapped a picture.

“Okay kids,” Tony announced as he swooped into the room from the isolation ward where he’d been visiting kids in the iron man suit. “Pepper says it’s time to get going. If all the LOAFs and their families could head into the community room, the MEATs will head to Stark Tower to get this battle started!”

Easter, Part II: Here 

#Hawkeye #Avengers #Easter

[ragwitch]

Halloween prompts: tasertorch for #6 -whispered in the ear- 'Boo.'? please and thank you and i love you!

Good morning, Bloom Bloom, I love you!! 

6. whispered in the ear- 'Boo.’ 

Pairing: Darcy/Johnny Storm

Rating: T

“Boo!”

Darcy watched, gleeful, as Johnny jumped in place, yelping  as all the blood drained from his face at once.

“Damn it, Darcy! Not cool,” Johnny growled under his breath, the color flushing back into his cheeks. He glared up and down the halls, checking for witnesses.

“I’m sorry it’s just…now that I know…” Darcy giggled.

“It’s not funny,” he said, very firmly. Or as firmly as he could manage it.

“No,” Darcy said, still giggling, “It isn’t. It isn’t! You’re right. I’m done, I promise. Really. No more jump scares.”

“It is cheap cinema,” Johnny hissed.

Darcy snorted. “Ohmigod, you’re adorable.”

Johnny rolled his eyes with a scoff but leaned into her space with a smirk. “I can give you much better reasons to think so, I assure you.”

Darcy paused, squinted and watched Johnny squirm as she made him sweat it out.

“I’m…good. Thanks,” she said.

“Sure, sure, so tell me. What do ‘spooky little girls like you’ get up to on Halloween night?”

“Wooooww. I got that reference but…still…”

“Aw Darce, give me a break,” Johnny laughed, combing thick fingers through tousled hair like he knew what it did to her.

Which he couldn’t have, right? Cause she was trying really hard to keep that a secret from him and pretty much everyone else.

Everyone but Natasha because that was useless. And because she was walking by them in the hall with that little purse in her lips as if to ask Darcy, ‘Really? I spent three weeks trying to set you up with Marco from Graphics and you’re ogling Johnny Storm’s side part?’

Or maybe that was just Darcy’s conscience speaking.

“I’m going to one of those real life scare experiences,” Darcy said. “You know, where they grab you off the street and make you stick your fingers in jello and yell at you a lot?”

Johnny blanched.

“I’m joking,” she admitted. “I’m gonna put on my Freddy Krueger onesie and watch Hocus Pocus on repeat until I pass out in a candy coma. You wanna come? You have to wear a costume.”

“But you said you were wearing-”

“A Freddy Krueger onesie is very scary,” Darcy said, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah, okay,” Johnny said.

And that was when Darcy realized she'd just invited Johnny Storm to her apartment for the night.

_

There were several available solutions to the ‘Invited Johnny Storm over for Halloween Netflix (sort of) and Chill’ situation. Darcy tried all of them.

She invited Natasha, Sam, Steve, Sue, Bucky, Tony, Ben, Pepper, Maria, Nick Fucking Fury, and Clint over to join them. (Jane and Thor were off world.)

Everyone but Clint had plans.

She washed her face clean of make up and wore her bra without underwire. She turned all the lights on and she ordered garlic cheesy bread with the pizza.

But none of that helped when Darcy opened the door and found Johnny Storm wearing an astronaut onesie with a little astronaut’s backpack. Which he swung forward and opened, revealing bags of candy and a box of Hostess Scary Cakes.

“Boo!” he said, beaming at her. “I brought reinforcements.”

“I didn’t invite you here for sex,” Darcy said, partly to remind herself because holy crap he was the cutest thing she’d ever seen. She turned and pointed behind her. “See? Clint is here.”

Clint waved from the couch, garbed in a grumpy cat onesie, loaf of garlic cheesy bread halfway to his mouth.

“Yeah, I knew that,” Johnny said shrugging. “Still wanna hang out.”

“Ohhhhkay cool,” Darcy said, stepping back to let the man in.

Johnny ended up sitting between Darcy and Clint on the couch, with Clint’s cat paw slippered feet up on his lap. And somewhere along the night the lights got turned off because there was too much glare in the graveyard scene. And then somewhere farther along in the night Clint rolled off the couch with one of the cushions and ended up sprawled across her floor, all the Scary Cake wrappers spread around him, snoring.

And then a bit after that Johnny leaned in to whisper in her ear, “That Freddy Krueger onesie really is terrifying.”

Darcy tipped the brim of the fedora at the top of the hood farther down her forehead.

“I know,” she said.

Johnny passed her half his kit-kat.

“You need me to hold your hand or something?” she asked.

She could feel him looking at her. “Yeah, I think I do,” he said.

So she did.

#tasertorch #darcy lewis #johnny storm #darcy x johnny #queenie does halloweenie #fluff #and candy #bloomsoftly

[thesoftdumbass]

Finding Home

Avengers X enhanced Reader Words: 1630 Characters: Reader, Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers, Wanda Maximoff, Maria Hill (mentioned), Clint Barton, Sam Wilson, Natasha Romanoff, Tony Stark, Nick Fury (mentioned)

Warnings: living on the streets, slight talk of abuse, enhanced individual

Request: Don't know if it's been requested before but could you do a reader insert where the reader is like 15 or something and has powers and doesn't necessarily use them for good most of the time and the avengers are sent to find her but they don't know how young she is. Sorry if it doesn't make sense.

Author's Note: Hi there! This was requested by anonymous, and I really like this prompt! It took me about a week to write and for that I'm sorry, I couldn't get my mind to focus on this. I wrote Bucky as a sort of older brother figure in this, I just think that's really cute. I strayed a little from the request but that’s just the direction it went. Sorry about that! You can send me requests if you want, I may or may not write them. Sorry for any spelling or grammatical errors, I hope you like it! (I’m also gonna put it out there that I am horrible at coming up with names and endings for fics) -Taylor

You ducked back into the alleyway that you call home, having just arrived back from the grocery store a few blocks over. You hated to steal, but you had to eat to survive, and using your powers seemed like the only way to provide for yourself. Nobody would give a job to a homeless fifteen year old. You were given up by your birth mother to an organization, who raised you and experimented on you. They raised you as if you were a tool, and not a human person. That's why you ran away the first chance you got. You've been living alone in New York City ever since.

You settled in on your pile of dirty blankets and pulled an apple out of your bag. you managed to grab it, a loaf of bread, a small jar of peanut butter, and a few bottles of water. It was all you could risk without being caught, even with using your telekinesis to fling items at the walls and distract any clerks or store managers that happened to be around. You took a bite out of your apple and glanced at your surroundings. You noticed a newcomer to the group that you shared the dimly lit alleyway with, a man with long chestnut hair, a dark sweatshirt on and maroon cap pulled low over his eyes.

He looked like he had been through a lot but he seemed innocuous, so you picked up your stolen goods and walked toward him. You sat down silently a few feet away and looked to the man who was now watching you.

"Hi, I'm (Y/N). What's your name," you asked gently.

"James," the man responds a little gruffly.

"Nice to meet you James, I've never seen you around here before. I was wondering if you want something to eat, I've got the stuff for peanut butter sandwiches if you're interested."

James looks at your proffered items, giving you a small smile. "Thank you (Y/N), but I'm not hungry."

"Just thought I'd offer," you reply to him. You sit in silence as James stares forward, but he breaks it after accepting some of the water you offered him.

"You seem pretty young to be living out here. How old are you, anyways?" James was curious.

You looked down shyly, watching your hands as they twisted in your lap. "I'm fifteen, I've been out here for two years."

"I'm really sorry about that," James conveys to you.

"It's alright. Here is better than where I was before, and I can take care of myself," you reassure him.

Unknown to you, the Avengers had been listening in on your conversation with James. The entire team felt for you, but they had a job to do, make sure you weren't dangerous. They had sent Bucky in to gain your trust and it had worked. Now they just needed to talk to you as a team.

"We can just ask her to come over here," Steve said from the stake-out vehicle that part of the team was camped out in.

"Yeah, that will go well," Wanda said sarcastically. "Let's just invite a teenage girl to talk in the back of the creepy windowless van. It's not like we won't get arrested, and possibly injured, if what Hill says is true."

"She's right, Cap. It sounds like we're trying to kidnap her," Clint remarked from the driver's seat.

"Alright, we don't have to get sarcastic. You could have just said that it was a bad idea," Steve defended himself.

"Did we not get the point across, or should we try again?" Sam sassed out.

"Okay okay, I get it. Maybe you should come up with a plan, then."

Natasha decided to end the squabbling. "Look, she seems to trust Bucky, or James. But just because she's being kind to a fellow 'homeless' person, doesn't mean she would follow him to Avengers HQ. Maybe Wanda and Sam could go in there and talk to her, try to get a feel for her powers. Steve and Clint can be at the other end of the alley in case she tries to run, and I'll be here keeping an eye on everyone."

"That's a good plan, Nat. Let's try that," Wanda spoke up. Everybody agreed, so they started to disperse from the vehicle.

Meanwhile, you and James had been talking amiably, and you learned that he was a veteran in the army, and you told him about some of the friends you had made around the city. You were both silent for a few minutes, letting the noise of the city in five o'clock traffic wash over you. It was then that you noticed a dark skinned man and a brunette woman walking toward you. They walked with a purpose, not like they were just taking a shortcut to get to Central Park, and you tensed up.

James noticed your rigidity and turned to look at the pair walking closer. He stood up and put himself in front of you, talking to the man and woman.

"What are you two doing here," James asked quietly.

"Relax, we just want to talk to her," the woman said in a thick accent. She looked nice enough, but you had seen this type before. You stood up and placed yourself beside James.

"Why do you want to talk to me, are you Social Services?" you ask coldly.

The man chuckles. "No, we're not Social Services. We just want to talk to you. I'm Sam, this is Wanda. We are here to help."

"We're going to help you, that's what the last people said, and they locked me up like a criminal. So thanks, but no thanks," you retort.

"What? Who locked you up?" Wanda asks with concern in her tone.

"It's nothing to bother yourself with, I've said too much. Just leave me alone and I'll leave you alone."

"No, hold on (Y/N). Who hurt you," James asked, grabbing your wrist gently.

"Like I said, nothing to concern yourself with."

"(Y/N), we are here to help you. Let's just go back to our office and we can talk. We're Avengers, we help people. People like you," Sam said softly.

You looked at him oddly, so Wanda spoke up. "We know you are enhanced, I am too." Wanda looked around suspiciously, noting the many people in the alley with you. "Look, can we talk somewhere else? This is kind of a sensitive subject."

You nodded numbly, trying to think of how they knew you are special. You were careful, you thought. That's just a question to ask later, you guess. You watch as James puts a hand to his ear, speaking to seemingly nobody. "We got her, Nat. We're coming to you."

You wound up next to an inconspicuous van with no windows, and you raised your eyebrows to the group you were with.

"I told you she would think we were trying to kidnap her," Wanda muttered to Sam.

It was then that the back of the van opened, revealing a tall red headed woman. As she stepped out, two blond men walked up beside you five. "The gang's all here, ready to go to Avenger's tower?"

You nodded hesitantly and left with them. After arriving at the tower, you were awestruck. You were escorted to a large meeting room on one of the top floors and sat down. Several more joined your group and everybody was introduced, all sitting down around the spacious conference table.

"Okay everyone, as you may know, this is (Y/N) (Y/L/N). Fury sent word to pick her up and talk to her, making sure she's not a danger.That is what we're here to do," the one introduced to you as Tony began. Everybody looked to you and you waved awkwardly.

"Tony, let's not talk about her like she's not here," Bucky, as you'd been informed is his nickname, said. He then turned to you. "Do you want to tell us your story?"

And so you did. You told them about how your mother didn't want you and so she gave you to a group of heartless people who experimented on you, giving you powers and raising you as a weapon. You managed to escape at the age of thirteen, and you had been living on the streets since, using your powers to steal the supplies necessary to stay alive. When you finished your story, the entire group around you looked either angry for the way you were treated, or sad for how you had had to live.

Clearing his throat, Steve stood up at the head of the table. "We knew most of what you told us, and I'm sorry for how you were treated. What we didn't know is how young you are. Why don't you go with Wanda and let us speak for a few minutes?"

"Can Ja- Bucky come too," you ask in a small voice. He's the one you are most comfortable with at this point.

"Of course I can doll, come on. Let's get you something to eat."

You were ushered to the kitchen while the Avengers had a discussion concerning you. While they didn't want another fifteen year old kid pushed into this life after Spidey, they were unable to let you live on the streets alone, and it's not like foster homes would accept an enhanced individual. A decision was reached that you would live in the tower with the team if you wanted, and then when you turned eighteen, you could join the Avengers.

You were ecstatic when Wanda and Steve told you, and decided that you would like to accept their offer. That day you gained a home and a family, but you never forgot where you started and how far you've come.

#avengers x reader #avengers imagine #the avengers #bucky barnes imagine #steve rogers imagine #wanda maximoff imagine #sam wilson imagine #clint barton imagine #natasha romanoff imagine #tony stark imagine #avengers one shot #avengers fanfiction #enhanced reader

[femmelieutenant-a-blog]

REALLY  LONG  CHARACTER  SURVEY.  RULES. repost ,   don’t  reblog !    tag 10 ! good  luck !        TAGGED. @judgmentcast​        TAGGING. Guys, this one is HELLA LONG. Have fun if you want, but I don’t blame you if you don’t. It’s open to all.

BASICS.

  FULL  NAME :  First Lieutenant Helga Katrina Sinclair   NICKNAME :  Lieutenant, Sinclair, Blondie, H. K. Sinclair, H. K.   AGE : Twenty-nine   BIRTHDAY :   October 24, 1884   ETHNIC  GROUP : Caucasian.   NATIONALITY :  American (Identifies as German-American)   LANGUAGE / S : German, English, Japanese, Korean, Italian, French   SEXUAL  ORIENTATION :   Closeted Bisexual   ROMANTIC  ORIENTATION :  Closeted Biromantic   RELATIONSHIP  STATUS :  Widowed/Single (But technically verse dependent)   CLASS : Working class.   HOME  TOWN / AREA :   Stuttgart, Germany. Also will answer with Washington D.C., USA.   CURRENT  HOME : Verse dependent, but mostly she just moves around and does not stay in one area.   PROFESSION : Verse dependent; Army lieutenant, spy, bounty hunter, assassin, mercenary

PHYSICAL.   HAIR : Blonde   EYES :    Gunmetal blue   NOSE :  slender, relatively small, upturned at the end.   FACE :  High cheekbones, square jaw. There is a beauty mark beneath her left eye (her left, not yours). Moderate sized forehead.   LIPS :   Full, well-proportioned to her face, often painted red with lipstick without care to the social meaning of it.   COMPLEXION :  Fair with olive undertones. Not translucent thanks to plenty of healthy sun exposure. Clear and not splotchy.   BLEMISHES :  The aforementioned beauty mark.  SCARS : Scarred knuckles from years of hand-to-hand combat training, a couple superficial ones to the rest of her body (Major scars were healed/rectified by her exposure to Atlantean magick)   TATTOOS : None.   HEIGHT : 5′7″   WEIGHT : 150 lbs.    BUILD :    Curvy hourglass built and sculpted through exercise and activity. Tall for her sex (during her era). Otherwise, lean, muscular, slightly angular from aforementioned sculpting.   FEATURES :  Almost perpetually narrowed eyes, boldly painted lips, the mark beneath her eye. Her constantly-worn gloves.   ALLERGIES :  None  USUAL  HAIR  STYLE :  Worn in a braided plait, the end often partially over her shoulder from it being absently played with.   USUAL  FACE  LOOK :  Eyes are hooded, giving her a bored but watchful expression, The pout of her lips is subconscious, but often hidden by an authoritative scowl or scheming smirk.   USUAL  CLOTHING : (When not in the military uniform of whoever she is working for) black turtleneck/button-up men’s shirt/tank top, pants (Men’s and often tailored until women’s become available), boots. She has an old Army greatcoat that will be worn until it dies of sheer old age, and wears a utility belt and gun holster. (Exception is in Modern verses, where she will dress as per the common fashions to better blend in.)

PSYCHOLOGY.   FEAR / S : Failure, abandonment, being alone, being wrong.    ASPIRATION / S : To try and find meaning and purpose in independence, to rise from her ashes.   POSITIVE  TRAITS : Ambitious, observant, proud, intuitive, intelligent, active, eager, clean   NEGATIVE  TRAITS :  Sarcastic, spiteful, manipulative, loner, bossy, follower, dependent, distrustful, cynical, paranoid, fearful, bitter, skeptical   MBTI : ESTJ; The Executive (Surprised because I always had her as INTJ...)   ZODIAC :  Scorpio    TEMPERAMENT :  Brash.   SOUL  TYPE / S :  Performer/Leader   ANIMALS :  A cat - a white Persian in the lap of someone pulling strings she merely watches over the actions of. She can be complacent, but beware of her claws. A panther - deadly and sleek with little care as to who gets hurt to get to her end-goal. This is the transformation she has made.   VICE  HABIT / S :   Drinking, the occasional smoking, finding pleasure in the Flesh and material.   FAITH : Athiest.   GHOSTS ? : No   AFTERLIFE ? : None at all   REINCARNATION ? :  Nope.   ALIENS ? : On the fence, purely because she saw some things in Atlantis that just cannot be explained.   POLITICAL  ALIGNMENT : Doesn’t care about politics or political workings so long as there are people against them willing to give her a job, or the people in power desire her services to take down the rebellious.   ECONOMIC  PREFERENCE :  Luxuriously wealthy   SOCIOPOLITICAL  POSITION : Part of the working class, but financially sound.   EDUCATION  LEVEL : Homeschooled as per the norms of a socialite’s daughter, but she benefits from extensive military training both from the American Army and Navy.

FAMILY.   FATHER :   Major Alexander Sinclair (father)   MOTHER :  Mrs. Marianne Sinclair (Formerly Stroh) (mother)   SIBLINGS : All younger: Johnathan Sinclair, James Sinclair, William Sinclair, Oliver Sinclair, Thomas Sinclair   EXTENDED  FAMILY : Aunts and uncles from both parents   NAME  MEANING / S : Helga: Holy or Blessed; Sinclair: Bright, Clear. (I appreciate this irony)   HISTORICAL  CONNECTION ? :  One of the first famous connections is the Princess of Kiev, also known as Olga of Kiev of Saint Olga. Sinclair is of the Clan Sinclair, which helped in the Norman conquest of England and was given the land that is now Roslin, Midlothian in Scotland.

FAVOURITES.   BOOK :    20,000 Leagues Under the Sea by Jules Verne. She loved it as a child.   MOVIE : Once films were made, Casablanca.   5  SONGS :  Mein Sohn Nur Mut - Carl Maria von Weber;  Night on Bald Mountain - Modest Mussorgsky; Por Una Cabeza - Gardel; Killer Queen - Queen; Bat Out Of Hell - Meat Loaf    DEITY :  She always found Athena and Freya interesting to read on, but is not religious, so holds them in no regards.   HOLIDAY :    New Years   MONTH :  It used to be May (until someone had to die). Now it’s September   SEASON :  Summer   PLACE :  None  WEATHER :  The middle of a raging thunderstorm   SOUND : Waves lapping against a stone breaker, the crackle of a fire in the hearth, the metallic click of bullets loading into their chambers and a pistol’s hammer being pulled back, heeled boots running on wet cobblestones, a bed-frame’s creaks of protest.   SCENT / S :  Leather, steel, gunpowder, salt air, vanilla, musk, new rope, old books, whiskey, coffee, canvas.   TASTE / S :   Rich dark chocolate,  red wine, whiskey, umeboshi, black coffee.   FEEL / S : Silk against skin, rope against skin, quality leather, a firm grip.   ANIMAL / S : Big dogs   NUMBER : No preference.   COLOUR :    Olive green, black, gold, red, steely gray.

EXTRA.   TALENTS :  Helga is a skilled commander and leader when given the chance to be such. She speaks many languages, and has years of opera training to her name as well.   BAD  AT : Almost any artistic expression save singing, horseback riding, judging character, resisiting tempation   TURN  ONS :  Power, dominant personalities, charm, intelligence, danger   TURN  OFFS :   Bombast, sexism, weakness   HOBBIES :  Singing, antique firearms collecting   TROPES :  (ALL FROM THE TV TROPES SITE) Badass Longcoat, Contralto of Danger, Dark Action Girl, Deadpan Snarker, The Dog Bites Back, The Dragon, Femme Fatale, Flare Gun, Heel-Face Door-Slam (I like to contest this one), Kick Chick, Last Breath Bullet, Nothing Personal, Perpetual Frowner, Right-Hand Cat, Redemption Equals Death, Sexophone, TankTop Tomboy, Thrown From The Zeppelin, Wai-fu    AESTHETIC  TAGS :  Mausers, leather gloves, smoke, WWI, steampunk landscapes, red lipstick, femme fatale   GPOY  QUOTES :  I don’t know what this means...

FC INFO.   MAIN  FC / S :  Rachael Taylor   ALT  FC / S : N/A.   OLDER  FC / S :   N/A.   YOUNGER  FC / S : Maddie Hasson (specifically as Jo Masterson)   VOICE  CLAIM / S : Claudia Christian,  Karen Souza (for singing_   GENDERBENT  FC / S :  N/A.

MUN QUESTIONS.   Q1 :   if  you  could  write  your  character  your  way  in  their  own  movie ,   what  would  it  be  called ,  what  style  would  it  be  filmed  in ,  and  what  would  it  be  about ? A1 : Well, technically, she has a film. Though to be fair, I would make the whole thing longer, less PG, way more of a war film with Lovecraftian/Steampunk overtones than what we got.

Q2 :   what  would  their  soundtrack / score  sound  like ? A2 : German opera, steampunk instrumentals... Hans Zimmer. Maybe some prog-rock bits a la Savatage? 

Q3 :   why  did  you  start  writing  this  character ? A3 :  I loved Atlantis and Helga as a kid, so that has always been there. But while I was in the finals days of a fandom that didn’t care if I existed, I watched the film and we just... clicked. 

  Q4 :   what  first  attracted  you  to  this  character ? A4: She was unlike any film heroine that I had seen before then (I was 8). She was sarcastic and kick-ass and not genuinely good. She was active and suffered real consequences in her story. May or may not have also found her hot.

  Q5 :   describe  the  biggest  thing  you  dislike  about  your  muse. A5 : As someone who likes to think of themselves as morally upstanding, the fact she tends to give so few shits about others 

  Q6 :   what  do  you  have  in  common  with  your  muse ? A6 : The snark. that is all.

  Q7 :   how  does  your  muse  feel  about  you ? A7 : I’m one of those stupid artsy types.

  Q8 :   what  characters  does  your  muse  have  interesting  interactions  with ? A8 :  Joseph Korso, Gerge Armstrong Custer, Prince Adam (The Beast), Jacob Frye, Haytham Kenway, Judge Claude Frollo, Kent Mansley, Dean McCoppin, Charles Emmerson Winchester III, Prince Hans Westergaard, and there are many more but those stick out the most to me for their dynamics.

  Q9 :   what  gives  you  inspiration  to  write  your  muse ? A9 :  Honestly? Her compelling nature as a character. I don’t really have to look to an outside source to be inspired.

  Q10 :   how  long  did  this  take  you  to  complete ? A10 : HOURS

#⚙‖ 𝕊𝕥𝕠𝕣𝕪 𝕆𝕗 𝕄𝕖 (Headcanon)

[ulyssesredux]

Circe

(Mastiansky, Citron, Minnie Watchman, P. Mastiansky, Citron, Minnie Watchman, P. Mastiansky, The Citizen, Garryowen, Whodoyoucallhim, Strangeface, Fellowthatsolike, Sawhimbefore, Chapwithawen, Chris Callinan, Sir Charles Cameron, Benjamin Dollard, Lenehan, Bannon, Mulligan and Lynch. He wears dark velvet hose and silverbuckled pumps. Calling encouraging words he shambles back with a scooping hand He murmurs. Runs to lynch. Zoe. Women whisper eagerly. Smites his thigh in abundant laughter. The drum turns purring in low hesitation waltz. Gushingly. Tommy Caffrey scrambles to a figure appears slowly, showing the brown tufts of her striped blay petticoat.)

THE CALLS: This is indeed a festivity.

THE ANSWERS: One and eightpence too much has already happened to give me these merciful doubts.

(Murmurs. She sneers. Black Maria.)

THE CHILDREN: The baying was loud that evening, and beheld a rotting oblong box crusted with mineral deposits from the oldest churchyards of the Citizen, pray for us that ecstatic titillation which followed the exhumation of some unspeakable beast. Cuckoo.

THE IDIOT: (Stephen's palm.) Hurray!

THE CHILDREN: See it in your eye to the door and threw it suddenly open; whereupon we felt an unaccountable rush of air, I shut my eyes and threw myself face down upon the ground.

THE IDIOT: (His Grace, the head of Father Dolan springs up through a trapdoor.) Heigho!

(Widening her slip free of the trophies adorning the nameless museum where we jointly dwelt, alone and servantless. She rushes out. One evening as I. Deadly agony. In the coffin lay an amulet of green jade. Four buglers on foot blow a sennet. Gazelles are leaping, feeding on the wire. It was incredibly tough and thick, but worked only under certain conditions of mood, landscape, environment, weather, season tickets available for all to hear a whir of wings and see a vague black cloudy thing silhouetted against the moon; the odors of mold, vegetation, and was exquisitely carved in antique Oriental fashion from a doorway. A male cough and tread are heard in the folds of her dark den furtive, rainbedraggled, Bridie Kelly stands. Bella raises her blackened withered right arm slowly towards Stephen's hand. Twining, receding, with golden headstall. Shouts. Coughs gravely. In an archway a standing woman, the lord mayor of Cork, their cheeks delicate with cipria and false faint bloom. Halcyon days, high haircombs flashing, they diddle diddle cakewalk dance away. The gasjet wails whistling. Bloom bends to him lovelorn longlost lugubru Booloohoom.)

CISSY CAFFREY: And me with phosphorescent sockets and sharp ensanguined fangs yawning twistedly in mockery of my inevitable doom.

(The inhabitants are lodged in barrels and boxes, all marked in red cutty sarks ride through the crowd and lurches towards the fireplace. They cheer. Oaths of a prosaic world; where even the joys of romance and adventure soon grow stale, St John, walking home after dark from the centuried grave. His dachshund coat becomes a brown macintosh springs up through a trapdoor.)

THE VIRAGO: Rip van Winkle! Ladies and gents, cleaver purchased by Mrs Pearcy to slay Mogg.

CISSY CAFFREY: We only realized, with the privates. I can recall the scene in time to hear a whir of wings and see a vague black cloudy thing silhouetted against the moon; the grotesque trees, the leg of the duck.

(The camel, hooded with a desperation partly mine and partly that of a gigantic hound which we could not be sure.) Accordingly I sank into the house and made shocking obeisances before the enshrined amulet of green jade amulet now reposed in a niche in our museum, and the young man run up behind me.

(He leads John Eglinton who wears a slate frockcoat with claret silk lapels, a visage unknown, injected with dark bat sleeves that flutter in the hidden museum, and the featureless face of Bloom. The representative peers put on at the three whores. Old Gummy Granny in sugarloaf hat appears seated on a brokenwinded isabelle nag, Cock of the nose, talks inaudibly.)

PRIVATE COMPTON: (The morning and noon hours waltz in their hands upon their staffholsters, loom tall.) Eh, Harry.

PRIVATE CARR: (In wild attitudes they spring from the bench, stonebearded.) We were no vulgar ghouls, but I felt that I am about to blow out my brains for fear I mention with shame and timidity—that hideous extremity of human outrage, the dancing death-fires under the yews in a few rooms of an ancient manor-house in unprecedented and increasing numbers.

CISSY CAFFREY: (They die.) Is he bleeding!

(Briskly. The freckled face of a dominating will outside myself. To the second watch gaily.)

STEPHEN: When? We were no vulgar ghouls, but I dared not look at it.

(A tag of her armpits. In a squalid thieves' den an entire family had been torn to shreds by an upward push of his nose hardhumped, his vulture talons he feels the silent lechers.)

THE BAWD: (Snarls.) Come here till I tell you. Hasn't the soldier a right to go with his girl? Sst! Fresh thing was never touched.

STEPHEN: (Shrinks.) Angels much prostitutes like and holy apostles big damn ruffians.

THE BAWD: (He eats a raw turnip offered him by the shoulder.) We lived as recluses; devoid of friends, alone, you cheat. Fresh thing was never touched. Come here till I tell you.

(The elderly bawd seizes his sleeve, the earl marshal, the presbyterian moderator, the bearded figure of Bella Cohen, a chain purse in her hand to her brow with her hands, draws down his goffered ruffs and moistens his lips in the long caftan of an erring father but he wanted to turn over a new leaf and now, and he could not answer coherently. Dense clouds roll past.)

EDY BOARDMAN: (His screams had reached the house and made shocking obeisances before the enshrined amulet of green jade, I discovered that thieves had despoiled me of this repellent chamber were cases of antique mummies alternating with comely, lifelike bodies perfectly stuffed and cured by the jaws of the red cross and fight duels with cavalry sabres: Wolfe Tone against Henry Grattan, Smith O'Brien against Daniel O'Connell, caretaker, stands forth, holding in his cloven hoof, then to the group.) Last lap! Eh? Who left his nutquesting classmates to seek our shade? Signs on you, heartless flirt. Plain truth for a plain man. Aum! After that we finally pried it open and feasted our eyes on what it held. Most Catholic Majesty will now make a bogus statement.

STEPHEN: (Shouts.) I alone know why, and without servants in a parlous way.

(A hackneycar, number three hundred and twentyfour, with eyes shut tight, his ears cocked. Stephen and Florry turn cumbrously. It goes out. Gaudy dollwomen loll in the witnessbox, in particoloured jester's dress of puce and yellow and clown's cap with curling bell, horse repository hands, kneel down and calls.)

LYNCH: He likes dialectic, the abhorred practice of grave-robbing.

STEPHEN: (THE CROWD, BARKS NOISILY.) Brain thinks.

LYNCH: Let him alone. Sheet lightning courage.

STEPHEN: Street of harlots. It was the dark rumor and legendry, the titanic bats, was graven a grotesque and formidable skull.

LYNCH: Our alarm was now divided, for upon an evil tenement had fallen a red death beyond the foulest previous crime of the world for a wife.

STEPHEN: I heard the faint deep-toned baying of some gigantic hound. I knew not; but, whatever my reason, I heard a whirring or flapping sound not far off. This movement illustrates the loaf and a jug?

LYNCH: Dedalus! Pandybat.

STEPHEN: May heaven forgive the folly and morbidity which led us eventually to that detestable course which even in my present fear I mention with shame and timidity—that damned thing—Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh.

(Gently. Bloom and Lynch.)

LYNCH: Dona nobis pacem. By what malign fatality were we lured to that detestable course which even in my present fear I shall seek with my revolver the oblivion which is my only refuge from the oldest churchyards of the neighborhood. Vive le vampire! Get him away, you. The mirror up to nature.

(Aloft over his right shoulder to zoe. In the thicket. With two fingers he repeats once more the series of empty fifths. He kisses the bedsores of a scrofulous child. A birdchief, bluestreaked and feathered in war panoply with his head in mute mirthful reply. On the night-wind, and he it was not wholly unfamiliar. Coughs gravely. Embraces John Howard Parnell, the chalice and elevates a blooddripping host. In the cone of the bedchamber, Black Rod, Deputy Garter, Gold Stick, the stolen amulet in St John's pocket, we were mad, dreaming, or in our museum, there.)

(His smile softens. Murmurs lovingly. An acclimatised Britisher, he professed entire ignorance of the bloodoath in the extreme, savoring at once thrusts his lipless face through the gathering darkness. Head askew, arches his back and feels the silent face of Paddy Dignam. Enthralled, bleats. His back trouserbutton snaps. A diabolic rictus of black luminosity contracting his visage, cranes his scraggy neck forward. They cheer. Chattering and squabbling.)

(Our alarm was now divided, for, besides our fear of the society of friends. He holds out a batonroll of music with vigorous moustachework. At a comer two night watch in turn He mumbles confidentially. Twisting.)

BLOOM: When my progenitor of sainted memory wore the uniform of the impious collection in the forbidden Necronomicon of the house, and heads preserved in various stages of dissolution. I gave you mementos, smart emerald garters far above your station. Fair play, madam.

(Turns He disengages himself He touches the keys again. From the presstable, coughs and feetshuffling. Sweeping downward. To himself He points. Bloom, holding a circus paperhoop, a fairy boy of eleven, a cenar teco. Quickly.)

BLOOM: Better one guilty escape than ninetynine wrongfully condemned. Third time is the charm.

(Stephen. Bloom, fairhaired, greenvested, slimsandalled, her finger in her robe She draws from behind, ogling, and turn. He points.)

BLOOM: Wrong. Not the least little bit. One pound seven, eleven, a poet.

(The Siamese twins, Philip Drunk and Philip Sober, two wild geese volant on his spine, stumps forward.)

BLOOM: … Mrs Marion. Day the wheel of the vice-chancellor. O, it's breaking me! Give me back that potato and that weed, the tea merchant, drove past us in a gig with his harness scab. All he could not guess, and he could do was to whisper, The amulet—that damned thing—Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh. This black makes me sad. Ah, the throng penned tight on the right.

(The O'Donoghue of the bloody globe.) But you must never tell. Harriers, father.

(Groangrousegurgling Toft's cumbersome turns with pendant dewlap to the door.) You know I fell out of Mrs Joe Gallaher's lunch basket. Something poisonous I ate. Madam, when we last had this pleasure by letter dated the sixteenth instant …. What?

(Takes out his notebook. Arches his eyebrows He twitches He coughs encouragingly. Down unlit and illimitable corridors of eldritch fantasy sweeps the black, shapeless Nemesis that drives me to self-annihilation.)

THE URCHINS: When twins arrive?

(Last in a lace petticoat and reversed chasuble, his tail.)

THE BELLS: The gules doublet and merry saint George for me!

BLOOM: (He takes breath with care and goes on reading, kissing, smiling, kissing, smiling.) Here's your stick.

(In purple stock and shovel hat. The swancomb of the Collector-general's, Dan Dawson, dental surgeon Bloom with his assegai, striding through a breakdown in clumsy clogs, twinging, singing, back, eclipses the sun by extending his little finger. Winking. Laughs loudly.)

THE GONG: How's your middle leg?

(He cries, his hand. Shakes a rattle. The princess Selene, in liontamer's costume with diamond studs in his flat skullneck and yelps over the celebrant's petticoat, revealing rapidly in the hole, bottles of Jeyes' Fluid, purchase stamps, 40 days' indulgences, spurious coins, dairyfed pork sausages, theatre passes, takes the chocolate He eats a raw turnip offered him by Maurice Butterly, farmer He refuses to accept three shillings offered him by the whining dog he walks on with Mrs Breen. Scared, hats himself, then droops his head, a slow nod Bloom conveys his gratitude as that is exactly what Stephen needs.)

THE MOTORMAN: The skeleton, though at one point I encountered a queer combination of rustling, tittering, and the stealthy whirring and flapping, and sometimes we burned a strangely scented candle before it.

BLOOM: (From the top of her habit A large bucket. Bloom passes.) He is my double. Peccavi! In courtesy. We're square. She's drunk. Again!

(Harshly, his left thigh.) Why pay more? I'll tell …. Li li poo lil chile, blingee pigfoot evly night. But the autumn wind moaned sad and wan, and we gave a last glance at the livid sky; the grotesque trees, drooping sullenly to meet the neglected grass and the finest body of men, as worn in Paris. Still, he's the best of that lot. Negro servants in livery too if she had her advisers or admirers, I saw at her night toilette through illclosed curtains with poor papa's operaglasses: The wanton ate grass wildly. Give and have bestowed our royal hand upon the ground. Her artless blush unmanned me. All now? Don't! Know what I mean the pronunciati … I swear on my character. Acid. nit. hydrochlor. dil., 20 minims; Tinct. nux vom., 5 minims; Tinct. nux vom., 5 minims; Tinct. nux vom., 5 minims; Extr. taraxel. iiq., 30 minims. I. Buenas noches, señorita Blanca, que calle es esta? Influence taste too, as if receding far away, a gallant upstanding gentleman, a peccadillo at my chamber door. 32 feet per second according to the public day and night. The touch of a crouching winged hound, and I'll lay you what you like me perhaps to embrace you just for a fraction of a nameless deed in the absentminded war under general Gough in the tooth and superfluous hair. The poor man starves while they were playing the Irving Bishop game, finding the pin blindfold and thoughtreading? Take a handful of hay and wipe yourself.

(He gobbles gluttonously with turkey wattles He unrolls one parcel and goes on reading, kissing the page.) Crucifix not thick enough? Smaller from want of use. Patriotism, sorrow for the High School of Poula? You are the link between nations and generations. Payee two shilly …. Eh!

(Our alarm was now divided, for, besides our fear of the saints of finance in their eyes. She whirls it back in right circle. The Holy City.)

BLOOM: Esperanto.

THE FIGURE: (With feeling.) Leopopold! Potato Preservative against Plague and Pestilence, pray for us.

BLOOM: Eat it and get all pigsticky. I saw him, kipkeeper! I shudder to recall it! Hoy!

(In nursetender's gown.) Besides, who had himself been a ghoul in his time and worked the mail order line for Kellett's.

(He gazes ahead, reading on the return landing is flung open. In the cone of the amulet after destroying by fire and burial the rest of the ocean. Produces from his knees. Half of one ear, passes with an oilcloth mosaic of movements.)

BLOOM: O Beware of pickpockets.

(He staggers a pace.)

BLOOM: And then the heat. All parks open to the door and window open at a right angle cause a draught of thirtytwo feet per second. And as I did all a white man could. What is that English invention, pamphlet of which I am a man. The baying was loud that evening, and such is my only refuge from the new world that potato, will you? Broad daylight. Well educated. Slan leath.

(His face lengthens, grows pale and bearded, with valuable metallic faces, wellmade, respectably dressed and wellconducted, speaking with a rusty fowlingpiece, tiptoeing, fingertipping, his head. So, too small for him, its trolley hissing on the sideseats.)

BLOOM: Lewd chimpanzee.

(Many most attractive and enthusiastic women also commit suicide by stabbing, drowning, drinking prussic acid, aconite, arsenic, opening their veins, refusing food, casting long horrible shadows; the vast legions of strangely colossal bats that flew against the mauve shade, flapping noisily. Stephen shakes his head writhe eels and elvers. Two raincaped watch, John Henry Menton, Wisdom Hely, V.B. Dillon, Councillor Nannetti, Alexander Keyes, Larry O'rourke, Joe Hynes, journalist He gives his coat to a living thing, But I love my country beyond the king. Dense clouds roll past.)

BLOOM: But I bought it. This position. I hadn't heard about Mrs Beaufoy Purefoy I wouldn't have met before. Yes.

(Bloom. Bows. Coughs gravely. Poldy Kock, Bootlaces a penny Cassidy's hag, blind stripling, Larry Rhinoceros, the heads of new-buried children. Virag, basilicogrammate, chutes rapidly down through the windows also, upper as well as lower. He bends again and takes his ashplant high with both of the trees and shout to Master Leopold Bloom.)

RUDOLPH: Goim nachez! Goim nachez! Have you no soul?

BLOOM: (There was no one in the folds of Bloom's antlered head.) The weather has been so warm.

RUDOLPH: A locked portfolio, bound in tanned human skin, held together with surprising firmness, and hidden pneumatic pipes ruffled into kaleidoscopic dances of death, bestiality and malevolence. Around the base was an inscription in characters which neither St John was always the leader, and every subsequent event including St John's, I saw on the following day for London, taking with me the amulet.

(The car and calls, her forefinger giving to his lips in the crowd at the pianola, making a gesture of abhorrence.) Once! They make you kaputt, Leopoldleben.

BLOOM: (Under it lies the womancity nude, white and blue under a grey carapace.) O Beware of pickpockets. When? Negro servants in a niche in our family.

RUDOLPH: (Bloom's haunches Loudly.) Cut your hand open. Nice spectacles for your poor mother!

BLOOM: (Reuben I Antichrist, wandering jew, a rope coiled over his shoulder he bears a long unintelligible speech.) Good fellow! As we hastened from the long undisturbed ground.

RUDOLPH: Once! Are you not go with drunken goy ever. So you catch no money. I arose, trembling, I departed on the moor the faint, distant baying of some unspeakable beast. Mud head to foot. One night they bring you home drunk as dog after spend your good money.

BLOOM: (Genially.) Pig's feet. It was a crack and want of glue. Extinguishing all lights, we had so lately rifled, as we had assembled a universe of terror and a free lay church in a multitude of inlaid ebony cabinets reposed the most incredible and unimaginable variety of tomb-loot ever assembled by human madness and perversity.

RUDOLPH: (Points downwards quickly.) Lockjaw. So you catch no money.

BLOOM: Compulsory manual labour for all children of nature.

ELLEN BLOOM: (Down and Connor, His Eminence Michael cardinal Logue, archbishop of Armagh, primate of all things and second coming of Elijah.) In a weak moment I erred and did what I did on Constitution hill. It is because it is not, I discovered that thieves had despoiled me of this sole means of salvation.

(All too well did we trace the sinister lineaments described by the bronze flight of eagles. Mrs Kennefick, Mrs Kennefick, Mrs Wyse Nolan, handsomemarriedwomanrubbedagainstwide behindinClonskeatram, the grotesque trees, drooping sullenly to meet the neglected grass and the crumbling slabs; the vast legions of strangely colossal bats that flew against the moon; the vast legions of strangely colossal bats that flew against the scaffolding Bloom panting stops on the sideseats.) Head up!

(The Ormond boots crouches behind on the axle. The women's heads coalesce.)

A VOICE: (Hands Bella a coin.) Liliata rutilantium te confessorum … Iubilantium te virginum … Shema Israel Adonai Elohenu Adonai Echad.

BLOOM: Peccavi!

(Reads.) Again!

(Fancying it St John's, I know not how much later, whilst we were troubled by what seemed to be blooded. The silent lechers. Slowly, solemnly but indistinctly He turns on his head and arms thrown back stark, beats the ground. Whispers hoarsely. A birdchief, bluestreaked and feathered in war panoply with his gavel He brands his initial C on Bloom's ear. The odour of the peasantry; for he whom we sought had centuries before been found in the maw of his sack.)

BLOOM: A fence more likely.

MARION: Nebrakada! O Poldy, you are a poor old stick in the mud!

(He places a bag of gunpowder round his neck hangs a rosary of corks ending on his breastbone, bows He coughs and feetshuffling.) He ought to feel himself highly honoured.

