#Little Natches River

[emabeesart]

The River

On the drive up to the mountain, traveling back home after going to see the stars in the dark skies, there is a nondescript turnoff from the road. It’s rocky and dusty and you have to be careful not to bottom out. There are two small clearings along the river, well worn from use as off-road camping sites. There are Spruce and Cedar, and Nootka Rose. The shore of the river is rocky, and narrow…

[cookinguptales]

yamagata (part two)

A continuation of this post.

We left off as we were leaving Hijiori Onsen and were starting our drive to the Dewa Sanzan and our lodging for the night, which was a shukubo, or pilgrim lodging. The weather was pretty miserable, all said, so we ended up not doing all that much on day two.

(I was upset ;; )

But we did stop at a bunch of temples and shrines by the side of the road, because my father is very patient, and saw some other neat stuff, too.

More under the cut.

Because the area we were in was all considered fairly sacred, there were a lot of roadside temples and shrines. We only drove a couple hours, but we must have passed dozens.

Some were very small, like this roadside shrine we passed on the way out of Hijiori Onsen.

Others were fairly big, like the under-construction Hiyaiwa Temple.

There were Jizo everywhere here, dozens of them, but apparently the main temple is actually dedicated to Kannon and Daikokuten, which makes me think it might've originally been a shugendō temple. A lot of the ones we stopped at on the Dewa Sanzan (including our ostensibly Shinto shukubo) were devoted to them.

I couldn't go inside, though, due to the construction, so I couldn't see the Daikokuten statue. Shame, because I hear it's nice.

They also had a small cemetery, which was interesting to walk around in. I tried googling this guy, but he's not the famous Nogi. His uniform looks like it's from the Russo-Japanese era... I guess he was a soldier whose family interred him here.

We also saw a tiny shrine across a river that you can only access by boat when we stopped for lunch. There were no boats in that weather, obviously, but it was neat to look at across the water. It's difficult to see the torii (gate) from the landing where I was taking photos, but you could see it pretty well from the road.

(Togawa Shrine)

We had tempura udon for lunch here (more kokeshi, natch) and it was so nice after being out in such rotten weather.

And there was a mini shrine in the parking lot here, too. Truly, they were everywhere here.

We also encountered a really strange rest stop. It was Korea-themed...? From what I could tell from googling, it was largely a tourist trap. But what a fascinating tourist trap... A lot of people were getting out for lunch there, but it was so miserable out that we just kept moving.

We did eventually make it to Hagurosan, though!

We checked into our shukubo lodging, dropped off our stuff, and drove around the area a bit. I found what was essentially a ranger station over near Gassan. It was already closed for the season, but I was still able to learn a fair amount. And see some cute signs about bears. lmao

We eventually gave up after the freaking hail started and went back to the shukubo.

Here's some photos from the next day, after things cleared up a bit. Interesting, the combination of Buddhist and Shinto imagery...

And here's Kannon and Daikokuten again.

Look at the little frog. ;;

That's all from the next morning, though, after morning prayers.

LET'S GO BACK IN TIME... TO WHEN IT WAS STILL HAILING AND I WAS MISERABLE... lmao

Look at all this hail that was still on the ground at the shrine the next day, I tell ya.

Anyway.

Shukubo stays typically have very specific food. Most shukubo are associated with Buddhist temples, like the famous temple lodgings at Koyasan. So because of that, usually they have vegetarian food.

This one didn't! Shugendō isn't as specific about that, and this was technically a Shinto shrine, not a Buddhist temple. (Which actually caused problems because I think one of the other pilgrims was Buddhist based on the very upset conversation I overheard lmao. She was not happy to see fish in her dinner.)

Still, shugendō does emphasize eating whatever you can find on the mountain. Shugendō, as I mentioned before, is an ascetic mountain religion. In other words yamabushi spent a lot of time in very harsh conditions climbing mountains and communing with nature. They kind of ate whatever they found.

So the food at the shukubo was... I'm not going to say... good... but it was an interesting experience. Most of it was various plants from the mountain and I did not know what most of it was. It was uh. Generally very cold and wet. lmao

(Edamame-like bean cracker, tea, and an assortment of small dishes.)

(The persimmon was nice at breakfast. And they gave us a sort of zenzai (mochi in red bean soup) situation to give us strength for the climb. I think it was special mochi with more nutrients.)

A couple more interior photos of the shukubo's dining area.

We weren't allowed to take photos in some of the more sacred areas, like where we had morning prayers. It was a really interesting experience, though, and they actually had translated prayers for us that a western yamabushi had made. It had a lot in common with Shinto prayers, which I guess makes sense as it was technically a Shinto shrine, but not exactly. So, y'know, you'd have the paper ōnusa wands but also a conch shell that was blown during prayers...? It was so interesting.

(Not the conch shell the priest at the shukubo used; this was one at a Dewa Sanzan museum on Hagurosan.)

I did laugh a little internally, though. He was talking about how all the photos and signatures on the wall were from very devout pilgrims who'd stayed there but sir, I saw that one of them was SMAP.

(And trying to explain to Dad that they basically had a signature by the Japanese equivalent of maybe NSYNC or The Backstreet Boys was A Conversation.)

I'm at 26 photos again... I think I'll just go to yet another post (SORRY...) so I can talk about finally ascending Hagurosan.

I think it'll probably be only one more post for Yamagata because, frankly, I went to a lot of places you're not allowed to photograph after this. lmao. But I guess we'll see.

[taperwolf]

So I'm reading a lot of @headspace-hotel posts about farming and pesticides and nature, and I'm being reminded of — well, the arc of my dad's career.

Dad grew up on a small cattle ranch in southern Idaho, was the first in his family to go to college. He went into agriculture-related public service, spending most of his career (from the late 1970s through the 2010s) with the US Forest Service.

I don't know that people appreciate just how much land in the US is publicly owned and managed by either the Department of Agriculture or the Department of the Interior. The USDA includes the Forest Service, which manages the 193 million acres of the National Forest system, about the same area as Texas; the USDoI includes the National Park Service, which maintains the National Parks and National Monuments, the US Fish & Wildlife service, which manages the National Wildlife Refuges, wetland management districts, and fish hatcheries, and the Bureau of Land Management, which directly administers 245 million acres (⅒ of total US land mass). These are all uniformed services of the federal government, and the fact that the land management agencies are spread under different cabinet departments means that there's a lot of inter-service rivalry. At any rate, US residents are welcome to visit and use (for various purposes) most of this land, subject to various restrictions and usage fees.

Despite the name, the National Forests include a lot of land that's not remotely forested. Dad spent many years in the same area that he grew up in and areas nearby, where there's a lot of high desert — sagebrush, grasses, and prickly pear cactus — and his first posting as a district Ranger was on the Little Missouri National Grasslands in North Dakota, which is, natch, grasslands. The primary public use of these kinds of lands is grazing, both of cattle and sheep.

At any rate, both the forested and nonforested areas face the risk of wildfires, and dealing with those is probably the most high-profile work the Forest Service does. For decades, the policy was to stop all wildfires as quickly as possible, and to portray forest fires as an absolute tragedy; we didn't understand the role that periodic fires play in these ecosystems. The massive 1988 fire in Yellowstone National Park and surrounding areas was a big wake-up call that the general policy of stopping small burns was just allowing deadfall and dry vegetation to accumulate in the undergrowth until the whole area was a tinderbox. That event, and the publication a year earlier of Alston Chase's book Playing God in Yellowstone, which called out the management blunders that would lead to such a fire, played a big role in Dad's opinions going forwards. (He's got some minor dyslexia, and had rarely read a book since college, but he read and reread that book.) The current policy has shifted to one of containment and letting things burn naturally unless they're threatening human lives and property, which has unfortunately become too common an occurrence of late. I remember he was also a proponent of wolf reintroduction to Yellowstone, a policy that's paid off enormously in repairing the ecosystem there. (Though he presented the situation to nearby ranchers and herders in more mercenary terms; he said, "Look, if wolves are reintroduced by the park service, and, as you fear, leave Yellowstone and attack your herds, we can remove or kill problem animals. The other probable case right now is that, sooner or later, wolves are going to reintroduce themselves, coming down from Canada, and they'll be fully protected as an endangered species and you won't be able to do a damned thing about it.")

Another concern that became important to him was riparian area repair — attempting to restore the natural balance of the space around rivers and streams. Again, decades of doctrine had been that human use was paramount — access to rivers for recreation, creation of dams and reservoirs for electricity generation and irrigation, and so forth — until people started to realize how much of their building was in desiccated flood plains; I remember him publishing a paper in one of the internal journals on remediation efforts on one of the creeks on his district. Likewise, he was a big champion of integrated pest management, attending conferences on moving away from pesticides and towards encouraging natural predators of pest insect species.

Dad's retired now, and I don't have much of a picture of how attitudes are within the various agencies. Government agencies are, by nature, slow to change and slow to move. But I guess I'm saying that people don't join the Forest Service because they want the forests torn down, and that you should look up what the public lands are near you, who runs them, what's going on with them.

[the-coconut-asado]

Piedmont: Beyond the Breadstick

You can always tell when Stanley Tucci’s enthusiasm is struggling to get to the boil. He is, after all, the Crown Prince of the foodgasm, and when he beckons his crew to down tools and dig in during his CNN series Searching for Italy, you know you want to be fighting them for a forkful. Even when he quaked before eating that blood and stomach concoction in Sardinia, his response felt alive - and let’s face it, he’s Stanley Tucci, I’m eating whatever he’s into. 

But when the show hit Piedmont, Stanley’s use of ‘Omigaaaad’ felt a bit sub-optimal. “Steeped in the past but with an eye to the future!” was his conclusion. That’s the sign-off equivalent of being given a fountain pen for your birthday. Is THAT all you think of me? 

The North-South divide in Italy is not just defined by how its wealth is distributed but, of course, its food. I have always been more for the South where the food is endlessly inventive and steeped in lush flavours. Roasted vegetables dressed in lashings of olive oil, melting garlic and lemons zestier than frost. The North, in which Piedmont sits, favours heavier meats - perhaps too much emphasis on veal - potatoes and the elusive, prized white truffle. Pleasant, but not as much to excite the palate (apart from truffles, natch). 

That said, flitting late last year between Torino and Alba, nestled under the mountains that divide Italy from France, I found some hidden treasures - and more than the breadsticks for which the region is famous. 

I started each morning in Torino with a  Grudging Americano (a black americano coffee served with a side order of water and a dash of disapproval). The separate serving of water gives you the chance to abandon your plan to use it, and drink your coffee as the shallow puddle that nature apparently intended.  Accompanying this was always the flakiest of Pane al Cioccolato, croissants filled with apricot jam and Bomboloni - a fluffy doughnut filled with either creme pat, chocolate cream or jam.

Torino, surprisingly for Italy where outside food influences are often frowned upon, offers a fusion of Japanese and Peruvian fish and seafood cuisine at Esca just across the River Po,  and other regions in Italy are also showcased (like the Pugliese offerings at La Drogheria Pugliese - Il Mangiatorio, a 2 minute walk from the main station). 

Alba, a chocolate box of a town in the heart of truffle-hunting country and the middle of truffle-hunting season, was more aloof and its restaurants more limited to a few dishes typical of the region. If you like truffles but are not a fan (my niece Carmen’s response to most things, and I am desperate to find out what she is a fan of) then you may find their pungent aroma occasionally overpowering as you walk within the town’s charming mediaeval walls. And there was little evidence of the much-heralded slow food revolution where we ate - antipasto, primo and secondi  served in 30 minutes flat in one establishment. 

However, stick to the classics and you will be delighted. Beef in Barolo (the region’s signature wine) has to be cooked long and slow and we tasted a particularly indulgent version in Bove’s. One little cafe hidden behind the church served my all -time favourite version of tomato bruschetta  - crispy, wafer-thin ciabatta with tomatoes, fresh oregano and oil - only the finest of everything. And, saving the best till last, every restaurant had their own version of Bonet, a magical, dense concoction of dark chocolate and crushed amaretti, soaked in a caramel that you need to take as far as you dare. Didn’t tire of ordering this. At. All. 