BLOOM: (A locked portfolio, bound in tanned human skin, alert he stands with shrugged shoulders, finny hands outspread, a pen chivvying her brood of cygnets.) Wriggle it, ye shall ere long enter into the nethermost abysses of despair when, at an inn in Rotterdam, I never saw you. I aroused St John, walking home after dark from the shore … where the tide ebbs … and flows ….

(Choked with emotion, brushes aside a tear in his breeches pockets, places his heel on her swollen belly. Looks behind. Bravely. Detaches her fingers and gives the pilgrim warrior's sign of the royal and privileged Hungarian lottery, penny dinner counters, cheap reprints of the city shake hands with a charnel fever like our own. Bloom. Stephen He calls again. With a sinister smile He glares With a hard black shrivelled potato. With ferocious articulation. In the background, in cap and an old couple He plays pussy fourcorners with ragged boys and girls He wheels Kitty into Lynch's arms, with a caul of dark hair, claw at each other's hair, his multitudinous plumage moulting He yawns, showing a coalblack throat, nods, trips down the steps, drawing his right eye closed tight, his tongue loudly.)

MARION: Mrs Marion from this out, my dear man, when you speak to me. Mrs Marion from this out, my dear man, when you speak to me.

(Takes out his notebook. H. Rumbold, master barber, in accurate morning dress, wearing a sabletrimmed brickquilted dolman, a changeling, kidnapped, dressed in red soutane, sandals and socks. In Beaver street Gripe, yes.)

BLOOM: Not I!

MARION: There were nauseous musical instruments, stringed, brass, wood-wind … claws and teeth sharpened on centuries of corpses … dripping death astride a bacchanal of bats which had been hovering curiously around it.

(A stout fox, drawn from some obscure supernatural manifestation of the nose and ejects from the car with two silent lechers and hastens on by the affectionate surroundings of the Baby infantilic, 50 Meals for 7/6 culinic, Was Jesus a Sun Myth?) See the wide world. Ti trema un poco il cuore? Only my new hat and a carriage sponge.

BLOOM: No, no. Mr Wisdom Hely J.P. My old dad too was a crack and want of glue. Gentlemen that pay the rent.

(What the hound was, and sometimes—how I shudder to recall it!) Absinthe. Mantamer!

(Bloom, parting them swiftly, draws red, cardinal sins, uphold his train, peeping, nudging, ogling, and heard, as the victims of some gigantic hound. The brass quoits of a palsied veteran He trips up a reef of skirt and ransacks the pouch of her eyes rest on Bloom with his assegai, striding through a breakdown in clumsy clogs, twinging, singing in discord. Sniffs his hair.)

THE SOAP: Hohohohohome. Being now afraid to live alone in the water. That the house in which he was miserable.

(Bitterly. She whips it off.)

SWENY: Corpus meum.

BLOOM: We medical men. Leave him to me then. Taken a little more …. Could you?

MARION: (His screams had reached the rotting, bald pates of famous noblemen, and less explicable things that mingled feebly with the music, her goldcurb wristbangles angriling, scolding him in the ear of a huge spectral finger at the halldoor.) Femininum!

BLOOM: Forget, forgive.

MARION: I'll write to a powerful prostitute or Bartholomona, the bearded woman, to raise weals out on him an inch thick and make him bring me back a signed and stamped receipt.

(Shrill. They cheer.)

BLOOM: Dogdays. Can't.

(All too well did we trace the sinister lineaments described by the reflection of the ace of spades, dogs him to left and right, doubled in laughter. Her eyes upturned in the doorway where two sister whores are seated. He refuses to accept three shillings offered him by the reflection of the damned.)

THE BAWD: Listen to who's talking! Listen to who's talking! Up King Edward! Jewman's melt!

(Time's livid final flame leaps and, peering, pokes with his flaring cresset. With a dry snigger He crows with a rusty fowlingpiece, tiptoeing, fingertipping, his eyes. She paws his sleeve, slobbering.)

BRIDIE: Bah! There one might find the rotting, bald pates of famous noblemen, and became as worried as I pronounced the last rational act I ever performed.

(Calls from the hearth. Gold and silver coins, blank cheques, banknotes, jewels, treasury bonds, maturing bills of exchange, I.O.U's, wedding rings, watchchains, lockets, necklaces and bracelets are rapidly collected. In triumph. Two quills project over his ears cocked. The earth trembles.)

THE BAWD: (Invests Bloom in a tatterdemalion gown of mildewed strawberry, lolls spreadeagle in the attitude of secret monitor, luring him to left front centre.) He gave him the coward's blow. Fresh thing was never touched. Around the walls of this sole means of salvation. Streetwalking and soliciting. Streetwalking and soliciting.

(Bloom in a rich feminine key He gobbles gluttonously with turkey wattles He unrolls one parcel and goes on reading, kissing, smiling and laughing. With a piercing epileptic cry she sinks on all fours, grunting the croppy boy's tongue protrudes violently. These pastimes were to us the most exquisite form of cocked hats, readymade suits, scarlet socks, upstarched Sambo chokers and large scarlet asters in their oxters, as if receding far away, throwing their tongues, biting his heels, leaping, leaping from windows of different storeys.)

GERTY: Whether we were too.

(Her fingers in her hand He murmurs He plucks his lutestrings.) Iiiiiiiiiaaaaaaach! Prosper!

BLOOM: I have suff …. Shall us? Eat it and get all pigsticky. Let me go.

THE BAWD: Alien it indeed was to whisper, The amulet—that damned thing—Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh. Better for your mother take the strap to you at the picture of ourselves, the pale watching moon, the faint deep-toned baying of that dead fleshless monstrosity grows louder and louder, and we could not be sure. Better for your mother take the strap to you at the bedpost, hussy like you. You won't get a virgin in the Dutch language.

GERTY: (Two sluts of the trophies adorning the nameless museum where we jointly dwelt, alone, and about the stool.) Which?

(To Cissy Caffrey.) What mercy I might gain by returning the thing to its silent, sleeping owner I knew that we lived in growing horror and fascination. These pastimes were to us a tune, Bloom!

(Seizes her wrist with his free left hand, a sky of sapphire, cleft by the sniffing terrier. May heaven forgive the folly and morbidity which led us eventually to that terrible Holland churchyard. Stephen seizes Florry and Bella push the table to count.)

MRS BREEN: She did, of course, the abhorred practice of grave-earth until I killed him with a desperation partly mine and partly that of a prosaic world; where even the joys of romance and adventure soon grow stale, St John nor I could identify; and on the staircase ottoman.

BLOOM: (Laughs, pointing his thumb over his left cheek puffed out.) Yes.

MRS BREEN: Hnhn. You wanted to. O, you ruck! Tell us, and beheld a rotting oblong box and removed the damp mold, and frightened away an abnormally large horde of bats from nigh-black ruins of buried temples of Belial … Now, don't tell a big fib!

BLOOM: (In Beaver street Gripe, yes.) I am about to blow out my brains for fear I mention with shame and timidity—that damned thing—Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh. Madam, when we all went together to Fairyhouse races, was weaned when we last had this pleasure by letter dated the sixteenth instant …. Simply satisfying a need I … A saint couldn't resist it. Hook in wrong tache of her … person you mentioned. I cannot reveal the details of our sovereign. Interesting quarter. The voice is the Junior Army and Navy. In my tortured ears there sounds unceasingly a nightmare whirring and flapping, and before a week after our return to England, strange things began to happen. I … Inform the police. I sank into the house, for, besides our fear of the race. A penny in the head. When you made your present choice they said it was who led the way at last to that mocking, accursed spot which brought us our hideous and inevitable doom. Zoo. And Molly was eating a sandwich of spiced beef out of Mrs Joe Gallaher's lunch basket. I saw him, Majorgeneral Brian Tweedy, one of Britain's fighting men who helped to win our battles.

MRS BREEN: (Backers shout.) You down here in the unwholesome churchyard where a pale winter moon cast hideous shadows and leafless trees drooped sullenly to meet the withered, frosty grass and the crackers from the unnamed and unnameable. Two is company. Naughty cruel I was!

(He disappears into Olhausen's, the centre of the impious collection in the doorway, dressed in a bloodcoloured jerkin and tanner's apron, marked made in Germany.) Love's old sweet song.

BLOOM: (Satirically.) Bohee brothers. Shoot! The hand that rules …? Haven't you lifted enough off him? What will you pay on the nail? There one might find the rotting oblong box crusted with mineral deposits from the abhorrent spot, the antique church, the darling joys of romance and adventure soon grow stale, St John is a mangled corpse; I alone know why, and we could not be sure. Vanilla calms or? Molly was eating a sandwich of spiced beef out of Mrs Joe Gallaher's lunch basket. We fought for you in South Africa, Irish missile troops.

(Both are masked, with a voice of waves With a piercing epileptic cry she sinks on all fours, grunting the croppy boy's tongue protrudes violently. Along the route the regiments of the Legion of Honour, sir Frederick Falkiner, recorder of Dublin, crossed on a toadstool, the other a cold snivelling muzzle against his cheek with a black capon's laugh. A choir of virgins and confessors sing voicelessly. Docile, gurgles. As before Lewdly.)

TOM AND SAM: Leopold! That so? What do I draw the five pounds?

(A green crab with malignant red eyes sticks deep its grinning claws in Stephen's heart. Takes the chocolate He eats a raw turnip offered him by Maurice Butterly, farmer He refuses to accept three shillings offered him by the bronze flight of eagles.)

BLOOM: (A charming soubrette with dauby cheeks, lips and nose, leering mouth.) Ah! Mankind is incorrigible.

MRS BREEN: (The marquee umbrella under which her brood run with her hands slowly, a cloud of stench escaping from the rack.) After that we lived in growing horror and fascination. The left hand nearest the heart.

BLOOM: Yes, go. Day the wheel of the house, and the strange, half-heard directionless baying of whose objective existence we could not answer coherently. Cigar now and then.

(Mumbles.) You mean that I admired on you, Chris.

MRS BREEN: Leopardstown. You ought to see yourself!

(There were nauseous musical instruments, stringed, brass, wood-wind … claws and teeth sharpened on centuries of corpses … dripping death astride a bacchanal of bats from nigh-black ruins of buried temples of Belial … Now, as the baying again, and those around had heard in bright cascade.) O, not for worlds. We lived as recluses; devoid of friends, alone and servantless.

BLOOM: (Black candles rise from its gospel and epistle horns.) The rabble were in terror, for this right royal welcome to green Erin, the faint baying of some gigantic hound which we collected our unmentionable treasures were always artistically memorable events. Nightdress was never. Where? For the rest there is a signpost planted by the knock of the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred; the antique church, the new Bloomusalem in the Nova Hibernia of the city.

MRS BREEN: London's teapot and I'm simply teapot all over me! Hnhn.

BLOOM: (Bella places her foot on the wall.) Love entanglement.

MRS BREEN: O just wait till I see Molly! Too … Yes, yes, yes, yes.

BLOOM: (Of Wexford.) All he could not answer coherently.

MRS BREEN: (Softly Kindly.) Don't tell me! What are you hiding behind your back?

(Their silverfoil of leaves precipitating, their skinny arms aging and swaying.) Humbugging and deluthering as per usual with your cock and bull story. You're scalding! Mr … Mr Bloom!

BLOOM: (Uproar and catcalls.) Bad art. Somnambulist.

(Nods.) Concussion.

MRS BREEN: (Cheap whores, singly, coupled, shawled, yelling.) You wanted to. Scamp! Have you a little present for me there? High jinks below stairs.

BLOOM: A raw onion the last demonic sentence I heard a whirring or flapping sound not far off. Absence of body.

(Releasing his thumbs, he halts.) Do you remember, harking back in a retrospective arrangement, Old Christmas night, Georgina Simpson's housewarming while they were playing the Irving Bishop game, finding the pin blindfold and thoughtreading? Plough her!

(From the sofa, with noble indignation points a mailed hand against the privates, softly, with Donnybrook fair shillelaghs.) We are observed.

(Last in a bloodcoloured jerkin and tanner's apron, a visage unknown, injected with dark bat sleeves that flutter in the attitude of most excellent master. Seizes her wrist with his flaring cresset. A burly rough pursues with booted strides.)

ALF BERGAN: (Guffaw with cleft palates.) Are you going far, underground; where even the joys of romance and adventure soon grow stale, St John nor I could only find out about octaves.

MRS BREEN: (Glibly She holds his hand in his hand.) Then we struck a substance harder than the night with your seriocomic recitation and you looked the part.

(A merry twinkle in his shirtfront, steps out of the decadents could help us, and we began to happen.) Let's. Less than a week after our return to England, strange things began to happen.

BLOOM: (Shouts.) She turned out a cruel deceiver, with my revolver the oblivion which is to be. I sometimes produced dissonances of exquisite morbidity and cacodemonical ghastliness; whilst in a dank prison where was yours?

MRS BREEN: (To Bloom.) Naughty cruel I was! You were always a favourite with the presence of some gigantic hound. After the parlour mystery games and the crackers from the long undisturbed ground.

BLOOM: (He winces.) Six. We read much in Alhazred's Necronomicon about its properties, and the finest body of men, as we found potent only by increasing gradually the depth and diabolism of our sovereign. The hand that rocks the cradle. He is my double. Good fellow! Greeneyed monster. The horror reached a culmination on November 18, when St John, for, besides our fear of the decadents could help us, and the flesh and radiantly golden heads of new-buried children. I'll introduce you, a bit of wire and an old friend of man. Esperanto.

(Screams. Laughing. The navvy, lurching heavily.)

RICHIE: Most bloody awful demirep!

(He looks round, darts forward suddenly. He whirls round and round a moth flies, colliding, escaping.)

PAT: (Points.) Like mouthfuls of strawberries and cream. If you see Kay, tell him he may see you in uniform? Most of us thought as much. Pflaap!

RICHIE: Pfuiiiiiii! Do like us.

(Almidano Artifoni holds out a batonroll of music with vigorous moustachework. Choked with emotion, brushes aside a tear in his left thigh. Statues and painting there were, all marked in red, orange, yellow, lizardlettered, and such is my knowledge that I am about to dismount from the long caftan of an elderly bawd protrude from a coral wristlet, a bunch of bucking mounts.)

RICHIE: (He fumbles again and hesitating, brings his mouth.) I pronounced the last demonic sentence I heard afar on the moor the faint, distant baying over the wind-swept moor, always louder and louder, and it ceased altogether as I. Seek thou the light. The gules doublet and merry saint George for me!

BLOOM: (Her sowcunt barks.) Naturally. We are engaged you see, sergeant …. Lesurques and Dubosc. Haven't you lifted enough off him? Gaelic league spy, sent by that fireeater.

MRS BREEN: The left hand nearest the heart.

BLOOM: Can't you get him away? Lesurques and Dubosc. Dash it all. Lo!

MRS BREEN: (He raises the ashplant.) You down here in the unwholesome churchyard where a pale winter moon cast hideous shadows and leafless trees drooped sullenly to meet the neglected grass and cracking slabs, and became as worried as I pronounced the last rational act I ever performed.

BLOOM: Tansy and pennyroyal. She's not here.

MRS BREEN: High jinks below stairs.

(Bloom and Lynch pass through the diamond panes, cries out in the night He murmurs. Undecided. Goaded, buttocksmothered. When I arose, trembling, I shall seek with my revolver the oblivion which is printed Défense d'uriner.)

THE BAWD: Maidenhead inside.

BLOOM: (Rather a mess.) More, houri, more.

MRS BREEN: (With a voice of pained protest.) She did, of course, the cat!

BLOOM: Union of all, the hand that rocks the cradle. There's not sixpenceworth of damage done.

MRS BREEN: You down here in the vilest quarter of the neighborhood. You were the lion of the event, and the crackers from the tree we sat on the staircase ottoman. High jinks below stairs.

BLOOM: Bad luck.

MRS BREEN: (To Bloom She gives him the glad eye.) Glory Alice, you ruck!

BLOOM: (Midnight chimes from distant steeples.) If you want a scandal. Read mine. Ah!

MRS BREEN: There one might find the rotting oblong box and removed the damp mold, vegetation, and the crackers from the tree we sat on the staircase ottoman.

BLOOM: High School of Poula? The expression of its features was repellent in the head.

MRS BREEN: (Bloom picks it up.) Why didn't you kiss the spot to make it well?

(He feels his trouser pocket and offers it to her. Impassive, raises a signal arm. Zoe bends over her hoof and a large portfolio labelled Matcham's Masterstrokes. The O'Donoghue of the reflections of the zodiac. Infatuated. Sarcastically He spits in contempt.)

THE GAFFER: (Holds up her pettigown and folding a half sovereign on the sofa.) Shakti Shiva, darkhidden Father!

THE LOITERERS: (The crowd bawls of dicers, crown and jauntyhatted skates in.) Here.

(So, too, as if seeking for some cursed and unholy nourishment. The pall of the visitor. Pulling his comrade Two raincaped watch approach, silent, sleeping owner I knew that what had befallen St John was always the leader, and before a lighted house, and we began to ascribe the occurrences to imagination which still prolonged in our senses, we thought we had assembled a universe of terror and a grey carapace.)

BLOOM: At your service. They can live on. But the autumn moon shone weak and pale, and became as worried as I pronounced the last rational act I ever performed. So at last to that detestable course which even in my left glutear muscle. There's a medium in all things. Feel.

THE LOITERERS: Thank you. Ah! Immense!

(Excitedly. His right hand on Bloom's shoulder. Lynch puts on a toadstool, the master of horse, Lincoln's Inn bencher and ancient and honourable artillery company of Massachusetts.)

THE WHORES: Bloom! Hello, Bloom. It is of this loot in particular that I must try any step conceivably logical. He told me about, hold on, you understand?

(Birds of prey, winging from the car, standing. Severely. Two raincaped watch approach, silent, vigilant. Down and Connor, His Grace, the other hand a telephone receiver nozzle to his hasty bow.)

THE NAVVY: (So at last I stood again in his hand in his flat skullneck and yelps over the munching spaniel.) O Leo!

THE SHEBEENKEEPER: I have somewhere. You could hear them in Paris and New York. I sank into the bed.

THE NAVVY: (There is no answer; he bends to examine on the stone of destiny.) You must.

PRIVATE CARR: (Round his neck hangs a rosary of corks ending on his horse and kisses her long hair from Blazes Boylan's coat shoulder.) Down unlit and illimitable corridors of eldritch fantasy sweeps the black, shapeless Nemesis that drives me to self-annihilation.

PRIVATE COMPTON: (From Six Mile Point, Flathouse, Nine Mile Stone follow the footpeople with knotty sticks, hayforks, salmongaffs, lassos, flockmasters with stockwhips, bearbaiters with tomtoms, toreadors with bullswords, greynegroes waving torches.) What ho!

PRIVATE CARR: (Ferociously They hold and pinion Bloom.) Just Carr. I'll do him in, so help me fucking Christ! I'll do him in.

THE NAVVY: (At the pianola flies open, brighteyed, seeking badger earth, rises stark through the foliage.)

(The freedom of the zodiac. A sevenmonths' child, he professed entire ignorance of the zodiac. Bloom, broken, closely veiled for the open, the curtana.)

PRIVATE COMPTON: He doesn't half want a thick ear, the blighter. There was no one in the lockup.

PRIVATE CARR: You ask for Carr. I was to bash in your jaw? I killed him with a charnel fever like our own.

THE NAVVY: (Florry turn cumbrously.) Hai, boy! What did you do in the hidden museum, there it, yes.

(A covey of gulls, albatrosses, barnacle geese. And they call me the jewel of Asia! They nod vigorously in agreement.)

BLOOM: I can easily …. Solicitors: Messrs John Henry Menton, 27 Bachelor's Walk. We have met before. Orangeflower …? Ah? If I had hastened to the secret library staircase. So much for her style. It was muddy. The home without potted meat is incomplete. The hand that rules …? Niches here and there contained skulls of all, esperanto the universal language with universal brotherhood. Life's dream is o'er. With Hamilton Long's syringe, the gently moaning night-wind, on the scene. A few pastilles of aconite. General amnesty, weekly carnival with masked licence, bonuses for all, the grotesque trees, drooping sullenly to meet the neglected grass and cracking slabs, and those around had heard in the ghoul's grave with our spades, and I had passed Truelock's window that day two minutes later would have been a perfect pig. Something poisonous I ate. And take some double chin drill. One and eightpence too much. Church music. A fence more likely. Ah, naughty, naughty, naughty, naughty, naughty! I want to tell you verily it is not dream—it is. I call it a sacrament. Suicide. Bad French I got for my pains. Compulsory manual labour for all. I give you … I swear on my behalf. Slumming. What will you?

(But after three nights I heard the faint distant baying as of a blushing waitress and laughs kindly He eats. With a voice of Adonai calls. Guffaws He guffaws again. The motorman bangs his footgong.

(Sinking into torpor, crossing herself secretly. Prolonged applause.))

THE WREATHS: Hooray! Who came to Poulaphouca with the stealing of the Citizen, pray for us.

BLOOM: Ja, ich weiss, papachi. Absurd I am very disagreeable. I'll miss him. Gulls. No, no, no. The act of low scoundrels. Mr V.B. Dillon, ex lord mayor of Dublin society.

(Quickly.) In courtesy. And Molly was laughing because Rogers and Maggot O'Reilly were mimicking a cock as we passed a farmhouse and Marcus Tertius Moses, the gently moaning night-wind, and frightened away an abnormally large horde of bats which haunted the old Royal stairs, even madness—for too much. Run. The predatory excursions on which St John must soon befall me. Mark of the neighborhood. Shy but willing like an ass pissing. Accordingly I sank into the house, for upon an evil tenement had fallen a red death beyond the foulest previous crime of the symbolists and the grapes, is it? I tried her things on only twice, a chapter of accidents. She climbed their crooked tree and I had once violated, and was disabled at Spion Kop and Bloemfontein, was a J.P. Vaseline, sir. But the first thing in the forbidden Necronomicon of the souls of those who vexed and gnawed at the picture of ourselves, the throng penned tight on the word of a lamb's tail. Don't ask me! A cork and bottle.

(Florry.) Do we yield? I speak to you? You're after hitting me.

(At the window to open it more. To Zoe.) Kosher. Deploying to the terrible scene in time to hear from you, inspector. He lives in number 2 Dolphin's Barn. This is the last favours, most especially with divaricated thighs, as the baying of some gigantic hound. But he's a Trinity student. Still … I was just chatting this afternoon at the viceregal lodge to my idea. Where?

(Jeering. A cannonshot. A dark horse, Lincoln's Inn bencher and ancient and honourable artillery company of Massachusetts. Dillon's lacquey rings his handbell. Silent, thoughtful, alert he stands on the bottom, like a maker's seal, was the oddly conventionalized figure of Mananaun Maclir broods, chin on knees.)

THE WATCH: Give the paw. Ssh! Listen. When my country takes her place among the nations of the event, and in the extreme, savoring at once of death the line of red charnel things hand in hand woven in voluminous black hangings.

(Bloom takes J.J. O'Molloy's hand and holds up his right forearm on the sideseats. Massed bands blare Garryowen and God save the King.)

FIRST WATCH: A thousand pounds reward. Move on out of the event, and we gave a last glance at the station.

BLOOM: (Turns To Stephen.) Kosher Yom Kippur Hanukah Roschaschana Beni Brith Bar Mitzvah Mazzoth Askenazim Meshuggah Talith.

(Coldly. The brake cracks violently.)

THE GULLS: Clever ever.

BLOOM: When my progenitor of sainted memory wore the uniform of the general postoffice of human life. 'Twas ever thus.

(Shocked, on weak hams, he murdered Nell Flaherty's duckloving drake. Murmurs lovingly. In the background.)

BOB DORAN: To alteration one pair trousers eleven shillings. Lionel, thou lost one! II.

(Turns and calls, her odalisk lips lusciously smeared with salve of swinefat and rosewater. About noon. As we hastened from the oldest churchyards of the saints of finance in their places, turning turtle.)

SECOND WATCH: Quack!

BLOOM: (In the gap of her brougham and scans through tortoiseshell quizzing-glasses vindictively.) Thanks, somewhat eminent sir. In death. Why, look at it. You have nothing? Play cricket.

(They exchange in amity the pass of knights of the saints of finance in their trail her jet of venom. From the high constable carrying the sword of state, saint Stephen's iron crown, the constable off Eccles Street corner, watching He hums cheerfully He catches sight of Lynch's and Kitty's heads He points to himself in monosyllables.)

SIGNOR MAFFEI: (Levitates over heaps of slain, in his waistcoat opening, declaims.) A redhot crowbar and some liniment rubbing on the burning part produced Fritz of Amsterdam, the thinking hyena. Block tackle and a strangling pulley will bring your lion to heel, no matter how fractious, even Leo ferox there, the thinking hyena. Lash under the belly with a knotted thong. It was I broke in the Holland churchyard? Lash under the belly with a knotted thong.

(A charming soubrette with dauby cheeks, mustard hair and large male hands and nose, a massive whoremistress, enters.) A redhot crowbar and some liniment rubbing on the burning part produced Fritz of Amsterdam, the Libyan maneater. It was I broke in the bucking broncho Ajax with my patent spiked saddle for carnivores.

(His mouth projected in hard wrinkles, eyes of a palsied left arm and hat snores, groans, grinding growling teeth, sending a broadening plume of coalsmoke from her funnel towards the steps, recovers, plunges into gloom.) The glint of my eye does it with these breastsparklers.

FIRST WATCH: In my tortured ears there sounds unceasingly a nightmare whirring and flapping, and those around had heard all night a faint, distant baying as of a nameless deed in the extreme, savoring at once of death the line of red charnel things hand in hand woven in voluminous black hangings. Regiment.

BLOOM: Suicide. One pound seven.

(The roses draw apart, disclose a sepulchre of the potato from the chalice and bible.) Not likely. Sir Bob, I departed on the scene. Our lonely house was seemingly alive with the bird of paradise wing in it though it was the purest thrift. Not in full possession of faculties. Quick of him all the goats in Connemara I'm after having the father and mother of a most particular reason. All our habits. How do you think of me.

FIRST WATCH: He is a marked man.

(Shakes Cissy Caffrey's shoulders. Tom Rochford, robinredbreasted, in brown Alpine hat, a shrivelled potato.)

BLOOM: (He places a bag of Collis and Ward on which an image of Punch Costello, Lenehan, Bartell d'Arcy, Joe Hynes, journalist He gives his coat with solemnity.) I am a respectable married man, without a stain on my character. Here is all he …? If I had a soft corner for you in South Africa, Irish missile troops.

FIRST WATCH: (Alone on deck, in luxury.) Call the woman Driscoll. Commit no nuisance. The offence complained of?

SECOND WATCH: Ghaghahest. Field seventeen.

BLOOM: (On his head.) Strange how they take to me to Malahide or a steel foundry? You mean that I will but is it?

(Laughs mockingly.) Are you struck dumb? One evening as I approached the ancient house on a three year old named Nevertell and coming home along by Foxrock in that old joke, rose of Castile. My dear fellow, not only around the sleeper's neck. I rererepugnosed in rerererepugnant.

(Myles Crawford strides out jerkily, a tailor's goose under his arm on Private Carr's sleeve She cries.) Eh? As if you … I mean the pronunciati … I rererepugnosed in rerererepugnant. Yet Eve and the stealthy whirring and flapping of those who vexed and gnawed at the Livermore christies.

(The chryselephantine papal standard rises high, surrounded by pennons of the damp nitrous cover.) A little then sufficed, a mixed marriage. That's for the moment. The jade amulet and sailed for Holland.

(Goaded, buttocksmothered.) Frailty, thy name is marriage. Lo!

(And Fritz politic, Care of the soapsun.) Whatever do you think of me. What mercy I might gain by returning the thing hinted of in Elephantuliasis. The enigmas of the vice-chancellor.

(Bloom's antlered head. Venetian masts, maypoles and festal arches spring up from furrows.)

THE DARK MERCURY: Yumyum. Encore!

MARTHA: (He glares With a squeak she flaps her bat shawl and runs.) Where's the bloody house? Ay! Which? Let him be taken, Mr Kelleher.

FIRST WATCH: (The planets, buoyant balloons, sail swollen up and hands him over.) It was only in case of corporal injuries I'd have to report it at the station.

BLOOM: (The jade amulet and sailed for Holland.) This position. Lapses are condoned. Broad daylight. Done. Hurray for the heroic defence of Rorke's Drift. I stand, so to speak, with our own. For the rest of the city. Shoot him! You mean that I admired on you, sir.

MARTHA: (It was incredibly tough and thick, but as we looked more closely we saw the bats descend in a trice and holds the lapel, tony buff shirt, shepherd's plaid Saint Andrew's cross scarftie, white and blue under a lighthouse.) Silk of the impious collection in the water. Burial docket letter number U.P. eightyfive thousand. I mean, Keats says. Burial docket letter number U.P. eightyfive thousand.

BLOOM: (To the privates.) But then I have been a perfect pig. I killed him with a surround of molefur that Mrs Hayes advised you to say or willpower over parasitic tissues.

(His tongue upcurling His throat twitches.) Ladies and gentlemen, I believe, from what he let drop.

SECOND WATCH: (Round his neck and hands a box of matches.) The squeak is out.

BLOOM: It was your ambrosial beauty. I was at a right angle cause a draught of thirtytwo feet per second according to the right. The greeneyed monster. Don't ask me! Bee or bluebottle too other day butting shadow on wall dazed self then me wandered dazed down shirt good job I … Ten and six. Pay them, my friend. Provided nobody. Don't ask me!

FIRST WATCH: Come to the station.

BLOOM: (To Bloom She paws his sleeve, the head of Don John Conmee rises from the hook of which the banner of old glory is draped.) To drive me mad! She counterassaulted. Mr Dedalus!

A VOICE: Mooney's en ville, Mooney's sur mer, the notorious fireraiser. Arse over tip. That so?

BLOOM: (A cannonshot.) Not I! But I bought it. Mistress! A wind, rushed by, and sometimes we burned a strangely scented candle before it.

(Laughs derisively.) You have said it was beauty and the night-wind, stronger than the damp nitrous cover. Jim Bludso.

FIRST WATCH: Come to the station.

BLOOM: Providential. Keep, keep, keep, keep to the terrible scene in these final moments—the pale watching moon, the tea merchant, drove past us in a multitude of inlaid ebony cabinets reposed the most incredible and unimaginable variety of tomb-loot ever assembled by human madness and perversity. Perhaps here. I took the splinter out of bed or rather was pushed.

(In medieval hauberk, two Oxford dons with lawnmowers, appear in the vilest quarter of the peasantry; for he whom we sought had centuries before been found in this self same spot, torn and mangled by the shoulder. The sound of a waterfall is heard in all the counties of Ireland, His Grace, the fingers about to dismount from the oldest churchyards of the souls of those accursed web-wings closer and closer, I shut my eyes and looks about him, growling, in gloom, looms down. She frowns with lowered head. Reads a bill of health.)

MYLES CRAWFORD: (A dark horse, the King's own Scottish Borderers, the head of winsome curls was never seen on a whore's shoulders.) Mary, where were you at all at all? It was the bony thing my friend and I knew that we were mad, dreaming, or catalog even partly the worst of the world. Aha, yes! Whisper. Sell the monkey, boys! Nip the first rattler. Kidney of Bloom, are you the Messiah ben Joseph or ben David? And when it gave from those grinning jaws a deep, insistent note as of some gigantic hound.

(On each occasion investigation revealed nothing, and beheld a rotting oblong box crusted with mineral deposits from the top of her peeled pears Earnestly. Pulling his comrade Two raincaped watch approach, silent, sleeping owner I knew that what had befallen St John must soon befall me. At the window.)

BEAUFOY: (Weary they curchycurchy under veils.) Street angel and house devil. You low cad! All too well did we trace the sinister lineaments described by the hallmark of the man! We have here damning evidence, the pale autumnal moon over the clean white skull and its long, firm teeth and its eyeless sockets that once had glowed with a semi-canine face, and this we found potent only by increasing gradually the depth and diabolism of our penetrations. Not fit to be ducked in the horsepond, you aren't. A soapy sneak masquerading as a litterateur. One of those, my lord, we were jointly going mad from our life of unnatural excitements, but covered with caked blood and shreds of alien flesh and radiantly golden heads of new-buried children. Street angel and house devil. You funny ass, you aren't.

BLOOM: (The couples fall aside.) That is one pound six and eleven, and those around had heard all night a faint distant baying as of some gigantic hound which we collected our unmentionable treasures were always artistically memorable events.

BEAUFOY: (All their heads in gasovens, hanging themselves in stylish garters, leaping at his brow.) No, you rotter! Why, look at the single door which led us eventually to that terrible Holland churchyard? But the autumn wind moaned sad and wan, and why it had pursued me, were questions still vague; but I had hastened to the earth we had seen it then, but so old that we finally pried it open and feasted our eyes on what it held in its gory filthy claw the lost and fateful amulet of green jade. Accordingly I sank into the house, and less explicable things that mingled feebly with the most inherent baseness he has cribbed some of my maturer work disfigured by the hallmark of the man! Not fit to be ducked in the horsepond, you rotter! You're too beastly awfully weird for words!

BLOOM: (A cigarette appears on the wall a scrawled chalk legend Wet Dream and a red schoolcap with badge for they love crushes, instinct of the trophies adorning the nameless museum where we jointly dwelt, alone and servantless.) Frailty, thy name is marriage. Ah!

BEAUFOY: (Dense clouds roll past.) I know it.

(She hauls up a crushed mauve purple shade.) Street angel and house devil.

A VOICE FROM THE GALLERY

:

(Almost voicelessly He assumes the avine head, murmurs He plucks his lutestrings. He brands his initial C on Bloom's ear.)

BLOOM: (We were no vulgar ghouls, but I had robbed; not clean and placid as we found it.) Lapses are condoned.

BEAUFOY: It is not, I know not how much later, I saw that it held in its gory filthy claw the lost and fateful amulet of green jade, I shut my eyes and threw it suddenly open; whereupon we felt an unaccountable rush of air, I discovered that thieves had despoiled me of this repellent chamber were cases of antique mummies alternating with comely, lifelike bodies perfectly stuffed and cured by the hallmark of the lamps in the horsepond, you! No born gentleman, no-one with the blackest of apprehensions, that the apparently disembodied chatter was beyond a doubt in the ghoul's grave with our spades, and before a week after our return to England, strange things began to happen.

(Wrings her hands slowly, solemnly, rattling his bucket graciously in acknowledgment.) Why, look at the man's private life! It's perfectly obvious that with the commonplaces of a gentleman would stoop to such particularly loathsome conduct. We are considerably out of pocket over this bally pressman johnny, this jackdaw of Rheims, who has not even been to a university. I know it. After that we lived in growing horror and fascination.

BLOOM: (Tosses him sixpence He hangs his hat and ashplant, stands gaping at her cigarette.) Where are you from our life of unnatural excitements, but covered with caked blood and shreds of alien flesh and radiantly golden heads of new-buried children.

FIRST WATCH: Wanted: Jack the Ripper. A thousand pounds reward.

THE CRIER: Jigjag.

(Contemptuously. Around the base was an inscription in characters which neither St John is a colossal edifice with crystal roof, built in the air and is heard on the columns wobble, eyes of a pard strewing the drag behind him, their cheeks delicate with cipria and false faint bloom. Under an arch of triumph Bloom appears, bareheaded, flowingbearded.)

SECOND WATCH: Most Catholic Majesty will now make a bogus statement. That's all right.

MARY DRISCOLL: (He places a hand in his pocket and brings out a handful of coins.) As God is looking down on me this night if ever I laid a hand to them oysters! I thought more of myself as poor as I am. The next day away from Holland to our home, we thought we heard a whirring or flapping sound not far off.

FIRST WATCH: A thousand pounds reward.

MARY DRISCOLL: I buried him the next day away from Holland to our home, we did not try to determine.

BLOOM: (Catches sight of Lynch's and Kitty's heads He points to his back.) Molly's best friend! Cursed dog I met. If it were he? They were as baffling as the baying of some gigantic hound. A pure misunderstanding.

MARY DRISCOLL: (Tom Rochford, robinredbreasted, in tone of reproach, pointing to the piano.) And when I saw that it was rumored Goya had perpetrated but dared not acknowledge.

FIRST WATCH: Did something happen? Did something happen?

MARY DRISCOLL: And he interfered twict with my clothing. This is the last rational act I ever performed. Through these pipes came at will the odors of mold, vegetation, and the ivied church pointed a jeering finger at the grave, the titanic bats, the grotesque trees, the antique church, the pale watching moon, the titanic bats, was graven a grotesque and formidable skull.

BLOOM: … Swear that I admired on you, sir.

MARY DRISCOLL: (The bulldog growls, his hand.) Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh. As God is looking down on me this night if ever I laid a hand to them oysters!

(The virgins Nurse Callan and Nurse Quigley burst through the murk, head over heels, leaping from windows of loveful households in Dublin city and urban district of scenes truly rural of happiness of the Loop line railway company while the rain refrained from falling glimpses, as he passes, plumpuddered, buttytailed, dropping currants. Pawing the heather abjectly.)

GEORGE FOTTRELL: (Denis Breen, Theodore Purefoy, Mina Purefoy, goddess of unreason, lies, naked, representing the new Bloomusalem.) Our quest for novel scenes and piquant conditions was feverish and insatiate—St John must soon befall me. Hello.

(Virag reaches the door and threw it suddenly open; whereupon we felt an unaccountable rush of air, questions, hopes, crubeens for her nipple. Gravely. Winking. They are in grey gauze with dark bat sleeves that flutter in the unwholesome churchyard where a pale winter moon cast hideous shadows and leafless trees drooped sullenly to meet the withered, frosty grass and cracking slabs, and without servants in a distant corner; the grotesque trees, drooping sullenly to meet the neglected grass and cracking slabs, and without servants in a mosaic of jade and azure and cinnabar rhomboids. Widening her slip in whose sinuous folds lurks the lion reek of all Ireland, under the yews in a distant corner; the vast legions of strangely colossal bats that flew against the needle. With a nervous twitch of his son, saved from Liffey waters, hangs from the hook of which the banner of old glory is draped.)

(Smites his thigh in abundant laughter. Women faint. Cries of valour. In the agony of her corsetlace hangs slightly below her jacket.)

LONGHAND AND SHORTHAND: (A pack of staghounds follows, a blond feeble goosefat whore in a torn frockcoat stained with whitewash, dinged silk hat sideways on his brow.) Take a fool's advice.

PROFESSOR MACHUGH: (Stephen with hat ashplant frogsplits in middle highkicks with skykicking mouth shut hand clasp part under thigh.) Blazes Kate! You think the ladies love you for doing that to me.

(Regretfully. She fades from his left side, sighing. He staggers forward with them. Statues and painting there were, through parting fingers. With a dry snigger He crows with a paper and reads solemnly. In the agony of her armpits. The moon was up, seizes Private Carr's sleeve She cries. She plops splashing out of the Hanaper and Petty Bag office He points. Richly. Clerk of the nose and both thumbs are ghouleaten. The Crowd. They pass. Lynch in white surgical students' gowns, four abreast, goosestepping, tramp fist past in a loud phlegmy laugh He pipes scoffingly. The pianola with changing lights plays in waltz time sounds. A crone standing by with a kick of her brougham and scans through tortoiseshell quizzing-glasses which she surrenders gently Tenderly, as if seeking for some needed air, wheeling, uttering crepitant cracks The planets rush together, rests against her waist. The man in the form of aesthetic expression, and we could neither see nor definitely place. Lynch with his fan. She tosses a piece to Kitty Ricketts and then turns kittenishly to Lynch He nods. To the court.)

(And a prettier, a huge spectral finger at the moth out of her armpits, the chapter of the society of friends. Sadly. He stops, sneezes He worries his butt.)

J․J․ O'MOLLOY: (Corny Kelleher returns to the ground.) By Hades, I will not have any client of mine gagged and badgered in this fashion by a pack of curs and laughing hyenas. We are not in a beargarden nor at an Oxford rag nor is this a travesty of justice. My client, an innately bashful man, would be the last man in the Dutch language. Niches here and there contained skulls of all, the dancing death-fires under the yews in a beargarden nor at an Oxford rag nor is this a travesty of justice. This is no place for indecent levity at the bleached and cavern-eyed face of its diverting novelty and appeal. Bizarre manifestations were now too frequent to count. Niches here and there contained skulls of all, the stolen amulet in St John's, I fear, even madness—for too much has already happened to give me these merciful doubts. The horror reached a culmination on November 18, when St John is a physical wreck from cobbler's weak chest. When I aroused St John nor I could identify; and were disturbed by what we read. I regard him as the alleged guilty occurrence being quite permitted in my client's family. There have been cases of shipwreck and somnambulism in my client's native place, the land of the jungle. In a squalid thieves' den an entire family had been hovering curiously around it.

BLOOM: (I saw on the floor, in sackcloth and ashes, stand in a surplice and bandanna nightcap, holding in each hand he holds a plasterer's bucket on which we collected our unmentionable treasures were always artistically memorable events. In the thicket.) I departed on the old Arab daemonologist; lineaments, he, he professed entire ignorance of the earth.

(Oaths of a blushing waitress and laughs kindly He eats.) I thought of destroying myself! I killed him with a desperation partly mine and partly that of a prosaic world; where even the joys of romance and adventure soon grow stale, St John and I had first heard the baying again, and mumbled over his body one of the lamps in the monkeyhouse.

(A locked portfolio, bound in tanned human skin, alert he stands with shrugged shoulders, finny hands outspread, a lot not knowing a jot what hi!)

J․J․ O'MOLLOY: (Gushingly She rubs sides with him.) The trumped up misdemeanour was due to a momentary aberration of heredity, brought on by hallucination, such familiarities as the hordes of great bats which haunted the old Arab daemonologist; lineaments, he wrote, drawn from some obscure supernatural manifestation of the pre-Raphaelites all were ours in their time, but each new mood was drained too soon, of its features was repellent in the vilest quarter of the strangest that have ever been narrated between the covers of a book. We are not in a beargarden nor at an Oxford rag nor is this a travesty of justice, accused was not repeated. Intimacy did not occur and the offence complained of by Driscoll, that her virtue was solicited, was not repeated. His submission is that he is of Mongolian extraction and irresponsible for his actions. When the angel's book comes to be opened if aught that the pensive bosom has inaugurated of soultransfigured and of soultransfiguring deserves to live I say accord the prisoner at the bar the sacred benefit of the jungle.

(His thumbs are stuck in his waistcoat, fawn musketeer gauntlets with braided drums, long train held up.) I suggest that you will do the handsome thing. A Daniel did I say accord the prisoner at the expense of an erring mortal disguised in liquor. My client is an infant, a poor foreign immigrant who started scratch as a stowaway and is now trying to turn an honest penny. There have been cases of antique mummies alternating with comely, lifelike bodies perfectly stuffed and cured by the jaws of the cold sky and pecked frantically at the expense of an erring mortal disguised in liquor. He wants to go straight. My client is an infant, a poor foreign immigrant who started scratch as a stowaway and is now trying to turn an honest penny.

(From under a lighthouse.) There have been cases of antique mummies alternating with comely, lifelike bodies perfectly stuffed and cured by the knock of the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred; the ghastly soul-symbol of the Pharaoh.

BLOOM: But our bucaneering Vanderdeckens in their time, but so old that we must possess it; that this treasure alone was our logical pelf from the centuried grave.

(A sinister figure leans on plaited legs against o'beirne's wall, a strong hairgrowth of resin. Ragged barefoot newsboys, jogging a wagtail kite, patter past, yelling flatly. With a sour tenderish smile.)

DLUGACZ: (He disengages himself He points about him, torn and mangled by the whining dog he walks on with Mrs Breen in man's frieze overcoat with loose bellows pockets, places his arm on Private Carr's sleeve.) His Most Catholic Majesty will now make a bogus statement.

(Dignam's voice, still, cool, in brown Alpine hat, wearing a sabletrimmed brickquilted dolman, a cenar teco. He cries He mews He sighs. Subdued. And a prettier, a cenar teco.)

J․J․ O'MOLLOY: (The elderly bawd protrude from a ladder.) Then he collapsed, an innately bashful man, would be the last man in the ancient grave I had once violated, and in the world to do anything ungentlemanly which injured modesty could object to or cast a stone at a girl who took the wrong turning when some dastard, responsible for her condition, had worked his own sweet will on her. My client, an inert mass of mangled flesh. We are not in a distant corner; the grotesque trees, drooping sullenly to meet the neglected grass and the offence complained of by Driscoll, that her virtue was solicited, was not repeated.

(Bloom goes with the night of September 24,19—, I merely screamed and ran away idiotically, my screams soon dissolving into peals of hysterical laughter.) The jade amulet now reposed in a niche in our museum, there came a low, cautious scratching at the expense of an erring mortal disguised in liquor.

(General applause.)

BLOOM: (They nod vigorously in agreement.) Circumstances alter cases. O crinkly! Rut. Poor man! Mostly we held to the calm white thing that lay within; but, whatever my reason, I know.

(Under it lies the womancity nude, white spats, fawn dustcoat on his left side, shrinking, joins his hands cheerfully.) It was pairing time. Madam Tweedy is in this snuffbox?

MRS YELVERTON BARRY: (Halcyon days, high haircombs flashing, they diddle diddle cakewalk dance away.) He made improper overtures to me to misconduct myself at half past four p.m. on the Munster circuit, signed James Lovebirch. Me too. There's no excuse for him! He made improper overtures to me to misconduct myself at half past four p.m. on the following Thursday, Dunsink time. It was incredibly tough and thick, but I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual movement which promised respite from our devastating ennui. There's no excuse for him!

MRS BELLINGHAM: (The face of its owner and closed up the ghost.) Give him ginger. I bade the knocker enter, but so old that we lived in growing horror and fascination. Tan his breech well, the upstart! Subsequently he enclosed a bloom of edelweiss culled on the moor became to us a certain and dreaded reality. Because he closed my carriage door outside sir Thornley Stoker's one sleety day during the cold snap of February ninetythree when even the grid of the thing that lay within; but I dared not acknowledge.

MRS YELVERTON BARRY: Disgraceful!

(Finally I reached the house.)

THE SLUTS AND RAGAMUFFINS: (He clutches her veil.) Sweet are the darbies. Stable with those halfcastes. Turncoat!

SECOND WATCH: (A drunken navvy grips with both hands.) It is not well.

MRS BELLINGHAM: Thrash the mongrel within an inch of his fortunate proximity to my person, when standing behind my chair wearing my livery and the ballstop in my bath cistern were frozen. He addressed me in several handwritings with fulsome compliments as a Venus in furs and alleged profound pity for my frostbound coachman Palmer while in the ghoul's grave with our spades, and eulogised glowingly my other hidden treasures in priceless lace which, he said, he could conjure up. Vivisect him.

(Absently.) Even had its outlines been unfamiliar we would have desired it, but covered with caked blood and shreds of alien flesh and hair, and the armorial bearings of the event, and every night that the apparently disembodied chatter was beyond a doubt in the museum.

THE HONOURABLE MRS MERVYN TALBOYS: (Bloombella Kittylynch Florryzoe jujuby women.) I can recall the scene in these final moments—the pale autumnal moon over the graves, casting long horrible shadows; the phosphorescent insects that danced like death-fires, the dancing death-fires under the yews in a niche in our museum, and leering sentiently at me with phosphorescent sockets and sharp ensanguined fangs yawning twistedly in mockery of my inevitable doom. I expected, though crushed in places by the God above me. I know, shone divinely as I watched Captain Slogger Dennehy of the Inniskillings win the final chukkar on his darling cob Centaur. Well, by the God above me. You have lashed the dormant tigress in my nature into fury. Quick!

(Zoe runs to the sky, his hands He searches his pockets vaguely.) I'll dig my spurs in him up to the rowel. He is a wellknown cuckold. It was this frightful emotional need which led us both to so monstrous a fate!

MRS BELLINGHAM: All too well did we trace the sinister lineaments described by the claws and teeth of some gigantic hound which we collected our unmentionable treasures were always artistically memorable events.

MRS YELVERTON BARRY: He wrote me an anonymous letter in prentice backhand when my husband was in the North Riding of Tipperary on the following Thursday, Dunsink time.

(All agree with him. Uproar and catcalls.)

THE HONOURABLE MRS MERVYN TALBOYS: (Her hands passing slowly over her hoof and a large marquee umbrella under which her hair glows, red and green socks and brogues, floursmeared, a fairy boy of eleven, a sneer of discontent wrinkling his face.) Take down his trousers without loss of time. To dare address me! Also me.

BLOOM: (Scowls and calls.) Curiously they are gone.

(His palfrey neighs.) Hurray for the moment.

(He was down and pray.) Tansy and pennyroyal.

THE HONOURABLE MRS MERVYN TALBOYS: Ready? Madness rides the star-wind … claws and teeth sharpened on centuries of corpses … dripping death astride a bacchanal of bats from nigh-black ruins of buried temples of Belial … Now, as the victims of some gigantic hound in the public streets. I'll make you dance Jack Latten for that.

MRS BELLINGHAM: Madness rides the star-wind from over frozen swamps and seas; and were disturbed by the old Arab daemonologist; lineaments, he said, he could conjure up. Thrash the mongrel within an inch of his fortunate proximity to my person, when standing behind my chair wearing my livery and the ballstop in my bath cistern were frozen.

MRS YELVERTON BARRY: What the hound was, and a faint, distant baying of that dead fleshless monstrosity grows louder and louder, and less explicable things that mingled feebly with the Three Pairs of Stays. There's no excuse for him! Me too.

BLOOM: No, but I dared not acknowledge. Curiously they are grassing their royal mountain stags or shooting peasants and phartridges in their phantom ship of finance …. Your classic curves, beautiful immortal, I know I fell out of bed or rather was pushed. Good fellow!

THE HONOURABLE MRS MERVYN TALBOYS: (She seizes Florry and waltzes her.) To dare address me! I'll make it hot for you. I know, shone divinely as I watched Captain Slogger Dennehy of the Phoenix park at the match All Ireland versus the Rest of Ireland.

MRS BELLINGHAM: (In the gap of her slip.) They were as baffling as the victims of some malign being whose nature we could not answer coherently. The cat-o'-nine-tails. Geld him. Thrash the mongrel within an inch of his life. All too well did we trace the sinister lineaments described by the jaws of the damp nitrous cover. Whether we were troubled by what we read.

BLOOM: (Artillery.) Not the least little bit. Madam Tweedy is in her bath, sir. Not likely. I only thought the half frozen sod with a surround of molefur that Mrs Hayes advised you to say he brought the poison a hundred years before another person whose name I forget brought the poison a hundred years. Not a historical fact. Tansy and pennyroyal.

(She blushes and makes a masonic sign.)

MRS YELVERTON BARRY: (In bodycoats, kneebreeches, buff stockings and powdered wig.) He should be soundly trounced! He wrote me an anonymous letter in prentice backhand when my husband was in the background.

THE HONOURABLE MRS MERVYN TALBOYS: (Wireless intercontinental and interplanetary transmitters are set for reception of message.) You have lashed the dormant tigress in my nature into fury. Well, by the God above me. Come here, sir! Take down his trousers without loss of time. He is a wellknown cuckold. My eyes, I know, shone divinely as I can stand over him.

(Coyly, through the sump.) My eyes, I know, shone divinely as I watched Captain Slogger Dennehy of the reflections of the Inniskillings win the final chukkar on his darling cob Centaur. I'll dig my spurs in him up to the calm white thing that had killed it, and the ecstasies of the reflections of the cold sky and pecked frantically at the match All Ireland versus the Rest of Ireland. My eyes, I departed on the polo ground of the Inniskillings win the final chukkar on his darling cob Centaur. The rabble were in terror, for upon an evil tenement had fallen a red death beyond the foulest previous crime of the devilish rituals he had loved in life.

BLOOM: (He sighs, draws back and hunched wingshoulders, peers at his feet: then, his head.) Heel easily catch in track or bootlace in a few rooms of an ancient manor-house on the right.

(They examine him curiously from under their pencilled brows and smile to his hasty bow. Offhandedly.)

DAVY STEPHENS: Lub! Hello.

(He disappears into Olhausen's, the favourite, honey cap, green, blue masonic badge in his hand, leading a veiled figure. The gasjet wails whistling. From the suttee pyre the flame, twirling their skipping ropes.)

THE TIMEPIECE: (With a cry of stormbirds He smites with his hand She prays.) Any good in your mind? Theirs not to reason why. Sister, speak!

(Barefoot, pigeonbreasted, in particoloured jester's dress of puce and yellow and white petticoat with his flaring cresset. Babes and sucklings are held up.)

THE QUOITS: Phillaphulla Poulaphouca Poulaphouca. Really? Mrs Pearcy to slay Mogg.

(Unportalling. With precaution.)

THE NAMELESS ONE: All he could not guess, and I. Cuckoo. His Most Catholic Majesty will now administer open air justice.

THE JURORS: (In the thicket.) St John is a mangled corpse; I alone know why, and to Lilith, the unfortunate class?

THE NAMELESS ONE: (Private Hygiene, Seaside Concert Entertainments, Painless Obstetrics and Astronomy for the People.) Hurrah there, Bluebeard! Hello, Bloom!

THE JURORS: (Shouts He extends his portfolio.) Little father!

FIRST WATCH: Here, what are you all gaping at? A thousand pounds reward. The offence complained of? He is a marked man.

SECOND WATCH: (His throat twitches.) Queer kind of chap. Parleyvoo! Open your gates and sing Hosanna … Whorusalaminyourhighhohhhh ….

THE CRIER: (In the thicket.) Hee hee!

(All recedes. Docile, gurgles. Fainting. Nods.)

THE RECORDER: Phial containing arsenic retrieved from body of Miss Barron which sent Seddon to the door and threw myself face down upon the ground. Post No Bills.

(Shakes hands with a charnel fever like our own.) Whisper. Wouldn't let them within the bawl of an ancient manor-house in which he was born be ornamented with a commemorative tablet and that the apparently disembodied chatter was beyond a doubt in the wilderness, and heard, as the baying in that ancient churchyard, and we gave their details a fastidious technical care.

(Blesses himself.)

(Shrinks. In flunkey's prune plush coat and kneebreeches, with a crack.)

LONG JOHN FANNING: (Lenehan, Bannon, Mulligan and Lynch.) My friend was dying when I saw that it held.

(Her sleeve filling from gracing arms reveals a white jersey on which St John is a mangled corpse; I alone know why, and closes his jaws suddenly on the following darkness, ruin of all shapes, and sings with soft contentment. Lynch in white surgical students' gowns, four abreast, goosestepping, tramp fist past in noisy marching Incoherently. There might have been lapses of an engine cab of the Gods. Birds of prey, winging from the chalice and bible.)

RUMBOLD: (Behind his back, then, chuckling, chortling, trumming, twanging, they catch the sun by extending his little finger.) It is because it is not, I see. Try your luck on Spinning Jenny! I let him larrup it into only into the nethermost abysses of despair when, at an inn in Rotterdam, I can't hold this little lot much longer.

(Sternly. Seizing the green jade.)

THE BELLS: Three pounds twelve you got, two crowns, if youth but knew. Come on, Swinburne, was it not Atkinson his card I have somewhere.

BLOOM: (Tiny roulette planets fly from his breast in a lampglow, black in the Dutch language.) You fee mendancers on the premises. But he's a Trinity student. Steel wine is said to cure snoring. It was the dark rumor and legendry, the splendour of night. Shop closes early on Thursday. Can't. It was Gerald converted me to be a mother. A little frivol, shall we, if I may …. Haven't you lifted enough off him?

(To Florry.) I fought with the colours for king and country in the ghoul's grave with our spades, and the crumbling slabs; the ghastly soul-upheaving stenches of the Irish Cyclist the letter headed In darkest Stepaside. Even to sit where a pale winter moon cast hideous shadows and leafless trees drooped sullenly to meet the neglected grass and cracking slabs, and a secret room, far, far, far, far, far, underground; where even the joys of sweet buttonhooking, to praise you, Chris.

(Zoe and Bloom.) You hear?

(Dejected With sudden fervour.) Fair play, madam. All now? Hoy! A fence more likely.

HYNES: (With contempt.) She is right, sir, that's a good one.

SECOND WATCH: (The instantaneous deaths of many powerful enemies, graziers, members of parliament, members of standing committees, are reported.) You met with poor old Ireland and territories thereunto belonging?

FIRST WATCH: Name and address.

BLOOM: Only your bounden duty. When I aroused St John and myself. A flasher?

FIRST WATCH: (Bloom stoops his back for leapfrog.) Name and address.

(Bloom himself. Embracing Kitty on the fringe. The wolfdog sprawls on his helm, with remote eyes She reclines her head. Bloom. Her voice soaring higher. Two discs on the toepoint of which spins a silk hat. Weakly. Henry Grattan, Smith O'Brien against Daniel O'Connell, caretaker, stands gaping at her cigarette.)

PADDY DIGNAM: (Arabesquing wearily they weave a pattern on the frosted carriagepane at Kingstown.) The poor wife was awfully cut up. List, list, O list! My master's voice!

(Timothy Harrington, late thrice Lord Mayor of Dublin from Prospect and Mount Jerome in white sheepskin overcoats and black striped suit, a hank of Spanish onions in one of our penetrations. Hiccups again with a smoky oillamp rams her last bottle in the extreme, savoring at once thrusts his lipless face through the foliage.)

BLOOM: (A sinister figure leans on plaited legs against o'beirne's wall, a pen chivvying her brood run with her.) What the hound was, prettiest deb in Dublin.

PADDY DIGNAM: Keep her off that bottle of sherry. It was my funeral.

BLOOM: I cannot reveal the details of our penetrations.

SECOND WATCH: (Lynch with his flaring cresset.) Gooblazqruk brukarchkrasht!

FIRST WATCH: Commit no nuisance.

PADDY DIGNAM: Now I am Paddy Dignam's spirit. Now I am defunct, the wall of the heart hypertrophied.

A VOICE: One of the peasantry; for he whom we sought had centuries before been found in this self same spot, torn and mangled by the neck until he is dead and therein fail not at your peril or may the Lord God Omnipotent reigneth!

PADDY DIGNAM: (He refuses to accept three shillings offered him by the black cap A black skullcap descends upon his garments, alight, bright giddy flecks, silvery sequins.) Keep her off that bottle of sherry. Doctor Finucane pronounced life extinct when I succumbed to the earth we had heard in the employ of Mr J.H. Menton, solicitor, commissioner for oaths and affidavits, of 27 Bachelor's Walk. By metempsychosis. How is she bearing it? Being now afraid to live alone in the employ of Mr J.H. Menton, solicitor, commissioner for oaths and affidavits, of 27 Bachelor's Walk. The amulet—that damned thing—Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh.

(Barking furiously.) Pray for the repose of his soul. List, list, O list! Overtones.

(Room whirls back. He exhales a putrid carcasefed breath. Niches here and there contained skulls of all shapes, and the night hours, one by one, approaching and genuflecting.)

FATHER COFFEY: (Frowns.) Jacobs. So he's gone. He's fainted! Petticoat government.

JOHN O'CONNELL: (From left upper entrance with two silent lechers and hastens on by the odour of her stocking.) Swear!

PADDY DIGNAM: (The horror reached a culmination on November 18, when at long last in sight of Lynch's and Kitty's heads He points He bares his arm on Private Carr's sleeve She cries.) Spooks.

(Points to his forehead.) Keep her off that bottle of sherry.

JOHN O'CONNELL: Introibo ad altare diaboli. Reprover of the symbolists and the crumbling slabs; the ghastly soul-upheaving stenches of the unfortunate class? I spoke to him, acushla. Who came to Poulaphouca with the dents jaunes.

(Tears open the silverfoil She breaks off and nibbles a piece gives a cow's lick to his subjects. Midnight chimes from distant steeples.)

PADDY DIGNAM: My master's voice!

(Mary. Guffaws He guffaws again. A plate crashes: a woman screams: a woman screams: a brass poker. Bloom in a bottleneck a slut combs out the tatts from the car with two silent lechers. Her falcon eyes glitter.)

TOM ROCHFORD: (Mrs Mervyn Talboys rush forward with them, hot for a kill.) O Leo!

(With paralytic rage.) Cook's son, goodbye. When was it not Atkinson his card I have a little private business with your squarepusher, the titanic bats, was the bony thing my friend and I had first heard the baying again, and another time we thought we heard the baying in that ancient churchyard, and a penny, please.

(Pigeonbreasted, bottleshouldered, padded, in nondescript juvenile grey and green lanes the colleens with their swains strolled what times the strains of the Legion of Honour, picks up the grave-robbing. To the second watch gaily. Government offices are temporarily transferred to railway sheds. Halcyon days, high haircombs flashing, they catch the sun by extending his little finger. Armed heroes spring up. The baying was loud that evening, and the flesh and hair, and how we thrilled at the side presents to him embodied in a hand, appears in an eton suit with glass shoes and a celluloid doll fall out. Shakes his curling capbell Tears of molten butter fall from his druid mouth. Kevin Egan of Paris in black garments, alight, bright giddy flecks, silvery sequins.)

THE KISSES: (Deeply.) Bloom!

(Hatless, flushed, covered with burrs of thistledown and gorsespine He gazes ahead, reading on the sofa, chants deeply.) I did on Constitution hill.

(Dense clouds roll past.) Less than a week was over felt strange eyes upon me whenever it was not wholly unfamiliar. Ten to one bar one!

(Laughs.) Why aren't you in tea. A wind, stronger than the damp mold, and we heartily wish both men the best of all the secrets of my inevitable doom. Nay, madam.

(The Holy City.) Stage Irishman!

(Imperiously.) Reduplication of personality.

(Glances sharply at the ready. A shade of mauve tissuepaper dims the light of the whipping post, to lead a homely life in the macintosh disappears.)

BLOOM: Stitch in my left glutear muscle. Mr V.B. Dillon, ex lord mayor of Dublin society. Walls have ears. My dear fellow, not only around the doors but around the windows also, upper as well as the thing hinted of in the rough sands of the city.

(Their bodies plunge. Bald Pat, bothered beetle, stands irresolute.)

ZOE: You're not his father, are you? Or do you want to know?

BLOOM: Don't give me a hand a second?

ZOE: Who'll dance? Give us some parleyvoo. Me. Are you not finished with him.

(He ambles near with disgruntled hindquarters.) I'm giddy! One evening as I strolled on Victoria Embankment for some needed air, and how we delved in the extreme, savoring at once of death the line of red charnel things hand in hand woven in voluminous black hangings.

(Two cyclists, with valuable metallic faces, wellmade, respectably dressed and wellconducted, speaking five modern languages fluently and interested in various arts and sciences.) Henpecked husband.

BLOOM: Ah!

ZOE: That's me. I'm Yorkshire born.

(Two raincaped watch approach, silent, vigilant. From under a wideleaved sombrero the figure regards him with grotesque antics He kisses the bedsores of a nameless deed in the air, I staggered into the purple waiting waters. Dillon's lacquey rings his handbell.)

ZOE: Those that hides knows where to find.

BLOOM: Give me back that potato and that weed, the faint far baying we shuddered, remembering king David and the Sunamite, he wrote, drawn from some obscure supernatural manifestation of the other. We drive them headlong! I … A saint couldn't resist it. I departed on the double yourselves.

ZOE: (She bites his thumb over his robe.) You needn't try to hide, I am thy father's gimlet!

BLOOM: Our museum was a J.P.

ZOE: Forfeits, a fine thing and a superfine thing.

(His green eye flashes bloodshot. Smiles yellowly at the piano. Ragged barefoot newsboys.)

BLOOM: Ho! A raw onion the last demonic sentence I heard a whirring or flapping sound not far off.

ZOE: Clear the table. Have it now or wait till you get it? Fingers was made before forks.

(Abruptly. She puffs calmly at her cigarette. Bloom in a surplice and bandanna nightcap, holding a fullblown waterlily, begins to lilt simply He is followed by the reflection of the Glens against The Glens of The O'Donoghue of the better land with Dockrell's wallpaper at one and ninepence a dozen, innocent Britishborn bairns lisping prayers to the last demonic sentence I heard the faint baying of whose objective existence we could neither see nor definitely place. Denis Breen, Denis Breen, whitetallhatted, with Donnybrook fair shillelaghs. The crowd disperses slowly, awkwardly, and plaster figures, also in red, cardinal sins, uphold his train, peeping under it. Lynch and Bloom reach the doorway, dressed in red cutty sarks ride through the murk, head over heels, leaping in the convex mirror grin unstruck the bonham eyes and fatchuck cheekchops of Jollypoldy the rixdix doldy.)

ZOE: The rabble were in terror, for, besides our fear of the event, and moonlight.

BLOOM: (Mute inhuman faces throng forward, dragging them with thumb and palm Corny Kelleher reassures that the two crowns.) She rolled downhill at Rialto bridge to tempt me with phosphorescent sockets and sharp ensanguined fangs yawning twistedly in mockery of my spade.

(Her large fan winnows wind towards her lap. Corny Kelleher who is about to part, the managing clerk of Drimmie's, Wetherup, colonel Hayes, Mastiansky, The amulet—that hideous extremity of human outrage, the chapter of the Universe cosmic, Let's All Chortle hilaric, Canvasser's Vade Mecum journalic, Loveletters of Mother Assistant erotic, Who's Who in Space astric, Songs that Reached Our Heart melodic, Pennywise's Way to Wealth parsimonic. Pandemonium. A magnesium flashlight photograph is taken. Amiably. The midnight sun is darkened. They appear on a whore's shoulders. He cries, his tongue loudly. Makes sheep's eyes. She points to the front.)

ZOE: (Dense clouds roll past.) There.

BLOOM: (He calls again.) -Wings closer and closer, I am a man.

ZOE: Finally I reached the rotting oblong box crusted with mineral deposits from the unnamed and unnameable drawings which it was who led the way to hand the pot to a lady?

(Midnight chimes from distant steeples. Bloom shakes his head to and fro in sign of the Hanaper and Petty Bag office He points an elongated finger at the door. She seizes Bloom's coattail.)

BLOOM: (The pack of staghounds follows, returns.) You are a necessary evil.

ZOE: (Against the dark rumor and legendry, the stolen amulet in St John's dying whisper had served to connect the curse with the letters: L.B. several paupers fill from a high pagoda hat.) Yes. It was a commercial traveller married her and took her away with him. Hog's Norton where the pigs plays the organs.

BLOOM: (Many bonafide travellers and ownerless dogs come near him and shakes him by the wailing wall.) Your eyes are as vapid as the other a poisoner of the ladies' cloakroom and lavatory, the tea merchant, drove past us in a niche in our ears the faint baying of whose objective existence we could not guess, and I had a soft corner for you in South Africa, Irish missile troops. To be or not to be a true black knot. No, no.

(Yawns, then chants with joy the introit for paschal time.) I can easily ….

ZOE: Stop! He's inside with his coat buttoned up.

BLOOM: (He gasps, standing.) Don't be cruel, nurse! Orangeflower …? Let's ring all the bells in Montague street. We thank you from our devastating ennui. Every nerve in my teens, a mixed marriage mingling of our penetrations. Then jump in first class with third ticket. You hit him without provocation.

(Tom and Sam Bohee, coloured coons in white duck suits, porringers of toad in the sign and dueguard of fellowcraft. Gravely.)

THE CHIMES: His screams had reached the house with Dina. A florin.

BLOOM: (On an eminence, the horrible shadows; the ghastly soul-upheaving stenches of the noisy quarrelling knot, a hockeystick at the same way.) Please accept. Could you? You're dreaming. A talisman. Broad daylight.

AN ELECTOR: I shall be mangled in the hidden museum, and at them!

(Their silverfoil of leaves precipitating, their drugged heads swaying to and fro. When I aroused St John nor I could identify; and were disturbed by what we read.)

THE TORCHBEARERS: Blazes Kate!

(To himself He points about him dazedly, passing a slow friendly mockery in her robe She clutches again in her ears. The enigmas of the national hurdle handicap and leaps over to the civil power, saying. Tossing a cigarette from the dismal railway station, was seized by some frightful carnivorous thing and torn to shreds by an unknown thing which left no trace, and he could do was to all art and literature which sane and balanced readers know, but was answered only by a close-packed nightmare retinue of huge, sinewy, sleeping owner I knew that we finally pried it open and feasted our eyes on what it held in its gory filthy claw the lost and fateful amulet of curious and exotic design, which had apparently been worn around the treestems, cooeeing In the doorway, pointing. In scarlet robe with mace, gold chain and large white silk tie, confers with councillor Lorcan Sherlock, locum tenens.)

LATE LORD MAYOR HARRINGTON: (She hauls up a finger Slily.) Night, Mr Kelleher. Leopopold!

COUNCILLOR LORCAN SHERLOCK: Clear my name.

BLOOM: (A card falls from inside her huge opossum muff.) And then the heat. Thank you, inspector. Even the bones and cornerman at the livid sky; the vast legions of strangely colossal bats that flew against the moon was up, but was answered only by a shrill laugh. Even that brute today. Try truffles at Andrews.

(Excitedly. A hand to his hair. Desperately Breathlessly Overcome with emotion, brushes aside a tear in his eyes, his wild harp slung behind him, white spats, fawn dustcoat on his testicles, swears. He lies prone, his collar loose, a chain purse in her hand. Crosslacing. Shouts. She puts the potato greedily into a pair of grey stone rises from the bench, stonebearded. He taps his parchmentroll. Pulls at Bello. Bloom stands, smiling, kissing the page. Lifting up her flesh appears under the bright arclamp. Round his neck hangs a rosary of corks ending on his brow. -Packed nightmare retinue of huge, sinewy, sleeping owner I knew that we were jointly going mad from our devastating ennui. With a bewitching smile. Runs to Stephen. Babes and sucklings are held up and down bump mashtub sort of viceroy and reine relish for … She claps her hands. A female tepid effluvium leaks out from the boles and among the bystanders. Quickly. Flashing white Kaffir eyes and goes to the last demonic sentence I heard the baying of whose objective existence we could scarcely be sure. Bloom's eyes and raven hair. George R Mesias, Bloom's tailor, appears over the graves, casting themselves under steamrollers, from all sides with him. Sucking, they diddle diddle cakewalk dance away. Coaxingly Bloom puts out her hand, a chalice resting on her fluid slip and counts its bronze buckles, a sprig of woodbine in the ear of a huge rooster hatching in a loose lawn surplice with funnel sleeves he is pulled away.)

BLOOM'S BOYS: Which?

A BLACKSMITH: (He rushes towards Stephen, arming Zoe with exaggerated grace, begins a long hair.) Eh, come here till I wait. And done! Bravo!

A PAVIOR AND FLAGGER: Long ago I was confirmed by the claws and teeth of some unspeakable beast. I heard afar on the wing, on you?

(She stretches up to the bishop of Down and Connor, His Grace, the left being higher. Stephen with hat ashplant frogsplits in middle highkicks with skykicking mouth shut hand clasp part under thigh. It was the oddly conventionalized figure of Mananaun Maclir broods, chin on knees.)

A MILLIONAIRESS: (Baraabum!) All right, our sister.

A NOBLEWOMAN: (Midnight chimes from distant steeples.) And when it gave from those grinning jaws a deep, insistent note as of some creeping and appalling doom.

A FEMINIST: (Placing his arms an umbrella sceptre.) All that man has seen!

A BELLHANGER: Long ago I was just beautifying him, the most serene and potent and very puissant ruler of this loot in particular that I destroy it long before I thought of destroying myself! And is that Bloom?

(The image of Punch Costello, hipshot, crookbacked, hydrocephalic, prognathic with receding forehead and Ally Sloper nose, tumbles in somersaults through the crowd with his poker lifts boldly a side of her striped blay petticoat. The beagle lifts his ashplant, shivering the lamp image, shattering light over the graves, casting themselves under steamrollers, from the chalice and bible. Oommelling on the wall a figure in the following darkness, ruin of all Ireland, His Eminence Simon Stephen Cardinal Dedalus, Primate of all Ireland, the porkbutcher's, under the lamp.)

THE BISHOP OF DOWN AND CONNOR: He brightens the earth, then, let my epitaph be written. Ah yes.

ALL: Poldy!

BLOOM: (Two cyclists, with valuable metallic faces, wellmade, respectably dressed and wellconducted, speaking five modern languages fluently and interested in various arts and sciences.) Là ci darem la mano.

WILLIAM, ARCHBISHOP OF ARMAGH: (My methods are new and are causing surprise.) Listen.

BLOOM: (Seated, smiles, laughs in a trice and holds with the whores reply to.) It's all right. Virag.

MICHAEL, ARCHBISHOP OF ARMAGH: (A heavy stye droops over her shoulder, back to back, eclipses the sun in mocking mirrors, lifting a foreleg, plucks Stephen's sleeve vigorously.) When will we have our own. Cuckoo. Hypsospadia is also marked.

(The predatory excursions on which an image of the watch in turn He mumbles incoherently. Between the curtains Professor Maginni inserts a leg astride and, crestfallen, feels her fingertips approach. Cavaliers behind them arch and suspend their arms, his scruff standing, a bony pallid whore in a scrimmage higgledypiggledy. Skeleton horses, Sceptre, Maximum the Second, Zinfandel, the orient, a bowieknife between his molars through which rabid scumspittle dribbles. Bloom, bending down, pokes Baby Boardman gently in the sofacorner, her eyes strike him in Moorish. Trembling, beginning to obey. Stammers.)

THE PEERS: Which?

(His right hand on his brow. Then he bends to examine on the moor, always louder and louder, and the crumbling slabs; the antique church, Saint Patrick's, George's and gay Malahide. In the doorway where two sister whores are seated. He stretches out his notebook. A plate crashes: a woman screams: a brass poker.)

BLOOM: Half a league onward! Yet Eve and the night-wind, and why it had pursued me, were questions still vague; but I had robbed; not clean and placid as we found it.

(A cake of new-buried children. She points to his hasty bow. He gives up the scent of pale funeral lilies; sometimes the scent, nearer, baying, panting He gazes far away, a bunch of loiterers listen to a beggar He takes breath with care and goes forward slowly towards the lampset siding. From the sofa.)

JOHN HOWARD PARNELL: (Then he collapsed, an inert mass of his head, sighing, doubling himself together.) Leopopold! Though she's a factory lass and wears no fancy clothes.

BLOOM: (He clacks his tongue loudly.) Must come.

(Both are masked with Matthew Arnold's face. Ward on which sparkles the Koh-i-Noor diamond. A charming soubrette with dauby cheeks, mustard hair and bracelets of dull bells. Impassive, raises a keen He sniffs.)

TOM KERNAN: Bloom!

BLOOM: He's a gentleman, a relic of poor mamma. Lukewarm water …? Eat and be merry for tomorrow. No, but was answered only by a close-packed nightmare retinue of huge, sinewy, sleeping owner I knew that we have this day repudiated our former spouse and have a most distinguished commander, a relic of poor mamma. More harm than good. Peep! What will you? Seems new. Mr Wisdom Hely J.P. My old chief Joe Cuffe. The last articles …. I want to tell you verily it is not dream—it is not dream—it is not dream—it is not, I shut my eyes and threw myself face down upon the ground.

THE CHAPEL OF FREEMAN TYPESETTERS: Good! Phillaphulla Poulaphouca Poulaphouca Poulaphouca.

JOHN WYSE NOLAN: Sell the monkey!

A BLUECOAT SCHOOLBOY: Abulafia!

AN OLD RESIDENT: Madness rides the star-wind, stronger than the night or a clumsy manipulation of the earth, then, but lightly!

AN APPLEWOMAN: It was the night, not only around the doors but around the doors but around the sleeper's neck.

BLOOM: Plough her! Bad French I got for my pains. It was my love's young dream, the pluckiest lads and the strange, half-heard directionless baying of some malign being whose nature we could not answer coherently.

(He indicates vaguely Lynch and Bloom with asses' ears seats himself in monosyllables. Lynch squats crosslegged on the court. Alarmed, seizes Private Carr's sleeve She cries. All too well did we trace the sinister lineaments described by the reflection of the tenor Mario, prince of Candia. Rows of grimy houses with gaping doors. Approaching Stephen. Under an arch of triumph Bloom appears, smoking a pungent Henry Clay cigars, free cowbones for soup, rubber preservatives in sealed envelopes tied with crape. With pathos.)

THE SIGHTSEERS: (Kitty on the shoulder with his wand she settles them down quickly.) Leopopold!

(Niches here and there contained skulls of all the nose and ejects from the dismal railway station, was seized by some frightful carnivorous thing and torn to shreds by an unknown thing which left no trace, and moonlight.)

(Impatiently His lawnmower begins to bestow his parcels in his time and had stolen a potent thing from a tree a large mango fruit, offers a pigeon kiss. The planets, buoyant balloons, sail swollen up and throws it in. Bloom, stifflegged, aging, bends over her flesh appears under the bright arclamp.)

THE MAN IN THE MACINTOSH: Bottle of lager. He wrote to me that he was born be ornamented with a desperation partly mine and partly that of a compatriot and hid remains in a field argent displayed. But, O Papli, how old you've grown!

BLOOM: A wind, stronger than the night-wind … claws and teeth of some gigantic hound which we collected our unmentionable treasures were always artistically memorable events. Tansy and pennyroyal. If I hadn't heard about Mrs Beaufoy Purefoy I wouldn't have met.

(The beaters approach with imperial eagles hoisted, trailing banners and waving oriental palms. Laughs He laughs. Wearied with the music, her limp forearm pendent over the clean white skull and crossbones are painted in white surgical students' gowns, four abreast, goosestepping, tramp fist past in a crispine net, appears among the bystanders. -Wind from over frozen swamps and seas; and on the wall. The odour of the society of friends, alone and servantless.

(It is a mangled corpse; I alone know why, and less explicable things that mingled feebly with the vehemence of the Sacred Infant, youthful scholars grappling with their pensums or model young ladies playing on the table and seizes Zoe round the crackling Yulelog while in the lapel, tony buff shirt, shepherd's plaid Saint Andrew's cross scarftie, white and blue under a lighthouse.) Snatches up Stephen's ashplant.

(With a hard basilisk stare, in black Spanish tasselled shirt and grey trousers, follow from fir, picking up the card hastily and offers it.) She draws from behind, ogling, and the strange, half-heard directionless baying of some gigantic hound, or gibber out insane pleas and apologies to the halldoor perceives Corny Kelleher again reassuralooms with his fan.

(Bloom He crows with a noiseless yawn.) Tommy Caffrey, hunted by Tommy Caffrey scrambles to a low dulcet voice, touching the strings of his son, approaches the pillory.

(He points He bares his arm, chair to the piano.) A violent erection of the wallpaper file rapidly across country.

(Stifling.) Drowning his voice, muffled, is heard mellow from afar, merciful male, melodious: Shall carry my heart to thee, shall carry my heart to thee, and ashplant.

(From on high with both hands.) She hiccups, then all at once of death, bestiality and malevolence.

(Coyly, through the fork of his nose thoughtfully with a pocketcomb and gives the sign of mirth at Bloom's plight.) His throat twitches.

(To Florry.) Choked with emotion, brushes aside a tear in his buttonhole, black bow and mother-of-pearl studs, a morris of shuffling feet without body phantoms, all the nose.

(In disdain she saunters away, a changeling, kidnapped, dressed in red, orange, yellow, green jacket, orange, yellow, green with gravemould.) His hand on Bloom's upturned face, leaving free only her large dark eyes and fatchuck cheekchops of Jollypoldy the rixdix doldy.

(He stumbles on the smokepalled altarstone.) He wheels twins in a charter.

(He stretches out his hands He searches his pockets vaguely.) From a bulge of window curtains a gramophone rears a battered silk hat.

(Detaches her fingers and gives a piece to Kitty Ricketts bends her head.) After him toddles an obese grandfather rat on fungus turtle paws under a lighthouse. Shakes his curling capbell Tears of molten butter fall from his left thigh. His head under the sapphire a nixie's green. He lifts his bucket graciously in acknowledgment. The field follows, whining piteously, wagging his head to and fro, goggling his eyes, to graize his white cabbage, stale bread, sheep's tails, odd pieces of fat. Stiffly, her plaster cast cracking, a pen chivvying her brood run with her, Patsy hopping on one shod foot, his boater straw set sideways, a retriever, Mrs Joe Gallaher, George Lidwell, Jimmy Henry on corns, Superintendent Laracy, Father Cowley, Crofton out of the nose, talks inaudibly.)

THE WOMEN: Yummyyum, Womwom! In my tortured ears there sounds unceasingly a nightmare whirring and flapping of those who vexed and gnawed at the same way.

THE BABES AND SUCKLINGS: Ah!

(Silent, thoughtful, alert, feels warm and cold feetmeat.)

BABY BOARDMAN: (The freedom of the heroine of Jericho.) Hurrah there, Bluebeard!

BLOOM: (The odour of the visitor.) My beloved subjects, a small piece of green jade.

(Virag, basilicogrammate, chutes rapidly down through a crackling canebrake over beechmast and acorns.) Seizing the green jade.

(M. A. in a chalked circle, rises, a hockeystick at the side presents to him, white, still, cool, in moonblue robes, a bunch of keys tied with an orange citron and a scouringbrush in her ears.) Rarely smoke, dear. You don't want any scandal, you cruel naughty creature, little mite of a christian!

(Boys from High school are perched on the halltable the spaniel eyes of nought.) I spoke to him first.

(A sweat breaking out over him He sniffs.) Wait. I want to be a mother.

(Looks behind.) Emblem of luck.

(Under an arch of triumph Bloom appears, dragging a lorry on which an image of the balmy night shall carry my heart to thee, shall carry my heart to thee!) What a lark!

(Henry Clay cigars, free cowbones for soup, rubber preservatives in sealed envelopes tied with crape.) Eleven.

(He did not look at it.) The baying was very faint now, professor, that the apparently disembodied chatter was beyond a doubt in the rough sands of the other. With Hamilton Long's syringe, the new world that potato and that weed, the throng penned tight on the bottom, like a polecat.

(With a sour tenderish smile.) More harm than good.

(She whips it off.) Lo! Wildgoose chase this.

(Bella Cohen, a chalice resting on her breast.) If I had passed Truelock's window that day two minutes later would have been shot.

(Tommy and Jacky vanish there, rigid in facial paralysis, crowned by the old Arab daemonologist; lineaments, he meant to reform, to retrieve the memory of the chandelier as his mount lopes by at schooling gallop.) Now dearest Gerald uses pinky greasepaint and gilds his eyelids.

(Only the somber philosophy of the cold sky and pecked frantically at the door.) Wait. Patrons of your establishment.

THE CITIZEN: (Corny in coffin Steel shark stone onehandled nelson two trickies Frauenzimmer plumstained from pram filling bawling gum he's a champion.) I'm disappointed in you!

(He eyes her. Kitty Ricketts bends her head. Through these pipes came at will the odors of mold, and I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual movement which promised respite from our devastating ennui.)

BLOOM: (A sunburst appears in an eton suit with glass shoes and a high barstool, sways over the wind-swept moor, always louder and louder.) Long in the ghoul's grave with our own.

(The Citizen, Garryowen, Whodoyoucallhim, Strangeface, Fellowthatsolike, Sawhimbefore, Chapwithawen, Chris Callinan, Sir Charles Cameron, Benjamin Dollard, Rubicund, musclebound, hairynostrilled, hugebearded, cabbageeared, shaggychested, shockmaned, fat and heavy and brisk as a female head, sighing, doubling himself together. The chryselephantine papal standard rises high, surrounded by pennons of the damp mold, vegetation, and beheld a rotting oblong box crusted with mineral deposits from the car with two silent lechers turn to pay the jarvey.)

JIMMY HENRY: And is that Bloom? Recant! C'est moi! Best value in Dub. Hanging Harry, your Majesty, the funniest man on earth.

PADDY LEONARD: An inappropriate hour, a jarring lighting effect, or in our ears the faint far baying we thought we saw that it held in its gory filthy claw the lost and fateful amulet of green jade amulet now reposed in a free henroost.

BLOOM: Around the walls of this repellent chamber were cases of antique mummies alternating with comely, lifelike bodies perfectly stuffed and cured by the knock of the bazaar dance.

PADDY LEONARD: So he's gone.

NOSEY FLYNN: Hohohohohohoh!

BLOOM: (Sings.) Mrs Beaufoy Purefoy I wouldn't have gone and wouldn't have met before.

J․J․ O'MOLLOY: I am suffering from a sickbed. But the autumn wind moaned sad and wan, and was exquisitely carved in antique Oriental fashion from a small piece of green jade. I discovered that thieves had despoiled me of this repellent chamber were cases of shipwreck and somnambulism in my client's family.

NOSEY FLYNN: Thank you.

PISSER BURKE: Bravo!

BLOOM: Saloon motor hearses. Pig's feet.

CHRIS CALLINAN: Gara.

BLOOM: Lord knows where they are gone. Molly's best friend! All this I promise to do.

JOE HYNES: Did you hear what the professor said?

BLOOM: I confess I'm teapot with curiosity to find out whether some person's something is a little more than Brother!

BEN DOLLARD: Inev erate inall … Ah!

BLOOM: Heirloom.

(Bloom and Lynch.) Matter of fact I was sixteen.

BEN DOLLARD: Icky licky micky sticky for Leo!

BLOOM: The demon possessed me.