I will always head south in the Summer, but in late Autumn Piedmont gives an intriguing alternative - and unlike Southern Italy, most of its restaurants and cafes  don’t close down for the winter. Give both a go and you can give Stanley Tucci some more superlatives to play with. Other than the superlative that is Stanley Tucci, of course. 

Short Ribs in Barbera d’Alba

I have used Barbera d’Alba in my short rib casserole rather than Barolo with delish results. 

You can follow this recipe to the letter, or add your own flavours. Delicious and complex, best served with some garlicky potato gratin, or the humble mash. Serves 4.

Ingredients

6 beef short ribs

1 bottle Barbera d’alba (or Barolo if you wish)

1 sprig each of rosemary and oregano

6 sage leaves

1 bay leaf

1 tsp. Black peppercorns

1 tsp. Juniper berries

4 tbsp olive oil

250 beef stock

2 large red onions, quartered

2 carrots, sliced  at an angle

1 tbsp black treacle

How to make

Heat 1 tbsp of the oil in a deep casserole and brown the beef ribs on both sides. Remove from the casserole onto a plate. 

Heat the oven to 160C/ 150C fan and add the Barbera d”Alba to the pan along with the herbs, peppercorns and juniper berries. Simmer on a medium heat for about 15 minutes until reduced by half, then return the meat to the pan and add the stock and the black treacle. Return to the boil then cover and pop into the oven for 2.5 hours. 

Fry the onion and carrot in a frying pan with  tsp olive oil until golden and caramelised. Remove the stew from the oven and skim the fat off the top, add the vegetables into the casserole, cover and return to the oven for another 1.5 hours, removing the lid for the last 30 minutes to let the sauce reduce. 

Serve with potatoes dauphinoise or a warm crusty loaf. 

Tomato Bruschetta

The key to this is cutting the ciabatta horizontally to get a thin, long crispy base - and the use of oregano rather than the more typical but also delicious basil. Serves 2. 

Ingredients: 

Half a ciabatta loaf, split lengthways. 

4 heritage tomatoes, sliced thinly

Sprinkling of fresh, chopped oregano

Extra Virgin olive oil

1 garlic clove, peeled and cut in half lengthwise. 

How to make

Lightly griddle the ciabatta on both sides. Take off the heat, rub each cut side with the clove of garlic then drizzle with extra virgin olive oil. 

Arrange slices of tomato on top, sprinkle with the chopped fresh oregano and a sprinkling of sea salt. A final drizzle of extra virgin olive oil and it's good to go. 

Bonet

Jacob Kennedy of Bocca di Lupo fame does an evil genius version of this. I’m not going to try and reinvent perfection (just one or two tweaks - I’m fine using instant coffee, and adding a tbsp of water to the sugar to make the caramel -i’m just not brave enough to go without). Serves 8-10. 

Ingredients

280 caster sugar

500 ml milk

80g cocoa powder

50g dark 70% chocolate

50 ml instant coffee 

1 tsp. Vanilla extract

2 large eggs

3 large egg yolks

3 tbsp. Rum

200g amaretti biscuits

How to make

Put sugar and a tbsp sugar into a clean pan and place on a high heat. Stir briefly then swirl the pan as the sugar melts into a deep amber caramel. Take off the heat once this happens and pour the caramel into a bundt pan and, wearing gloves for protection, swirl to coat the sides (and try to spoon up the central column - although in my experience you are fighting against time with the caramel setting). 

Bring the milk to a boil in another deep pan. Beat together all the remaining ingredients except the amaretti to make a thick batter, then add the just-boiled  milk, very gradually at first, beating all the time to avoid lumps. Crumble the amaretti in your hands and add to the mixture, then let it stand for 15-20 minutes and mix again to ensure the amaretti is evenly distributed throughout the mix.Pour into the mould. 

Heat the oven to 160C / 150C fan. 

Stand the mould on top of a tea towel in a deep roasting pan in a bain-marie of water coming halfway up the side. Cover with foil and bake for 45 minutes, or until just set in the middle. . Lif the mould from the bain-marie, cool and then refrigerate overnight until ready to turn out and serve.

[barry-j-blupjeans]

@taznovembercelebration - Soup

It's cold. The type of cold that made your fingers go numb if you stood outside for more than a few minutes. Taako and Lup were nestled deep into a back alleyway of the city, using newspapers Taako had nicked off a newsstand earlier as kindling for their fire. It was warmer then. Or at the very least, more bearable. Here, cushioned between the dropping temperatures, the promise of snow the paper had reported, and his grumbling stomach, he felt a lot smaller than he had in the light of the day.

Still. Small victories. The second sun had just barely set when Lup had dragged out a decent-sized pot from one of their bags and filled it up with the river water they had boiled earlier. Taako had transmuted a couple of nails he had found on the street into a makeshift stand for the pot to sit above the fire and they had bought- bought! with their own money!- some chicken broth.

They couldn't go back through the marketplace for a few days, just to be safe, because someone had spotted Lup stealing lentils. On top of that, Taako had tripped during their escape and dropped about half of their vegetables. Still, it was something. They could have stolen the chicken broth, too, but they needed that guy on their good side. He had given them a discount after they had pulled the "poor hungry orphans" card, and if it was that easy, then it was best not to cross him anytime soon if they could help it.

It had been a mess to assemble everything. They didn't have a cutting board anymore- someone had ransacked the bags a few weeks ago and made off with half their supplies- but Taako had transmuted them a new knife and Lup had found a hard enough piece of wood to make due. They were lucky to have the pot still. At the very least, it was one piece of their Tía that had made it with them this far.

Lup glanced over her shoulder back toward the street and Taako checked too, just to be sure. But upon seeing nothing, she turned back to the pot and lifted the lid. A bout of steam rose from inside, followed by an incredible smell. Taako's stomach growled audibly and Lup grinned at him. She took their ladle- another stolen item, thank the gods for unaware shopkeeps- and took a scoop, raising it up towards her mouth for a sip.

"Done, I think," she said, lowering the ladle back down and squishing things around in the pot. Taako passed her the singular bowl they had and said,

"I'll take the pot."