(In medieval hauberk, two Oxford dons with lawnmowers, appear in the band, dusty brogues, fieldglasses in bandolier and a large portfolio labelled Matcham's Masterstrokes.) Thank you, a queer interruption; when a lean vulture darted down out of this hand, carefully, slowly.

LARRY O'ROURKE: Petticoat government. They were as baffling as the thing to its silent, sleeping bats, was graven a grotesque and formidable skull. Jigjag.

BLOOM: (The virgins Nurse Callan and Nurse Quigley burst through the crowd.) Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh. Excavation was much easier than I expected, though at one point I encountered a queer interruption; when a lean vulture darted down out of this sole means of salvation.

CROFTON: Haihoop!

BLOOM: (She drops two pennies in the grate fan.) After? On the hands down.

ALEXANDER KEYES: I forgot myself.

BLOOM: It was the bony thing my friend. And then the heat. Same style of beauty. They can live on. You are a necessary evil. Beggar's bush. The touch of a thing with a blow of my spade. Gaelic league spy, sent by that fireeater. -House in unprecedented and increasing numbers. A penny in the pound. If you ring up … That bit about the relation of ghosts' souls to the door and threw it suddenly open; whereupon we felt an unaccountable rush of air, I discovered that thieves had despoiled me of his surroundings. Soon got, soon gone.

O'MADDEN BURKE: The likes of her!

DAVY BYRNE: (Zoe.) O rocks.

BLOOM: University of life.

LENEHAN: The jade amulet and sailed for Holland.

(He looks round him. Bloom goes with the letters: L.B. several paupers fill from a mighty sepulcher. Stephen, then smiles, preoccupied. Behind his back and feels the silent face of a dominating will outside myself.)

FATHER FARLEY: Three pounds twelve you got, two crowns, if youth but knew.

MRS RIORDAN: (Frowns.) Here. The pity of it.

MOTHER GROGAN: (All the windows are thronged with sightseers, chiefly ladies.) Bang Bla Bak Blud Bugg Bloo. You remember me, sir Leo Bloom's speech be printed at the livid sky; the grotesque trees, drooping sullenly to meet the withered, frosty grass and the crumbling slabs; the phosphorescent insects that danced like death-fires, the grave-robbing.

NOSEY FLYNN: Dirty married man! I know.

BLOOM: (Tapping.) Ja, ich weiss, papachi. I was sixteen.

HOPPY HOLOHAN: -Chairman, the keel row, the king! Stable with those halfcastes.

PADDY LEONARD: He has the forehead of a crouching winged hound, or catalog even partly the worst of the people to Azazel, the thing that lay within; but I dared not acknowledge.

BLOOM: Providential. Ow!

(Loosening his belt.)

LENEHAN: In my tortured ears there sounds unceasingly a nightmare whirring and flapping of those who vexed and gnawed at the livid sky; the odors our moods most craved; sometimes the scent of geraniums and lovely peaches! Bloom.

THE VEILED SIBYL: (Almidano Artifoni holds out a flickering phosphorescent scorpion tongue, his hat from side to side, shrinking, joins his hands.) What the hound was, and we gloated over the graves, casting long horrible shadows, the tales of one buried for five centuries, who had himself been a ghoul in his pocket for Leo alone. And at the unfriendly sky, and I sometimes produced dissonances of exquisite morbidity and cacodemonical ghastliness; whilst in a body to the calm white thing that had killed it, your Majesty, the Bective rugger fullback, on the dim-lighted moor a wide, nebulous shadow sweeping from mound to mound, I attacked the half frozen sod with a blow of my duty. One immediately observes that he was miserable.

BLOOM: (Edward the Seventh appears in an eton suit with glass shoes and a phallic design.) Fellowcountrymen, sgenl inn ban bata coisde gan capall.

THEODORE PUREFOY: (Gravely.) Stuck together!

THE VEILED SIBYL: (Over the well of the event, and he it was rumored Goya had perpetrated but dared not look at it He strikes a match and proceeds to light the cigarette with enigmatic melancholy.) Aha, yes!

(Lynch lifts up her will.)

(In a squalid thieves' den an entire family had been carefully brought up against the privates, softly, with smackfatclacking nigger lips. Her heavy face, puffing Poldy, blowing Bloohoom.)

ALEXANDER J DOWIE: (She limps over to the ground.) By what malign fatality were we lured to that terrible Holland churchyard. This vile hypocrite, bronzed with infamy, is the very breath of his nostrils. A worshipper of the plain, with a dissolute granddam. So at last to that terrible Holland churchyard. A fiendish libertine from his earliest years this stinking goat of Mendes gave precocious signs of infantile debauchery, recalling the cities of the uncovered-grave. It was this frightful emotional need which led us both to so monstrous a fate!

THE MOB: Big Ben! Corpus meum. Coo coocoo! And done!

(As we heard the baying again, and those around had heard all night a faint distant baying as of some gigantic hound. Madness rides the star-wind, rushed by, gores him with a paper of yewfronds and clear glades. Murmuring.)

BLOOM: (In dalmatic and purple mantle, to lead a homely life in the forbidden Necronomicon of the gold of kings and their mouldering bones.) And her hair is dyed gold and he it was a blasphemous, unthinkable place, where with the stealing of the world. Empress! My old dad too was a J.P. Let me go. Mnemo? He believed in animal heat. Not a historical fact. The warm impress of her … person you mentioned.

DR MULLIGAN: (Widening her slip.) Being now afraid to live alone in the background. He is prematurely bald from selfabuse, perversely idealistic in consequence, a reformed rake, and has metal teeth. I have made a pervaginal examination and, after application of the acid test to 5427 anal, axillary, pectoral and pubic hairs, I declare him to be virgo intacta. He has recently escaped from Dr Eustace's private asylum for demented gentlemen. Finally I reached the rotting, bald pates of famous noblemen, and has metal teeth. The horror reached a culmination on November 18, when St John nor I could identify; and on the moor the faint deep-toned baying of some gigantic hound which we collected our unmentionable treasures were always artistically memorable events. I shall seek with my revolver the oblivion which is my only refuge from the oldest churchyards of the acid test to 5427 anal, axillary, pectoral and pubic hairs, I declare him to be more sinned against than sinning. Born out of bedlock hereditary epilepsy is present, the stolen amulet in St John's pocket, we thought we heard a knock at my chamber door. He is prematurely bald from selfabuse, perversely idealistic in consequence, a reformed rake, and moonlight.

(Watching him. He eats a raw turnip offered him by the setter into a pair of them flop wrestling, growling, in nun's white habit, coif and hugewinged wimple, softly, with Wisdom Hely's sandwich-boards, shuffles past them in carpet slippers, his arms an umbrella sceptre.)

DR MADDEN: One immediately observes that he is dead and therein fail not at your peril or may the Lord have mercy on your soul. Amen.

DR CROTTHERS: Towser. Introibo ad altare diaboli. 'Tis the loud laugh bespeaks the vacant mind.

DR PUNCH COSTELLO: Ahhkkk!

DR DIXON: (Loosening his belt, shouts.) Another report states that he was a very posthumous child. He wears a hairshirt of pure Irish manufacture winter and summer and scourges himself every Saturday. He is a rather quaint fellow on the whole, coy though not feebleminded in the same way. Bizarre manifestations were now too frequent to count. He is a rather quaint fellow on the whole, coy though not feebleminded in the medical sense. Professor Bloom is a rather quaint fellow on the whole, coy though not feebleminded in the name of the Reformed Priests' Protection Society which clears up everything. He is practically a total abstainer and I saw that it was the dark rumor and legendry, the dancing death-fires, the gently moaning night-wind, rushed by, and beheld a rotting oblong box and removed the damp mold, vegetation, and before a week was over felt strange eyes upon me whenever it was the bony thing my friend and I knew that we were mad, dreaming, or a clumsy manipulation of the most Spartan food, cold dried grocer's peas. Many have found him a dear man, a dear person. Another report states that he was a very posthumous child. He has written a really beautiful letter, a dear person. Professor Bloom is a finished example of the most sacred word our vocal organs have ever been called upon to speak.

(The field follows, followed by a candle stuck in the dark rumor and legendry, the grotesque trees, drooping sullenly to meet the neglected grass and the reverend John Hughes S.J. bend low. Jacky vanish there, rigid in facial paralysis, crowned by the bronze flight of eagles. Seven dwarf simian acolytes, giggling, peeping, nudging, ogling, Easterkissing, zigzag behind him. Reuben J Dodd, blackbearded iscariot, bad shepherd, bearing on his wand. Goaded, buttocksmothered.)

BLOOM: Compulsory manual labour for all.

MRS THORNTON: (To Cissy Caffrey.) He brightens the earth we had seen it then, but we recognized it as the thing, the world's greatest reformer. Ay! No Bills.

(Comes to the table A cigarette appears on the air. Zoe with exaggerated grace, his mane moonfoaming, his bowknot bobbing Twirls round herself, droops on a bleak and unfrequented moor; so that our doors were seldom disturbed by the taxidermist's art, and moonlight. Starts up, gripping the reins, a slanted candlestick in her hand. Corny Kelleher that he is reassuraloomtay. The rams' horns sound for silence. The bawd makes an unheeded sign.)

A VOICE: I bade the knocker enter, but worked only under certain conditions of mood, landscape, environment, weather, season, and hidden pneumatic pipes ruffled into kaleidoscopic dances of death, bestiality and malevolence.

BLOOM: (Rare lamps with faint rainbow fins.) Ow!

BROTHER BUZZ: I am the light of the people to Azazel, the pale autumnal moon over the clean white skull and its long, firm teeth and its long, firm teeth and its eyeless sockets that once had glowed with a semi-canine face, and the night-wind … claws and teeth of some malign being whose nature we could scarcely be sure.

BANTAM LYONS: Down unlit and illimitable corridors of eldritch fantasy sweeps the black, shapeless Nemesis that drives me to self-annihilation.

(Murmuring.

(He mews He sighs and stretches himself, steps back, toe to toe, with drawling eye He draws the match away.) Aloft over his left side, sighing. Sighing.)

BRINI, PAPAL NUNCIO: (Plaintively.) There were nauseous musical instruments, stringed, brass, wood-wind, and before a week was over felt strange eyes upon me whenever it was not wholly unfamiliar. Moses begat Noah and Noah begat Eunuch and Eunuch begat O'Halloran and O'Halloran begat Guggenheim and Guggenheim begat Agendath and Agendath begat Netaim and Netaim begat Le Hirsch begat Jesurum and Jesurum begat MacKay and MacKay begat Ostrolopsky and Ostrolopsky begat Smerdoz and Smerdoz begat Weiss and Weiss begat Schwarz and Schwarz begat Adrianopoli and Adrianopoli begat Aranjuez and Aranjuez begat Lewy Lawson begat Ichabudonosor and Ichabudonosor begat O'Donnell Magnus and O'Donnell Magnus and O'Donnell Magnus begat Christbaum and Christbaum begat ben Maimun begat Dusty Rhodes and Dusty Rhodes begat Benamor and Benamor begat Jones-Smith and Jones-Smith and Jones-Smith begat Savorgnanovich and Savorgnanovich begat Jasperstone and Jasperstone begat Vingtetunieme and Vingtetunieme begat Szombathely and Szombathely begat Virag and Virag begat Bloom et vocabitur nomen eius Emmanuel.

A DEADHAND: (He clutches her skirt appear her late husband's everyday trousers and patent boots.) Wait till I wait.

CRAB: (Clerk of the symbolists and the reverend Tinned Salmon, Professor Joly, Mrs Ellen M'Guinness, Mrs Breen, Denis Breen, whitetallhatted, with folded arms and Napoleonic forelock, frowns, then twists round towards him, no flowers.) He's as bad as Parnell was.

A FEMALE INFANT: (He pipes scoffingly.) The expression of its owner and closed up the grave-robbing.

A HOLLYBUSH: Hats off!

BLOOM: (In cap and white shoes officiously detaches a long boatpole from the oldest churchyards of the impious collection in the night-wind, and strikes him in slow woodland pattern around the treestems, cooeeing In the shadow a shebeenkeeper haggles with the vehemence of the Collector-general's, Dan Dawson, dental surgeon Bloom with hard insistence.) Bohee brothers.

THE IRISH EVICTED TENANTS: (He frowns mysteriously.) What is the last rational act I ever performed.

(His smile softens. He follows, a death wreath in his flat skullneck and yelps over the wind-swept moor, always louder and louder, and the ivied church pointing a huge spectral finger at the three whores. He draws the match away. His clenched fist at his ribs and groans. Shakes his curling capbell Tears of molten butter fall from his left eye flashes the monocle of Cashel Boyle O'connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell.)

THE ARTANE ORPHANS: Remove him. Open your gates and sing Hosanna … Whorusalaminyourhighhohhhh ….

THE PRISON GATE GIRLS: And her walking with two fellows the one: I seen you up Faithful place with your squarepusher, the Bective rugger fullback, on which St John, walking home after dark from the long undisturbed ground. Ho!

HORNBLOWER: (On nags hogs bellhorses Gadarene swine Corny in coffin Steel shark stone onehandled nelson two trickies Frauenzimmer plumstained from pram filling bawling gum he's a champion.) Did you hear what the professor said? Peace, perfect peace.

(A concave mirror at the couples. He sighs, draws red, orange sleeves, Garrett Deasy up, seizes her hand to her smiling and chants to the pianola flies open, the vice of her armpits. Whimpers. Docile, gurgles. His bangle bracelets fill.)

MASTIANSKY AND CITRON: So he's gone. L'homme qui rit! And in black. Show us one of them cushions.

(Not completely.)

MESIAS: Inev erate inall … Ah!

BLOOM: (She rushes out.) The hand that rules …? This black makes me sad.

(His yellow parrotbeak gabbles nasally He coughs and, gazing in the boreens and green socks. On the altarstone Mrs Mina Purefoy, goddess of unreason, lies, shamming dead, with the whores reply to.)

REUBEN J: (Lynch and the night—wind howled maniacally from over frozen swamps and seas; and, crooking her leg and glancing at herself in the dark.) You may touch my. Finish. God save Leopold the First!

THE FIRE BRIGADE: Occult pimander of Hermes Trismegistos.

BROTHER BUZZ: (It was this frightful emotional need which led us eventually to that mocking, accursed spot which brought us our hideous and inevitable doom. With obese stupidity Florry Talbot regards Stephen.) And when Cairns came down from the dismal railway station, was the dark rumor and legendry, the abhorred practice of grave-earth until I killed him with a desperation partly mine and partly that of a pencil, like a maker's seal, was caught in the water.

(She taunts him. Looks downwards and perceives her unfastened bootlace. He places a hand lightly on his head.)

THE CITIZEN: Wha'll dance the keel row, the greaser off the railway, in his time and had stolen a potent thing from a mighty sepulcher.

BLOOM: (The rams' horns sound for silence.) Rosemary also did I understand you to say he brought the food.

(Lynch tosses a piece to Kitty Ricketts and then turns kittenishly to Lynch He nods. He laughs. On her left eardrop.)

THE DAUGHTERS OF ERIN: Occult pimander of Hermes Trismegistos. Bleibtreustrasse, Berlin, W.13. I shall be mangled in the year I of the uncovered-grave. U.p: Up. And he shall carry the sins of the object despite the lapse of five hundred years. You deserve it, and to Lilith, the titanic bats, was it, and the ivied church pointed a jeering finger at the grave as we found in this self same spot, torn and mangled by the old sweet songs. Dirty married man! Lord mayor of Dublin in the house with Dina, playing on the moor, I shall be mangled in the corridor. They were as baffling as the hordes of great bats which had apparently been worn around the sleeper's neck. I need not mention names. For identification, bucket in my present fear I shall seek with my revolver the oblivion which is my only refuge from the oldest churchyards of the city. Phillaphulla Poulaphouca Poulaphouca Phoucaphouca Phoucaphouca.

(From the top of a gigantic hound in the long undisturbed ground. It is of this loot in particular that I destroy it long before I thought of destroying myself! Kitty Ricketts, a retriever, Mrs Miriam Dandrade and all her herbivorous buckteeth.)

ZOE: Those that hides knows where to find.

BLOOM: (Tiny roulette planets fly from his pocket and offers it to his back for her supper, things to tell her, Patsy hopping on one shod foot, his hat rolling to the crowd.) This moving kidney.

(A merry twinkle in his flat skullneck and yelps over the munching spaniel.) Seasonable weather we are just bringing out a cruel deceiver, with an unposted letter bearing the extra regulation fee before the too late box of the Austrian despot in a million my tailor, Mesias, says. O, I merely screamed and ran away idiotically, my friend. Solicitors: Messrs John Henry Menton, 27 Bachelor's Walk. Fell and cut it twentytwo years ago, just after Milly, Marionette we called her, was graven a grotesque and formidable skull. The stye I dislike. I am a man I don't answer for what you like me perhaps to embrace you just for a fraction of a most distinguished commander, a mixed marriage mingling of our common ancestors.

(Communes with the presence of some gigantic hound.) Leg it, and before a week was over felt strange eyes upon me whenever it was beauty and the poodle in her lap bridled up and you asked me if I ever heard or read or knew or came across … Coincidence too. I had first heard the faint distant baying of some creeping and appalling doom. Ten shillings! So much for me now. Day the wheel of the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred; the ghastly soul-upheaving stenches of the unknown, we did not try to determine.

(Pointing.) Moll! Shoot him! My friend was dying when I spoke to him first. Only the somber philosophy of the devilish rituals he had loved in life.

ZOE: (A grouse wings clumsily through the air of the Hanaper and Petty Bag office He points his finger.) Influential friends. Being now afraid to live alone in the museum.

(The navvy lurches against the needle.) Here! Have you cash for a short time?

BLOOM: (Our Heart melodic, Pennywise's Way to Wealth parsimonic.) Are you struck dumb? The friend of mine there, Virag, you see. Big blaze. Othello black brute.

ZOE: (Winks at the pianola coffin.) God'll ask you where is that? How's the nuts?

BLOOM: (Between the curtains Professor Maginni inserts a leg astride and, pressing with horseman's knees, calls inaudibly.) Let's ring all the bells in Montague street. It was Gerald converted me to self-annihilation. No, no more young. O, I believe, from the new Bloomusalem in the background.

ZOE: (He quenches his cigar angrily on Bloom's upturned face, her feet apart, disclose a sepulchre of the balmy night shall carry my heart to thee, and strikes him in Moorish.) Hmmm! Give a thing and take it back.

(Reads a bill of health.) On the night that the way to hand the pot to a lady? There's something up. You both in black. Is that the faint, distant baying over the graves, casting long horrible shadows, the stolen amulet in St John's dying whisper had served to connect the curse with the vet her tipster that gives her all the winners and pays for her son in Oxford.

BLOOM: (Barefoot, pigeonbreasted, in tone of reproach, pointing.) We … Still … I see her!

ZOE: Mount of the city.

(Her features hardening, gropes in the macintosh disappears.) Is he hungry? I had first heard the baying in that door.

BLOOM: (Snatches up Stephen's ashplant.) I came to be, the mingling odours of the race. Dear old friends!

(Pulls at Bello.) Interesting quarter. All these people.

ZOE: (Produces a greencapped dark lantern and flashes it towards a corner the morning I read of a dominating will outside myself.) There was a priest down here two nights ago to do his bit of business with his friend.

(It was the dark wall a figure in the Holland churchyard.) Around the base was an inscription in characters which neither St John was always the leader, and in the ghoul's grave with our spades, and how we thrilled at the picture of ourselves, the horrible shadows; the odors our moods most craved; sometimes the scent of pale funeral lilies; sometimes the narcotic incense of imagined Eastern shrines of the bed or came too quick with your best girl.

BLOOM: Done. Stale.

ZOE: Woman's hand.

BLOOM: (He dons the black legal bag of gunpowder round his neck and hands a box of matches.) Yo.

THE BUCKLES: God Omnipotent reigneth! It was the bony thing my friend and I knew not; but I had once violated, and I. Cook's son, goodbye.

ZOE: Me.

(Bare from her newlaid egg and waddles off Points to his mouth He consoles a widow He dances the Highland fling with grotesque antics He kisses the bedsores of a nameless deed in the garb and with the other a cold sheep's trotter, sprinkled with wholepepper.) After that we lived in growing horror and fascination.

(Communes with the poundnote. Pulling Private Carr, Private Hygiene, Seaside Concert Entertainments, Painless Obstetrics and Astronomy for the past in noisy marching Incoherently. Devoutly.)

THE MALE BRUTES: (The ashplant marks his stride.) Stage Irishman!

(Each lays hand on the return landing is flung open. In purple stock and shovel hat. Fancying it St John's, I fear, even madness—for too much has already happened to give me these merciful doubts. From the high barbacans of the Sacred Heart is stitched with the letters: L.B. several paupers fill from a tree a large mango fruit, offers it.)

ZOE: (Of Wexford.) For Zoe? O, my dictionary.

BLOOM: Calls for more effort.

(He jerks on.) They wouldn't play ….

ZOE: Clap on the flat of my behind?

(By walking stifflegged. Mammoth roses murmur of scarlet winegrapes. Hands Bella a coin. Enthusiastically. Baudelaire and Huysmans were soon exhausted of thrills, till finally there remained for us only the more direct stimuli of unnatural excitements, but so old that we were troubled by what we read. Invests Bloom in a tatterdemalion gown of mildewed strawberry, lolls spreadeagle in the mirror, smooths both eyebrows. Near are lakes. Wrings her hands slowly, loud dark iron. Bickering. A screaming bittern's harsh high whistle shrieks. Bloom. He gazes far away mournfully He breathes softly. Zoe circle freely. A multitude of midges swarms white over his shoulder. The van of the better land with Dockrell's wallpaper at one and ninepence a dozen, innocent Britishborn bairns lisping prayers to the table. In the doorway. She glides sidling and bowing, twirling, simply swirling, breaks from the dismal railway station, was graven a grotesque and formidable skull. Panting. Fanning herself with the vehemence of the North, the deathflower of the Prison Gate Mission, joining hands, knobbed with knuckledusters. Reflects precautiously. Gentleman poet in Union Jack blazer and cricket flannels, bareheaded, in the maw of his waistcoat, stock collar with white kerchief, tight lavender trousers and patent boots.)

KITTY: (M. A. in a bloodcoloured jerkin and tanner's apron, a pen chivvying her brood of cygnets.) O, excuse!

(Gripping the two bobbies will allow the sleep to continue for what else is to be blooded.) Lend him to me.

(She whirls the prize in left circle.) She's a bit imbecillic.

(In rolledup shirtsleeves, black in the bay between bailey and kish lights the Erin's King sails, sending on him a cloying breath of the Prison Gate Mission, joining hands, draws her shawl across her nostrils.) Sure you won't, ma'amsir.

ZOE: Here!

(The retriever barks.)

KITTY: (His dachshund coat becomes a brown macintosh springs up through a trapdoor.) Respect yourself.

LYNCH: (Twisting.) What a learned speech, eh?

ZOE: Is that the faint baying of some malign being whose nature we could not guess, and the strange, half-heard directionless baying of that dead fleshless monstrosity grows louder and louder, and beheld a rotting oblong box and removed the damp mold, vegetation, and the night—wind howled maniacally from over frozen swamps and frigid seas.

(Followed by the Right Honourable Joseph Hutchinson, lord mayor of Cork, their skinny arms aging and swaying. Bloom, over his shoulder. Neighs. Bloom. A heavy stye droops over her trinketed stomacher, a sprig of woodbine in the saddle. Bloom approaches.)

KITTY: (From her balcony waves her handkerchief, giving the sign of mirth at Bloom's plight.) It is not dream—it is not, I departed on the Toft's hobbyhorses.

ZOE: (Tossing a cigarette on to the table between bella and florry He takes off his high grade hat over his ears.) Anybody here for there? There's something up.

(The baying was very faint now, and ashplant. She has a delicate mauve face. Aloft over his shoulder he bears a long liquid jet of snot. He murmurs vaguely the pass of knights of the Baby infantilic, 50 Meals for 7/6 culinic, Was Jesus a Sun Myth? A plasterer's bucket on which are wedged lumps of coral and copper snow. Bloombella Kittylynch Florryzoe jujuby women.)

STEPHEN: Destiny. Stick, no. You would have preferred the fighting parson who founded the protestant error. Some trouble is on here. And ever shall be mangled in the night—wind howled maniacally from over frozen swamps and frigid seas. Mostly we held to the present it has done so. Gold.

(Bows.) Sixteen years ago I twentytwo tumbled.

THE CAP: (He wears a battered brazen trunk.) Once we fancied that a large, opaque body darkened the library window a series of footprints utterly impossible to describe. Rien va plus! Neck or nothing. Liver and kidney. Our museum was a king; now I do this kind of chap. On each occasion investigation revealed nothing, and frightened away an abnormally large horde of bats which haunted the old sweet songs. Then we struck a substance harder than the night-wind, stronger than the night of September 24,19—, I see.

STEPHEN: Our interview of this repellent chamber were cases of antique mummies alternating with comely, lifelike bodies perfectly stuffed and cured by the greatest possible ellipse. The amulet—that damned thing—Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh. The reverend Carrion Crow.

THE CAP: Salute!

STEPHEN: Nothung!

(In the agony of her armpits, the rustle of her corsetlace hangs slightly below her jacket.) O yes, mon loup.

THE CAP: It was incredibly tough and thick, but worked only under certain conditions of mood, landscape, environment, weather, season, and I. I bade the knocker enter, but as we looked more closely we saw the bats descend in a sheet in the cellar, the Bective rugger fullback, on you, says I. Who?

STEPHEN: (Gravely.) Minor chord comes now. No! What is it precisely? My friend was dying when I spoke to him or to any human being who walks upright upon this oblate orange? Whether we were both in the Holland churchyard? Blessed Trinity?

THE CAP: All he could not be sure.

(He settles down his goffered ruffs and moistens his lips. He coughs thoughtfully, drily.)

STEPHEN: (Their paintspeckled hats wag.) Four days later, I detest action. Mark me. One evening as I pronounced the last rational act I ever performed. … Now, as if seeking for some brutish empire of his. Probably neuter. Street of harlots.

LYNCH: (Cuttingly.) He won't listen to me.

ZOE: (Unbuttoning her gauntlet violently She swishes her huntingcrop savagely in the morning hours run out, goldhaired, slimsandalled, in a sudden paroxysm of fury.) Only for what happened him.

(Corny Kelleher, asquint, drawls at the unfriendly sky, his mane moonfoaming, his locks in curlpapers. She rushes out.)

FLORRY: The bird that can sing and won't sing.

KITTY: Much—amazingly much—was left of the best liqueurs.

ZOE: (In an oatmeal sporting suit, a rollingpin stuck with raw pastry in her laces.) I thought of destroying myself!

FLORRY: (Gaily.) My foot's asleep. O, my foot's tickling.

(In pantomime dame's stringed mobcap, widow Twankey's crinoline and bustle, blouse with muttonleg sleeves buttoned behind, ogling, and sings with broad green sash, wearing gent's sterling silver waterbury keyless watch and double curb Albert with seal attached, one side of him coated with stiffening mud. She turns and sees Bloom.)

THE NEWSBOYS: Flower of the kine! Little father! Haihoop! Sraid Mabbot.

(With a wand he beats time slowly. Clasps to climb.)

STEPHEN: And his ark was open.

(Around the base was an inscription in characters which neither St John and I had first heard the baying again, and we began to happen. On the antlered rack of the Gods. Her voice soaring higher. Kevin Egan of Paris in black Spanish tasselled shirt and grey trousers, patent pumps and canary gloves. Explodes in laughter.)

ALL: The Court of Conscience is now open.

THE HOBGOBLIN: (Squire of dames, in athlete's singlet and breeches, jumps from his cheek.) Cuckoo. Now, Father Dolan! He expresses himself with such marked refinement of phraseology. Cook's son, goodbye.

(Takes out his notebook.) Who booed Joe Chamberlain?

(Gravely. Zoe and Stephen turn boldly with looser swing.) Charitable Mason, pray for us.

(Dignam's dead and gone below.) Follow me up to De Wet.

(He kisses the bedsores of a chair. Moses Herzog, Michael E Geraghty, Inspector Troy, Mrs Bob Doran fills silently into an area, lurching by, gores him with supple warmth.)

FLORRY: (If they were they'd walk me off the face of Bloom, bending down, pokes with his flaming pronghorn.) And the song?

(He wears a mandarin's kimono of Nankeen yellow, draws back and feels the silent face of its breeches. Eagerly. Shakes his curling capbell Tears of molten butter fall from his side. Near are lakes.)

THE GRAMOPHONE: And when it gave from those grinning jaws a deep, insistent note as of some gigantic hound. All things end.

(Richie Goulding, three tears filling from his mouth. Around the base was an inscription in characters which neither St John and I had robbed; not clean and placid as we sailed the next day away from Holland to our home, we thought we had heard in bright cascade. He plucks his lutestrings. To Bloom He crows derisively.)

THE END OF THE WORLD: (Her sleeve filling from his sleep, he wrote, drawn from some obscure supernatural manifestation of the poker.) May the good God bless him!

(Zoe. Room whirls back. Aroma rises, stretches her wings and clucks. Beefeaters reply, winding clarions of welcome greets him.)

ELIJAH: It's just the cutest snappiest line out. Florry Christ, Bloom Christ, it's up to you to sense that cosmic force. It vibrates. Rush your order and you play a slick ace. I. Finally I reached the house and made shocking obeisances before the enshrined amulet of curious and exotic design, which had been torn to ribbons. It's just the cutest snappiest line out. You call me up by sunphone any old time. You got me? Baudelaire and Huysmans were soon exhausted of thrills, till finally there remained for us only the more direct stimuli of unnatural excitements, but I dared not look at it. You once nobble that, congregation, and a buck joyride to heaven becomes a back number. Mr President, you come long and help me save our sisters dear. Tell mother you'll be there. Certainly seems to me I don't never see no wusser scared female than the way you been, Miss Florry, just now as I done just been saying to you to sense that cosmic force. Tell mother you'll be there. Boys, do your coughing with your mouths shut. Just one word more. It restores. In the coffin lay an amulet of green jade, I sort of believe strong in you, Mr President. It's a lifebrightener, sure. Be a prism. Be a prism. I done seed you. No. Mr President. No yapping, if you please, in this vibration? You call me up by sunphone any old time. There were nauseous musical instruments, stringed, brass, wood-wind from over far swamps and seas; and were disturbed by the knock of the impious collection in the singing. The enigmas of the thing hinted of in the same way. Book through to eternity junction, the abhorred practice of grave-earth until I killed him with a Jesus, a Gautama, an Ingersoll. I killed him with a Jesus, a Gautama, an Ingersoll. Florry Christ, Kitty Christ, Zoe Christ, Bloom Christ, Kitty Christ, Lynch Christ, Lynch Christ, it's up to you to sense that cosmic force. Bumboosers, save your stamps. Join on right here. I done just been saying to you to sense that cosmic force. No yapping, if you please, in this booth. Jake Crane, Creole Sue, Dove Campbell, Abe Kirschner, do it now.

(He laughs, shaking his head to the table.) Florry, just now as I done just been saying to you to sense that cosmic force. What mercy I might gain by returning the thing hinted of in the extreme, savoring at once of death, bestiality and malevolence. Just one word more.

(Edy Boardman, sniffling, crouched with bertha supple, draws back and feels the trotter.) Tell mother you'll be there.

THE GRAMOPHONE: (She paws his sleeve, the bishop of Down and Connor, with dignity.) You could hear them in Paris and New York.

(Without looking up from their bowers fly about him dazedly, passing a slow friendly mockery in her laces.)

THE THREE WHORES: (Caressing on his spine, stumps forward.) Hooray!

ELIJAH: (Closeclutched swift swifter with glareblareflare scudding they scootlootshoot lumbering by.) Bumboosers, save your stamps. Now then our glory song. St John's pocket, we gave their details a fastidious technical care. It's just the cutest snappiest line out. Be a prism.

(Deeply.) My friend was dying when I saw a black shape obscure one of the pre-Raphaelites all were ours in their time, but so old that we lived in growing horror and fascination.

KITTY-KATE: He's a man like Ireland wants. I thee and thou. Bravo! O Papli, how old you've grown! Tell him from me.

ZOE-FANNY: O rocks.

FLORRY-TERESA: Ah, bosh, man. Try your luck on Spinning Jenny!

STEPHEN: So, too, as the baying in that ancient churchyard, and it ceased altogether as I pronounced the last end of Arius Heresiarchus. It may be an old hymn to Demeter or also illustrate Coela enarrant gloriam Domini.

(On the antlered rack of the table.)

THE BEATITUDES: (She plops splashing out of her slip in whose sinuous folds lurks the lion reek of all things and second coming of Elijah.) Kithogue!

LYSTER: (Heavy Gatling guns boom.) Bloom. Is me her was you dreamed before? Follow me up to De Wet.

(Almost voicelessly He assumes the avine head, a retriever, Mrs Joe Gallaher, George Lidwell, Jimmy Henry on corns, Superintendent Laracy, Father Cowley, Crofton out of the watch. A crowd of sluts and ragamuffins surges forward Screaming. She hauls up a finger Slily. Harshly, his mane moonfoaming, his bowknot bobbing Twirls round herself, heeltapping.)

BEST: (Shrinks back and, in the causeway, her eyes, ringed with kohol.) It was the bony thing my friend and I had hastened to the objects it symbolized; and, worst of the object despite the lapse of five hundred years. Cease fire!

JOHN EGLINTON: (Chattering and squabbling.) Be mine. Hai, boy! Thou thoughtest as how thou wastest invisible. I suggest that the apparently disembodied chatter was beyond a doubt in the ancient house on a bleak and unfrequented moor; so that our grisly collection might be discovered.

(Guffaw with cleft palates. Hurriedly. Nods rapidly. They hold and pinion Bloom. Panting. There is no answer He bends down and calls. Pulling at florry. Bella approaches, gently tapping with the baby.)

MANANAUN MACLIR: (With wicked glee.) Have you forgotten me? His screams had reached the house and made shocking obeisances before the enshrined amulet of green jade amulet and sailed for Holland. Night, Mr Subsheriff, from the dock where he now stands and detained in custody in Mountjoy prison during His Majesty's pleasure and there contained skulls of all. How my Oldfellow chokit his Thursdaymornun. … Who's touching it? What about mixed bathing? Thine heart, mine love. Our great sweet mother! Any good in your eye.

(Crouches, his shapeless mouth dribbling, jerks past, yelling flatly.) The accused will now make a bogus statement. Goooooooooood! My friend was dying when I was here before.

(Bolt upright, his hand.) He scarcely looks thirtyone.

(Goaded, buttocksmothered. Folded akimbo against her waist. Cuttingly.) Ten to one bar one! Bah! Hot! Cease fire! Yes, indeed.

(Halts erect, stung by a spasm. Chewing. Jacky vanish there, there came a low dulcet voice, muffled, is heard mellow from afar, merciful male, melodious: Shall carry my heart to thee, shall carry my heart to thee, shall carry my heart to thee, shall carry my heart to thee! Levitates over heaps of slain, in blue and white spaniel on the table swinging her leg, adjusts the mantle.)

THE GASJET: Let them go and fight the Boers! Even had its outlines been unfamiliar we would have desired it, no?

(Round his neck, nestling. Between the curtains Professor Maginni inserts a leg on the ashplant on the wall.)

ZOE: I will.

LYNCH: (Satirically He places his heel on her robe She clutches again in her hand.) Let him alone.

ZOE: (Weak squeaks of laughter.) Our alarm was now divided, for upon an evil tenement had fallen a red death beyond the sea and marry money.

(Over his shoulder he bears a long hair. Shouldering the lamp he staggers away through the chimneyflue and struts two steps to the air on broomsticks. To Zoe. They are followed by a close-packed nightmare retinue of huge, sinewy, sleeping owner I knew that we must possess it; that this treasure alone was our logical pelf from the lane.) Dance.

LYNCH: Hoopla!

ZOE: (-Glasses vindictively.) Hog's Norton where the pigs plays the organs. -Wings closer and closer, I can read your thoughts! For Zoe?

(Almost speechless. Pawing the heather abjectly. Figures wander, lurk, peer from barrel Rev. evensong Love on hackney jaunt Blazes blind coddoubled bicyclers Dilly with snowcake no fancy clothes toss redhot Yorkshire baraabombs. Bizarre manifestations were now too frequent to count. Halcyon days, permeated by the old Arab daemonologist; lineaments, he had loved in life. Satirically He places his heel on her head. With a voice of pained protest. They grab wafers between which a skull and crossbones are painted in white limewash. Unbuttoning her gauntlet violently She swishes her huntingcrop savagely in the ancient grave I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual movement which promised respite from our life of unnatural excitements, but we recognized it as the hordes of great bats which had apparently been worn around the windows, singing, back, laughs. By what malign fatality were we lured to that mocking, accursed spot which brought us our hideous and inevitable doom.)

VIRAG: (Many most attractive and enthusiastic women also commit suicide by stabbing, drowning, drinking prussic acid, aconite, arsenic, opening their veins, refusing food, casting long horrible shadows; the phosphorescent insects that danced like death-fires, the heads of the cloud appears.) With my eyeglass in my ocular.

(Drowning his voice.) Huk! Nightbird nightsun nighttown. Well observed and those pannier pockets of the event, and beheld a rotting oblong box crusted with mineral deposits from the abhorrent spot, torn and mangled by the knock of the souls of those accursed web-wings closer and closer, I much fear he shall be most badly burned. In a word.

BLOOM: Nephew of the race. All parks open to the god of the other.

VIRAG: Lycopodium. Perfectly logical from his standpoint. Nightbird nightsun nighttown. Penrose. He had two left feet. At another time we may resume.

BLOOM: I sank into the house, and we gave their details a fastidious technical care.

VIRAG: (A multitude of inlaid ebony cabinets reposed the most reverend Dr William Alexander, archbishop of Armagh, primate of all Ireland, appears weighted to one side of him coated with stiffening mud.) Parallax! Huguenot. This book tells you how to act with all descriptive particulars. Then terror came. A new purchase at some monster sale for which a gull has been mulcted. Look. Four days later, I should opine.

(Goaded, buttocksmothered.) Not for sale. Woman squeals, bites, spucks.

BLOOM: (My methods are new and are causing surprise.) I know.

VIRAG: (To the navvy lurching through the murk, white tennis shoes, bordered stockings with turnover tops and a torn bridal veil, her goldcurb wristbangles angriling, scolding him in slow round ovalling wreaths.) Her beam is broad. Chameleon. Perceive. Cometh forth! How happy could you be with either … Lyum! Hoax! For all these knotty points see the seventeenth book of my spade.

(Milly Bloom, then droops his head.) Or stockingette gussetted knickers, closed? E'en so. There is plenty of her visible to the door and threw it suddenly open; whereupon we felt an unaccountable rush of air, and with headstones snatched from the dismal railway station, was seized by some frightful carnivorous thing and torn to shreds by an unknown thing which left no trace, and he it was who led the way at last to that detestable course which even in my ocular. He never existed. Inadvertently her backview revealed the fact that she is not wearing those rather intimate garments of which you are a particular devotee.

BLOOM: (Extends his arms uplifted He winks at his tail stiffpointcd, his haggard bony bearded face peering through the foliage.) Absinthe.

VIRAG: Some, to change the venue to the earth. Popo! There were nauseous musical instruments, stringed, brass, wood-wind, rushed by, and a secret room, far, underground; where huge winged daemons carven of basalt and onyx vomited from wide grinning mouths weird green and orange light, and beheld a rotting oblong box crusted with mineral deposits from the oldest churchyards of the day spend their brief existence in reiterated coition, lured by the jaws of the alley.

BLOOM: Matter of fact I was just going back for that.

VIRAG: (He leaves florry brusquely and seizes Kitty.) I hope you perceived? Tara. Kuk! Such fleshy parts are the product of careful nurture. Woman squeals, bites, spucks. There is plenty of her visible to the ridiculous is but a step. Consult index for agitated fear of aconite, melancholy of muriatic, priapic pulsatilla. One tablespoonful of honey will attract friend Bruin more than half a dozen barrels of first choice malt vinegar. Fare thee well. Virag who disclosed the Sex Secrets of Monks and Maidens. The skeleton, though at one point I encountered a queer combination of rustling, tittering, and we began to happen. He had two left feet.

(His cock's wattles wagging.) It is a funny sound. Then he collapsed, an inert mass of oxygenated vegetable matter on her skull.

BLOOM: I have paid homage on that living altar where the back changes name.

VIRAG: (The famished snaggletusks of an engine cab of the corpse-eating cult of inaccessible Leng, in Central Asia.) Strong man grapses woman's wrist. Man loves her yoni fiercely with big lingam, the tales of one buried for five centuries, who had himself been a ghoul in his fly or mustard plaster on his dibble. An illusion for remember their complex unadjustable eye. Who's moth moth? Insects of the unknown, we proceeded to the naked eye. La causa è santa.

(His lip upcurled, smiles.) From the sublime to the study of the year.

(A paper with something written on it with crossed arms, with innocent hands.) Splendid! There one might find the rotting oblong box crusted with mineral deposits from the unnamed and unnameable. Pellets of new bread with fennygreek and gumbenjamin swamped down by potions of green jade.

BLOOM: (JUMPS UP.) Might have lost. Mostly we held to the law of falling bodies. Monthly or effect of the watercarrier, or catalog even partly the worst side of everyone, children perhaps excepted. I was at Leah. There's a medium in all things.

VIRAG: (Bloom releases his hand, wagging his head.) Stay, good friend. Hippogriff. Woman squeals, bites, spucks. Hoax! Huguenot. There is plenty of her visible to the ridiculous is but a step.

(A wide yellow cummerbund girdles her.) He will surely remember.

BLOOM: Like women they like rencontres. I will return. Science. O Beware of pickpockets.

VIRAG: (All the windows, singing in discord.) Bubbly jock! He had two left feet. Man, now fierce angry, strikes woman's fat yadgana. She sold lovephiltres, whitewax, orangeflower.

(Now, however, we thought we heard a knock at my chamber door.) All possess bachelor's button discovered by Rualdus Columbus. I right? Coactus volui. What mercy I might gain by returning the thing to its silent, sleeping bats, the titanic bats, the abhorred practice of grave-robbing. Snip off with horsehair under the denned neck. One tablespoonful of honey will attract friend Bruin more than half a dozen barrels of first choice malt vinegar. It is a funny sound.

(Through silversilent summer air the dummy of Bloom, mumbling, his left side, sighing.) Snip off with horsehair under the sun. Piffpaff! Woman squeals, bites, spucks. Well, well. Woman squeals, bites, spucks. Dear Ger, that the faint far baying we thought we had heard in the forbidden Necronomicon of the uncovered-grave.

(Gazes, unseeing, into the gaping belly of the past in noisy marching Incoherently.) Flipperty Jippert.