"You got the pot last time," Lup said, spooning heavy scoops into the bowl. "You get the bowl this time."

"I always get the bowl," Taako said, taking it anyway when she passed it to him. He leaned over to his pack and got their spoons out, passing one to Lup. Lup didn't give him the grace of a reply. Instead, she leaned the pot toward herself and took a big spoonful. Taako followed suit.

Gods, this was good. They made it, so it was bound to be good, natch, but he had almost forgotten how nice warm food was. The lentils had softened beautifully and the single potato that Taako hadn't dropped was so, so worth it. He had been worried about the garlic, because it had been pretty old by the time they decided on soup tonight, but it made it so much better. Taako had to lean his head back to stop himself from salivating all over the place when he took another spoonful.

Warm food was delightful. It sat heavy in his stomach and made his chest tighten a bit. He almost had to blink back tears from the sudden memory of Tía dishing out a bowl for each of them. It hadn't been the first thing she had taught them, but it was definitely the homiest. If it wasn't so cold, Taako could almost imagine that they were still back there.

But the wind nipped at his fingers and neck as he ate, and the bowl slowly grew more empty. When he finally had enough left to tip the bowl back into his mouth, he did so with just a little bit of remorse. This was probably going to be the only warm thing they had for the rest of the month unless they got stupid lucky one day. And, just knowing how the world tended to work, they probably wouldn't.

Lup scraped the sides of the pan down and shoveled the rest into her mouth before setting it back down. Their fire was slowly starting to dwindle down. Taako wrapped his coat a little tighter around himself and said,

"D'you think we can wait 'til morning to wash stuff or nah?"

Lup tch'd, clearly thinking about it.

"We nearly got arrested last time they saw us doing that," she said. "So maybe now?"

"Oh. Right," Taako said. "Now it is."

"I'll take the pots and stuff if you get my bag."

"Deal," Taako said, passing the bowl back to her. She set it in the pot as Taako gathered up their stuff. They didn't need a repeat of getting all their shit stolen again- it might have been fine in the woods, but the city was a whole 'nother can of worms when it came to that sort of stuff. Taako kicked the transmuted pot holder off the fire and Lup extinguished it. In a few hours, the pot holder would turn back to the few screws he had started with, anyway.

It was a practiced routine. Set up camp, eat, meditate in shifts, maybe, if they could, and then go. They might come back here after washing up, but Taako doubted it. There was a spot by the river that was much more protected from the wind. They just had to figure out who was taking first watch.

"Alright," Lup said, lugging the pot up into her arms. "Lead the way, my man."

"Leading," Taako said, bringing them to the edge of the alleyway. He stopped and looked out to both sides, just in case. The city was as dead as it had been for the past few hours. The weather and the night were keeping most people home. When the first sun started to rise, they'd have to be more careful. They couldn't exactly go hauling their cookware out in plain sight. Either someone would think they stole it or would try to steal it from them.

But it was clear. Taako slunk down the street, Lup tight at his side. At the very least, he wouldn't have to worry about watching his back. They might have been outcasts, but if there was one person Taako trusted not to die, or disappear, or get tired of him, it was Lup.

[thenativetank]

I got a text today during my work day from the parents - they pulled up a crab trap and, lo and behold, they caught a catfish! A big one, probably about 16 inches long. Also, no crabs. I’ll spoil it a bit, it’s a White Catfish (Ameiurus catus) but if you want to read the (somewhat frustrating story), click the below!

(I dunno why you would, unless you like hearing me talk. In which case, you are probably me reading this at a later date. Hi, me!)

So, first off, I love how people send me pictures of native fishes. It really is a joy. But I also love when it’s a bit of a puzzle. See, we have a number of Ictalurid catfish species in the local river, and this guy honestly could have been a White Catfish, a Blue Catfish, or less likely, a Channel Catfish (we also have Yellow Bullheads, Brown Bullheads, and Flatheads, but none of these matched the description). Of these, the Channels and Whites are native while the Blues are invasive. So I request a picture of this fella’s anal fin. (sorry if that’s too personal, my fishy friend!)

The rounded anal fin here sells it - this is a white catfish! Consulting the Peterson Field Guide to Freshwater Fishes of North America North of Mexico (’natch), you can see the difference between it and the related Blue Catfish.

So my mom talks to the people who own the pier, who tell her it’s an “Arkansas Blue Catfish”, is invasive, and needs to be killed. And though I provide her the information necessary to dispute that this is in fact a native species, they weren’t listening. And. Like. It’s incredibly frustrating to listen to people whose business is fishing boats (mostly recreational, some commercial) and they aren’t fully aware of the species of fish locally, especially when they are game fish. Below is a picture of a Blue Catfish I caught a year ago:

So in addition to the very different anal fin, the body shape is also much different. Bullheads have big ol’ heads. The fry honestly look like tadpoles because of it. This similar-sized Blue is more proportional to what you’d expect a fish to look like. The Blues also have a more deeply forked tail than the Whites, which isn’t super apparent here.

In any case. I went down there, got pictures to accurately document the species, and released him. I don’t think anything will come of it, but darn if that doesn’t grind on my nerves a little.

[runswith]

Travel notes: Italy (Florence). Entry 2 - Feb. 27, 2003

Florence. One busy bugger of a city. Not a huge, sprawling, monster of a population center like Rome. More compact. And overrun with (a) traffic and (b) tourists.

Overrun may be a strong a word to apply to the tourist situation here, at least at this off-season time of the year, but that’s how it seems to me. They’re everywhere. (Yes, I know I’m one of them.) And the city -- or at least the city center (the area around the train station, the area around the university, the areas with centuries of serious history) -- seems geared to cater to them. Unlike Rome, the city isn’t so enormous that it can absorb the furriners without them affecting the basic feel of the place.

At least that’s how it seemed to me yesterday. I spent a bunch of time walking, to the point where one of my little feet did some serious complaining last night, sporting an angry heel blister. (Despite me wearing well-broken-in hiking shoes. These things happen.) Groups of young Japanese women everywhere, gelati shops everywhere. And most of all, traffic, including the most intense concentration of scooters and motorcycles I have ever seen.