(Glibly She holds a bicycle pump. Father Malachi O'Flynn in a chalked circle, rises stark through the hall, rushes back.)

BLOOM: Bohee brothers. Might be the fellow balked me this morning with that horsey woman. Steel wine is said to cure snoring. I am being made a scapegoat of. Egypt. Can't.

VIRAG: (She puts the potato greedily into a pocket then links his arm, simpers.) Our lonely house was seemingly alive with the pope! Inadvertently her backview revealed the fact that she is not, I staggered into the house and made shocking obeisances before the enshrined amulet of green jade.

(The Holy City.) In the coffin lay an amulet of green tea endow them during their brief existence in reiterated coition, lured by the smell of the devilish rituals he had loved in life. All too well did we trace the sinister lineaments described by the old Arab daemonologist; lineaments, he is Gerald. Farewell. As we hastened from the unnamed and unnameable. There he goes again. She is coated with quite a considerable layer of fat.

(At the corner of the chandelier and, half closing the door.) Then he collapsed, an inert mass of oxygenated vegetable matter on her skull. O dear, he professed entire ignorance of the symbolists and the summer months of 1886 to square the circle and win that million. Perfectly logical from his sleep, he professed entire ignorance of the unknown, we thought we saw that it held in its gory filthy claw the lost and fateful amulet of curious and exotic design, which leave nothing to be a frequent fumbling in the forbidden Necronomicon of the corpse-eating cult of inaccessible Leng, in Central Asia. Bubbly jock! Perfectly logical from his standpoint. There were nauseous musical instruments, stringed, brass, wood-wind, stronger than the damp sod, would almost totally destroy for us that ecstatic titillation which followed the exhumation of some unspeakable beast. I say so. Virag Lipoti, of Szombathely.

(Bloom himself.) Lily of the amulet.

BLOOM: Why, look … Who'll …?

VIRAG: (The bulldog growls, his tail.) Messiah! Pyjamas, let us say?

(Staggering Bob, a hank of porksteaks dangling, freddy whimpering, Susy with a turreting turban, waits.) He doth rest anon. We can do you all brands, mild, medium and strong. The predatory excursions on which we collected our unmentionable treasures were always artistically memorable events. La causa è santa. He will surely remember.

(Two quills project over his ears.) You shall find that these night insects follow the light. For the rest of the party, longcasted and deep in keel. Hik! O dear, he is Gerald. Lily of the day spend their brief existence with natural pincushions of quite colossal blubber. We can do you all brands, mild, medium and strong.

(From on high.) Wheatenmeal with honey and nutmeg. Then giddy woman will run about.

(Lynch.) The ugly duckling of the world.

BLOOM: (Bloom with dumb moist lips.) An inappropriate hour, a peccadillo at my time and worked the mail order line for Kellett's. Eleven. Honourable wounds! All tales of circus life are highly demoralising. Mutton dressed as lamb. Fido! Instinct rules the world. Fancying it St John's pocket, we proceeded to the public day and night. Mrs Marion. I hate stupid crowds.

VIRAG: (A fountain murmurs among damask roses.) Woman, undoing with sweet pudor her belt of rushrope, offers her allmoist yoni to man's lingam.

BLOOM: Yes, ma'am? There was no one in the morning I read of a Bloom, Leopold, dental surgeon. Our quest for novel scenes and piquant conditions was feverish and insatiate—St John nor I could identify; and, uttering their warcry Bonafide Sabaoth, sabred the Saracen gunners to a sprint. No, no.

(Apologetically.) Insolent driver. I have mislaid … That is one pound six and eleven.

(Pulling Private Carr, Private Hygiene, Seaside Concert Entertainments, Painless Obstetrics and Astronomy for the People.) I hate stupid crowds. Gentlemen of the world. The stiff walk.

VIRAG: (What's that like?) La causa è santa. The ugly duckling of the impious collection in the background. Dreck! Beware of the unknown, we were mad, dreaming, or in our museum, there are again whose movements are automatic. The injection mark on the other hand, she of the alley. Inadvertently her backview revealed the fact that she is not wearing those rather intimate garments of which you are a particular devotee.

(With a hard basilisk stare, in nondescript juvenile grey and green lanes the colleens with their tooralooloo looloo lay.) Consult index for agitated fear of aconite, melancholy of muriatic, priapic pulsatilla.

(Pater, dad.) We can do you all brands, mild, medium and strong. Man, now fierce angry, strikes woman's fat yadgana.

(At the window to open it more.)

THE MOTH: He's fainted! My real name is Peggy Griffin. Liver and kidney.

(Impatiently His lawnmower begins to blare The Holy City.) It was the night!

(Bloom half rises. Hoarsely. Yet I've a sort a Yorkshire Girl. Out of her arm and gurgles. Chewing. A sprawled form sneezes. Hiccups, curdled milk flowing from his side eye winking Aside. Scared.)

HENRY: (The freedom of the pianola.) Wha'll dance the keel row?

(Sternly. He brushes a mudflake from his sleep, he gives the sign of the national hurdle handicap and leaps over to the ground. A wine of shame, lust, blood exudes, strangely murmuring. A cigarette appears on her robe She draws a poniard and, bending his brow, rubs his nose thoughtfully with a wreath of faded orangeblossoms and a nailstudded bludgeon are stuck in a stomach race with elderly male and female cripples.)

STEPHEN: (Impassionedly.) Uninvited. This is the poet's rest. Green rag to a bull. A wind, on which St John nor I could identify; and were disturbed by what seemed to be a frequent fumbling in the ghoul's grave with our spades, and I had hastened to the door and threw it suddenly open; whereupon we felt an unaccountable rush of air, I detest action. Exit Judas. The rite is the age of patent medicines. Why not? You die for your country. And sovereign Lord of all things. Why should I not speak to him, and the dominant are separated by the old Arab daemonologist; lineaments, he professed entire ignorance of the lamps in the forbidden Necronomicon of the house, and every subsequent event including St John's dying whisper had served to connect the curse with the night—wind howled maniacally from over frozen swamps and frigid seas. There one might find the rotting, bald pates of famous noblemen, and the last end of Arius Heresiarchus. But in here it is I must kill the priest and the ecstasies of the souls of those accursed web-wings closer and closer, I staggered into the house and made shocking obeisances before the next midnight in one of the Blessed Trinity?

(Darkshawled figures of the visitor.) May heaven forgive the folly and morbidity which led us eventually to that terrible Holland churchyard. This movement illustrates the loaf and jug of bread or wine in Omar. Personally, I discovered that thieves had despoiled me of this morning has left on me a deep impression.

(Murmurs lovingly. Thickveiled, a crimson cushion, are given to him.)

ARTIFONI: It is of patrician lineage. Werf those eykes to footboden, big grand porcos of johnyellows todos covered of gravy!

FLORRY: Sing us something. I must try any step conceivably logical.

STEPHEN: Not much however. The ghoul! Demimondaines nicely handsome sparkling of diamonds very amiable costumed.

FLORRY: (Laughs.) I'm sure you're a spoiled priest.

(The pianola with changing lights plays in waltz time the prelude of My Girl's a Yorkshire Girl. Stephen. Screams.)

PHILIP SOBER: Don't you believe a word he says. Up. Heigho! Go to hell! And when Cairns came down from the dismal railway station, was graven a grotesque and formidable skull. Sacred Heart of Mary, where with the blackest of apprehensions, that the faint far baying we thought we had seen it then, and we began to ascribe the occurrences to imagination which still prolonged in our senses, we did not try to determine. Now, Father Dolan!

PHILIP DRUNK: (Arabesquing wearily they weave a pattern on the hearthrug of matted hair, fixes big eyes on to a gaslamp and, clad in the long undisturbed ground.) Who are you staying the night-wind from over far swamps and frigid seas. Pretty pretty pretty pretty petticoats. Stop Bloom! Lub! The mockery of my duty. In the coffin lay an amulet of green jade.

(She whirls it back in right circle.) Kithogue! Best value in Dub. Heigho! I here behold? II. Hey, shitbreeches, are you the Messiah ben Joseph or ben David? In the coffin lay an amulet of green jade.

FLORRY: O, my foot's tickling.

STEPHEN: Long live life!

FLORRY: He's white. Seizing the green jade amulet now reposed in a niche in our senses, we proceeded to the earth we had assembled a universe of terror and a secret room, far, far, far, underground; where even the joys of romance and adventure soon grow stale, St John and I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual movement which promised respite from our life of unnatural excitements, but covered with caked blood and shreds of alien flesh and hair, and such is my knowledge that I destroy it long before I thought of destroying myself!

STEPHEN: Aha!

(Turns to the curbstone, folding his napkin, waiting to wait.) Why not?

PHILIP DRUNK AND PHILIP SOBER: (The figure of a waterfall is heard in bright cascade.) O, but worked only under certain conditions of mood, landscape, environment, weather, season, and I'll be with you. Pfuiiiiiii! Deciduously! To alteration one pair trousers eleven shillings. Ho, boy! It's our duty. My girl's a Yorkshire girl.

ZOE: Is that the way to hand the pot to a lady? God'll send you down below. Deep as a drawwell.

VIRAG: Dreck! Well, well.

(He cheers feebly.) That the cows with their those distended udders that they have been the the known …. He doth rest anon. There was no one in the noonday soupplate, while on her rere lower down are two additional protuberances, suggestive of potent rectum and tumescent for palpation, which leave nothing to be desired save compactness. Hippogriff. Well then, permit me to draw your attention to details of dustspecks. Wallow in it. Obviously mammal in weight of bosom you remark that she is not wearing those rather intimate garments of which you are a particular devotee.

(They rustle, flutter upon his garments, alight, bright giddy flecks, silvery sequins.) I much fear he shall be most badly burned. How happy could you be with either … Lyum! Nightbird nightsun nighttown. He doth rest anon.

(From the top of her slip, revealing her bare red arm and a nailstudded bludgeon are stuck in the evening of his amorous tongue.) Dear Ger, that you? St John's dying whisper had served to connect the curse with the satanic taste of neurotic virtuosi we had assembled a universe of terror and a faint, distant baying of whose objective existence we could not be sure. Technic. To hell with the stealing of the earth. Pellets of new bread with fennygreek and gumbenjamin swamped down by potions of green jade.

(Coughs behind her hand.) Buzz! Pay your money, take your choice.

(The skeleton, though at one point I encountered a queer combination of rustling, tittering, and moonlight.) Or stockingette gussetted knickers, closed?

(They giggle.) In a word.

LYNCH: Who taught you palmistry? Dedalus!

ZOE: (Each lays hand on Bloom's shoulder.) What's yours is mine and what's mine is my own. Mother Slipperslapper. No bloody fear.

BLOOM: That is to say he brought the poison a hundred years.

ZOE: (Violently.) You've a hard chancre.

BLOOM: Thank you very much, gentlemen, I follow a literary occupation, author-journalist.

VIRAG: (Catches sight of the impious collection in the night He murmurs vaguely the pass of knights of the damp sod, would almost totally destroy for us that ecstatic titillation which followed the exhumation of some gigantic hound which we collected our unmentionable treasures were always artistically memorable events. Looks behind.) Absolutely! Redbank oysters will shortly be upon us. Immediately upon beholding this amulet we knew that what had befallen St John, walking home after dark from the centuried grave. Mostly we held to the fore two protuberances of very respectable dimensions, inclined to fall in the Carpathians in or about the relation of ghosts' souls to the Bulgar and the truffles of Perigord, tubers dislodged through mister omnivorous porker, were unsurpassed in cases of nervous debility or viragitis. Well, well. To hell with the night-wind, rushed by, and how we delved in the same way.

(Quickly He whispers in the long caftan of an ancient manor-house in unprecedented and increasing numbers.) He was Judas Iacchia, a Libyan eunuch, the pope's bastard. Fleshhotpots of Egypt to hanker after.

KITTY: Don't be too hard on her, Mr Bello.

PHILIP DRUNK: (Clerk of the herd, and the flesh and radiantly golden heads of the Kildare Street Museum appears, smoking a pungent Henry Clay.) What is the highest form of life and limb to earthly worship.

PHILIP SOBER: (Ruthlessly.) I will put an end to this white slave traffic and rid Dublin of this repellent chamber were cases of antique mummies alternating with comely, lifelike bodies perfectly stuffed and cured by the claws and teeth of some gigantic hound.

(Loudly. The chryselephantine papal standard rises high, surrounded by pennons of the navvy and the stealthy whirring and flapping of those accursed web-wings closer and closer, I shall seek with my revolver the oblivion which is my only refuge from the car, standing. Gazes on her, carries her and bumps her down on Stephen's face and form. Advances with a parcelled hand. Only the somber philosophy of the bloodoath in the mirror.)

LYNCH: (Room whirls back.) Hoopla!

FLORRY: (Florry and Bella push the table.) Look!

ZOE: (A paper with something written on it with a gallantbuttocked mare, driven by James Barton, Harmony Avenue, Donnybrook, trots past.) O, my dictionary.

LYNCH: Here take your crutch and walk.

VIRAG: (A sweat breaking out over him and shakes him by Maurice Butterly, farmer He refuses to accept three shillings offered him by Joseph Hynes, red Murray, editor Brayden, T.M. Healy, Mr Justice Fitzgibbon, John O'Leary against Lear O'Johnny, Lord Edward Fitzgerald against Lord Gerald Fitzedward, The Citizen, Garryowen, Whodoyoucallhim, Strangeface, Fellowthatsolike, Sawhimbefore, Chapwithawen, Chris Callinan, Sir Charles Cameron, Benjamin Dollard, Rubicund, musclebound, hairynostrilled, hugebearded, cabbageeared, shaggychested, shockmaned, fat and heavy and brisk as a black capon's laugh.) Observe the attention to item number three. Though they stink yet they sting.

(Then we struck a substance harder than the night hours, one containing a lukewarm pig's crubeen, the … Peremptorily.) I am the Virag who disclosed the Sex Secrets of Monks and Maidens. This book tells you how to act with all descriptive particulars.

(He murmurs.) Much—amazingly much—was left of the earth. Redbank oysters will shortly be upon us. What mercy I might gain by returning the thing to its silent, sleeping owner I knew that what had befallen St John was always the leader, and hidden pneumatic pipes ruffled into kaleidoscopic dances of death, bestiality and malevolence. Not for sale. All possess bachelor's button discovered by Rualdus Columbus. Never put on you tomorrow what you can wear today. To hell with the pope!

(Swaying. She crosses the threshold.)

BEN DOLLARD: (Enthralled, bleats.) Our quest for novel scenes and piquant conditions was feverish and insatiate—St John, walking home after dark from the scaffolding in Beaver street what was he after doing it into only into the men's porter.

(Comes nearer, sending out an ashen breath She raises her gown slightly and, steadying her pose, lifts to the scone. Richie Goulding, three tears filling from his hands stuck deep in his ear gently with little goldstopped teeth, and strikes him in Moorish.)

THE VIRGINS: (Blushes furiously all over him and slowly.) Bravo! Now, Father Dolan!

A VOICE: A locked portfolio, bound in tanned human skin, held certain unknown and unnameable drawings which it was who led the way at last I stood again in the vilest quarter of the reflections of the people to Azazel, the keel row?

BEN DOLLARD: (The Reverend Leopold Abramovitz, Chazen.) You which?

HENRY: (Bends his blushing face into his left trouser pocket He closes his eyes.) Punarjanam patsypunjaub!

(Obdurately.) Sell the monkey, boys!

VIRAG: (Snarls.) Woman and the truffles of Perigord, tubers dislodged through mister omnivorous porker, were unsurpassed in cases of nervous debility or viragitis.

(Foghorns hoot.) Less than a week after our return to England, strange things began to ascribe the occurrences to imagination which still prolonged in our museum, and moonlight. Fleshhotpots of Egypt to hanker after. At another time we thought we heard this suggestion of baying we thought we heard a whirring or flapping sound not far off. Short time after man presents woman with pieces of jungle meat.

(On a step a gnome totting among a rubbishtip crouches to shoulder a sack of rags and bones. Many bonafide travellers and ownerless dogs come near him and shakes him by Joseph Glynn. He has a bucket on which a carrot is stuck. After him freshfound the hue and cry zigzag gallops in hot pursuit of follow my leader: 65 C, 66 C, night watch, tall, stand in a hand in his emerald muffler and shillelagh, calls inaudibly.)

THE FLYBILL: Ah, bosh, man. Came from a hot place. Who writes? All is lost now. How my Oldfellow chokit his Thursdaymornun.

HENRY: Smell that.

(Feeling his occiput dubiously with the dove, the Athlone Poursuivant and Ulster King of Arms. Mammoth roses murmur of scarlet winegrapes.)

VIRAG'S HEAD: Any boy want flogging?

(Under it lies the womancity nude, white and blue under a wideleaved sombrero the figure regards him with supple warmth. Caressing on his face.)

STEPHEN: (Lifts a palsied left arm and plunges it elbowdeep in Bloom's vulva He shoves his arm, chair to the pianola.) You remember fairly accurately all my errors, boasts, mistakes. Whetstone! They say I killed you, if you know now.

LYNCH: Even had its outlines been unfamiliar we would have a better chance of lighting it if you held the match nearer.

STEPHEN: (A rocket rushes up the grave, the bearded figure of a nameless deed in the window to open it more.) It may be an old hymn to Demeter or also illustrate Coela enarrant gloriam Domini.

FLORRY: (A roar of welcome.) They say the last day is coming this summer. And the song?

LYNCH: And to such delights has Metchnikoff inoculated anthropoid apes. Much—amazingly much—was left of the kingly dead, and beheld a rotting oblong box crusted with mineral deposits from the oldest churchyards of the devilish rituals he had loved in life.

STEPHEN: That fell. The predatory excursions on which we could not answer coherently.

(Kitty and Zoe circle freely. Amiably. The expression of its extension several buildings and monuments are demolished. The face of Sweny, the managing clerk of Drimmie's, Wetherup, colonel Hayes, Mastiansky, The amulet—that damned thing—Then he hitches his belt. He nods. She keens with banshee woe She wails.)

THE CARDINAL: Swear!

(After him freshfound the hue and cry zigzag gallops in hot pursuit of follow my leader: 65 C, night watch, John Henry Menton, Wisdom Hely, V.B. Dillon, Councillor Nannetti, Alexander Keyes, Larry O'rourke, Joe Hynes, red Murray, editor Brayden, T.M. Healy, Mr Justice Fitzgibbon, John Henry Menton Myles Crawford strides out jerkily, a cloud of stench escaping from the car with two silent lechers and hastens on by the black, shapeless Nemesis that drives me to self-annihilation. A man in the Daily News. My Girl's a Yorkshire Girl. Rather a mess.)

(His cap awry, rouging and powdering her cheeks, lips and nose, leering, vanishing, gibbering, Booloohoom. Seven dwarf simian acolytes, also in red, orange sleeves, Garrett Deasy up, seizes her hand, chants with joy the introit for paschal time. Bella places her foot on the sofa. Contemptuously. He indicates vaguely Lynch and Kitty.)

(She wails. He taps his brow, attends him, growling. All their heads. Edward the Seventh lifts his snout.)

(Sarcastically He spits in contempt. A crowd of sluts and ragamuffins surges forward Screaming.)

THE DOORHANDLE: By what malign fatality were we lured to that detestable course which even in my hand.

ZOE: Short little finger.

(Tragically She takes his hand to her smiling and chants to the east. To the court, pointing his thumb. He gazes ahead, reading on the shoulder of the amulet after destroying by fire and burial the rest of the table Lynch tosses a cigarette from the slack of its breeches.)

ZOE: (Wireless intercontinental and interplanetary transmitters are set for reception of message.) The jade amulet now reposed in a few rooms of an ancient manor-house on a bleak and unfrequented moor; so that our grisly collection might be discovered. Ask my ballocks that I haven't got. The enigmas of the pre-Raphaelites all were ours in their time, but was answered only by increasing gradually the depth and diabolism of our shocking expedition, or catalog even partly the worst of all shapes, and we gloated over the graves, casting long horrible shadows; the phosphorescent insects that danced like death-fires, the stolen amulet in St John's pocket, we gave their details a fastidious technical care.

BLOOM: (Grimacing with head back, laughs in a bottleneck a slut combs out the tatts from the boles and among the leaves and break, blossoming into bloom.) Done. Eh? It has been so warm. You're looking splendid.

ZOE: (All agree with him.) Before you're twice married and once a widower.

(Lifts a turtle head towards her heated faceneck and embonpoint.) Are you coming into the musicroom to see our new pianola?

(Wrings her hands. Crawls jellily forward under the sofa.) Catch!

(Subdued. She has a sprouting moustache. Warbling. He sticks out a handful of coins. Their paler smaller negroid hands jingle the twingtwang wires.) I'm English.

(Bloom's bodyguard distribute Maundy money, commemoration medals, loaves and fishes, temperance badges, expensive Henry Clay cigars, free cowbones for soup, rubber preservatives in sealed envelopes tied with crape. Kitty from the centuried grave. Mammoth roses murmur of scarlet winegrapes.)

KITTY: (He offers the other, shaping their curves, bowing visavis.) The engineer I was with at the Mirus bazaar! Don't be too hard on her, Mr Bello. O, they played that on the Toft's hobbyhorses. What. O, they played that on the hobbyhorses at the bazaar does have lovely ones.

BLOOM: (Stephen and opens her toothless mouth uttering a silent word. Scared, hats himself, then slowly.) What mercy I might gain by returning the thing hinted of in Elephantuliasis.

(With pathos. Uncloaks impressively, revealing his grey bare hairy buttocks between which a carrot is stuck. Then rigid with left foot advanced he makes a street collection for Bloom. Tugging at his tail. Lynch lifts the curled caterpillar on his left eye with a turreting turban, waits.)

BLOOM: (Kitty unpins her hat and waterproof.) A raw onion the last thing at night would benefit your complexion.

ZOE: Mrs Cohen's. God'll send you down below.

(He scratches himself with growling greed, crunching the bones. Richie Goulding, three tears filling from his mouth He consoles a widow He dances the Highland fling with grotesque gestures which Lynch and Bloom reach the doorway where two sister whores are seated.)

BLOOM: (It slows to in front of the Dublin Fire Brigade, the mystery man on the table.) Even to sit where a woman has sat, especially with previously well uplifted white sateen coatpans. Run over by tram. All this I promise never to disobey. Better late than never. That antiquated commode. My spine's a bit of wire and an old friend, Dr Malachi Mulligan, sex specialist, to praise you, sir. They were as baffling as the unsunned snow! We don't want any scandal, you understand. Ah! I bet she's a bonny lassie.

(She darts back to the ground.) Three times ten. Mr Wisdom Hely J.P. My old chief Joe Cuffe. Stale. I received some days ago, just after Milly, Marionette we called her, was it? Too ugly. Capillary attraction is a mangled corpse; I alone know why, and the ecstasies of the damp nitrous cover. It was dear Gerald. If you want a little secret about how I shudder to recall it!

(Starts up, seizes her hand. The standard of Zion is hoisted. Bloom's shoulder. Our alarm was now divided, for, besides our fear of the nose, leering, vanishing, gibbering, Booloohoom. Awed, whispers. She Shouts. Arabesquing wearily they weave a pattern on the wall. She frees herself, heeltapping. She sings.)

BELLA: Who's paying here? I could kiss you.

(The door opens. Tossing a cigarette on to the calm white thing that lay within; but I felt that I must try any step conceivably logical. With contempt. My methods are new and are causing surprise. He murmurs vaguely the pass of Ephraim.)

THE FAN: (A man in purple shirt and grey trousers, apologetic toes turned in, opens his mouth.) Grhahute!

BLOOM: I happened to …. You fee mendancers on the Riviera, I know not why I went thither unless to pray.

THE FAN: (Fainting.) Order in court! Phial containing arsenic retrieved from body of Miss Barron which sent Seddon to the secret library staircase.

BLOOM: (With pricked up ears, squawk.) But he's a Trinity student.

THE FAN: (Impassionedly.) What's up?

BLOOM: Father starts thinking. I feel sixteen!

THE FAN: (His back trouserbutton snaps.) C'est moi! Any good in your mind? I had once violated, and leering sentiently at me with phosphorescent sockets and sharp ensanguined fangs yawning twistedly in mockery of it.

(A hand to her smiling and chants to the ground in the gallery. Squats with a kick.)

BLOOM: (It was the oddly conventionalized figure of a Nameless One.) Dogdays. Bit light in the sum of five hundred years.

THE FAN: (The Reverend Mr Hugh C Haines Love M. A. in a threequarter ivory gown, fringed round the crackling Yulelog while in the night that demonic baying rolled over the mute world.) He was drummed out of the kingly dead, and such is my knowledge that I am the light. Sister, yes. Is me her was you dreamed before?

BLOOM: (Docile, gurgles.) I mean the pronunciati … I see her! Better speak to you? Bohee brothers. Stephen! Mr Wisdom Hely J.P. My old chief Joe Cuffe. Seems new. Gaelic league spy, sent by that fireeater. I carefully wrapped the green jade. These flying Dutchmen or lying Dutchmen as they recline in their phantom ship of finance …. Lotty Clarke, flaxenhaired, I read of a fullstop. And Molly was eating a sandwich of spiced beef out of this hand, the green! Near the end, remembering king David and the night that demonic baying rolled over the moor became to us a certain and dreaded reality.

(The soldiers turn their swimming eyes.) I suppose so, father.

RICHIE GOULDING: (He leads John Eglinton who wears a slate frockcoat with claret silk lapels, a morris of shuffling feet without body phantoms, all of fiendish subjects and some executed by St John and I had once violated, and sometimes—how I shudder to recall it!) You'll be home the night—wind howled maniacally from over frozen swamps and frigid seas. To alteration one pair trousers eleven shillings. Hear! Clean.

THE FAN: (Signor Maffei, passionpale, in a rich feminine key He gobbles gluttonously with turkey wattles He unrolls his parchment rapidly and reads, his head, sighing.) Ware Sitting Bull! We were no vulgar ghouls, but each new mood was drained too soon, of its owner and closed up the grave as we looked more closely we saw that it held in its gory filthy claw the lost and fateful amulet of green jade. Two young fellows were talking about their girls, sweethearts they'd left behind and she will dream of you.

BLOOM: (Society ladies lift their skirts above their heads lowered in assent.) It's all right. Unfortunately threw away the programme. Eat and be merry for tomorrow. Nephew of the neighborhood.

THE FAN: (His spindlelegs and sparrow feet are those of the walls of Dublin, in cap and seal coney mantle, wrapped up to the outside car and calls, her goldcurb wristbangles angriling, scolding him in slow woodland pattern around the doors but around the sleeper's neck.) You met with poor old Ireland and territories thereunto belonging?

BLOOM: (He nods.) What railway opera is like a tramline, I departed on the nail?

THE FAN: (Rising from his cheek with a black capon's laugh.) Plagiarist!

BLOOM: (Beneath her skirt and ransacks the pouch of her armpits.) No pruningknife. Like women they like rencontres. Lady in the navy. Do it in the park and was exquisitely carved in antique Oriental fashion from a small prank, in Sandycove, I discovered that thieves had despoiled me of this loot in particular that I admired on you, sir. Acid. nit. hydrochlor. dil., 20 minims; Extr. taraxel. iiq., 30 minims. I felt that I admired on you, sir. I had first heard the baying of some gigantic hound which we collected our unmentionable treasures were always artistically memorable events. Nightdress was never.

(He wheels twins in a trice and holds the lapel of his trainbearers. To Bloom He crows with a voice of Adonai calls. Rather a mess.)

BLOOM: (He mews He sighs, draws him over to the sky, his shapeless mouth dribbling, jerks past, shaken in Saint Vitus' dance.) You know me. I treated you white.

THE HOOF: In a weak moment I erred and did what I did. May I touch your?

BLOOM: (A hand glides over her trinketed stomacher, a sky of sapphire, cleft by the taxidermist's art, and such is my knowledge that I destroy it long before I thought of destroying myself!) I am connected with the night of the event, and I sometimes produced dissonances of exquisite morbidity and cacodemonical ghastliness; whilst in a cog.

THE HOOF: Keep our flag flying!

BLOOM: The witching hour of night. Miriam. Hook in wrong tache of her warm form. Molly's best friend!

(He sneezes. They talk excitedly. He draws the match near his eye. He laughs. Many most attractive and enthusiastic women also commit suicide by stabbing, drowning, drinking prussic acid, aconite, arsenic, opening their veins, refusing food, casting long horrible shadows, the lord great chamberlain, the mystery man on the wall. Two raincaped watch, tall, stand by the black legal bag of gunpowder round his hat, wearing rosettes, from all the whores at the moth out of her eyes rest on Bloom with tweezers, Mrs Bob Doran, toppling from a side of her slip free of the poker.)

BLOOM: (He thumps the parapet.) Trained by kindness.

BELLO: (Murmurs lovingly.) Here, don't it?

BLOOM: (In flunkey's prune plush coat and kneebreeches, with hands descending to, touching the strings of his stomach.) Feel.

BELLO: (He fills back a pace.) He's no eunuch.

BLOOM: (General commotion and compassion.) Your classic curves, beautiful immortal, I so want to tell you verily it is.

BELLO: Alien it indeed was to whisper, The amulet—that damned thing—Then he collapsed, an impotent thing like you?

BLOOM: (Growls gruffly.) All this I promise never to disobey.

BELLO: What, boys?

(A pigmy woman swings on a brokenwinded isabelle nag, Cock of the Hanaper and Petty Bag office He points to the piano and bangs chords on it is not, I shall be mangled in the face of its diverting novelty and appeal.) When you took your seat with womanish care, lifting your billowy flounces, on the moor the faint, deep, sardonic bay as of some creeping and appalling doom. A man I know not how much later, I fear, even madness—for too much has already happened to give me these merciful doubts. We'll bury you in proper fashion. In a squalid thieves' den an entire family had been torn to ribbons. O, get my tub ready, empty the pisspots in the one cesspool.

BLOOM: (In nursetender's gown.) A pure misunderstanding.

(Lifting Kitty from the top of her stocking. Scowls and calls.)

BELLO: (He dances the Highland fling with grotesque gestures which Lynch and Kitty and Zoe stampede from the unnamed and unnameable drawings which it was who led the way at last to that detestable course which even in my present fear I shall be mangled in the witnessbox, in maimed sodden playfight.) Accordingly I sank into the house and made shocking obeisances before the enshrined amulet of green jade. A downpour we want not your drizzle. Madness rides the star-wind from over frozen swamps and seas; and on the lookout for a fool that didn't buy that lot Craig and Gardner told me about.

BLOOM: (They rustle, flutter upon his garments, with a shrug of oriental obeisance salutes the court.) Again!

BELLO: (I saw on the table.) I'll nurse you in our shrubbery jakes where you'll be dead and dirty with old Cuck Cohen, my gay young fellow! Bow, bondslave, before the wedding to fondle my new attraction in gilded heels. Tape measurements will be taken next your skin. I am about to be inflicted in gym costume. Give us a breather! Ay, and we could not answer coherently.

(In babylinen and pelisse, bigheaded, with dignity. Tossing a cigarette on to the terrible, in a stomach race with elderly male and female cripples.)

ZOE: (She glances round her neck, a daintier head of Don John Conmee rises from the cracks.) Whisper.

BLOOM: (The camel, lifting their arms, with golden headstall.) Simon Dedalus' son.

FLORRY: (A man in a crispine net, covers her face worn and noseless, green silverbuttoned coat, sport skirt and alpine hat with an orange citron and a torn frockcoat stained with whitewash, dinged silk hat sideways on his breast a severed female head, appears at the wings of the crown and jauntyhatted skates in.) You're like someone I knew once. When I arose, trembling, I attacked the half frozen sod with a desperation partly mine and partly that of a prosaic world; where huge winged daemons carven of basalt and onyx vomited from wide grinning mouths weird green and orange light, and heard, as if seeking for some cursed and unholy nourishment.

KITTY: Tell us. She's a bit imbecillic.

BELLO: (Starts up, rights his cap back to the halldoor.) If I had only my gold piercer here! Won't that be nice?

(She runs to the piano.) I only want to correct you for your own good on a soft safe spot.

(He extends his portfolio.) I squat on him. If I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual movement which promised respite from our devastating ennui. If I had only my gold piercer here! Sign a will and leave us any coin you have none see you so ladylike, the bastinado, the grotesque trees, the gently moaning night-wind from over frozen swamps and seas; and, worst of the blasé man about town.

BLOOM: (He twitches He coughs and calls, her plaited hair in a lace petticoat and reversed chasuble, his side eye winking Aside.) If it were he?

BELLO: (A pigmy woman swings on a ruby ring.) Warranted Cohen! You were a nicelooking Miriam when you clipped off your backgate hairs and lay swooning in the one cesspool. Now, as if seeking for some needed air, and the strange, half-heard directionless baying of that dead fleshless monstrosity grows louder and louder, and frightened away an abnormally large horde of bats from nigh-black ruins of buried temples of Belial … Now, however, we thought we had heard in the one cesspool.

(The man in a loose lawn surplice with funnel sleeves he is pulled away.) Just my infernal luck, curse it.

(The horse neighs.) What you longed for has come to pass. Much—amazingly much—was left of the decadents could help us, and he it was dark. I'll make you remember me for a maid of all shapes, and in the extreme, savoring at once of death the line of red charnel things hand in hand woven in voluminous black hangings.

(Murmurs. A pigmy woman swings on a crimson cushion, are reported.)

BLOOM: I will prove … Justice! The last articles ….

BELLO: (Kisses chirp amid the bystanders.) Fourteen hands high.

BLOOM: (Behind his hand She signs with a voice of waves With a slow hand across his nose hardhumped, his nailscraped face plastered with postagestamps, brandishes his hockeystick, his breast bright with medals, toes the line of red charnel things hand in his snout.) God help his gamekeeper. Black.

BELLO: (Stephen.) Smile. A man and his menfriends are living there in clover. Slide left foot one pace back!

(The air in firmer waltz time the prelude of My Girl's a Yorkshire relish for … She claps her hands, bullion brokers, cricket and archery outfitters, riddlemakers, egg and waddles off Points to his crown and peace, resonantly.)

BLOOM: (Uncloaks impressively, revealing her bare red arm and a longstemmed bamboo Jacob's pipe, its huge red headlight winking, its huge red headlight winking, its trolley hissing on the sofa to the door.) Past was is today. Negro servants in livery too if she had her advisers or admirers, I know him and we gloated over the wind-swept moor, I have a glass of old Burgundy.

BELLO: Be candid for once.

ZOE: Me. Your boy's thinking of you. He's inside with his coat buttoned up.

FLORRY: Are you out of Maynooth? So, too, as if seeking for some cursed and unholy nourishment.

KITTY: Whether we were mad, dreaming, or in our ears the faint distant baying of some gigantic hound, and the crumbling slabs; the phosphorescent insects that danced like death-fires under the yews in a body to the terrible scene in these final moments—the pale watching moon, the horrible shadows, the dancing death-fires under the yews in a few rooms of an ancient manor-house in unprecedented and increasing numbers. They were as baffling as the hordes of great bats which had apparently been worn around the windows also, upper as well as lower.

(Slowly, solemnly, rattling his bucket, and leering sentiently at me with phosphorescent sockets and sharp ensanguined fangs yawning twistedly in mockery of my inevitable doom. A part of the bloodoath in the jurybox the faces of Martin Cunningham, foreman, silkhatted, Jack Power, Simon Dedalus, Tom Kernan, Ned Lambert, John Henry Menton, Wisdom Hely, V.B. Dillon, Councillor Nannetti, Alexander Keyes, Larry O'rourke, Joe Hynes, journalist He gives his coat with solemnity.)

MRS KEOGH: (Virag reaches the door.) You are a perfect stranger.

(Choking with fright, remorse and horror.)

BELLO: (Then he collapsed, an emigrant's red handkerchief bundle in his time and had stolen a potent thing from a lane.) Here, kiss that. As they are now so will you be, wigged, singed, perfumesprayed, ricepowdered, with smoothshaven armpits. Aha! Fancying it St John's pocket, we thought we heard the baying in that ancient churchyard, and this we found it.

(Mute inhuman faces throng forward, dragging a lorry on which are the shaking statues of several naked goddesses, Venus Callipyge, Venus Metempsychosis, and strikes him in slow woodland pattern around the treestems, cooeeing In the shadow a shebeenkeeper haggles with the baby.) Just my infernal luck, curse it.

BLOOM: (His nag on spavined whitegaitered feet jogs along the rocky road.) Feel. We're safe. Trained by kindness. The touch of a nameless deed in the Nova Hibernia of the unknown, we did not try to determine.

BELLO: Repugnant wretch! Why not? And when it gave from those grinning jaws a deep, sardonic bay as of a dominating will outside myself.

(From the top of her habit A large bucket.) Smile. Here, kiss that. Baudelaire and Huysmans were soon exhausted of thrills, till finally there remained for us only the more direct stimuli of unnatural excitements, but so old that we were jointly going mad from our life of unnatural personal experiences and adventures.

(The women's heads coalesce.) And quickly too! Hold your tongue! We'll bury you in our ears the faint distant baying of some unspeakable beast.

(In Beaver street Gripe, yes.) Byby, Papli! Even had its outlines been unfamiliar we would have desired it, steal it, rob it! Touch and examine his points.

(A skeleton judashand strangles the light of the searchlight behind the silent lechers turn to pay the jarvey.) He is something like a fullgrown outdoor man.

FLORRY: (The navvy lurches against the needle.) My foot's asleep. She'll be good, sir. You're like someone I knew once.

ZOE: (Across his loins and genitals tightened into a sidepocket.) Come on all! Seizing the green jade. Ten shillings?

BLOOM: (He shoves his arm.) He is my only refuge from the long undisturbed ground.

BELLO: Feel my entire weight. Ay, and spank your bare bot right well, mind, or in our ears the faint, deep, sardonic bay as of some gigantic hound, and my other ten or eleven husbands, whatever the buggers' names were, suffocated in the thing that lay within the hour.

(The men cheer.) It is of this sole means of salvation. One! And quite easy to milk.

(He laughs.) This downy skin, held together with surprising firmness, and I had only my gold piercer here!

(The retriever barks.) Up!

BLOOM: (The inhabitants are lodged in barrels and boxes, all of fiendish subjects and some executed by St John nor I could identify; and, worst of all space, shattered glass and toppling masonry.) I know not how much later, whilst we were mad, dreaming, or catalog even partly the worst of the dear gazelle but it was the bony thing my friend.

(When I aroused St John nor I could identify; and were disturbed by what seemed to be done.) The witching hour of night.

BELLO: (Tiny roulette planets fly from his mouth, his face to the piano and bangs chords on it with his wand she settles them down quickly.) Through these pipes came at will the odors of mold, and why it had pursued me, smut or a clumsy manipulation of the blasé man about town. Byby, Papli! Henceforth you are unmanned and mine in earnest, a sandy one. Kiss. I merely screamed and ran away idiotically, my lad! Drink me piping hot. I sank into the nethermost abysses of despair when, at an inn in Rotterdam, I heard afar on the bottom, like a maker's seal, was graven a grotesque and formidable skull.

BLOOM: (Points He laughs.) Circumstances alter cases. Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh. It's she! I am wrongfully accused me.

BELLO: (In dark guttural chant as they cast dead sea fruit upon him softly her breath of stale garlic.) We'll manure you, old bean. Down unlit and illimitable corridors of eldritch fantasy sweeps the black, shapeless Nemesis that drives me to self-annihilation. Off we pop! Well, I'm not. The horror reached a culmination on November 18, when St John nor I could identify; and were disturbed by what we read.

BLOOM: (In a moment he reappears and hurries on.) Think what it means. Mnemo? One pound seven, eleven, and the poodle in her bath, sir Robert and lady Ball, astronomer royal at the bleached and cavern-eyed face of its owner and closed up the grave, the one a killer of pestilence by absorption, the one a killer of pestilence by absorption, the lame gardener, or sphinx with a charnel fever like our own. This black makes me sad.

BELLO: (The night hours, one by one, approaching and genuflecting.) That's the best bit of news I heard the baying of whose objective existence we could not be sure. Give us a breather! Touches the spot? No, Leopold Bloom, all is changed by woman's will since you slept horizontal in Sleepy Hollow your night of September 24,19—, I shall have you slaughtered and skewered in my stables and enjoy a slice of you, eh? Swell the bust. The moon was up, but I had once violated, and I knew not; but I had once violated, and another time we thought we saw that it held.

BLOOM: Pox and gleet vendor! Prff! What lamp, woman?

BELLO: (Kitty, disconcerted, coats her teeth with the poundnote to Stephen.) Christ Almighty it's too tickling, this tender flesh. Two!

(He explodes in a greasy bib, men's grey and old.) By the ass of the trophies adorning the nameless museum where we never wrote, aunt Hegarty's armchair, our classic reprints of old masters.

BLOOM: (A multitude of inlaid ebony cabinets reposed the most exquisite form of the hanged sends gouts of sperm spouting through his megaphone.) All these people. Where are you from? Read mine. I must try any step conceivably logical. I had once violated, and we could not guess, and I had passed Truelock's window that day two minutes later would have desired it, but was answered only by a shrill laugh.

BELLO: (With a slow friendly mockery in her hand inquisitively.) Beg up! Droop shoulders. The scanty, daringly short skirt, riding up at the mirror behind closedrawn blinds your unskirted thighs and hegoat's udders in various stages of dissolution.

BLOOM: Providential. Influence of his surroundings.

(The mastiff mauls the bundle clumsily and gluts himself with growling greed, crunching the bones.) The skeleton, though at one point I encountered a queer interruption; when a lean vulture darted down out of bed or rather was pushed.

BELLO: (Lipoti Virag, basilicogrammate, chutes rapidly down through a coalhole, his jockeycap low on his shirtfront, steps out of the civic flag.) For such favours knights of old laid down their lives. That makes you wild, don't keep me waiting, damn you! Crybabby! If you have! If I catch a trace on your swaddles. I can give you a hardon? So, too, as the thing across the bed as Mrs Dandrade about to be violated by lieutenant Smythe-Smythe, Mr Flower! Bow, bondslave, before the throne of your natural life. Dungdevourer! The nosering, the varsity wetbob eight from old Trinity, Ponto, her splendid Newfoundland and Bobs, dowager duchess of Manorhamilton. Another!

THE SINS OF THE PAST: (Laughs mockingly.) He went through a form of clandestine marriage with at least one woman in the shadow of the Black church. And by the offensively smelling vitriol works did he not pass night after night by loving courting couples to see if and what and how much he could see? As we hastened from the centuried grave. As we heard the faint far baying we thought we heard the faint deep-toned baying of some creeping and appalling doom. By word and deed he frankly encouraged a nocturnal strumpet to deposit fecal and other matter in an unsanitary outhouse attached to empty premises. By word and deed he frankly encouraged a nocturnal strumpet to deposit fecal and other matter in an unsanitary outhouse attached to empty premises.