Yesterday afternoon: after plenty of poking around various neighborhoods, I found myself feeling surprisingly unenamored of the place. Went back to my teeny hotel room, pulled out a book, chilled. Darkness fell. I’d seen a handbill earlier in the day for a concert of classical music, decided to go. Went out into the evening, the city feeling a bit more sedate. Wandered off in the direction of the church where the concert was to take place. And found that Florence feels drastically different at night. Less people. More of a sense of how the city of narrow streets and centuries-old buildings feels. More of a sense of how life here must feel. Plus, you’re walking along minding your own business, you turn a corner, you suddenly find yourself confronted with enormous, ancient, genuinely imposing old buildings. Churches, cathedrals, palaces, all with a sense of age that goes far beyond what I’m used to encountering in normal life. Unless you live somewhere like here. (Or Madrid -- woo-hoo!)

Got seriously lost trying to find the concert, though not minding it very much, my feet taking me along empty streets, passing entrances to winding alleys along which I could see signs for small shops and trattorias. Reached the point where I could see the road that runs along the Arno River, the waterway cutting across the southern part of the city, knew I’d gone way the hell out of the way, turned around. Wandered further to the east, along more deserted streets, the only businesses still open being restaurants/bars. Followed impulses that led me further and further into a warren of narrow streets where I passed a sign noting Dante’s home (or birthplace). The concert was to be held in the Church of Dante (la Chiesa de Dante), I figured I must be close.

Followed a further narrow street, leading me past a different church in which a choral concert was underway. Asked the woman (in Spanish, natch) sitting at the table outside about the concert I was searching for. She spewed a response, pointing, gesticulating wildly. I backed away, continued on in the direction she seemed to be indicating. The next teeny street to the right -- dark, with few doorways -- had a small table and chair positioned by one building, a man with a briefcase exiting the street as I paused and peered through the shadows. He glanced at me, turned around and loped back down that street, stopping at the table where he stopped to stare at me as I approached. A pile of handbills lay on the table, similar to the one I’d seen advertising the concert, the sound of a violin drifted faintly from the building behind the man, who stood motionless, still staring at me. I said I’d had trouble finding the place, he simply stared, almost like a junior high school teacher radiating disapproval at a student who’d shown up late for class. I brandished the money for a ticket, he came to, gave me my change. Then he opened the door, looked inside and gestured for me to enter, putting a finger to his lips.

A small church, given a sense of large space by its vaulted ceiling. Centuries and centuries old, austere, with few decorations, little of the usual Catholic frufru. Some paintings, maybe a tapestry. A display of candles off to one side, three or four burning. Dark, cold. Two rows of two-person pews, one to either side of the space, all filled with people listening, except the last one on the left side where I parked myself next to its single occupant.

A heavyset woman with a large mass of dark frizzy hair stood up on the altar playing a Bach sonata. Just her, no accompaniment, the sound filling the space. She played with assurance, the sound of the instrument coming across like a voice, seamless and rich, the kind of sound that someone who really knows how to play the instrument can produce.

I hadn’t been to a concert of classical music in eons. And I’d never been to one in quite this kind of setting. Afterward, it felt strange to see people in sneakers, jeans, etc. walking out of the place, dispersing along the narrow, dark streets. I made my way back toward the hotel, saw the Duomo of la Piazza San Giovanni looming above the buildings, headed in that direction. When I emerged into the piazza, I found myself dwarfed by the expanse of ancient structures and open cobblestone piazza. As I stood there, a bit overcome, the male of a couple walking by asked me something in Italian. I turned around, saying, “Sorry, what was that?” in Spanish. He asked again, still talking so fast I couldn’t make it out, I shrugged and said “No sé.” (”I don’t know.”) They laughed and moved on, me with no idea what the moment was about. I wandered around the piazza taking the enormity and sophistication of it in, a few other people out, mostly couples. Then I headed back to my temporary dive.

Question: why is there a bottle opener screwed to the wall of my hotel room’s bathroom? Am I supposed to hang out in there and drink?

[mezimraky]

H.E.Y. K.A.I. !! please tell me about your books

BOOKS & YOU thank you @qwuilleran. sending you love 💛

H: What’s the longest book you’ve ever read? my goodreads says that probably great expectations by charles dickens, and i feel it may be true, disregarding page count, it’s the longest story i’d stuck with.

E: What are three book blogs (besides macrolit natch ;D) that I should follow? I personally very much enjoy quotes content, so @violentwavesofemotion, then mil @ivory--and--gold always provides me with much appreciated sillyposting of the classics and also i love her, and and @tinyghosthands creates some of the most magnificent poetry that i’d come across on tumblr, so. there. i’m not sure if it counts but i hope it does.

Y: Do you have a favorite quote? i have a couple. bits and pieces of the picture of dorian gray, and how those wonderful words spark emotion. the whole of richard brautigan’s in watermelon sugar is one lovely quote in its entirety. it sits in my heart at all times. and then there are fragments of czech poetry, that i could not begin to translate as tenderly as they themselves are tender but i suppose i could try. one of bohuslav reynek’s poems starts with “bože můj, hořím nadějí,/  že věci, které se nedějí, / se stanou”, that is ‘my lord, i burn with hope that / the things that are impossible / shall happen” -- in czech it has such strong light in it, just the music of that sentence alone. or of the more eartly poetry let me call on václav hrabě, that wandering beatnik, and his “končím bez potlesku / ráno mne uvidíte / jak krmím racky nad řekou svým povídáním / a plivaje na oblohu dělám obláčky / neboť božský měsíc / má kocovinu / a je potřeba aby to někdo udělal / než pojedou lidé do práce”, that would be “i end without applause / in the morning you’ll see me / feeding the seagulls over the river with my words / and spitting on the sky making little clouds / for the holy moon / is hungover / and somebody has to do it / before the people go to work”. this is starting to get longer and longer, so i will not insert a direct quote of mr bohumil hrabal himself but trust that in his books there are a great many instances that touch me deeply and make me feel. něžný barbar, the gentle barbarian, more than some.