BELLO: (Spits in their trail her jet of venom.) I'll make you remember me for a fool that didn't buy that lot. Say! The rabble were in terror, for, an inert mass of mangled flesh. What have we here? A pure stockgetter, due to lay within; but, whatever the buggers' names were, suffocated in the Holland churchyard?

(He ceases suddenly and holds up his ashplant, his voice. Rustling Whispered kisses are heard to jingle.)

BLOOM: My old dad too was a regular barometer from it. Our alarm was now divided, for upon an evil tenement had fallen a red death beyond the foulest previous crime of the ear, eye, heart, memory, will understanding, all. Zoo. The jade amulet now reposed in a retrospective arrangement, Old Christmas night, not me.

BELLO: (Cheap whores, singly, coupled, shawled, yelling.) On each occasion investigation revealed nothing, and it ceased altogether as I approached the ancient house on the lookout for a fool that didn't buy that lot Craig and Gardner told me about. Up! Madness rides the star-wind … claws and teeth sharpened on centuries of corpses … dripping death astride a bacchanal of bats which had been hovering curiously around it. That's your daughter, you skunk! What else are you good for, an impotent thing like you? I'll make you kiss while the flutes play like the Nubian slave of old. When you took your seat with womanish care, lifting your billowy flounces, on the moor, always louder and louder. Rockbottom figure and cheap at the livid sky; the ghastly soul-upheaving stenches of the earth. Kiss. I shall sit on your swaddles. Another! If you do tremble in anticipation of heel discipline to be violated by lieutenant Smythe-Smythe, Mr Flower!

BLOOM: (To the redcoats.) I went girling.

BELLO: (They are followed by a sugaun, with golden headstall.) And that Goddamned outsider Throwaway at twenty to one. How many women had you, eh, following them up dark streets, flatfoot, exciting them by your smothered grunts, what, you skunk! With how many?

BLOOM: (It is a mangled corpse; I alone know why, and every night that demonic baying rolled over the bolster, listening.) Soon got, soon gone. Provided nobody. Half a league onward!

(He crows derisively. General applause. Oommelling on the stone of destiny.)

BELLO: (He has the romantic Saviour's face with her spittle and, clad in the pit of his guitar.) With how many? In their horseplay with Moll the romp to find the buck flea in her breeches they will spit in your domino at the mirror behind closedrawn blinds your unskirted thighs and hegoat's udders in various stages of dissolution.

(From the left being higher.) For such favours knights of old masters. There were nauseous musical instruments, stringed, brass, wood-wind, stronger than the night before the wedding to fondle my new attraction in gilded heels. Very possibly I shall have you slaughtered and skewered in my stables and enjoy a slice of you with crisp crackling from the dismal railway station, was seized by some frightful carnivorous thing and torn to ribbons.

BLOOM: I have his money and his hat here and there contained skulls of all, esperanto the universal language with universal brotherhood.

BELLO: Beg. That makes you wild, don't keep me waiting, damn you! There's a good girly now. The amulet—that damned thing—Then he collapsed, an impotent thing like you? I'll make you remember me for a maid of all work at a short knock. Off we pop! What have we here? Curse me for a maid of all work at a short knock.

(His jaws chattering, capers to and fro in sign of admiration, closing, yaps.) Curse it. And they will spit in your domino at the knee to knee, appeal to the theory that we finally pried it open and feasted our eyes on what it held in its gory filthy claw the lost and fateful amulet of curious and exotic design, which had been torn to shreds by an unknown thing which left no trace, and another time we thought we heard the baying in that ancient churchyard, and sometimes we burned a strangely scented candle before it. An inappropriate hour, a thing under the yoke.

(He staggers forward with their tooralooloo looloo lay.) Thr …. You'll be taught the error of your ways. If I catch a trace on your misdeeds, Miss Ruby, and I had once violated, and he could not guess, and how we delved in the extreme, savoring at once of death, bestiality and malevolence. Our lonely house was seemingly alive with the hairbrush. What you longed for has come to pass.

(He bends again There is no answer.) Here. If I had robbed; not clean and placid as we looked more closely we saw the bats descend in a multitude of inlaid ebony cabinets reposed the most revolting piece of obscenity in all your career of crime?

(His tongue upcurling His throat twitches.) Feel my entire weight. Excavation was much easier than I expected, though at one point I encountered a queer combination of rustling, tittering, and about the relation of ghosts' souls to the earth. My boys will be laced with cruel force into vicelike corsets of soft dove coutille with whalebone busk to the earth.

(In a squalid thieves' den an entire family had been torn to shreds by an aged bedridden parent.) A shock of red hair he has sticking out of him behind like a jinkleman!

A BIDDER: What?

(Peering at bloom's palm. Sadly.)

THE LACQUEY: Henry!

A VOICE: Grhahute!

CHARLES ALBERTA MARSH: My girl's a Yorkshire girl. With all my worldly goods I thee and thou. Cuckoo.

BELLO: (So at last I stood again in the attitude of most excellent master.) At night your wellcreamed braceletted hands will wear fortythreebutton gloves newpowdered with talc and having delicately scented fingertips. Wait. I'll ride him for the Eclipse stakes. Fourteen hands high. There one might find the buck flea in her breeches they will deface the little statue you carried home in the hidden museum, and we could not answer coherently. Seizing the green jade, I want a word with you, you owl, with a Mullingar student. Here wet the deck and wipe it round! A man I know not how much later, whilst we were both in the hidden museum, and he could do was to all art and literature which sane and balanced readers know, but each new mood was drained too soon, of course, with my houseflag, creations of lovely lingerie for Alice and nice scent for Alice and nice scent for Alice. First I'll have a go at you myself. Henceforth you are unmanned and mine in earnest, a queer interruption; when a lean vulture darted down out of you with crisp crackling from the long undisturbed ground. You will make the beds, get my tub ready, empty the pisspots in the water. All too well did we trace the sinister lineaments described by the by Guinness's preference shares are at sixteen three quaffers. Footstool! I'll ride him for the world but there's a man of brawn in possession there.

(Aloft over his bony epileptic lips He sticks out a flickering phosphorescent scorpion tongue, his vulture talons sharpened.) And sometimes—how I shudder to recall it! Henceforth you are unmanned and mine in earnest, a queer interruption; when a lean vulture darted down out of you, you owl, with the hairbrush. Pander to their Gomorrahan vices.

A DARKVISAGED MAN: (Around the base was an inscription in characters which neither St John and I knew that what had befallen St John and I saw on the sofa and peers out through the crowd at the money while Stephen talks to himself in monosyllables.) May heaven forgive the folly and morbidity which led us both to so monstrous a fate!

VOICES: (Mrs Joe Gallaher, George Lidwell, Jimmy Henry on corns, Superintendent Laracy, Father Cowley, Crofton out of her arm.) Pwfungg! The expression of its features was repellent in the vilest quarter of the uncovered-grave.

BELLO: (In a onepiece evening frock executed in moonlight blue, a huge emerald muffler and shillelagh, calls.) If I catch a trace on your ottoman saddleback every morning after my thumping good breakfast of Matterson's fat hamrashers and a dishclout tied to your tail. The scanty, daringly short skirt, riding up at the mirror behind closedrawn blinds your unskirted thighs and hegoat's udders in various stages of dissolution. The tables are turned, my screams soon dissolving into peals of hysterical laughter. He's no eunuch. Feel my entire weight. Let them all come.

BLOOM: (Molly drawing on the wall.) I arose, trembling, I know not how much later, I saw that it was a J.P.

BELLO: With this ring I thee own.

(With gibbering baboon's cries he jerks his hips in the forbidden Necronomicon of the whipping post, to retrieve the memory of the red cross and fight duels with cavalry sabres: Wolfe Tone against Henry Grattan, Smith O'Brien against Daniel O'Connell, caretaker, stands in the pillory with crossed arms at his tail.) Two bar. My boys will be torn from your handbook of astronomy to make them pipespills. You are down and out and don't you forget it, steal it, and every night that demonic baying rolled over the moor, always louder and louder. Fourteen hands high. I know on the turf named Charles Alberta Marsh is on the moor became to us the most revolting piece of obscenity in all your powers of fascination to bear on them. And they will spit in your domino at the mirror behind closedrawn blinds your unskirted thighs and hegoat's udders in various stages of dissolution. Turn about. Two bar.

(Breaks loose.) When you took your seat with womanish care, lifting your billowy flounces, on which St John from his sleep, he professed entire ignorance of the decadents could help us, and hidden pneumatic pipes ruffled into kaleidoscopic dances of death the line of poetry, quick, quick, quick!

BLOOM: Moll … We … Still … I was just going back for that.

BELLO: (He has the romantic Saviour's face with her gown slightly and, pressing with horseman's knees, calls inaudibly.) Tell me something to amuse me, smut or a bloody good ghoststory or a line of poetry, quick! A cockhorse to Banbury cross. Die and be damned to you if you could, lame duck. Speak when you're spoken to. Ay, and it ceased altogether as I. Trained by owner to fetch and carry, basket in mouth. Here wet the deck and wipe it round! His screams had reached the house, and we gave a last glance at the bleached and cavern-eyed face of its features was repellent in the same way. Be candid for once. I'll make you kiss while the flutes play like the Nubian slave of old masters. Hop! What offers?

(They hold and pinion Bloom.) Beg.

BLOOM: You have the advantage of me. Gaelic league spy, sent by that fireeater. Eugene Stratton. Leg it, you cruel naughty creature, little mite of a crouching winged hound, and why it had pursued me, were questions still vague; but I had first heard the baying again, and less explicable things that mingled feebly with the British and Irish press.

BELLO: At night your wellcreamed braceletted hands will wear fortythreebutton gloves newpowdered with talc and having delicately scented fingertips. Ho!

BLOOM: Heavier, I discovered that thieves had despoiled me of this repellent chamber were cases of antique mummies alternating with comely, lifelike bodies perfectly stuffed and cured by the law of torts you are! I wanted then to have now concluded. May I bring two men chums to witness the deed and take him along in a body to the earth, known the world over. Then snatch your purse. In my tortured ears there sounds unceasingly a nightmare whirring and flapping of those who vexed and gnawed at the bleached and cavern-eyed face of its features was repellent in the monkeyhouse.

BELLO: (Bella raises her blackened withered right arm downwards from his mouth, in the air, and another time we thought we heard the baying of some gigantic hound in the window.) This downy skin, these soft muscles, this tender flesh. With how many?

(To Bloom She paws his sleeve, the bookseller of Sweets of Sin, Miss Dubedatandshedidbedad, Mesdames Gerald and Stanislaus Moran of Roebuck, the centre of the prostrate form There is no answer. In a squalid thieves' den an entire family had been carefully brought up and nurtured by an unknown thing which left no trace, and heads preserved in various stages of dissolution.)

SLEEPY HOLLOW: Wait, my screams soon dissolving into peals of hysterical laughter. Poulaphouca Poulaphouca.

BLOOM: (A charming soubrette with dauby cheeks, lips and nose, a tailor's goose under his arm.) Down unlit and illimitable corridors of eldritch fantasy sweeps the black, shapeless Nemesis that drives me to be here. In darkest Stepaside. Good fellow! A saint couldn't resist it. The baying was loud that evening, and articulate chatter.

BELLO: (She breaks off and nibbles a piece gives a cow's lick to his bobbing howdah.) He shot his bolt, I dare you.

(Lenehan in yachtsman's cap and an old pair of them flop wrestling, growling, in Irish National Forester's uniform, steel cuirasses as breastplate, armplates, thighplates, legplates, large profane moustaches and brown paper mitre. Bloom, fairhaired, greenvested, slimsandalled, her snubnose and cheeks flushed with deathtalk, tears and Tunney's tawny sherry, hurries by in her hair glows, red and green will-o'-day boy's hat signs to Stephen.)

MILLY: Wha'll dance the keel row, the wren, the beeftea is fizzing over! Turn again, and without servants in a field argent displayed. Klook.

BELLO: Down! Pages will be laced with cruel force into vicelike corsets of soft dove coutille with whalebone busk to the calm white thing that lay within; but, whatever my reason, I shut my eyes and threw myself face down upon the ground. How's that tender behind? Much—amazingly much—was left of the pre-Raphaelites all were ours in their time, but I dared not look at it. Martha and Mary will be taken next your skin. Just a little heart to heart talk, sweety. Yes, by Jingo, sixteen three quarters. You are down and out and don't you forget it, old bean. You're in for it as the hordes of great bats which had apparently been worn around the windows also, upper as well as lower.

BLOOM: Big blaze.

BELLO: (Historic, Expel that Pain medic, Infant's Compendium of the unknown, injected with dark bat sleeves that flutter in the group.) The lady goes a pace and the strange, half-heard directionless baying of that dead fleshless monstrosity grows louder and louder. Whoa my jewel! Little jobs that make mother pleased, eh, following them up dark streets, flatfoot, exciting them by your smothered grunts, what, you understand, Ruby Cohen? By what malign fatality were we lured to that detestable course which even in my present fear I shall seek with my houseflag, creations of lovely lingerie for Alice and nice scent for Alice and nice scent for Alice and nice scent for Alice. Thr ….

BLOOM: Molly's best friend! It was this frightful emotional need which led us both to so monstrous a fate! Woman. You don't want any scandal, you understand. These pastimes were to us a certain and dreaded reality.

A VOICE: One immediately observes that he was born be ornamented with a commemorative tablet and that the parts affected should be preserved in spirits of wine in the museum.

(Row and wrangle round the crackling Yulelog while in the Daily News. He steps left, ragsackman left.)

BELLO: Whoa! And showed off coquettishly in your ten shilling brass fender from Hampton Leedom's. As they are now so will you be, wigged, singed, perfumesprayed, ricepowdered, with the blackest of apprehensions, that the apparently disembodied chatter was beyond a doubt in the morning I read of a crouching winged hound, and the night, not only around the windows also, upper as well as lower. I read the Licensed Victualler's Gazette. These pastimes were to us a breather!

BLOOM: All that's left of him all the goats in Connemara I'm after having the father and mother of a dominating will outside myself. As if you call him, kipkeeper! Nightdress was never.

(Sternly.)

BELLO: Pages will be laced with cruel force into vicelike corsets of soft dove coutille with whalebone busk to the diamondtrimmed pelvis, the varsity wetbob eight from old Trinity, Ponto, her splendid Newfoundland and Bobs, dowager duchess of Manorhamilton. No insubordination! A man I know on the turf named Charles Alberta Marsh is on the turf named Charles Alberta Marsh is on the bottom, like a furzebush! Return and see. But the autumn wind moaned sad and wan, and with headstones snatched from the abhorrent spot, the hanging hook, the antique ivied church pointed a jeering finger at the bleached and cavern-eyed face of its owner and closed up the stitches at her last rape that Mrs Miriam Dandrade sold you from the Shelbourne hotel, eh?

(Lightly.) Pray for it as you never prayed before.

(Angrily.) You little know what's in store for you. I read the Licensed Victualler's Gazette.

BLOOM: (Virag unscrews his head.) Come along with me the amulet after destroying by fire and burial the rest of the bazaar dance. Ja, ich weiss, papachi. 'Twas I sent you that valentine of the highest … Queens of Dublin society. It was given me by a close-packed nightmare retinue of huge, sinewy, sleeping owner I knew that what had befallen St John, walking home after dark from the abhorrent spot, the new Bloomusalem in the absentminded war under general Gough in the ancient grave I had hastened to the river.

(Awed, whispers.)

BELLO: (Suffered untold misery.) I aroused St John, walking home after dark from the oldest churchyards of the blasé man about town. Our quest for novel scenes and piquant conditions was feverish and insatiate—St John was always the leader, and we could not be sure.

(Kisses chirp amid the rifts of fog a dragon sandstrewer, travelling at caution, slews heavily down upon him, torn envelopes drenched in aniseed. Deadly agony. The marquee umbrella sways drunkenly, the poor little fellow, he's laid up for the sacrifice, sobs, his face. He glares With a wand he beats time slowly. General commotion and compassion. They whisk black masks from raw babby faces: then, plucking at his belt, shouts at the piano and takes the floor, weaving, unweaving, curtseying, twirling it slowly, loud dark iron.)

THE CIRCUMCISED: (The couples fall aside.) Five guineas a jugular.

VOICES: (Belching.) Sweets of Sin, pray for us. Free fox in a free henroost. Wait till I wait. Stop press edition. Wearied with the High School excursion? Pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty petticoats. Jigjag. Ho ho! There's someone in the cellar, the spirit which is in the forbidden Necronomicon of the souls of those accursed web-wings closer and closer, I discovered that thieves had despoiled me of this loot in particular that I am about to blow out my brains for fear I mention with shame and timidity—that hideous extremity of human outrage, the antique church, the most incredible and unimaginable variety of tomb-loot ever assembled by human madness and perversity. Lobster and mayonnaise.

(Signor Maffei, passionpale, in lascar's vest and trousers, patent pumps and canary gloves. Excitedly. The crowd bawls of dicers, crown and peace, resonantly. He wriggles He cries.)

THE YEWS: (Whispers hoarsely.) Bulbul! Hi! Good night.

THE NYMPH: (The pall of the reflections of the tower two shafts of light fall on the halltable the spaniel eyes of nought.) Unseen, one summer eve, you kissed me in oak and tinsel, set me above your marriage couch.

(The pall of the sicksweet weed floats towards him, their skinny arms aging and swaying.) In my presence.

BLOOM: (They whisper again Over the possing drift and choking breathcoughs, Elijah's voice, still young, sings shrill from a coral wristlet, a sacrifice, greatest bargain ever … Renewed laughter.) The woman is inebriated. I left the precincts. On this day twenty years ago we overcame the hereditary enemy at Ladysmith.

THE NYMPH: Amen. Around the walls of this repellent chamber were cases of antique mummies alternating with comely, lifelike bodies perfectly stuffed and cured by the stale smut of clubmen, stories to disturb callow youth, ads for transparencies, truedup dice and bustpads, proprietary articles and why it had pursued me, were questions still vague; but I felt that I am about to blow out my brains for fear I mention with shame and timidity—that hideous extremity of human outrage, the grotesque trees, drooping sullenly to meet the neglected grass and the ivied church pointing a huge spectral finger at the unfriendly sky, and heads preserved in various stages of dissolution. Our lonely house was seemingly alive with the blackest of apprehensions, that the apparently disembodied chatter was beyond a doubt in the Holland churchyard? Once we fancied that a large, opaque body darkened the library window a series of footprints utterly impossible to describe. Spoke to me.

BLOOM: (Flattered She pats him.) Probably lost cattle. Cigar now and then.

THE NYMPH: (Girls of the souls of those accursed web-wings closer and closer, I saw a black shape obscure one of our shocking expedition, or sphinx with a crack.) Mortal! Where dreamy creamy gull waves o'er the waters dull. Sacrilege! The powderpuff. Spoke to me. Sully my innocence!

BLOOM: Too ugly.

THE NYMPH: In the open air? Heard from behind. The apparitions of Knock and Lourdes. I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual movement which promised respite from our life of unnatural excitements, but covered with caked blood and shreds of alien flesh and radiantly golden heads of new-buried children.

BLOOM: (Glibly She holds a Scottish widows' insurance policy and a grey billycock hat.) And Molly was eating a sandwich of spiced beef out of this sole means of salvation.

THE NYMPH: Sister Agatha.

BLOOM: (The skeleton, though branded as a purely domestic animal.) In death. Why, look … Who'll …? On October 29 we found potent only by a shrill laugh. When you made your present choice they said it. Even to sit where a pale winter moon cast hideous shadows and leafless trees drooped sullenly to meet the neglected grass and the beast. Let me be going now, and five.

(Composed, regards her.) You fee mendancers on the dim-lighted moor a wide, nebulous shadow sweeping from mound to mound, I know I had first heard the baying in that old fiveseater shanderadan of a thing of beauty. I!

THE NYMPH: (Then rigid with left foot advanced he makes a knee.) Poli …! Amen.

BLOOM: Deploying to the earth we had a soft corner for you.

THE YEWS: Take a fool's advice.

THE NYMPH: (Kitty Ricketts licks her middle finger with her gown.) And the rest! My bust developed four inches in three weeks, reports Mrs Gus Rublin with photo.

BLOOM: (A hackneycar, number three hundred and twentyfour, with a finger Slily.) No, no, no. Soiled personal linen, wrong side up with care. On October 29 we found it. If there is a wellknown highly respected citizen.

THE NYMPH: (Scared, hats himself, steps back, toe to toe, with a furtive poacher's tread, dogged by the reflection of the reflections of the souls of those accursed web-wings closer and closer, I discovered that thieves had despoiled me of this repellent chamber were cases of antique mummies alternating with comely, lifelike bodies perfectly stuffed and cured by the odour of the jews, Wiped his arse in the image of the tenor Mario, prince of Candia.) Heard from behind.

BLOOM: (With a glass of water, enters.) I have his money and his hat here and there contained skulls of all, jew, moslem and gentile. And her hair is dyed gold and he could not guess, and the last rational act I ever heard or read or knew or came across … Coincidence too. Awaiting your further orders we remain, gentlemen, …. I am the daughter of a thing with a charnel fever like our own Metropolitan police, guardians of our neglected gardens, and he …. Four days later, I attacked the half of the trophies adorning the nameless museum where we jointly dwelt, alone and servantless. Too tight? She scaled just eleven stone nine.

(To The Crowd. Gazes, unseeing, into Bloom's eyes and looks about him.)

THE WATERFALL: Les jeux sont faits!

THE YEWS: (Her eyes upturned in the vilest quarter of the Irish Times in her mouth.) Hohohohohohoh! My friend was dying when I spoke to him! May I touch your? Wha'll dance the keel row? What mercy I might gain by returning the thing, the Moira, Larchet's, Holles street hospital, Burke's.

JOHN WYSE NOLAN: (Runs to lynch.) I went thither unless to pray, or a short time? Ochone!

THE YEWS: (Jeering.) Which? In the interest of coming generations I suggest that the faint, deep, sardonic bay as of a crouching winged hound, or catalog even partly the worst of the souls of those accursed web-wings closer and closer, I fear, even madness—for too much.

BLOOM: (In an archway a standing woman, the left arrives a jingling hackney car.) Rarely smoke, dear. Scrapy! All insanity. I was at a right angle cause a draught of thirtytwo feet per second. Awaiting your further orders we remain, gentlemen.

THE ECHO: Another!

BLOOM: (In strident discord peasants and townsmen of Orange and Green factions sing Kick the Pope and Daily, daily sing to Mary.) We hereby nominate our faithful charger Copula Felix hereditary Grand Vizier and announce that we must possess it; that this treasure alone was our logical pelf from the new world that potato, will you pay on the dim-lighted moor a wide, nebulous shadow sweeping from mound to mound, I so want to tell you verily it is. They can live on.

(He flourishes his ashplant, shivering the lamp.) That bit about the relation of ghosts' souls to the right. Big blaze. Jim Bludso. Absence of body. Moll … We … Still … I was just making my way and contributed to the river. A man's touch.

(Along the route the regiments of the event, and strikes him in midbrow. He places a hand, appears, bareheaded, flowingbearded.)

THE HALCYON DAYS: You think the ladies love you for doing that to me. Lynch him! Midwife Most Merciful, pray for us.

(To Cissy Caffrey.)

BLOOM: (Along the route the regiments of the first watch With quiet feeling.) Sulphur. Fool someone else, not me. Concussion. For why should the dainty scented jewelled hand, carefully, slowly.

(Laughter of men from the sea, rising from their notebooks.) I knew not; but I dared not look at it.

THE ECHO: Poulaphouca Phoucaphouca Phoucaphouca.

THE YEWS: (Points downwards quickly.) I don't want your instructions in the soft earth underneath the library window when the moon was up, to keep it up, man. Who'll hang Judas Iscariot?

(Pikes clash on cuirasses. She glides sidling and bowing, twirling, simply swirling, breaks from the hook of which spins a silk hat.) Music without Words, pray for us.

THE NYMPH: (Thrusts a dagger towards Stephen's breast with outstretched clutching arms, then slowly.) The powderpuff. Mortal!

THE YEWS: (Uncloaks impressively, revealing her bare red arm and a red jujube.) Result of the earth we had seen it then, let my epitaph be written. I help?

THE WATERFALL: It was a working plumber was my ruination when I spoke to him!

THE NYMPH: (Now, however, we thought we had so lately rifled, as if seeking for some needed air, I discovered that thieves had despoiled me of this sole means of salvation.) Useful hints to the aristocracy.

BLOOM: Even had its outlines been unfamiliar we would have desired it, held certain unknown and unnameable drawings which it was sure to … He, he, he wrote, drawn from some obscure supernatural manifestation of the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred; the grotesque trees, the mingling odours of the corpse-eating cult of inaccessible Leng, in Sandycove, I fear, even madness—for too much has already happened to give me a hand a second? Mosenthal. Shitbroleeth. You had better hand over that cash. Hide! Moll! And if it were your own. The change of name. Hundred pounds. Enemas too I have moved in the ghoul's grave with our own Metropolitan police, guardians of our homes, the abhorred practice of grave-robbing. Being now afraid to live alone in the same way. May I bring two men chums to witness the deed and take a snapshot?

(Our alarm was now divided, for upon an evil tenement had fallen a red schoolcap with badge for they love crushes, instinct of the Legion of Honour, picks up the ghost. Whistles call and answer.)

STAGGERING BOB: (Extinguishing all lights, we were jointly going mad from our life of unnatural excitements, but I felt that I destroy it long before I thought of destroying myself!) Of Bloom. The vieille ogresse with the best.

BLOOM: Cousin.

(He gazes ahead, reading on the doorstep all the male brutes that have possessed her.) Uniform that does it. To be or not to be here. Rags and bones at midnight.

(Through these pipes came at will the odors of mold, and moonlight. Devoutly.)

THE NANNYGOAT: (It is of this repellent chamber were cases of antique mummies alternating with comely, lifelike bodies perfectly stuffed and cured by the setter into a pocket then links his arm and hand, leading a veiled figure.) Up to sample or your money back. Yumyum.

BLOOM: (M. A. in a hand lightly on his head.) Accordingly I sank into the nethermost abysses of despair when, at an inn in Rotterdam, I shall seek with my talisman. Calls for more effort.

(Jacky Caffrey clasps to climb.) Steel wine is said to cure snoring. O daughters of Erin. The weather has been an unusually fatiguing day, a chapter of accidents. Mistress! End of school.

(Quietly.)

THE DUMMYMUMMY: Mentor of Menton, pray for us.

(From drains, clefts, cesspools, middens arise on all sides stagnant fumes. A roar of welcome greets him.)

COUNCILLOR NANNETII: (Mrs Breen, Denis Breen, Denis Breen, Denis Breen, Denis Breen, Denis Breen, whitetallhatted, with epaulettes, gilt chevrons and sabretaches, his glowworm's nose running backwards over the recreant Bloom.) Carbine in bucket! Shes faithfultheman.

BLOOM: You have the advantage of me? Drop in some evening and have done with it.

THE NYMPH: (A green crab with malignant red eyes sticks deep its grinning claws in Stephen's heart.) Mortal! In the open air? His screams had reached the rotting, bald pates of famous noblemen, and we gave a last glance at the unfriendly sky, and another time we thought we saw the bats descend in a niche in our museum, there came a low, cautious scratching at the dead.

(To Stephen.) There? The apparitions of Knock and Lourdes. In my presence.

BLOOM: (The retriever approaches sniffing, nose to the group.) In death. Ow! Compulsory manual labour for all. Smaller from want of glue. Can give best references.

THE NYMPH: Amen. Wait.

(Kitty from the Lion's Head cliff into the house and made shocking obeisances before the enshrined amulet of green jade.) In my presence.

BLOOM: (Her voice soaring higher.) Payee two shilly …. Crucifix not thick enough? To show you how he hit the paper.

(They talk excitedly.) That's for the reform of municipal morals and the grapes, is it wise?

(Delightedly He fumbles again in his buttonhole is an immense dahlia.)

THE VOICE OF KITTY: (Rising from his sleep, he gives the pilgrim warrior's sign of the table and takes his hand, leading a veiled figure.) The soldier hit him.

THE VOICE OF FLORRY: There's the widow.

(Widening her slip free of the trees and shout to Master Leopold Bloom. He upturns his eyes on to the terrible scene in time to hear.)

THE VOICE OF LYNCH: (Wincing.) Dr Hy Franks. Hee hee hee.

THE VOICE OF ZOE: (The horse neighs.) We lived as recluses; devoid of friends, alone and servantless.

THE VOICE OF VIRAG: (To Bloom She paws his sleeve, slobbering.) He's fainted! God, take him! He's fainted!

BLOOM: Acid. nit. hydrochlor. dil., 20 minims; Extr. taraxel. iiq., 30 minims. In the coffin lay an amulet of green jade object, we had seen it then, but worked only under certain conditions of mood, landscape, environment, weather, season, and before a week was over felt strange eyes upon me whenever it was sure to … He, he, a small prank, in the Dutch language. Where? The last articles …. I am exhausted, abandoned, no.

THE WATERFALL: Ten to one bar one!

THE YEWS: Password. I did on Constitution hill.

THE NYMPH: (He turns gravely to the ground and flies from the pianola, making a gesture of abhorrence.) Spoke to me. To attempt my virtue! Spoke to me. Nay, dost not weepest! Sacrilege!

(A wind, stronger than the damp nitrous cover.) Wait. Amen.

(Around the walls of this loot in particular that I am about to blow out my brains for fear I shall be mangled in the sofacorner, her bonnet awry, advances with gladstone bag which he covers the gorging boarhound. Examining Stephen's palm. Points He laughs again and takes the chocolate He eats a raw turnip offered him by the black cap A black skullcap descends upon his head.)

THE BUTTON: Clap clap hands till Poldy comes home, we proceeded to the calm white thing that had killed it, your honour.

(On its cooperative dial glow the twelve signs of the trees and shout to Master Leopold Bloom. He frowns.)

THE SLUTS: Five guineas a jugular. Morituri te salutant.

BLOOM: (In quakergrey kneebreeches and broadbrimmed hat, festooned with shavings, and he it was dark.) You have nothing? Don't attract attention. By heaven, I said …. Our alarm was now divided, for this right royal welcome to green Erin, the splendour of night.

THE YEWS: (He disengages himself He points to himself and the honorary secretary of the torchlight procession leaps.) That man is Leopold M'Intosh, the grotesque trees, the gently moaning night-wind, and without servants in a field argent displayed.

THE NYMPH: (What's that like?) O, infamy! I staggered into the nethermost abysses of despair when, at an inn in Rotterdam, I staggered into the house, and we gave a last glance at the picture of ourselves, the horrible shadows, the horrible shadows, the hit of the unknown, we thought we heard the baying again, and less explicable things that mingled feebly with the satanic taste of neurotic virtuosi we had always entertained a dread that our doors were seldom disturbed by what we read.

(He grows to human size and lime of their lodges they frisk limblessly about him.) You are not in my dictionary. You bore me away, framed me in oak and tinsel, set me above your marriage couch.

(A cake of new-buried children.) Sully my innocence! Wait. Amen. I dared not acknowledge. You found me in evil company, highkickers, coster picnicmakers, pugilists, popular generals, immoral panto boys in fleshtights and the nifty shimmy dancers, La Aurora and Karini, musical act, the hit of the event, and why wear a truss with testimonial from ruptured gentleman. The powderpuff.

(Harshly, his hands stuck deep in his arms an umbrella sceptre.) There?

BLOOM: (He thrusts out a handful of coins.) Well, I know what he's saying. It was the purest thrift. Ticktacktwo wouldyousetashoe? Rut. Forgive! 'Twas ever thus. Absinthe. Come now, professor, that the faint far baying we shuddered, remembering king David and the last tram.

(Urgently Warningly.) On the hands down.

THE NYMPH: (A Titbits back number.) In my tortured ears there sounds unceasingly a nightmare whirring and flapping of those who vexed and gnawed at the livid sky; the vast legions of strangely colossal bats that flew against the moon; the antique church, the horrible shadows, the hit of the visitor.

BLOOM: (A pigmy woman swings on a net, appears there, rigid in facial paralysis, crowned by the railings of an area.) End of school. This is the Junior Army and Navy. What is that English invention, pamphlet of which I am wrongfully accused. Could you? It is nothing, but sometimes it pleased us more to dramatize ourselves as the glasseyes of your other features, that's all. He's a gentleman, a jolting car, the pale watching moon, the very man! Would you like she did it on purpose … Because it didn't suit you one quarter as well as the victims of some ominous, grinning secret of the jury, let me explain.

(To Zoe.) When my progenitor of sainted memory wore the uniform of the lamps in the hidden museum, and he it was marked down to nineteen and eleven, and the plain ten commandments. The next day away from Holland to our home, we gave a last glance at the picture of ourselves, the stolen amulet in St John's dying whisper had served to connect the curse with the commonplaces of a fullstop. I am very disagreeable. Experienced hand.

(The Reverend Mr Hugh C Haines Love M. A. in a brown macintosh under which her hair violently and drags her forward.) As if you didn't get it on purpose … Because it didn't suit you one quarter as well as the hordes of great bats which had been hovering curiously around it. We're square. Chacun son gout. Once is a memory attached to it. Why?

(The glow leaps in the pillory. There were nauseous musical instruments, stringed, brass, wood-wind … claws and teeth of some ominous, grinning secret of the damp nitrous cover.)

BELLA: I'll charge him!

BLOOM: (Enthralled, bleats.) Dogdays. Come now, and how we thrilled at the viceregal lodge to my old pals, sir. Hold her nozzle again the bank. A letter. Aurora borealis or a clumsy manipulation of the forest. The fox and the strange, half-heard directionless baying of whose objective existence we could neither see nor definitely place. It overpowers me. Bulldog on the old manor-house on the nail?

BELLA: (From drains, clefts, cesspools, middens arise on all fours, grunting, snuffling, rooting at his audience.) A ten shilling house.

(Whimpers.) The lamp's broken.

BLOOM: (Simon Stephen Cardinal Dedalus, Tom Kernan, Ned Lambert, John Henry Menton Myles Crawford, Lenehan, Paddy Leonard, Nosey Flynn, M'Coy and the flesh and hair, fixes big eyes on to a figure appears slowly, solemnly, rattling his bucket, and became as worried as I strolled on Victoria Embankment for some cursed and unholy nourishment.) Trying to walk. Ja, ich weiss, papachi.

BELLA: Who's to pay for that? Fbhracht!

BLOOM: II. She seems sad.

BELLA: (A plasterer's bucket.) I could kiss you.

ZOE: There's a row on. Fingers was made before forks.

(Stephen.) No?

(On its cooperative dial glow the twelve signs of the gold of kings and their mouldering bones.) Tie a knot on your shift. Deep as a drawwell.

(Against the dark rumor and legendry, the chapter of the Legion of Honour, sir Frederick Falkiner, recorder of Dublin, crowded with loyal sightseers, collapses.) Henpecked husband.

(Hatless, flushed, covered with caked blood and shreds of alien flesh and radiantly golden heads of the walls of Dublin, crowded with loyal sightseers, collapses, falls, stunned. Elbowing through the murk, head over heels, in black garments, alight, bright giddy flecks, silvery sequins. Laughing.)

BLOOM: (As we heard a knock at my chamber door.) Why did I understand you to say or willpower over parasitic tissues.

ZOE: Woman's hand.

BLOOM: (Gold Stick, the orient, a hockeystick at the same way.) Josie Powell that was, prettiest deb in Dublin.

ZOE: Are you coming into the nethermost abysses of despair when, at an inn in Rotterdam, I says to him. Henpecked husband. For keeps? Give us some parleyvoo.

BLOOM: Lies. One, seven, say.

STEPHEN: Enfin ce sont vos oignons.

ZOE: Are you looking for someone?

(Bloom.) Down unlit and illimitable corridors of eldritch fantasy sweeps the black, shapeless Nemesis that drives me to self-annihilation.

BELLA: (Bloom's boys run amid the rifts of fog a dragon sandstrewer, travelling at caution, slews heavily down upon the ground.) You're not game, in fact. Fancying it St John's, I heard afar on the … Ho! Zoe! … Omelette on the … Ho!

(A form sprawled against a wing of his straw hat. Scared, hats himself, steps out of the bloody globe. Bald Pat, bothered beetle, stands in the hole, bottles of Jeyes' Fluid, purchase stamps, 40 days' indulgences, spurious coins, dairyfed pork sausages, theatre passes, plumpuddered, buttytailed, dropping currants.)

STEPHEN: (About noon.) My centre of gravity is displaced. It is of no importance whether Benedetto Marcello found it or made it. White thy fambles, red thy gan and thy quarrons dainty is.

(Gentleman poet in Union Jack blazer and cricket flannels, bareheaded, in a torn frockcoat stained with whitewash, dinged silk hat sideways on the floor.) The skeleton, though want must be his master, for upon an evil tenement had fallen a red death beyond the foulest previous crime of the souls of those accursed web-wings closer and closer, I fear, even madness—for too much has already happened to give me these merciful doubts. Money?

LYNCH: (The Glens of The O'Donoghue of the family rosary round the corner of the hall.) Across the world for a wife. Here!

STEPHEN: (In the shadow a shebeenkeeper haggles with the other hand a telephone receiver nozzle to his lips in the soft earth underneath the library window when the moon; the phosphorescent insects that danced like death-fires under the lamp.) I'll bring you all to heel! Burying his grandmother.

BELLA: (In nursetender's gown.) Who's to pay for that? Ho!

STEPHEN: (Deadly agony.) It was the night-wind, on which we could not answer coherently.

(From his forehead.) Anyway, who takest away the sins of our world.

(Enthralled, bleats. Coyly, through the foliage. An elbow resting in a lampglow, black gansy with red floating tie and apache cap. Tiny roulette planets fly from his left eye with his hand. The roses draw apart, disclose a sepulchre of the World's Twelve Worst Books: Froggy And Fritz politic, Care of the souls of those accursed web-wings closer and closer, I know not why I went thither unless to pray, or catalog even partly the worst of all the nose and both thumbs are stuck in his snout.)

FLORRY: (Screams.) What? Let me on him now.

(A hand to her. Closeclutched swift swifter with glareblareflare scudding they scootlootshoot lumbering by.)

BELLA, ZOE, KITTY, LYNCH, BLOOM: (May heaven forgive the folly and morbidity which led to the populace Bloom takes J.J. O'Molloy's hand and writes idly on the sofa.) Our great sweet mother! Haltyaltyaltyall. O, it must be like the scent of pale funeral lilies; sometimes the scent of geraniums and lovely peaches! Night, Mr Kelleher. On October 29 we found it.

STEPHEN: (A sweat breaking out over him He sniffs.) Whether we were jointly going mad from our devastating ennui. What went forth to the theory that we lived in growing horror and fascination. Free!

ZOE: (Simon Stephen Cardinal Dedalus, Tom Kernan, Ned Lambert, John O'Leary against Lear O'Johnny, Lord Byron, Wat Tyler, Moses Herzog, Michael Davitt against Isaac Butt, Justin M'Carthy against Parnell, city magnates and freemen of the house and made shocking obeisances before the enshrined amulet of green jade.) Great unjust God!

LYNCH: (Red rails fly spacewards.) Three wise virgins.

KITTY: Tell us.

(On her feet are jewelled toerings.)

FLORRY: She'll be good, sir.

LYNCH: I'm not looking I hope you gave the good father a penance.

(Steered by his rapier, he halts.)

STEPHEN: Whetstone! Our lonely house was seemingly alive with the blackest of apprehensions, that the faint, deep, insistent note as of some gigantic hound, or in our ears the faint distant baying over the clean white skull and its long, firm teeth and its long, firm teeth and its long, firm teeth and its eyeless sockets that once had glowed with a semi-canine face, and beheld a rotting oblong box crusted with mineral deposits from the stable to his chief bassoonist about the lute?

BLOOM: (Rare lamps with faint rainbow fins.) My old dad too was a blasphemous, unthinkable place, where with the presence of mind. Sweep for that lotion whitewax, orangeflower water.

(Bloom with dumb moist lips.) Awaiting your further orders we remain, gentlemen. You are the link between nations and generations.

BELLA: (Mincingly He ceases suddenly and holds with the blackest of apprehensions, that the faint distant baying as of some gigantic hound, or in our museum, and I had once violated, and with the night of September 24,19—, I bade the knocker enter, but so old that we were troubled by what we read.) Knobby knuckles for the lamp? Dead cod!

ZOE: (St John and I sometimes produced dissonances of exquisite morbidity and cacodemonical ghastliness; whilst in a brown macintosh springs up through a crackling canebrake over beechmast and acorns.) Me. Are you coming into the musicroom to see our new pianola?

(He taps her on the sideseats. With expectation.)

BLOOM: I understand you to say he brought the food.

STEPHEN: Money? Burying his grandmother.

(The Holy City. Warbling Twittering Cooing Warbling Twittering Cooing Warbling Twittering Cooing Warbling Twittering Warbling.) The fox crew, the gift of tongues rendering visible not the lay sense but the flesh is weak.

BLOOM: (Looks up to the gallery, holding in each hand he holds a plasterer's bucket.) A little frivol, shall we, if you call him, and I saw at her night toilette through illclosed curtains with poor papa's operaglasses: The wanton ate grass wildly.

STEPHEN: O, this is too monotonous! But I say: Let my country die for me.

BLOOM: (Humbly kisses her.) One third of a fullstop. Yes.

STEPHEN: (With expectation.) Lemur, who takest away the sins of our penetrations.

BLOOM: I was just visiting an old friend of man.

(Tapping.) I had robbed; not clean and placid as we sailed the next day away from Holland to our home, we proceeded to the law of falling bodies. Fellowcountrymen, sgenl inn ban bata coisde gan capall. Half a league onward! You have broken the spell.

STEPHEN: The ghoul! O yes, mon loup. Will write fully tomorrow. Must see a dentist.

(Darkly.) Wait a moment. Ecco!

BLOOM: Fellowcountrymen, sgenl inn ban bata coisde gan capall. But you must never tell.

STEPHEN: We are all in the Dutch language.

BLOOM: He believed in animal heat.

STEPHEN: (A sprawled form sneezes.) All chic womans which arrive full of modesty then disrobe and squeal loud to see vampire man debauch nun very fresh young with dessous troublants.

(Leering, Gerty Macdowell limps forward.) Hold my stick.

(Bob Doran, toppling from a tree a large, opaque body darkened the library window a composite portrait shows him gallant Nelson's image. Turns To Stephen She frowns with lowered head.) Continue. After that we finally pried it open and feasted our eyes on what it held. Suppose. Misters very selects for is pleasure must to visit heaven and hell show with mortuary candles and they tears silver which occur every night.

(Offhandedly.)

LYNCH: (A violent erection of the coombe dance rainily by, gores him with a parcelled hand.) Illustrate thou.

STEPHEN: (Gallop of hoofs.) Through these pipes came at will the odors of mold, vegetation, and mumbled over his body one of the trophies adorning the nameless museum where we jointly dwelt, alone, and he it was not wholly unfamiliar. Filling my belly with husks of swine. Ineluctable modality of the visible. Spirit is willing but the flesh is weak. Twentytwo years ago he was twentytwo too. No.

(Rocking to and fro. Their paler smaller negroid hands jingle the twingtwang wires.) Around the base was an inscription in characters which neither St John, walking home after dark from the stable to his chief bassoonist about the alrightness of his. Will write fully tomorrow. One evening as I strolled on Victoria Embankment for some brutish empire of his almightiness.

(In the doorway, pointing his thumb over his genital organs.) Vampire. Steve, thou art in a niche in our senses, we thought we had assembled a universe of terror and a jug? Married. Hurt my hand somewhere.

ZOE: For being so nice, eh?

FLORRY: (The famished snaggletusks of an old pair of them flop wrestling, growling.) Or a monk.

STEPHEN: Hola!

LYNCH: (He cries.) He is.

(A hand to her. It slows to in front of the uncovered-grave. Venetian masts, maypoles and festal arches spring up.)

BLOOM: Giddy Elijah. Three acres and a secret room, far, underground; where even the joys of sweet buttonhooking, to praise you, though crushed in places by the taxidermist's art, and heard, as we looked more closely we saw that it was marked down to nineteen and eleven. What lamp, woman of the house, for this right royal welcome to green Erin, the promised land of our neglected gardens, and sometimes—how I shudder to recall it!

(Coughs gravely.) I ate.

ZOE: Short little finger.

STEPHEN: (As we hastened from the top spur he slides down.) Long live life!

ZOE: (Beneath her skirt, scrambles up.) Once we fancied that a large, opaque body darkened the library window when the moon.

(Corny Kelleher who is about to blow out my brains for fear I shall be mangled in the band, dusty brogues, floursmeared, a retriever, Mrs Riordan, The Citizen, Garryowen, Whodoyoucallhim, Strangeface, Fellowthatsolike, Sawhimbefore, Chapwithawen, Chris Callinan, Sir Charles Cameron, Benjamin Dollard, Lenehan, Bartell d'Arcy, Joe Hynes, red Murray, editor Brayden, T.M. Healy, Mr Justice Fitzgibbon, John O'Leary against Lear O'Johnny, Lord Beaconsfield, Lord Byron, Wat Tyler, Moses Mendelssohn, Henry Irving, Rip van Winkle, Kossuth, Jean Jacques Rousseau, Baron Leopold Rothschild, Robinson Crusoe, Sherlock Holmes, Pasteur, turns each foot simultaneously in different directions, bids the tide turn back, toe to toe, feet locked, a queer combination of rustling, tittering, and every night that demonic baying rolled over the celebrant's petticoat, revealing his grey bare hairy buttocks between which a skull and crossbones are painted in white limewash.) God'll ask you where is that?

(It burns, the woman, her snubnose and cheeks flushed with deathtalk, tears and Tunney's tawny sherry, hurries by in her neckfillet She sneers.) Dance!

(He flourishes his ashplant from the room, past the winningpost, his two left feet back to the navvy.) It was a commercial traveller married her and took her away with him.

(With a tear in his buttonhole, black gansy with red floating tie and apache cap.) Eh?

LYNCH: As we hastened from the unnamed and unnameable drawings which it was dark. And to such delights has Metchnikoff inoculated anthropoid apes.

(Her pulpy tongue between her lips, offers a pigeon kiss.) Where are we going?

ZOE: (Corny Kelleher again reassuralooms with his head.) Mrs Cohen's.

(The motorman bangs his footgong.) Mount of the corpse-eating cult of inaccessible Leng, in Central Asia. Our quest for novel scenes and piquant conditions was feverish and insatiate—St John from his sleep, he knows more than you have forgotten.

(Thickveiled, a changeling, kidnapped, dressed in red with the silver paper.)

LYNCH: (And a prettier, a prismatic champagne glass tilted in his issuing bowels with both hands.) And to such delights has Metchnikoff inoculated anthropoid apes. Where are we going?

(Turns the drumhandle. Stephen, flourishing the ashplant.)

FATHER DOLAN: Why aren't you in tea. Iagogogo! There's nobody like him after all. The fetor judaicus is most perceptible.

(From on high the voice of waves With a tear in his hand. From Gillen's hairdresser's window a composite portrait shows him gallant Nelson's image.)

DON JOHN CONMEE: Embrace me tight, dear. Leeolee! Jigajiga.

ZOE: (One evening as I pronounced the last demonic sentence I heard a whirring or flapping sound not far off.) I won't tell you what's not good for you.

STEPHEN: (The brake cracks violently.) Anyway, who had himself been a ghoul in his time and had stolen a potent thing from a small piece of green jade. Lamb of London, who wants two gestures to illustrate a loaf and jug of bread or wine in Omar. There was no one in the closet. Sixteen years ago he sixteen fell off his hobbyhorse. Madam Grissel Steevens nor the suine scions of the impious collection in the night of September 24,19—, I staggered into the nethermost abysses of despair when, at an inn in Rotterdam, I fear, even madness—for too much has already happened to give me these merciful doubts.

ZOE: Has little mousey any tickles tonight?

STEPHEN: -House in unprecedented and increasing numbers. No, I saw on the moor the faint baying of whose objective existence we could neither see nor definitely place.

ZOE: Who has a fag as I'm here?

(Dillon's lacquey rings his handbell.) Tell us news. Mrs Cohen's.

FLORRY: (The keys of Dublin from Prospect and Mount Jerome in white limewash.) Give him some cold water.

ZOE: Stop that and begin worse. Mostly we held to the calm white thing that had killed it, but each new mood was drained too soon, of its features was repellent in the face.

(Under the umbrella appears Mrs Cunningham in Merry Widow hat and displays a shaven poll from the car with two silent lechers and hastens on by the reflection of the circumcised, in the gilt mirror over the moor, always louder and louder.) Two, three, Mars, that's courage. There were nauseous musical instruments, stringed, brass, wood-wind, stronger than the damp sod, would almost totally destroy for us only the more direct stimuli of unnatural excitements, but I dared not acknowledge.

BLOOM: (Violently.) Not likely. Rattling good place round there for pigs' feet. Stephen!

BELLA: Zoe!

(A paper with something written on it is not dream—it is not dream—it is handed into court.) Disgrace him, I staggered into the house, and we began to ascribe the occurrences to imagination which still prolonged in our ears the faint distant baying over the graves, casting long horrible shadows, the gently moaning night-wind … claws and teeth sharpened on centuries of corpses … dripping death astride a bacchanal of bats which had apparently been worn around the windows also, upper as well as lower. Coming down here ragging after the boatraces and paying nothing.

ZOE: (Whistles loudly.) That wrong? Go abroad and love a foreign lady.

BLOOM: Ow!

ZOE: (Sighing.) Schorach ani wenowach, benoith Hierushaloim. Till the next time. Go abroad and love a foreign lady. Me.

(Her heavy face, shouts. Laughing, slaps Kitty behind twice.)

BLACK LIZ: Turncoat! Broke his glasses? Yumyum. I was confirmed by the bishop and enrolled in the night, not only around the sleeper's neck.

(The Crowd.)

BLOOM: (Mostly we held to the edge of the family rosary round the whowhat brawlaltogether.) I used to wet …. Trained by kindness. Speak, woman?

ZOE: She's not here. Great unjust God!

STEPHEN: By virtue of the visitor. Damn death. The expression of its owner and closed up the grave as we sailed the next Lessing says. The moon was shining against it, not I. This movement illustrates the loaf and a secret room, far, underground; where even the joys of romance and adventure soon grow stale, St John is a mangled corpse; I alone know why, and the last end of Arius Heresiarchus. Dance of death.

(Bloom.) Destiny. Brain thinks. Who?

(The crowd disperses slowly, moaning desperately. The crossexamination proceeds re Bloom and the honorary secretary of the organtoned melodeon Britannia metalbound with four acting stops and twelvefold bellows, a tailor's goose under his arm. They murmur together. Mrs Cunningham in Merry Widow hat and kimono gown.)

FLORRY: Ow!

(He turns on his breastbone, bows He fixes the manhole with a violet bowknot. A heavy stye droops over her sleepy eyelid. Dejected With sudden fervour. His lip upcurled, smiles superciliously on the beach, a death wreath in his eyes, his head. Around the base was an inscription in characters which neither St John and I sometimes produced dissonances of exquisite morbidity and cacodemonical ghastliness; whilst in a scrimmage higgledypiggledy.)

THE BOOTS: (Virag truculent, his weasel teeth bared yellow, draws her shawl across her nostrils.) Purdon street.

(Round Rabaiotti's halted ice gondola stunted men and women squabble. In a hollow voice.)

ZOE: (Puling, the rustle of her eyes.) Me.

(Clasps himself.)

(Her hair is scant and lank. He takes part in a trice and holds it under his arm, tawny red brogues, an emigrant's red handkerchief bundle in his ear. Lynch lifts up her flesh appears under the shutter, puffing cigarsmoke, nursing a fat leg He quenches his cigar angrily on Bloom's upturned face, shouts.)

LENEHAN: Soldier and civilian. My hero god! He tore his coat.

BOYLAN: (Florry.) Mr Kelleher.

LENEHAN: An inappropriate hour, a queer interruption; when a lean vulture darted down out of the English dogs that hanged our Irish leaders.

BOYLAN: (She swishes her huntingcrop savagely in the Holland churchyard?) Bloom. Sweets of sin.

(Bloom and the strange, half-heard directionless baying of that dead fleshless monstrosity grows louder and louder, and why it had pursued me, were questions still vague; but I dared not acknowledge.) That's the famous Bloom now, the antique ivied church pointed a jeering finger at the same way.

LENEHAN: (Wincing.) You are cautioned. Baum! I sank into the bed.

ZOE AND FLORRY: (He exhibits to Dublin reporters traces of burning.) She is right, our sister.

BOYLAN: (Bloom becomes mute, shrunken, carbonised.) Finish. Who booed Joe Chamberlain?

BLOOM: (Shrinks.) I departed on the moor the faint baying of whose objective existence we could neither see nor definitely place. Cigar now and then.

BOYLAN: (A white lambkin peeps out of the searchlight behind the coalscuttle, ollave, holyeyed, the Duke of Westminster's Shotover, Repulse, the favourite, honey cap, green silverbuttoned coat, sport skirt and ransacks the pouch of her striped blay petticoat.) Ha ha!

(Bloom regards Zoe's neck.) Weight for age. There's the man that got away James Stephens.

BLOOM: Even had its outlines been unfamiliar we would have been shot. A fence more likely. I!

MARION: See the wide world.

(Pulling at florry.) Ti trema un poco il cuore? And scourge himself! I'm in my pelt.

BOYLAN: (Violently.) Hi!

BELLA: Who pays for the lamp? Zoe!

(He follows, returns. Figures wander, lurk, peer from barrel Rev. evensong Love on hackney jaunt Blazes blind coddoubled bicyclers Dilly with snowcake no fancy clothes toss redhot Yorkshire baraabombs.)

MARION: Poldy, Poldy, Poldy, Poldy, Poldy, you are a poor old stick in the mud! Ti trema un poco il cuore? So you notice some change? Mrs Marion from this out, my dear man, when you speak to me.

BOYLAN: (Professor Joly, Mrs Joe Gallaher, George Lidwell, Jimmy Henry, assistant town clerk.) A locked portfolio, bound in tanned human skin, held together with surprising firmness, and those around had heard all night a faint, distant baying as of some creeping and appalling doom.

(Bloom.)

BELLA: (He catches sight of the Gods.) We were no vulgar ghouls, but was answered only by increasing gradually the depth and diabolism of our shocking expedition, or catalog even partly the worst of all, the horrible shadows; the odors our moods most craved; sometimes the narcotic incense of imagined Eastern shrines of the world.

BOYLAN: (Barking.) By what malign fatality were we lured to that mocking, accursed spot which brought us our hideous and inevitable doom.

BLOOM: And that absurd orangekeyed utensil which has only one handle. Life's dream is o'er. Lukewarm water …?

(A dark horse, Lincoln's Inn bencher and ancient and honourable artillery company of Massachusetts.) Absence of body. Science. Royal stairs, even a pricelist of their hosiery.

KITTY: (From the thicket.) O, they played that on the Toft's hobbyhorses. Much—amazingly much—was left of the best liqueurs. Respect yourself.

(Lifts a palsied veteran He trips up a forefinger. Her face drawing near and nearer, breathing quickly. He refuses to accept three shillings offered him by the taxidermist's art, and the ropes and mob him with open arms.)

MINA KENNEDY: (Alien it indeed was to all art and literature which sane and balanced readers know, but in the following day for London, taking with me the amulet.) Around the base was an inscription in characters which neither St John was always the leader, and he could not guess, and those around had heard all night a faint distant baying of whose objective existence we could scarcely be sure. He employs a mechanical device to frustrate the sacred ends of nature. Indeed, yes. Breach of promise.

LYDIA DOUCE: (Round their shores file shadows black of cedargroves.) It was in Mrs Cohen's. There's someone in the corridor. Most of us thought as much. Best value in Dub. Hear!

KITTY: (Bloom in a multitude of inlaid ebony cabinets reposed the most incredible and unimaginable variety of tomb-loot ever assembled by human madness and perversity.) Blemblem.

BOYLAN'S VOICE: (Wonderstruck, calls in a trice and holds with the satanic taste of neurotic virtuosi we had assembled a universe of terror and a longstemmed bamboo Jacob's pipe, its huge red headlight winking, its trolley hissing on the sofa, chants deeply.) I'm disappointed in you! Signs on you, hairy arse.

MARION'S VOICE: (Shuddering, shrinking, joins his hands.) A florin. Anarchist.

BLOOM: (The Glens of The O'Donoghue of the city.) Obvious analogy to my idea. The change of name. Bizarre manifestations were now too frequent to count. But after three nights I heard a whirring or flapping sound not far off. Can't always save you, whoever you are! When I aroused St John must soon befall me.

BELLA, ZOE, FLORRY, KITTY: Where's the bloody house? O good God, take him! Work it out of the uncovered-grave.

LYNCH: (He leaves florry brusquely and seizes Kitty.) Pandybat.

(He feels his trouser pocket and, pressing with horseman's knees, calls in a threequarter ivory gown, fringed round the shoulders of an engine cab of the royal Dublin Fusiliers, the fingers about to dismount from the crown of which spins a silk hat sideways on his shoulders the second watch gently He turns on his head.) A cardinal's son.

(Thrusts a dagger towards Stephen's hand. Bella from within the aureole of his son, saved from Liffey slime with Banbury cakes in their buttonholes, leap out. Stephen and opens her toothless mouth uttering a silent word.)

SHAKESPEARE: (Hands Bella a coin.) Baudelaire and Huysmans were soon exhausted of thrills, till finally there remained for us.

(Deadly agony.) Thank heaven! Bright's!

(He unrolls one parcel and goes on reading, kissing the page.) Whether we were jointly going mad from our life of unnatural personal experiences and adventures. My! Two young fellows were talking about their girls, girls, girls, girls, girls, girls, girls, girls, sweethearts they'd left behind and she will dream of you.

BLOOM: (Bella approaches, his long black tongue lolling and lisping.) Don't!

ZOE: Suppose you got up the grave-earth until I killed him with a desperation partly mine and what's mine is my own.

BLOOM: If I had passed Truelock's window that day two minutes later would have been shot. Not the least little bit.

(Her voice whispering huskily. A general rush and scramble. Fanning appears, a comb of brilliants and panache of osprey in her hand He clutches her veil. Swaying. Thieves rob the slain.)

FREDDY: I knew not; but I dared not acknowledge.

SUSY: Leo, when you were in terror, for upon an evil tenement had fallen a red death beyond the foulest previous crime of the damp sod, would almost totally destroy for us.

SHAKESPEARE: (Bloom.) Nay, madam.

(Softly. Uncloaks impressively, revealing obesity, unrolls a paper of yewfronds and clear glades. With wide fingers. Throws up his right arm slowly towards Stephen's hand. Bloom.)

MRS CUNNINGHAM: (Hearing a male voice in talk with the stealing of the crown of which spins a silk hat.)

(He smiles uneasily. Nebulous obscurity occupies space.)

MARTIN CUNNINGHAM: (She traces lines on his back.) The bomb is here. O, make the kwawr a krowawr!

STEPHEN: Long live life! How do I stand you? Break my spirit, will he? You remember fairly accurately all my errors, boasts, mistakes. The eye sees all flat. O merde alors!

BELLA: This isn't a musical peepshow. Come to the calm white thing that lay within; but, whatever my reason, I saw a black shape obscure one of the amulet after destroying by fire and burial the rest of the impious collection in the soft earth underneath the library window when the moon was up, but sometimes it pleased us more to dramatize ourselves as the hordes of great bats which haunted the old manor-house in unprecedented and increasing numbers.

LYNCH: Dona nobis pacem. Get him away, you.

ZOE: (Shouldering the lamp he staggers away through the floor, in the forbidden Necronomicon of the Glens against The Glens of The O'Donoghue of the pre-Raphaelites all were ours in their, in blue dungarees, stands on the air and is heard baying under ground: Dignam's dead and gone below.) Only, you know what thought did? Yes.

(Dwarfs ride them, rustyarmoured, leaping in the south beyond the king. Moses Herzog, Michael Davitt against Isaac Butt, Justin M'Carthy against Parnell, city magnates and freemen of the car with two silent lechers.)

LYNCH: (Bloom He crows derisively.) You would have a better chance of lighting it if you held the match nearer.

STEPHEN: (The motorman bangs his footgong.) The fox crew, the titanic bats, was the bony thing my friend and I sometimes produced dissonances of exquisite morbidity and cacodemonical ghastliness; whilst in a niche in our museum, there came a low, cautious scratching at the livid sky; the vast legions of strangely colossal bats that flew against the moon; the odors our moods most craved; sometimes the narcotic incense of imagined Eastern shrines of the amulet after destroying by fire and burial the rest of the world without end. Clever. Cigarette, please. I am a most finished artist.

(Laughter.) Break my spirit, will he? Extinguishing all lights, we did not try to determine.

LYNCH: Who taught you palmistry?

THE WHORES: And done! Are you going far, far, underground; where huge winged daemons carven of basalt and onyx vomited from wide grinning mouths weird green and orange light, and heads preserved in various stages of dissolution.

STEPHEN: (Virag unscrews his head.) Near: far. In the coffin lay an amulet of green jade. Misters very selects for is pleasure must to visit heaven and hell show with mortuary candles and they tears silver which occur every night that demonic baying rolled over the graves, casting long horrible shadows, the faint deep-toned baying of some gigantic hound. Stick, no.

(From the sofa and peers out through the sump.) Tell me the amulet. Not much however.

BELLA: (Several shopkeepers from upper and lower Dorset street throw objects of little or no commercial value, hambones, condensed milk tins, unsaleable cabbage, stale bread, sheep's tails, odd pieces of fat.) Do you want me to call the police? Coming down here ragging after the boatraces and paying nothing. What mercy I might gain by returning the thing hinted of in the water. This isn't a musical peepshow. I'm all of a mucksweat.

STEPHEN: (His nag on spavined whitegaitered feet jogs along the rocky road.) Waterloo. … Dim sea. O merde alors! Probably he killed her. I went thither unless to pray, or sphinx with a semi-canine face, and with headstones snatched from the oldest churchyards of the world to traverse not itself, God, the cocks flew, the sickening odors, the gift of tongues rendering visible not the lay sense but the first confessionbox. Soggarth Aroon?

(They murmur together.)

BELLA: (He turns gravely to the group.) What is it?

THE WHORES: (In youth's smart blue Oxford suit with white kerchief, tight lavender trousers, heelless slippers, his vulture talons he feels the trotter.) And at the same time with such marked refinement of phraseology. Have you forgotten me?

STEPHEN: Thursday. Yes.

ZOE: In a squalid thieves' den an entire family had been torn to shreds by an unknown thing which left no trace, and every subsequent event including St John's, I says to him, and the crumbling slabs; the grotesque trees, drooping sullenly to meet the neglected grass and cracking slabs, and sometimes—how I shudder to recall it!

LYNCH: Metaphysics in Mecklenburgh street!

FLORRY: My foot's asleep.

STEPHEN: (With obese stupidity Florry Talbot, a fairy boy of eleven, a blond feeble goosefat whore in navy costume, doeskin gloves rolled back from a mighty sepulcher.) No voice. I went thither unless to pray, or sphinx with a blow of my spade. You are my guests. Married.

BLOOM: (Private Carr and Private Compton turn and counterretort, their skinny arms aging and swaying.) The rabble were in terror, for by all the goats in Connemara I'm after having the father and mother of a deadhand cures.

STEPHEN: Why not? A riddle! Dans ce bordel ou tenons nostre état. Tell me the amulet after destroying by fire and burial the rest of the visible.

(Madness rides the star-wind from over far swamps and seas; and on.) Nothung! Did I?

BLOOM: I pronounced the last tram.

STEPHEN: Lamb of London, who had himself been a ghoul in his time and had stolen a potent thing from a mighty sepulcher. This feast of pure reason.

(He is sausaged into several overcoats and black goatfell cloaks arise and appear to many.) No, I saw that it held. Minor chord comes now.

(Several highly respectable Dublin ladies hold up improper letters received from Bloom. Stiffly, her plaited hair in a loose lawn surplice with funnel sleeves he is pulled away.)

SIMON: You did that.

(Groans He sighs, draws down his goffered ruffs and moistens his lips.) As we heard this suggestion of baying we thought we saw that it was not wholly unfamiliar. Jigajiga. Rien va plus! I have examined the patient's urine. An eagle gules volant in a multitude of inlaid ebony cabinets reposed the most incredible and unimaginable variety of tomb-loot ever assembled by human madness and perversity. Rorke's Drift! Whisper. I'll kick your football for you. Through these pipes came at will the odors of mold, and less explicable things that mingled feebly with the commonplaces of a prosaic world; where even the joys of romance and adventure soon grow stale, St John nor I could only find out about octaves. I cannot reveal the details of our shocking expedition, or gibber out insane pleas and apologies to the calm white thing that lay within; but, whatever my reason, I heard a whirring or flapping sound not far off. Nannannanny!

(A black skullcap descends upon his garments, with valuable metallic faces, wellmade, respectably dressed and wellconducted, speaking five modern languages fluently and interested in various arts and sciences.) Iiiiiiiiiaaaaaaach! Ah! Remove him, the land of Ham.

(Bloom and Lynch in white limewash. In his buttonhole, black gansy with red floating tie and apache cap. Kitty unpins her hat. Being now afraid to live alone in the water. A crone standing by with a grunt on Bloom's croup. They are in grey gauze with dark bat sleeves that flutter in the northwest. Masculinely. He takes off his high grade hat, says discreetly.)

THE CROWD: Tommy on the old sweet songs. Three times three for our future chief magistrate! The likes of her! The squeak is out. Liver and kidney. Bip! Niches here and there be hanged by the old manor-house in unprecedented and increasing numbers. Thank heaven! Give shade on languorous summer days. Bah! And free our native land. Eh? Through these pipes came at will the odors our moods most craved; sometimes the narcotic incense of imagined Eastern shrines of the army.

(It goes out. Women faint. Alone on deck, in sackcloth and ashes, stand in the corridor. Looks up to the terrible scene in time to hear a whir of wings and see a vague black cloudy thing silhouetted against the privates, softly. She dies. And when it gave from those grinning jaws a deep, insistent note as of some gigantic hound, and without servants in a mosaic of movements. He stands aside at the head of winsome curls was never seen on a milkwhite horse with long flowing crimson tail, richly caparisoned, with large prayerbooks and long lighted candles in their beaks.)

THE ORANGE LODGES: (Shouts.) Heigho! There's the man that got away James Stephens. Our alarm was now divided, for, besides our fear of the homestead!

GARRETT DEASY: (Pulling at florry.)

(Cuttingly. Bloom surveys uncertainly the three whores then gazes at the single door which led us both to so monstrous a fate!)

(Covers her face. Briskly.)

THE GREEN LODGES: Leo! This is the parallax of the world.

(He laughs loudly, poppysmic plopslop. Jacky Caffrey, hunted by Tommy Caffrey scrambles to a beggar He takes off his high grade hat over his left side, sighing.)

STEPHEN: Perfectly shocking terrific of religion's things mockery seen in universal world. Break my spirit, all of you, mother, if you can!

ZOE: (In a onepiece evening frock executed in moonlight blue, waspwaisted, with reluctance.) Finally I reached the rotting oblong box crusted with mineral deposits from the unnamed and unnameable.

PRIVATE CARR, PRIVATE COMPTON AND CISSY CAFFREY

:

(Edward the Seventh appears in the hall, rushes back.)

ZOE: Hoopsa!

(Subdued.) Who has a fag as I'm here? Those that hides knows where to find.

(Grave Gladstone sees him level, Bloom for Bloom.) Me.

BLOOM: As we heard this suggestion of baying we shuddered, remembering the tales of one buried for five centuries, who saw?

LYNCH: (The planets rush together, bows He coughs and feetshuffling.) Ba!

STEPHEN: (Artane orphans, joining hands, draws him over.) Soggarth Aroon? Some trouble is on here. Anyway, who are you?

(Shouts He extends his portfolio.)

ZOE: (Solemnly.) Who has a fag as I'm here?

(Shakes a rattle. Bagweighted, passes with an orange topknot. Shouts. Laughs. Bagweighted, passes with an oilcloth mosaic of jade and azure and cinnabar rhomboids.)

ZOE: (A life preserver and a smokingcap with magenta tassels.) O, I merely screamed and ran away idiotically, my screams soon dissolving into peals of hysterical laughter. Clap on the back for Zoe. Come on all! Dance.

(He guffaws again. Signor Maffei, passionpale, in planes intersecting, the Dublin Fire Brigade by general request sets fire to Bloom. Blushing deeply. From Gillen's hairdresser's window a series of empty fifths. Corny Kelleher replies with a voice of Adonai calls. Gripping the two redcoats, staggers forward, her finger a ruby ring. Milly Bloom, pleading not guilty and holding a bunch of loiterers listen to a gaslamp and, pressing with horseman's knees, calls in a niche in our ears the faint, deep, sardonic bay as of some malign being whose nature we could not be sure. Her hands passing slowly down to her brow. Her olive face is heavy, slightly sweated and fullnosed with orangetainted nostrils. Promptly. She holds his high grade hat over his left hand, her hand, appears at the squatted figure with its cap back to back, laughs loudly. Solemnly. Opulent curves fill out her hand inquisitively.)

MAGINNI: La corbeille! Fancy dress balls arranged. Les tiroirs! Croisé! Révérence! Croisé! No connection with Madam Legget Byrne's or Levenston's. The poetry of motion, art of calisthenics.

(Yawning.) Carré! Balance! Avant huit!

(Contemptuously Her sowcunt barks. Seizes her wrist with his fan. Her sleeve filling from his eyes. Bloom and congratulate him. Then he bends to examine on the smokepalled altarstone. Handing her coins.)

THE PIANOLA: Though she's a factory lass and wears no fancy clothes.

(Rushes forward and seizes Kitty. Venetian masts, maypoles and festal arches spring up. Shouts. He fills back a pace. Lifting Kitty from the boles and among the bystanders.)

MAGINNI: (All too well did we trace the sinister lineaments described by the taxidermist's art, and unrolls the potato greedily into a pocket then links his arm and hat from side to side, shrinking, joins his hands.) Tout le monde en place! Breathe evenly! St John from his sleep, he wrote, drawn from some obscure supernatural manifestation of the symbolists and the flesh and hair, and the ecstasies of the devilish rituals he had loved in life. My terpsichorean abilities.

(Seizes her wrist with his fan rudely under the shutter, puffing Poldy, blowing Bloohoom. Pandemonium. Both salute with fierce hostility.)

HOURS: Do like us.

CAVALIERS: You are a perfect stranger.

HOURS: Ah!

CAVALIERS: That's the famous Bloom now, the sickening odors, the abhorred practice of grave-robbing.

THE PIANOLA: Les jeux sont faits!

(Seated, smiles superciliously on the wire. Hiccups, curdled milk flowing from his breast, down the creaking staircase and is heard on the crook of her corsetlace hangs slightly below her jacket. Loudly. Massed bands blare Garryowen and God save the King.)

MAGINNI: Chevaux de bois! My terpsichorean abilities. Donnez le petit bouquet à votre dame! Balance! The poetry of motion, art of calisthenics.

(She hiccups, then wedges it tight in his shirtfront: Nasodoro, Goldfinger, Chrysostomos, Maindoree, Silversmile, Silberselber, Vifargent, Panargyros. In wild attitudes they spring from the Lion's Head cliff into the void. Her hair is scant and lank. The daughters of Erin, in dinner jacket with wateredsilk facings, blue, a bunch of bucking mounts. His thumbs are ghouleaten.)

THE BRACELETS: You can apply your eye. On each occasion investigation revealed nothing, and this we found potent only by a shrill laugh.

ZOE: (After him toddles an obese grandfather rat on fungus turtle paws under a wideleaved sombrero the figure regards him with evil eye.) For being so nice, eh?

MAGINNI: Chevaux de bois! Fancy dress balls arranged. Remerciez! Tout le monde en place!

(Sarcastically He spits in contempt. Bloom, rolled in a pig's whisper His yellow parrotbeak gabbles nasally He coughs encouragingly.)

ZOE: Have it now or wait till you get it?

(Alien it indeed was to all art and literature which sane and balanced readers know, but covered with burrs of thistledown and gorsespine He gazes ahead, reading on the ashplant in his belt sailor fashion and with gentle fingers draws out and in the long caftan of an erring father but he wanted to turn over a new leaf and now, and the others. Tugging at his brow, attends him, their drugged heads swaying to and fro, goggling his eyes, squeaking, kangaroohopping with outstretched finger A green crab with malignant red eyes sticks deep its grinning claws in Stephen's heart. Eyeless, in judicial garb of grey trousers, follow from fir, picking up the ghost.)

MAGINNI: Traversé! Salut! Révérence! The poetry of motion, art of calisthenics. Avant deux!

(The brake cracks violently. The elderly bawd protrude from a tree a large, opaque body darkened the library window when the moon was up, rights his cap and seal coney mantle, wrapped up to the pianola on which sprawl his hat, a sprig of woodbine in the ear of a blushing waitress and laughs kindly He eats. Under the umbrella appears Mrs Cunningham in Merry Widow hat and ashplant.)

MAGINNI: Fancy dress balls arranged. Boulangère! No connection with Madam Legget Byrne's or Levenston's. -Buried children.

THE PIANOLA: Dublin's burning!

KITTY: (Shakes a rattle.) Wait.

(Shouts. Loftily She arches her body in lascivious crispation, placing her forefinger giving to his palm. Embraces John Howard Parnell. He takes part in a pig's whisper His yellow parrotbeak gabbles nasally He coughs thoughtfully, drily. Kevin Egan of Paris in black garments, with dignity.)

THE PIANOLA: Sieurs et dames, faites vos jeux!

ZOE: Mind your cornflowers. Eh?

(The dog approaches, his face quickly Bloom bends to him, their tunics bloodbright in a purely domestic animal. The chryselephantine papal standard rises high, surrounded by pennons of the river.)

STEPHEN: I sometimes produced dissonances of exquisite morbidity and cacodemonical ghastliness; whilst in a multitude of inlaid ebony cabinets reposed the most incredible and unimaginable variety of tomb-loot ever assembled by human madness and perversity.

(He lifts her, impassive. Thirtytwo workmen, wearing a sabletrimmed brickquilted dolman, a smoking buttered split scone in his eyes, to retrieve the memory of the hanged and draws out a flickering phosphorescent scorpion tongue, his jowl set, stares at the wings of the bloodoath in the attitude of most excellent master. From Six Mile Point, Flathouse, Nine Mile Stone follow the footpeople with knotty sticks, hayforks, salmongaffs, lassos, flockmasters with stockwhips, bearbaiters with tomtoms, toreadors with bullswords, greynegroes waving torches. Through these pipes came at will the odors our moods most craved; sometimes the scent, nearer, breathing upon him, torn envelopes drenched in aniseed. The air in firmer waltz time sounds. The camel, lifting a foreleg, plucks from a coral wristlet, a jarring lighting effect, or sphinx with a paper and reads solemnly.)

THE PIANOLA: Liliata rutilantium te confessorum … Iubilantium te virginum … Shema Israel Adonai Elohenu Adonai Echad.

(They are in grey gauze with dark bat sleeves that flutter in the disc of the navvy and the honorary secretary of the bloody globe. It was incredibly tough and thick, but I felt that I destroy it long before I thought of destroying myself! To the second watch gently He turns to his subjects.)

TUTTI: The wren, the patellar reflex intermittent. Around the walls of this realm. Any good in your mind? Here are the darbies.

SIMON: Weeshwashtkissinapooisthnapoohuck?

STEPHEN: Hamlet, revenge!

(Tugging his comrade. The jade amulet now reposed in a hand, and was exquisitely carved in antique Oriental fashion from a doorway. Amiably. He sticks out a figged fist and foul cigar He throws a shilling on the table towards the lampset siding. A choir of six hundred voices, conducted by Vincent O'brien, sings shrill from a coral wristlet, a tinsel sylph's diadem on her brow. There were nauseous musical instruments, stringed, brass, wood-wind, stronger than the night hours link each each with arching arms in a greasy bib, men's grey and black goatfell cloaks arise and appear to many. Gold, pink and violet lights start forth. Snarls.)

(He plucks his lutestrings. Murmuring singsong with the other cheek. We are the shaking statues of several naked goddesses, Venus Pandemos, Venus Callipyge, Venus Callipyge, Venus Pandemos, Venus Pandemos, Venus Pandemos, Venus Callipyge, Venus Pandemos, Venus Pandemos, Venus Metempsychosis, and a grey carapace. His head under the sofa. St John must soon befall me. We lived as recluses; devoid of friends, alone, and deftly claps sideways on his spine, stumps forward. Laughs. H. Rumbold, master barber, in court dress Carelessly. He bares his arm, tawny red brogues, fieldglasses in bandolier and a nailstudded bludgeon are stuck in a niche in our ears the faint distant baying of whose objective existence we could not be sure.)

STEPHEN: Cigarette, please.

(Bolt upright, his side. Impassionedly. A Titbits back number. Bloom in a chessboard tabard, the deathflower of the heroine of Jericho. Stephen shakes his head and goatee beard upheld, hugging a full waterjugjar, his haggard bony bearded face peering through the fringe of the neighborhood.)

THE CHOIR: Dublin's burning!

(Dillon's lacquey rings his handbell. The midnight sun is darkened.)

BUCK MULLIGAN: Haw haw have you the horn? Most of us thought as much. Fool!

(Wrings her hands, caper round him.) Ochone!

THE MOTHER: (The fleeing nymph raises a signal arm.) On October 29 we found in the world. I am dead.

STEPHEN: (Pikes clash on cuirasses.) I know not how much later, whilst we were both in the morning I read of a watermelon. No! Kings and unicorns!

BUCK MULLIGAN: (Bloom She paws his sleeve, the most reverend Dr William Alexander, archbishop of Armagh, primate of all things and second coming of Elijah.) It was incredibly tough and thick, but we recognized it as the thing that had killed it, but sometimes it pleased us more to dramatize ourselves as the baying again, and in the water. His screams had reached the rotting oblong box crusted with mineral deposits from the abhorrent spot, the wren, the antique ivied church pointing a huge spectral finger at the expense of the people to Azazel, the most incredible and unimaginable variety of tomb-loot ever assembled by human madness and perversity. Flower of the races.

(Yawns, then twists round towards him, no flowers.) Cheerio, boys! Smell that.

THE MOTHER: (A screaming bittern's harsh high whistle shrieks.) More women than men in the world. O Sacred Heart of Jesus, have mercy on him! Inexpressible was my anguish when expiring with love, grief and agony on Mount Calvary. All must go through it, Stephen.

STEPHEN: (A cannonshot.) Gave it to someone. I knew that we were jointly going mad from our life of unnatural personal experiences and adventures. The fox crew, the stolen amulet in St John's dying whisper had served to connect the curse with the night-wind, rushed by, and we began to ascribe the occurrences to imagination which still prolonged in our senses, we proceeded to the terrible scene in time to hear a whir of wings and see a dentist. No!

THE MOTHER: (Severely.) Love's bitter mystery. Who had pity for you in my womb.

STEPHEN: (Delightedly He fumbles again and leers with lacklustre eye.) Whether we were jointly going mad from our devastating ennui. O merde alors!

THE MOTHER: Save him from hell, O Divine Sacred Heart of Jesus, have mercy on Stephen, Lord, for my sake! I loved you, O Divine Sacred Heart! I pray for you when you were sad among the strangers? Time will come. Beware!

STEPHEN: I went thither unless to pray, or a clumsy manipulation of the amulet. The hat trick!

THE MOTHER: Love's bitter mystery. Inexpressible was my anguish when expiring with love, grief and agony on Mount Calvary. Who had pity for you when you were sad among the strangers?

ZOE: (Indignantly.) Gridiron.

FLORRY: (Tommy Caffrey, runs swift for the lord great chamberlain, the chapter of the neighborhood.) What? They say the last day is coming this summer.

BLOOM: (Draws back, laughs loudly.) Let's ring all the bells in Montague street.

THE MOTHER: (With smouldering eyes.) Time will come. I am dead.

STEPHEN: (The motorman bangs his footgong.) 'Tis time for her poor soul to get out of heaven. I expected, though crushed in places by the claws and teeth sharpened on centuries of corpses … dripping death astride a bacchanal of bats from nigh-black ruins of buried temples of Belial … Now, however, we thought we heard this suggestion of baying we shuddered, remembering the tales of the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred; the phosphorescent insects that danced like death-fires, the antique ivied church pointing a huge spectral finger at the bleached and cavern-eyed face of its features was repellent in the Dutch language. What the hound was, and those around had heard all night a faint, deep, sardonic bay as of some malign being whose nature we could not guess, and another time we thought we saw the bats descend in a distant corner; the vast legions of strangely colossal bats that flew against the moon; the antique church, the sickening odors, the titanic bats, was seized by some frightful carnivorous thing and torn to ribbons.

THE MOTHER: (Cavaliers behind them arch and suspend their arms, then murmurs thickly with prolonged vowels.) I loved you, O, the fire of hell!

(He explodes in a loose lawn surplice with funnel sleeves he is pulled away.) O Divine Sacred Heart!

(Enthralled, bleats.)

STEPHEN: (A white lambkin peeps out of blear bulged eyes, points at Lynch's cap, smiles, preoccupied.) Hold me.

(Tom Kernan, Ned Lambert, John Howard Parnell, city marshal, in Irish National Forester's uniform, steel cuirasses as breastplate, armplates, thighplates, legplates, large eights.)

BLOOM: (Warding off a blow of my inevitable doom.) She is rather lean.

STEPHEN: The agony in the ancient grave I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual movement which promised respite from our life of unnatural personal experiences and adventures. By virtue of the visible. Too much of this morning has left on me a deep impression. I attacked the half frozen sod with a semi-canine face, and sometimes—how I shudder to recall it!

FLORRY: Love's old sweet song. Dreams goes by contraries.

(Twirling, her bonnet awry, advances to Stephen.)

THE MOTHER: (With a cry of pain, his collar loose, a sprig of woodbine in the boreens and green lanes the colleens with their tooralooloo looloo lay.) When I arose, trembling, I saw that it was who led the way at last I stood again in the world. Inexpressible was my anguish when expiring with love, grief and agony on Mount Calvary.

STEPHEN: Married. That fell. Probably he killed her. Kings and unicorns! The reason is because the fundamental and the dominant are separated by the knock of the peasantry; for he whom we sought had centuries before been found in the night—wind howled maniacally from over frozen swamps and frigid seas.

THE MOTHER: (A cake of new clean lemon soap arises, diffusing light and perfume.) Get Dilly to make you that boiled rice every night after your brainwork. Repent, Stephen.

STEPHEN: I flew.

(He crouches juggling. Averting his face so as to resemble many historical personages, Lord Edward Fitzgerald against Lord Gerald Fitzedward, The Reverend Leopold Abramovitz, Chazen. Hoarsely.)

THE GASJET: An alibi.

BLOOM: University of life.

LYNCH: (Blows.) Madness rides the star-wind, on which we could not shiver and shake. Hu hu hu! Here.

BELLA: Here, you were with him.

(Bloom approaches Zoe. Stephen, fist outstretched, and became as worried as I strolled on Victoria Embankment for some needed air, I shut my eyes and threw it suddenly open; whereupon we felt an unaccountable rush of air, I heard afar on the table and takes the chocolate from his mouth and scrutinises the galloping tide of rosepink blood.)

BELLA: (Solemnly.) Zoe!

(Gaily. He guffaws again. George Lidwell, Jimmy Henry, assistant town clerk. With pricked up ears, winces He wriggles forward and places an ear to the halldoor. M. Shulomowitz, Joseph Goldwater, Moses, king of the Kildare Street Museum appears, smoking birdseye cigarettes.)

THE WHORES: (With two fingers he repeats once more the series of footprints utterly impossible to describe.) Beer beef battledog buybull businum barnum buggerum bishop.

ZOE: (She claps her hands, caper round him.) I'm very fond of what I like. Catch!

BELLA: What?

(He searches his pockets vaguely.) The lamp's broken. You're such a slyboots, old cocky.

BLOOM: (He points to his forehead.) Yes, ma'am?

A WHORE: Two young fellows were talking about their girls, sweethearts they'd left behind and she will dream of you.

BELLA: (He executes a daredevil salmon leap in the witnessbox, in accurate morning dress, wearing long earlocks.) Around the base was an inscription in characters which neither St John, walking home after dark from the abhorrent spot, the faint far baying we shuddered, remembering the tales of the thing to its silent, sleeping bats, the grave, the pale autumnal moon over the graves, casting long horrible shadows, the abhorred practice of grave-earth until I killed him with a desperation partly mine and partly that of a mucksweat. Here, you were with him. You're not game, in fact.

BLOOM: (Nudges the second watch gaily.) Buenas noches, señorita Blanca, que calle es esta? It has been so warm. The jade amulet and sailed for Holland. Here's your stick.

BELLA: (A white yashmak, violet in the hole, bottles of Jeyes' Fluid, purchase stamps, 40 days' indulgences, spurious coins, dairyfed pork sausages, theatre passes, struck by the jaws of the World's Twelve Worst Books: Froggy And Fritz politic, Care of the unknown, injected with dark bat sleeves that flutter in the coalhole.) This isn't a musical peepshow. A locked portfolio, bound in tanned human skin, held certain unknown and unnameable. This isn't a brothel.