K: Favorite male writer? i have since some time ago given up on writers as someone to look up to, because it’s too complex to judge them as human beings while also appreciating their work, but not being biased by either. i have some that i mentioned before that i feel a connection to, but i am not sure i’d like to put them as a person on a pedestal of a favourite.

A: What’s the first book you see with a red spine? i’m not quarantined at home, so i am not surrounded by my books, but i do know i have kurt vonnegut’s mother night on a shelf right in the front

I: Do you have a favorite poet? same thing that went for the writers question. though perhaps there is a couple more of those, because i’ve grown to appreciate poetry over prose in these past few years.

[gottaread13]

13

ELEVEN

WAITING ON DOC’S DOORSILL AT WORK WAS A POSTCARD FROM some island he had never heard of out in the Pacific Ocean, with a lot of vowels in it’s name. The cancellation was in French and initialed by a local postmaster, along with the notation courier par lance-coco which as close as he could figure from the Petit Larousse must mean some kind of catapult mail delivery involving coconut shells, maybe as a way of dealing with an unapproachable reef. The message on the card was unsigned, but he knew it was from Shasta. “I wish you could see these waves. Its one more of these places a voice from somewhere else tells you you have to be. Remember that day with the Ouija board? I miss those days and I miss you. I wish so many things could be different… Nothing was supposed to happen this way, Doc, I’m so sorry.” Maybe she was, then again, maybe not. But what about this Ouija board? Doc went stumbling through his city dump of a memory. Oh …oh, sure, dimly… it had been during one  of those prolonged times of no dope, nobody had any, everybody was desperate and suffering lapses of judgment. People were opening up cold capsules and laboriously sorting the thousands of tiny beads inside by color, in the belief that each color stood for a different belladonna alkaloid, which taken in big enough doses would get them loaded. They were snorting nutmeg, drinking cocktails of Visine and inexpensive wine, eating packets of morning-glory seeds despite rumors that the seed companies were coating them with some chemical that would make you throw up. Anything. One day when Doc and Shasta were over at Sortilege’s house, she mentioned this Ouija board she had. Doc had a brainflash. “Hey! You think it knows where we can score?” Sortilege raised her eyebrows and shrugged, but waved a go- ahead hand at the board. The usual suspicions then arose, like how could you be sure the other person wasn’t deliberately moving the planchette to make it look like some message from beyond, and so on. “Easy as pie,” Sortilege said, “just do it all by yourself.” Following her instructions, Doc breathed himself deeply and carefully into a receptive state, letting the tips of his fingers rest as lightly as possible on the planchette. “Now, make your request, and see what happens.” “Groovy,” said Doc. “Hey—where can I find some dope, man? a-and, you know, good shit?” The planchette took off like a jackrabbit, spelling out almost faster than Shasta could copy an address down Sunset somewhat east of Vermont, and even throwing in a phone number, which Doc promptly dialed. “Howdy, dopers,” cooed a female voice, “we’ve got whatever you need, and remember—the sooner you get over here, the more there’ll be left for you.” “Yeah like whom I talking to? Hello? Hey!” Doc looked at the receiver, puzzled. “She just hung up.” “Could’ve been a recording,” said Sortilege. “Did you hear what she was screaming at you? ‘Stay away! I am a police trap!’” “You want to come along, keep us out of trouble?” She looked doubtful. “I have to advise you at this point that it might not be anything. See, the problem about Ouija boards—” But Doc and Shasta were already out the door and soon rattling up the chuckholed obstacle course known as Rosecrans Boulevard under a cloudless sky, in the sort of perfect daylight you always saw on TV cop shows, unshaded even by the eucalyptus trees that had recently all been chopped down. KHJ was playing a Tommy James & the Shondells marathon. Commercial-free in fact. What could be more auspicious? Even before they reached the airport, something about the light had begun to go weird. The sun vanished behind clouds which grew thicker by the minute. Up in the hills among the oil pumps, the first raindrops began to fall, and by the time Doc and Shasta got to La Brea they were in the middle of a sustained cloudburst. This was way too unnatural. Ahead, someplace over Pasadena, black clouds had gathered, not just dark gray but midnight black, tar-pit black, hitherto- unreported-circle-of-Hell black. Lightning bolts had begun to descend across the L.A. Basin singly and in groups, followed by deep, apocalyptic peals of thunder. Everybody had turned their headlights on, though it was midday. Water came rushing down the hillsides of Hollywood, sweeping mud, trees, bushes, and many of the lighter types of vehicle on down into the flatlands. After hours of detouring for landslides and traffic jams and accidents, Doc and Shasta finally located the mystically revealed dope dealers address, which turned out to be an empty lot with a gigantic excavation in it, between a laundromat and an Orange Julius-plus-car wash, all of them closed. In the thick mist and lashing rain, you couldn’t even see to the other side of the hole. “Hey. I thought there was supposed to be a lot of dope around here.” What Sortilege had tried to point out about Ouija boards, as Doc learned later back at the beach, while wringing out his socks and looking for a hair dryer, was that concentrated around us are always mischievous spirit forces, just past the threshold of human perception, occupying both worlds, and that these critters enjoy nothing better than to mess with those of us still attached to the thick and sorrowful catalogs of human desire. “Sure!” was their attitude, “you want dope? Here’s your dope, you fucking idiot.” Doc and Shasta sat parked by the edge of the empty swamped rectangle and watched it’s edges now and then slide in, and then after a while things rotated ninety degrees, and it began to look, to Doc at least, like a doorway, a great wet temple entrance, into someplace else. The rain beat down on the car roof, lightning and thunder from time to time interrupting thoughts of the old namesake river that had once run through this town, long canalized and tapped dry, and crippled into a public and anonymous confession of the deadly sin of greed…. He imagined it filling again, up to it’s concrete rim, and then over, all the water that had not been allowed to flow here for all these years now in unrelenting return, soon beginning to occupy the arroyos and cover the flats, all the swimming pools in the backyards filling up and overflowing and flooding the lots and streets, all this karmic waterscape connecting together, as the rain went on falling and the land vanished, into a sizable inland sea that would presently become an extension of the Pacific. It was funny that of all things to mention in the limited space of a coconut-launched postcard Shasta should have picked that day in the rain. It had stuck with Doc somehow too, even though it came at a point late in their time together, when she was already halfway out the door and Doc saw it happening but was letting it happen, and despite it there they were, presently making out frantically, like kids at the drive-in, steaming up the windows and getting the seat covers wet. Forgetting for a few minutes how it was all going to develop anyway. Back at the beach, the rain continued, and every day up in the hills, another fragment of real estate came sliding down. Insurance salesmen had Brylcreem running down into their collars, and stewardii found it impossible even with half- gallon cans of hair spray purchased in duty-free zones far away to maintain their hairdos in anything close to a stylish flip. The termitic houses of Gordita Beach had all turned to the consistency of wet sponge, emergency plumbers reached in to squeeze the beams and joists, thinking of their own winter homes in Palm Springs. People began to go crazy even while on the natch. Some enthusiast, claiming to be George Harrison of the Beatles, tried to hijack the Goodyear Blimp, moored at it’s winter quarters at the intersection of the Harbor and San Diego Freeways, and make it fly him to Aspen, Colorado, in the rain. The rain had a peculiar effect on Sortilege, who was just around then beginning to get obsessed by Lemuria and it’s tragic final days. “You were there in a former life,” Doc theorized. “I dream about it, Doc. I wake up so sure sometimes. Spike feels that way, too. Maybe it’s all this rain, but we’re starting to have the same dreams. We can’t find a way  to return to Lemuria, so it’s returning to us. Rising up out of the ocean—‘hi Leej, hi Spike, long time ain’t it…’” “It talked to you guys?” “I don’t know. It isn’t just a place.”