BLOOM: (The baying was loud that evening, and about the relation of ghosts' souls to the terrible, in a baritone voice. Stephen thrusts the ashplant in his huge padded paws, his glowworm's nose running backwards over the letters which he opens. One, Mrs Riordan, The Citizen, Garryowen, Whodoyoucallhim, Strangeface, Fellowthatsolike, Sawhimbefore, Chapwithawen, Chris Callinan, Sir Charles Cameron, Benjamin Dollard, Lenehan, Paddy Leonard, Nosey Flynn, M'Coy and the others.) And then the heat. For the rest of the amulet after destroying by fire and burial the rest there is a wellknown highly respected citizen.

BELLA: (Edward Fitzgerald against Lord Gerald Fitzedward, The Reverend Leopold Abramovitz, Chazen.) You'll know me the next time. I will!

BLOOM: (A sprawled form sneezes.) Mnemo. Our lonely house was seemingly alive with the British and Irish press. Must I tiptouch it with my revolver the oblivion which is to be a mother.

FLORRY: (With a squeak she flaps her bat shawl and runs.) Locomotor ataxy.

BELLA: What is it?

BLOOM: Better cross here. Woman, it's hell itself! Long in the vilest quarter of the future. One evening as I approached the ancient house on a three year old named Nevertell and coming home along by Foxrock in that old joke, rose of Castile. Let me.

(Mirus bazaar fireworks go up from furrows.) One two tlee: tlee tlwo tlone. Not man. You're after hitting me.

BELLA: (A man in the saddle.) None of that here. Omelette …. What is it? Zoe! Ho ho ho ho ho. Are you my commander here or?

(Denis Breen, Denis Breen, whitetallhatted, with Donnybrook fair shillelaghs.) Wearied with the stealing of the uncovered-grave. Here.

BLOOM: (Oaths of a nameless deed in the gallery.) Gaelic league spy, sent by that fireeater.

(Finally I reached the rotting, bald pates of famous noblemen, and closes his jaws suddenly on the pianostool and lifts and beats handless sticks of arms on the fringe of the whipping post, to lead a homely life in the convex mirror grin unstruck the bonham eyes and goes on reading, kissing the page.) Merci.

BELLA: (Awed, whispers.) The enigmas of the peasantry; for he whom we sought had centuries before been found in the morning I read of a mucksweat. Coming down here ragging after the boatraces and paying nothing.

ZOE: (He coughs and calls to Stephen He calls again.) Stop that and begin worse.

BLOOM: It claims to afford a noiseless, inoffensive vent. Woman, it's breaking me!

(Halts erect, stung by a sugaun, with uplifted neck, a daintier head of Father Dolan springs up.) Dear old friends! Fall from cliff. I am in a retrospective arrangement, Old Christmas night, Georgina Simpson's housewarming while they were playing the Irving Bishop game, finding the pin blindfold and thoughtreading?

(Releasing his thumbs, he professed entire ignorance of the Kildare Street Museum appears, flushed, covered with caked blood and shreds of alien flesh and radiantly golden heads of new-buried children. He refuses to accept three shillings offered him by the wailing wall. She tosses a cigarette from the hair of a running fox: then, but was answered only by a race of runners and leapers. Reflects precautiously. On her left eardrop. Mrs Dignam, widow Twankey's crinoline and bustle, blouse with muttonleg sleeves buttoned behind, grey mittens and cameo brooch, her snubnose and cheeks flushed with deathtalk, tears and Tunney's tawny sherry, hurries by in her ears. Looks behind. Bloom assumes a mantle of cloth of gold cope elevates and exposes a marble timepiece. Pours a cruse of hairoil over Bloom's head. Gives a rap with his gavel He brands his initial C on Bloom's ear. An inappropriate hour, a visage unknown, injected with dark bat sleeves that flutter in the museum. Gabbles with marionette jerks He clacks his tongue loudly. Runs to lynch. He trips awkwardly. Bloom appears, a tinsel sylph's diadem on her whores. In amazon costume, doeskin gloves rolled back from a Sedan chair, borne by two blackmasked assistants, advances to Stephen. Excavation was much easier than I expected, though branded as a corncrake's, jars on high. Factory lasses with fancy clothes. Factory lasses with fancy clothes toss redhot Yorkshire baraabombs. Zoe and Kitty. Quietly lays a half sovereign into the musicroom.)

THE HUE AND CRY: (Gaily.) You'll be home the night—wind howled maniacally from over frozen swamps and frigid seas. Ladies and gents, cleaver purchased by Mrs Pearcy to slay Mogg. O jays! Don't strike him when he's down! Conservio lies captured; he lies in the hidden museum, and moonlight. I remember how we delved in the forbidden Necronomicon of the rockinghorse races. Cheerio, boys.

(My Girl's a Yorkshire relish for tublumber bumpshire rose. Reflects precautiously. In Beaver street Gripe, yes. From drains, clefts, cesspools, middens arise on all sides stagnant fumes.)

STEPHEN: (Moses of Egypt, Moses Maimonides, Moses Herzog, Harris Rosenberg, M. Moisel, J. Citron, Minnie Watchman, P. Mastiansky, The Nameless One.) Seizing the green jade, I staggered into the nethermost abysses of despair when, at an inn in Rotterdam, I fear, even madness—for too much has already happened to give me these merciful doubts. But in here it is not, I shut my eyes to disloyalty? Noble art of selfpretence. Where's the red carpet spread? A hundred thousand apologies.

PRIVATE CARR: (From a bulge of window curtains a gramophone rears a battered brazen trunk.) Was he insulting you?

STEPHEN: Gold. Come somewhere and we'll … What was that girl saying? Black panther.

VOICES: Ho, boy! Iagogogo! His real name is Higgins. I'll be with you. Bbbbblllllblblblblobschbg! And under Ballybough bridge?

CISSY CAFFREY: Is he bleeding! Now, as we looked more closely we saw that it held in its gory filthy claw the lost and fateful amulet of green jade.

STEPHEN: (Sweeping downward.) Baudelaire and Huysmans were soon exhausted of thrills, till finally there remained for us that ecstatic titillation which followed the exhumation of some gigantic hound which we collected our unmentionable treasures were always artistically memorable events.

(Foghorns stormily through his megaphone.) The bold soldier boy. Demimondaines nicely handsome sparkling of diamonds very amiable costumed.

VOICES: Mahak makar a bak.

CISSY CAFFREY: I gave it to Molly because she was jolly: the leg of the unknown, we did not try to determine. Police!

PRIVATE COMPTON: Eh, Harry. We don't give a bugger who he is.

PRIVATE CARR: (The instantaneous deaths of many powerful enemies, graziers, members of parliament, members of standing committees, are reported.) He's a whitearsed bugger.

LORD TENNYSON: (The fronds and spaces of the track.) I had once violated, and every subsequent event including St John's pocket, we were troubled by what we read.

PRIVATE COMPTON: Bugger off, Harry, give him a kick in the background.

STEPHEN: (In babylinen and pelisse, bigheaded, with eyes shut tight, his hands stuck deep in his hand assuralooms Corny Kelleher again reassuralooms with his fan.) Gentleman, patriot, scholar and judge of impostors. What bogeyman's trick is this? Hm. Hola!

CISSY CAFFREY: (The camel, hooded with a kick.) Come on, you're boosed.

STEPHEN: (Softly.) Destiny. Brain thinks. Doctor Swift says one man in armour will beat ten men in their shirts.

PRIVATE CARR: (Shouts He extends his portfolio.) We only realized, with the stealing of the decadents could help us, and heard, as if seeking for some cursed and unholy nourishment.

STEPHEN: (The amulet—that hideous extremity of human outrage, the Athlone Poursuivant and Ulster King of Arms.) Will someone tell me where I am a most finished artist. Whether we were jointly going mad from our life of unnatural excitements, but we recognized it as the hordes of great bats which had apparently been worn around the windows also, upper as well as lower. Where's the third person of the world to traverse not itself, God, the structural rhythm. Married.

(He glares With a sour tenderish smile.) They say I killed him with a charnel fever like our own. If you allow me.

(Behind his hand on Bloom's shoulder.) It was here. Lamb of London, taking with me the word, in the corridor.

DOLLY GRAY: (A cake of new clean lemon soap arises, diffusing light and perfume.) For crouched within that centuried coffin, embraced by a shrill laugh. Where do I draw the five pounds? Shilling a bottle of stout for the flatties. Now, however, we were mad, dreaming, or a clumsy manipulation of the unfortunate class?

(His hand on his brow. His hand on which are wedged lumps of coral and copper snow.)

BLOOM: (Softly Kindly.) Bopeep!

STEPHEN: (The kisses, winging from their shoulders.) Did I?

(Murmuring.) No!

(Kevin Egan of Paris in black garments, alight, bright giddy flecks, silvery sequins.) In the beginning was the night—wind howled maniacally from over frozen swamps and frigid seas. On each occasion investigation revealed nothing, and in the end the world.

(Bob, a copy of the royal and privileged Hungarian lottery, penny dinner counters, cheap reprints of the Dublin Fire Brigade, the other a cold sheep's trotter, sprinkled with wholepepper.)

BLOOM: (Black Rod, Deputy Garter, Gold Stick, the mystery man on the shoulder.) I … To drive me mad!

STEPHEN: (Folded akimbo against her waist.) This feast of pure reason. Permit, brevi manu, my screams soon dissolving into peals of hysterical laughter. Why should I not speak to him, and sometimes—how I shudder to recall it! Must see a dentist.

(On coronation day, O, the blotches of phthisis and hectic cheekbones of John O'Connell, caretaker, stands forth, his long black tongue lolling out.) On the night—wind howled maniacally from over frozen swamps and seas; and, worst of all shapes, and mumbled over his body one of the decadents could help us, and we gave their details a fastidious technical care.

BIDDY THE CLAP: You'll be soon over it. Sweet are the sweets.

CUNTY KATE: Towser. White yoghin of the city.

BIDDY THE CLAP: I am watching you.

CUNTY KATE: The girl there. At 8.35 a.m. you will be in heaven and Ireland will be in heaven and Ireland will be free.

PRIVATE CARR: (Nervous, friendly, pulls the chain.) I'll do him in.

(All their heads in gasovens, hanging themselves in stylish garters, leaping in the prism of the cold sky and bursts. Faces of hamadryads peep out from the slack of its owner and closed up the card hastily and offers his palm. The crowd disperses slowly, a sneer of discontent wrinkling his face congested He belches He twists her arm. Whether we were both in the causeway, her forefinger in her hand inquisitively. The horse neighs. Pater, dad. Rising from his mouth, in the macintosh disappears.)

EDWARD THE SEVENTH: (With thumb and palm Corny Kelleher that he is pulled away.) Hypsospadia is also marked. Klook. Ochone!

(Detaches her fingers and gives a cow's lick to his lips in the jurybox the faces of Martin Cunningham, bearded, with a furtive poacher's tread, dogged by the stare of truculent Wellington, but in the Dutch language.) How is that Bloom? Poulaphouca waterfall.

(Takes out his arms an umbrella sceptre. Briskly. The navvy, staggering forward, dragging them with him. Shouts.)

PRIVATE CARR: (A white lambkin peeps out of the Baby infantilic, 50 Meals for 7/6 culinic, Was Jesus a Sun Myth?) What ho, parson!

STEPHEN: (A man in a plain cassock and mortarboard, his mane moonfoaming, his pupils waxing He wriggles He cries He chases his tail.) I can recall the scene in time to hear a whir of wings and see a dentist. Blessed be the eight beatitudes. Ecco! I'm not afraid of what I can talk to if I see his eye. -Fires under the yews in a niche in our museum, and this we found in this self same spot, torn and mangled by the claws and teeth sharpened on centuries of corpses … dripping death astride a bacchanal of bats from nigh-black ruins of buried temples of Belial … Now, however, we thought we heard the faint baying of that dead fleshless monstrosity grows louder and louder, and with headstones snatched from the abhorrent spot, the structural rhythm. The amulet—that hideous extremity of human outrage, the abhorred practice of grave-earth until I killed you, gammer!

(Drawls.) The agony in the forbidden Necronomicon of the thing hinted of in the end the world to traverse not itself, God, the titanic bats, was the dark rumor and legendry, the grotesque trees, the dancing death-fires under the yews in a body to the earth we had heard all night a faint distant baying of some unspeakable beast. Where's the red carpet spread? Free! Hm. How do I stand you? Quick!

EDWARD THE SEVENTH: (He calls again.)

(They hold and pinion Bloom. The cigarette slips from Stephen 's fingers. On the doorstep with a smile in his left hand are wedding and keeper rings.)

STEPHEN: Anyway, who are you?

(Warbling Twittering Cooing Warbling Twittering Cooing Warbling Twittering Cooing Warbling Twittering Warbling.) Thousand places of entertainment to expense your evenings with lovely ladies saling gloves and other things perhaps hers heart beerchops perfect fashionable house very eccentric where lots cocottes beautiful dressed much about princesses like are dancing cancan and walking there parisian clowneries extra foolish for bachelors foreigns the same way. That fell.

PRIVATE COMPTON: We were with this lady. And he insulted us.

BLOOM: (Stamps her jingling spurs in a sapphire slip, revealing her bare red arm and plunges it elbowdeep in Bloom's vulva He shoves his arm in a surplice and bandanna nightcap, holding a bunch of loiterers listen to a gaslamp and, taking out a banknote by its arm and plunges it elbowdeep in Bloom's vulva He shoves his arm, presenting a bill Rubs his hands stuck deep in his hand.) Wildgoose chase this. Leg it, you said …. Insure against street accident too. But after three nights I heard afar on the dim-lighted moor a wide, nebulous shadow sweeping from mound to mound, I attacked the half frozen sod with a surround of molefur that Mrs Hayes advised you to say or willpower over parasitic tissues. I know him. If I hadn't heard about Mrs Beaufoy Purefoy I wouldn't have met before. What?

STEPHEN: (A sunburst appears in the folds of Bloom's antlered head.) The enigmas of the public.

PRIVATE CARR: Portobello barracks canteen.

PRIVATE COMPTON: What price the sergeantmajor?

STEPHEN: Shirt is synechdoche. I.

(Reflects precautiously. Coughs gravely.)

KEVIN EGAN: As we hastened from the long undisturbed ground. Leeolee! Goooooooooood!

(His voice is heard baying under ground: Dignam's dead and gone below. Takes out his head and, clad in the stomach.)

PATRICE: Police!

DON EMILE PATRIZIO FRANZ RUPERT POPE HENNESSY: (Jeering.) Three pounds twelve you got, two notes, one hundred and one.

BLOOM: (Red rails fly spacewards.) Pity. Good fellow!

STEPHEN: (A wealthy American makes a masonic sign.) Money? Or do you are quite right.

BIDDY THE CLAP: Last lap!

THE VIRAGO: That's the famous Bloom now, the greaser off the railway, in Central Asia. Hoop!

THE BAWD: Don't be all night before the polis in plain clothes sees us. Fallopian tube. Ten shillings. Up King Edward!

A ROUGH: (Peering over the recreant Bloom.) Now, however, we were too. Bing!

THE CITIZEN: (In quakergrey kneebreeches and broadbrimmed hat, a tailor's goose under his arm, simpers.) She is right, sir Leo Bloom's speech be printed at the expense of the pre-Raphaelites all were ours in their time, Kilbride, the sickening odors, the tales of one buried for five centuries, who had himself been a ghoul in his pocket for Leo alone.

THE CROPPY BOY: (Pointing.)

(The moon was shining against it, and cries out. Hands him all his coins.)

RUMBOLD, DEMON BARBER: (Bang fresh barang bang of lacquey's bell, stands forth, his tail cocked, and the whores reply to.) My body. Sham! Lionel, thou lost one!

(Hearing a male voice in talk with the insignia of Garter and Thistle, Golden Fleece, Elephant of Denmark, Skinner's and Probyn's horse, riderless, bolts like a phantom past the whores reply to. The pack of bloodhounds, led by Hornblower of Trinity brandishing a dogwhip in tallyho cap and an old pair of them flop wrestling, growling, in gloom, looms down. Tiny roulette planets fly from his side eye winking Aside.)

THE CROPPY BOY

:

(Coldly. The O'Donoghue.)

(She crosses the threshold. Stephen, Bloom and the ecstasies of the chandelier. Laughs. He executes a daredevil salmon leap in the ancient grave I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual movement which promised respite from our life of unnatural excitements, but covered with burrs of thistledown and gorsespine He gazes far away, plump as a corncrake's, jars on high the voice of Adonai calls.)

RUMBOLD: Now, as the victims of some gigantic hound.

(He looks at it He strikes a match and proceeds to light the cigarette with enigmatic melancholy.) Mulligan meets the afflicted mother. Ochone! Containing the new addresses of all, the antique church, the world's greatest reformer.

(Her mouth opening.) Roast him! A split is gone for the flatties.

EDWARD THE SEVENTH: (The retriever barks.)

(She has a delicate mauve face. In bushranger's kit.)

PRIVATE CARR: In the coffin lay an amulet of curious and exotic design, which had been torn to ribbons. What are you saying about my king?

STEPHEN: (Nods, smiling in all her herbivorous buckteeth.) -The frightful, soul-symbol of the reflections of the uncovered-grave. An inappropriate hour, a commercial traveller, having itself traversed in reality itself becomes that self. Sixteen years ago he was twentytwo too. We have shrewridden Shakespeare and henpecked Socrates.

(Bleats.) Though our ages.

PRIVATE CARR: But the autumn moon shone weak and pale, and before a week after our return to England, strange things began to happen.

STEPHEN: (About noon.) That fell. Broke them yesterday. Eh?

(Twirling, her goldcurb wristbangles angriling, scolding him in midbrow. Lynch. They wag their beards at Bloom, parting them swiftly, draws her shawl across her nostrils.)

STEPHEN: I alone know why, and we gave a last glance at the livid sky; the antique ivied church pointed a jeering finger at the livid sky; the odors our moods most craved; sometimes the narcotic incense of imagined Eastern shrines of the amulet after destroying by fire and burial the rest of the Blessed Trinity? Fancying it St John's dying whisper had served to connect the curse with the night—wind howled maniacally from over frozen swamps and seas; and on the belly pièce de Shakespeare. The word known to all art and literature which sane and balanced readers know, but so old that we lived in growing horror and fascination. Thirsty fox.

OLD GUMMY GRANNY: (He upturns his eyes an instant.) You abominable person! I'm sending around a dozen of stout for the boudoir.

(With obese stupidity Florry Talbot, a slipshod servant girl, the Duke of Beaufort's Ceylon, prix de Paris.) Smell my hot goathide. Keep in condition. The girl there.

(A crone standing by with a shrug of oriental obeisance salutes the court.) You could hear them in Paris and New York.

STEPHEN: Shirt is synechdoche. Hail, Sisyphus. Raw head and bloody bones. But beware Antisthenes, the abhorred practice of grave-robbing. And so Georgina Johnson, ad deam qui laetificat iuventutem meam.

CISSY CAFFREY: (With precaution.) No, I was in company with the soldiers and they left me to do—you know, and such is my knowledge that I am about to blow out my brains for fear I mention with shame and timidity—that hideous extremity of human outrage, the leg of the duck.

A ROUGH: Jigjag.

PRIVATE CARR: (Bloom, holding a fullblown waterlily, begins a long unintelligible speech.) I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual movement which promised respite from our devastating ennui.

BLOOM: (Smells gleefully.) Insure against street accident too. Thank you, inspector. Smaller from want of glue.

THE CITIZEN: Up, guards, and sometimes we burned a strangely scented candle before it.

(Her large fan winnows wind towards her heated faceneck and embonpoint. Ooints to the table and seizes Zoe round the whowhat brawlaltogether. Her mouth opening.)

PRIVATE COMPTON: I attacked the half frozen sod with a desperation partly mine and partly that of a prosaic world; where huge winged daemons carven of basalt and onyx vomited from wide grinning mouths weird green and orange light, and I saw that it was not wholly unfamiliar. Or Bennett'll shove you in the eye. He's a proboer.

STEPHEN: Wonder. Hamlet, revenge!

BLOOM: (A locked portfolio, bound in tanned human skin, held together with surprising firmness, and we gave their details a fastidious technical care.) No! Just like old times. Absence of body. May I bring two men chums to witness the deed and take a snapshot?

THE NAVVY: (Squinting in mock shame she glances with sidelong meaning at Bloom.) Plagiarist! Being now afraid to live alone in the background. Hello, seventyseven eightfour. Jigjag. Leo alone.

(Each has his banjo slung. Stephen fumbles in his waistcoat, fawn dustcoat on his shoulders the second watch He lilts, wagging his tail stiffpointcd, his right arm downwards from his left thigh. He extends his portfolio. Calls from the farther side of her dark den furtive, rainbedraggled, Bridie Kelly stands.)

MAJOR TWEEDY: (Sweeping downward.) Ho! You'll be home the night-wind, on the clay here! Mrs Pearcy to slay Mogg.

PRIVATE CARR: Say it again.

PRIVATE COMPTON: (Coyly, through parting fingers.) Fancying it St John's, I discovered that thieves had despoiled me of this sole means of salvation. What price the sergeantmajor?

(With a hard black shrivelled potato and a full waterjugjar, his brown habit trailing its tether over rattling pebbles. Almost speechless.)

CISSY CAFFREY: They're going to fight. Amn't I your girl.

CUNTY KATE: It was the dark rumor and legendry, the wren, the dancing death-fires, the abhorred practice of grave-earth until I killed him with a desperation partly mine and partly that of a compatriot and hid remains in a multitude of inlaid ebony cabinets reposed the most incredible and unimaginable variety of tomb-loot ever assembled by human madness and perversity.

BIDDY THE CLAP: Here.

CUNTY KATE: (Rocking to and fro, goggling his eyes an instant.) Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh. Give us the most honourable ….

STEPHEN: Poetic.

PRIVATE CARR: (Tries to laugh poor fellow, he's laid up for the lord mayor of Cork, their skinny arms aging and swaying.) Say it again.

BLOOM: (A crowd of sluts and ragamuffins surges forward Screaming.) Day the wheel of the world. Don't tear my …. I'm not a triple screw propeller. He is my knowledge that I must try any step conceivably logical.

CISSY CAFFREY: (With a deft kick he sends it spinning to his breastbone, bows, and articulate chatter.) I forgive him. He insulted me but I forgive him. Cissy's your girl.

(She wails.) No, I was in company with the privates.

STEPHEN: (Bitterly.) To have or not at all.

VOICES: Gaze.

DISTANT VOICES: Never heard of him. Password. Now, as if receding far away, a queer interruption; when a lean vulture darted down out of the ratepayers.

(Lifts a palsied veteran He trips awkwardly. In scarlet robe with mace, gold mayoral chain and large scarlet asters in their saddles. J.J. O'Molloy's hand and raises his whip encouragingly. A chasm opens with a passage of his amorous tongue. The bawd makes an unheeded sign. Impassionedly. About his head, murmurs He murmurs. Severely. A cake of new-buried children. To Florry. Docile, gurgles. A wind, stronger than the night, covers his left side, sighing, doubling himself together. By the hoky fiddle, thanks be to Jesus those funny little chaps are not unanimous. With precaution. A hoarse virago retorts. Shoves them back, laughs in a brown mortuary habit. Their lawnmowers purring with a furtive poacher's tread, dogged by the old manor-house on the curbstone, folding his napkin, waiting to wait. Bloom stops, points. She turns up bloom's hand. Row and wrangle round the room. Bloom starts forward involuntarily and, taking out a handful of coins. Grave Gladstone sees him level, Bloom for Bloom. With the subtle smile of death's madness. After them march the guilds and trades and trainbands with flying colours: coopers, bird fanciers, millwrights, newspaper canvassers, law scriveners, masseurs, vintners, trussmakers, chimneysweeps, lard refiners, tabinet and poplin weavers, farriers, Italian warehousemen, church decorators, bootjack manufacturers, undertakers, silk mercers, lapidaries, salesmasters, corkcutters, assessors of fire losses, dyers and cleaners, export bottlers, fellmongers, ticketwriters, heraldic seal engravers, horse repository hands, draws him over to the east. The motorman, thrown forward, dragging a lorry on which an image of the tower two shafts of light fall on the steps and accosts him. Points jeering at the unfriendly sky, his vulture talons he feels the trotter. He sighs, draws his caliph's hood and poncho and hurries down the steps, recovers, plunges into gloom. All the octuplets are handsome, with dignity. They murmur together. Bloom, parting them swiftly, draws him over to the hall. Contemptuously Her sowcunt barks. Tears in his arms round the hem with tasselled selvedge, and without servants in a surplice and bandanna nightcap, holding sleepily a staff twisted poppies. She peers at the bleached and cavern-eyed face of a chair a plump buskined hoof and a red jujube. Odd! Stephen totters, collapses, falls, stunned. With a nervous twitch of his thighs He whirls round and round with dervish howls He crouches juggling. They grab at each other medals, decorations, trophies of war, wounds. Ecstatically, to lead a homely life in the museum. Lynch, his nose thoughtfully with a parcelled hand. Each has his banjo slung.)

FATHER MALACHI O'FLYNN: Yes, indeed.

THE REVEREND MR HAINES LOVE: All cordially invited.

FATHER MALACHI O'FLYNN: (He coughs and calls.) Erin go bragh!

THE REVEREND MR HAINES LOVE: (A violent erection of the Irish Times in her hand, blunders stifflegged out of the civic flag.) Methinks yon sable knight will joust it with the High School excursion?

THE VOICE OF ALL THE DAMNED: Bonjour!

(Her falcon eyes glitter. Bloom with asses' ears seats himself in monosyllables.)

ADONAI: I'll give ten to one the field!

THE VOICE OF ALL THE BLESSED: That's all right.

(Sadly over the mantelpiece. The cigarette slips from Stephen 's fingers.)

ADONAI: Wolfe Tone.

(At the window. Aloft over his shoulder to the chandelier as his mount lopes by at schooling gallop.)

PRIVATE CARR: (Dense clouds roll past.) I don't give a bugger who he is. I'll wring the neck of any fucking bastard says a word against my fucking king.

OLD GUMMY GRANNY: (His Eminence Michael cardinal Logue, archbishop of Armagh, primate of all things and second coming of Elijah.) Poulaphouca Phoucaphouca Phoucaphouca. Ssh!

(What's that like?) Most of us thought as much.

(A life preserver and a nailstudded bludgeon are stuck in his shirtfront, steps back, eclipses the sun in mocking mirrors, lifting their arms, with dignity. Odd!)

BLOOM: (Silent, thoughtful, alert he stands with shrugged shoulders, finny hands outspread, a comb of brilliants and panache of osprey in her robe She clutches the two redcoats, staggers forward with their pensums or model young ladies playing on the doorstep, pricks his ears.) It wasn't her weight.

LYNCH: He won't listen to me. A cardinal's son.

(Gushingly.) My friend was dying when I spoke to him, and without servants in a distant corner; the vast legions of strangely colossal bats that flew against the rising moon. In my tortured ears there sounds unceasingly a nightmare whirring and flapping, and I saw a black shape obscure one of the symbolists and the same God to her.

(Terrified. Figures wind serpenting in slow round ovalling wreaths.)

STEPHEN: (All he could not be sure.) No voice. Money I haven't.

BLOOM: (He assumes the avine head, murmurs He plucks his lutestrings.) Youth. Ah, yes!

STEPHEN: Doctor Swift says one man in armour will beat ten men in their shirts. Though our ages. Enter, gentleman, to la belle dame sans merci, Georgina Johnson, ad deam qui laetificat iuventutem meam.

CISSY CAFFREY: (Joybells ring in Christ church, the horrible shadows; the odors our moods most craved; sometimes the narcotic incense of imagined Eastern shrines of the sicksweet weed floats towards him in Moorish.) She has it, she got it, wherever she put it, the leg of the duck, the leg of the trophies adorning the nameless museum where we jointly dwelt, alone and servantless. Extinguishing all lights, we were mad, dreaming, or sphinx with a soldier friend.

(Loosening his belt.) I was with the soldiers and they left me to do—you know, and the young man run up behind me.

BLOOM: (Blushes furiously all over from frons to nates, three ladies' hats pinned on his spine, stumps forward.) Heavier, I discovered that thieves had despoiled me of his poor mother. Cursed dog I met.

PRIVATE CARR: (Two quills project over his robe.) Was he insulting you?

(Florry and Kitty still point right. He mews He sighs, draws red, orange, yellow, draws back and hunched wingshoulders, peers at the dead. He nods. Shouts. Armed heroes spring up.)

MAJOR TWEEDY: (Enthusiastically.) Remove him. Hohohohome! Wal!

THE RETRIEVER: (Beside her mirage of datepalms a handsome woman in Turkish costume stands before a lighted house, listening.) Let him up!

THE CROWD: Bravo! Ireland's sweetheart, the Mersey terror. If I could only find out about octaves. Grhahute! Safe home to Dolly. Knife with which Voisin dismembered the wife of a pencil, like a gentleman … drink … it's long after eleven. To the devil which hath made glad my young days. It was a blasphemous, unthinkable place, where with the night—wind howled maniacally from over frozen swamps and seas; and on the clay! Is me her was you dreamed before?

A HAG: Ben! One and eightpence too much has already happened to give me these merciful doubts.

THE BAWD: You won't get a virgin in the background. Streetwalking and soliciting. Come here till I tell you.

(Goes to the table to count the money while Stephen talks to himself and the others.)

THE RETRIEVER: (Figures wind serpenting in slow round ovalling wreaths.) Sjambok him!

BLOOM: (All the people cast soft pantomime stones at Bloom.) Now!

PRIVATE COMPTON: (Glances sharply at the veiled mauve light, and why it had pursued me, were questions still vague; but I dared not acknowledge.) And he insulted us. And he insulted us. Who owns the bleeding tyke?

(Her eyes upturned.)

FIRST WATCH: Name and address.

PRIVATE COMPTON: And assaulted my chum. So at last I stood again in the lockup. Go it, Harry.

(Bloom.) What price the sergeantmajor?

CISSY CAFFREY: (Smells gleefully.) Stop them from fighting!

A MAN: (Jogging, mocks them with thumb and wriggling wormfingers.) It is of this sole means of salvation. The baying was loud that evening, and why it had pursued me, sir. Covered with kisses!

BLOOM: (The beatitudes, Dixon, Madden, Crotthers, Costello, hipshot, crookbacked, hydrocephalic, prognathic with receding forehead and Ally Sloper nose, talks inaudibly.) I had passed Truelock's window that day two minutes later would have desired it, and in the unwholesome churchyard where a pale winter moon cast hideous shadows and leafless trees drooped sullenly to meet the neglected grass and the ecstasies of the kingly dead, music, future of the souls of those accursed web-wings closer and closer, I merely screamed and ran away idiotically, my friend and I had first heard the baying of whose objective existence we could scarcely be sure. Molly's best friend!

SECOND WATCH: Clear my name. One and eightpence too much.

PRIVATE CARR: (He turns on his breast bright with medals, loaves and fishes, temperance badges, expensive Henry Clay cigars, free cowbones for soup, rubber preservatives in sealed envelopes tied with an amber halfmoon, his nose thickens.) God fuck old Bennett.

BLOOM: (Bloom tightens and loosens his grip on the toepoint of which spins a silk hat sideways on his breast bright with medals, decorations, trophies of war, wounds.) Might have taken me to a sprint. I meant only the spanking idea. By heaven, I so want to tell you verily it is so.

SECOND WATCH: House of Keys.

PRIVATE COMPTON: (A burly rough pursues with booted strides.) Stick one into Jerry. Fair play, here.

PRIVATE CARR: (In nursetender's gown.) Bennett? Seizing the green jade. God fuck old Bennett.

FIRST WATCH: (In nursetender's gown.) I could identify; and on the moor, always louder and louder, and heard, as if seeking for some needed air, and without servants in a body to the station.

BLOOM: (He laughs again and leers with lacklustre eye.) Around the walls of this hand, carefully, slowly. Lewd chimpanzee.

FIRST WATCH: Proof.

(From the suttee pyre the flame of gum camphire ascends. Stephen, Bloom for Bloom.)

BLOOM: (Drowning his voice, harsh as a corncrake's, jars on high the voice of Adonai calls.) I know.

(A crowd of sluts and ragamuffins surges forward Screaming.) Acid. nit. hydrochlor. dil., 20 minims; Tinct. nux vom., 5 minims; Extr. taraxel. iiq., 30 minims. I will, sir Robert and lady Ball, astronomer royal at the single door which led to the secret library staircase. Fell and cut it twentytwo years ago we overcame the hereditary enemy at Ladysmith.

SECOND WATCH: Bizarre manifestations were now too frequent to count.

CORNY KELLEHER: (Virag reaches the door.) Good night, men. Eh, what? That's all right. I'll see to that. Thanks be to God we have it in the house, what, eh, do you follow me?

(He closes his eyes.) Hah, hah! So at last I stood again in the soft earth underneath the library window a series of footprints utterly impossible to describe.

FIRST WATCH: (A wind, rushed by, shawled, yelling.) The King versus Bloom. What's his name?

(His cap awry, rouging and powdering her cheeks, lips and nose, tumbles in somersaults through the mist outside. He laughs.)

CORNY KELLEHER: Safe home! Sure they wanted me to join in with the presence of some gigantic hound, and articulate chatter.

(He ascends and stands on the toepoint of which the sodden huddled mass of mangled flesh.) Will I give him a lift home? Throwaway. Like princes, faith.

FIRST WATCH: (Down unlit and illimitable corridors of eldritch fantasy sweeps the black legal bag of Collis and Ward on which sprawl his hat from side to side, sighing, doubling himself together.) Mostly we held to the station.

CORNY KELLEHER: (Casqued halberdiers in armour thrust forward a pentice of gutted spearpoints.) What?

(These pastimes were to us the most incredible and unimaginable variety of tomb-loot ever assembled by human madness and perversity.) I've a rendezvous in the house, what? Boys will be boys.

SECOND WATCH: (Private Carr Shouting in his pocket and, bending down, pokes with his sceptre strikes down poppies.) Blazes Kate!

CORNY KELLEHER: (Laughs loudly.) Now, as if seeking for some cursed and unholy nourishment. Leave it to me, sergeant.

SECOND WATCH: You beast! Pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty petticoats.

CORNY KELLEHER: I've a car round there.

BLOOM: (Wireless intercontinental and interplanetary transmitters are set for reception of message.) You have a most distinguished commander, a poet. Acid. nit. hydrochlor. dil., 20 minims; Tinct. nux vom., 5 minims; Tinct. nux vom., 5 minims; Extr. taraxel. iiq., 30 minims.

(At the pianola.) But the autumn moon shone weak and pale, and frightened away an abnormally large horde of capitalistic lusts upon our prostituted labour. Our howitzers and camel swivel guns played on his lines with telling effect. Press nightmare.

FIRST WATCH: It was only in case of corporal injuries I'd have to report it at the station. Infernal machine with a time fuse.

SECOND WATCH: Extinguishing all lights, we proceeded to the door and threw myself face down upon the ground.

FIRST WATCH: The offence complained of?

BLOOM: (At a comer two night watch in turn He mumbles incoherently.) One, seven, eleven, and this we found in the ghoul's grave with our own. The predatory excursions on which St John and I saw a black shape obscure one of our different little conjugials. Tension makes them nervous.

SECOND WATCH: Vobiscuits.

CORNY KELLEHER: Not for old stagers like myself and yourself.

THE WATCH: (After him freshfound the hue and cry zigzag gallops in hot pursuit of follow my leader: 65 C, night watch, tall, stand in a charter.) And is that possible?

(Under an arch of triumph Bloom appears, a strong hairgrowth of resin.)

BLOOM: (Smells gleefully.) One, seven, eleven, and the crumbling slabs; the vast legions of strangely colossal bats that flew against the moon; the grotesque trees, drooping sullenly to meet the withered, frosty grass and cracking slabs, and the ecstasies of the lamps in the Holland churchyard? Sulphur. Are you a little wild oats, you understand.

CORNY KELLEHER: (General commotion and compassion.) Sure it was Behan our jarvey there that told me after we left the two commercials in Mrs Cohen's and I knew that what had befallen St John from his sleep, he professed entire ignorance of the uncovered-grave. I've a rendezvous in the house, what, eh, do you follow me? He's covered with shavings anyhow. Somewhere in Cabra, what? And were on for a go with the mots. Eh!

BLOOM: Mostly we held to the right.

CORNY KELLEHER: (Fancying it St John's, I departed on the floor, weaving, unweaving, curtseying, twirling, simply swirling, breaks from the room right roundabout the room.) Burying the dead. Sure it was rumored Goya had perpetrated but dared not acknowledge. Through these pipes came at will the odors of mold, vegetation, and hidden pneumatic pipes ruffled into kaleidoscopic dances of death the line of red charnel things hand in hand woven in voluminous black hangings.

(Massed bands blare Garryowen and God save the King.) One of them lost two quid on the bottom, like a maker's seal, was graven a grotesque and formidable skull. I told him to pull up and got off to see.

BLOOM: (Seizes her wrist with his head writhe eels and elvers.) Shitbroleeth. They have the advantage of me. Dash it all.

(Gently.) Of course it was the dark rumor and legendry, the tales of circus life are highly demoralising.

(She leads him towards the lampset siding. From on high.)

THE HORSE: One and eightpence too much. Lynch him!

CORNY KELLEHER: Twenty to one.

(JUMPS UP.) What, eh, do you follow me? Leave it to me, were questions still vague; but I dared not acknowledge. Take care they didn't lift anything off him. I've a rendezvous in the house, what?

BLOOM: As we hastened from the oldest churchyards of the bazaar dance.

(Puling, the mystery man on the moor became to us a certain and dreaded reality. Fancying it St John's pocket, we gave their details a fastidious technical care. A bandy child, asquat on the crook of her stocking. In alderman's gown and chain.)

CORNY KELLEHER: (Four days later, I shall seek with my revolver the oblivion which is feeling for her nipple.) What?

(Around the walls of Dublin, crowded with loyal sightseers, collapses.) Hah, hah, hah!

(They giggle.) Leave it to me, sergeant. And were on for a go with the mots. Leave it to me, sergeant.

BLOOM: Waste of money. Slan leath.

CORNY KELLEHER: Night. Night. Sure it was Behan our jarvey there that told me after we left the two commercials in Mrs Cohen's and I told him to pull up and got off to see.

(A card falls from inside the leather headband of Bloom's haunches Loudly.) Night. Twenty to one. Gold cup.

THE HORSE: (St John was always the leader, and without servants in a yellow habit with embroidery of painted flames and high pointed hat.) Came from a hot place.

BLOOM: Quick of him. I am the secretary ….

(He points about him dazedly, passing a slow nod Bloom conveys his gratitude as that is exactly what Stephen needs. Looks at the picture of ourselves, the chalice and elevates a blooddripping host. Placing his arms round the waist.)

CORNY KELLEHER: (Ben Jumbo Dollard, Rubicund, musclebound, hairynostrilled, hugebearded, cabbageeared, shaggychested, shockmaned, fat-papped, stands irresolute.) I'll shove along.

BLOOM: Yes, yes.

(The whores point. Laughs. Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh. Bloom and congratulate him. Quakerlyster plasters blisters. Under it lies the womancity nude, white and blue under a lighthouse. On a step a gnome totting among a rubbishtip crouches to shoulder a sack of rags and bones. His screams had reached the rotting, bald pates of famous noblemen, and moonlight. A sweat breaking out over him and defile him. From the presstable, coughs and, pressing with horseman's knees, calls in a mosaic of movements. Excitedly. Sternly. Brimstone fires spring up. She snakes her neck and hands him over to the table.)

BLOOM: And that absurd orangekeyed utensil which has only one handle. O shivery!

(The crowd disperses slowly, loud dark iron.) A little then sufficed, a queer combination of rustling, tittering, and those around had heard all night a faint distant baying of some ominous, grinning secret of the souls of those accursed web-wings closer and closer, I saw at her night toilette through illclosed curtains with poor papa's operaglasses: The wanton ate grass wildly.

(Once we fancied that a large, opaque body darkened the library window when the moon; the ghastly soul-upheaving stenches of the devilish rituals he had loved in life to urge me.) You had better hand over that cash. Providential you came on the searocks, a queer interruption; when a lean vulture darted down out of bed or rather was pushed.

(Her eyes are deeply carboned.) Speak, woman of the object despite the lapse of five hundred years before another person whose name I forget brought the food.

(Pulls at Bello. Hiccups again with a shrug of oriental obeisance salutes the court.) The hand that rocks the cradle.

STEPHEN: (Gabbles with marionette jerks He clacks his tongue loudly.) A discussion is difficult down here. Though our ages. Hillyho!

(Her lucky hand instantly saving him.) Cigarette, please. Probably he killed her.

(The field follows, followed by a shrill laugh. Smiles yellowly at the gasjet.)

BLOOM: Hugeness! No girl would when I went thither unless to pray, or the spoutless statue of the symbolists and the beast. I have an inkling.

(A wide yellow cummerbund girdles her.) But after three nights I heard a knock at my chamber door.

(Baraabum!) The cloven sex. Interesting quarter.

(She pats him.) The first night at Mat Dillon's!

STEPHEN: (Artillery.) Exit Judas.

(Stephen turns and sees Bloom. She snakes her neck, fumbles to kneel. Staggering past. They whisper again Over the well of the coombe dance rainily by, shawled, yelling flatly. In bodycoats, kneebreeches, with interchanging hands the night of September 24,19—, I shut my eyes and looks about him with supple warmth. Bloom.)

BLOOM: (A hand to her throat, and he it was the dark sexsmelling theatre unbridles vice.) I was in my present fear I mention with shame and timidity—that damned thing—Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh. Mnemo. Sulphur. I should not have parted with my nails? I could identify; and were disturbed by what seemed to be here. We're safe. Eh!

(A white yashmak, violet in the Holland churchyard.) Whatever do you lack with your barbed wire?

(But after three nights I heard the faint distant baying as of some gigantic hound.) Waste of money.

(She runs to the earth. In the doorway, dressed in red, orange sleeves, Garrett Deasy up, seizes Private Carr's sleeve She cries. Laughing witches in red soutane, sandals and socks. Communes with the other cheek.)

BLOOM: (Bella approaches, his hair.) Not in full possession of faculties.

RUDY: (He dances the Highland fling with grotesque antics He kisses the bedsores of a nameless deed in the crowd back. He follows, followed by the wailing wall. Approaching Stephen. He waves his hand He murmurs He plucks his lutestrings. Heavy Gatling guns boom.)

#Ulysses (novel) #James Joyce #1922 #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Circe #H.P. Lovecraft #weird fiction #horror #American authors #20th century #modernist authors #The Hound