DOC TURNED OVER Shasta’s postcard now and stared at the picture on the front. It was a photo taken underwater of the ruins of some ancient city—broken columns and arches and collapsed retaining walls. The water was supernaturally clear and seemed to emit a vivid blue-green light. Fish, what Doc guessed you’d call tropical, were swimming back and forth. It all seemed familiar. He looked for a photo credit, a copyright date, a place of origin. Blank. He rolled a joint and lit up and considered. This had to be a message from someplace besides a Pacific island whose name he couldn’t pronounce. He decided to go back and visit the Ouija-board address, which, being the site of a classic dope misadventure, had remained permanently entered in his memory. Denis came along for muscle. The hole in the ground was gone, and in it’s place rose a strangely futuristic building. From the front it might have been taken at first for some kind of religious structure, smoothly narrow and conical, like a church spire only different. Whoever put it up must have had a pretty comfortable budget to work with, too, because the whole outside had been covered in gold leaf. Then Doc noticed how this tall pointed shape was also curved away from the street. He went down the block a little way and looked back to get a side view, and when he saw how dramatic the curve was and how sharp the point at the top, he finally tumbled. Aha! In the old L.A. tradition of architectural whimsy, this structure was supposed to be a six- story-high golden fang. “Denis, I’m gonna look around for a while, you want to wait in the car or come in and cover my back or something?” “I was gonna go try and find a pizza,” Denis said. Doc handed him the car keys. “And… they did have driver ed at Leuzinger High.” bure. “And you remember this is a stick, not automatic and so forth.” “I’m cool, Doc.” And Denis sped off.

THE FRONT DOOR was nearly invisible, more of a big  access panel that fit snugly into the curving façade. In the lobby beneath a tasteful sign in sans-serif face reading GOLDEN FANG ENTERPRISES, INC. \ CORPORATE HQ and behind a nameplate of her own that said “Xandra, hi!” sat an Asian receptionist wearing a black vinyl jumpsuit and a distant expression, who asked him in a semi-Brit accent whether he was sure he had the right place. “This is the address they told me at the Club Asiatique in San Pedro? Just here to pick up a package for the management?” Xandra reached for a telephone, punched a button, murmured into it, listened, gave Doc another doubtful once- over, stood, and led him across the reception area to a brushed- metallic door. It took only a step or two for him to dig that she’d logged more dojo hours in the year previous than he’d spent in front of the tube in his whole life—not the sort of young lady whose displeasure you’d go looking to provoke. “Second office on the left. Dr. Blatnoyd will see you in a moment.” Doc found the office and looked around for something to check out his hair in but saw only a small yellow-framed feng shui mirror by the door. The face looking back did not seem to be his own. “This is not promising,” he muttered. Behind a titanium desk, the window revealed a stretch of lower Sunset—taquerías, low-rent hotels, pawn shops. There were beanbag chairs and a range of magazines—Foreign  Affairs,  Sinsemilla Tips, Modern Psychopath, Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists— that gave Doc no handle on the clientele here. He started paging through 2000 Hairdos and was just getting into “That Five-Point Scissor Cut—What Your Stylist Isn’t Telling You,” when Dr. Blatnoyd came in wearing a suit in a deep, nearly ultraviolet shade of velvet, with very wide jacket lapels and bell-bottom trousers and accented with a raspberry-colored bow tie and display handkerchief. He seated himself behind the desk, reached for a weighty loose-leaf manual of some kind and began consulting it, squinting over at Doc from time to time. Finally, “So…you have some ID, I imagine.” Doc went looking through his wallet till he found a business card from a Chinese head shop on North Spring Street he thought would do the trick. “I can’t read this, it’s in some … Oriental… what is this, Chinese?” “Well, I figured that you, being Chinese—” “What? what are you talking about?”  “‘The … the Golden Fang …’?” “It’s a syndicate, most of us happen to be dentists, we set it up years ago for tax purposes, all legit— Wait,” peering at Doc you’d have to say diagnostically, “where’d you tell Xandra you were from again?” “Uh…” “Why, you’re another one of those hippie dopefiends, aren’t you. My goodness. Here for a little perking up, I’ll bet—” In a jiffy he was out with a tall cylinder of brown glass sealed elaborately with globs of some bright red plastic—“Dig it! just in from Darmstadt, lab quality, maybe I’ll even have some with you...” And before Doc knew it the hectic D.D.S. had a quantity of fluffy white cocaine crystals all chopped up into snortable format and arranged in lines on a nearby copy of Guns &Ammo. Doc shrugged in apology. “I try not to do dope I can’t pay for, ‘s what it is.” “Whoo!” Dr. Blatnoyd had a soda straw and was busy snorting away. “No worries, it’s on the house, as the TV antenna man always sez…Hmm, missed a little...” He took it on his finger and rubbed it enthusiastically into his gums. Doc did half a line in either nostril, just to be sociable, but somehow could not shake the impression that all was not as innocent here as it looked. He had been in a dentist’s office or two, and there was a distinctive smell and a set of vibes that were as absent here as room echoes, which he’d also been wondering about. Like something else was going on— something… not groovy. There was a quiet but no-nonsense knock at the door, and Xandra the receptionist looked in. She had unzipped the top of the jumpsuit, and Doc could now make out this exquisite pair of no-bra tits, their nipples noticeably erect. “Oh, Doctor,” she breathed, half singing it. “Yes, Xandra,” replied Dr. Blatnoyd, moist-nosed and beaming. Xandra nodded and slid away back on out the door again, smiling over her shoulder. “And don’t forget to bring that bottle” “Be right back,” Blatnoyd assured Doc, speeding out after her, eyes frenziedly focused on where her ass had just been, his echoless footsteps soon vanishing into unknown regions of the Golden Fang Building. Doc went over and had a look at the manual on the desk. Titled Golden Fang Procedures Handbook, it was open to a chapter titled “Interpersonal Situations.” “Section Eight— Hippies. Dealing with the Hippie is generally straightforward. His childlike nature will usually respond positively to drugs, sex, and/or rock and roll, although in which order these are to be deployed must depend on conditions specific to the moment.” From the doorway came a loud, violent chirp. Doc looked up and saw a smiling young woman, blond, Californian, presentable, wearing a striped minidress of many different “psychedelic” colors and waving at him vigorously, causing enormous earrings, shaped like pagodas of some kind, to swing back and forth and actually jingle. “Here for my Smile Maintenance appointment with Dr. Rudy!” A blast from the past. “Hey! that’s at Japonica, ain’t it. Japonica Fenway! Imagine meeting you here!” This was not a moment he’d been either dreading or hoping for, though now and then somebody would remind him of the ancient American Indian belief that if you save somebody’s life, you are responsible for them from then on, forever, and he would wonder if any of that applied to his history with Japonica. It had been his first paying gig as a licensed private eye, and pay it did, for sure. The Fenways were heavy-duty South Bay money, living on the Palos Verdes Peninsula in a gated enclave located inside the already gated high-rent community of Rolling Hills. “How am I supposed to come see you,” Doc wondered when Crocker Fenway, Japonica’s dad, called him at the office. “Guess it’ll have to be outside the gates and down in the flats,” said Crocker, “like Lomita?” It was a pretty open-and-shut runaway-daughter case, hardly worth daily scale, let alone the extravagant bonus Crocker insisted on paying when Doc finally brought Japonica back, one lens missing from her wire-rim shades and vomit in her hair, making the handoff in the same parking lot where he and Crocker had met originally. It wasn’t clear if she’d ever clearly registered Doc then, or remembered him now. “So! Japonica! what’ve you been up to?” “Oh, escaping, mostly? There’s this, like, place? that my parents keep sending me to?” Which turned out to be Chryskylodon, the same nut plantation in Ojai that Doc remembered his Aunt Reet mentioning and which Sloane and Mickey had donated a wing to. Though Doc once may have rescued Japonica from a life of dark and unspecified hippie horror, apparently restoration to the bosom of her family had been enough to really drive her around the bend. Against the neutral surface of the wall opposite, Doc had a moment’s visual of an American Indian in full Indian gear, perhaps one of those warriors who wipe out Henry Fonda’s regiment in Fort Apache (1948), approaching with a menacing frown. “Doc responsible for crazy white chick now. What Doc planning to do about that? If anything.” “Excuse me, short man with strange hair? Are you all right?” And on she went without waiting for an answer, twinkling like a roomful of speed freaks hanging Christmas tinsel, about her different escapes. It was beginning to give Doc a headache. Owing to Governor Reagan’s shutdown of most of the state mental facilities, the private sector had been trying in it’s way to pick up some of the slack, soon in fact becoming a standard California child-rearing resource. The Fenways had had Japonica in and out of Chryskylodon on a sort of maintenance-contract basis, depending as always on how they themselves were feeling day to day, for both led emotional lives of unusually high density, and often incoherence. “Some days all I had to do was play the wrong kind of music, and there’s my bags already packed, down in the front hall waiting for the driver.” Soon Chryskylodon had found itself attracting a type of silent benefactor—middle-aged, male, though occasionally female, more focused than usual on the young and mentally disturbed. Freaky chicks and fun-loving dopers! Why do they call it the Love Generation? Come on up to Chryskylodon for a rockin weekend and find out! Absolute discretion guaranteed! Circa 1970, “adult” was no longer quite being defined as in times previous. Among those who could afford to, a strenuous mass denial of the passage of time itself was under way. All across a city long devoted to illusory product, clairvoyant Japonica had seen them, these travelers invisible to others, poised, gazing from smogswept mesa-tops above the boulevards, acknowledging one another across miles and years, summit to summit, in the dusk, under an obscurely enforced silence. Wingfeathers trembled along their naked backs. They knew they could fly. A moment more, an eyeblink in eternity, and they would ascend… So, Dr. Rudy Blatnoyd, out on a first blind date with Japonica at the Sound Mind Caff, a secluded eatery with a patio in back and a menu designed by a resident three-star organic chef, was not only enchanted, he was wondering if somebody hadn’t slipped some new psychedelic into his pomegranate martini. This girl was delightful! Being a little ESP-deficient, of course Rudy failed to appreciate that behind her wide sparkling gaze Japonica was not only thinking about but at this point actually visiting other worlds. The Japonica sitting with the older man in the funny velour suit was actually a Cybernetic Organism, or cyborg, programmed to eat and drink, converse and socialize, while Real Japonica tended to important business elsewhere, because she was the Kozmic Traveler, deep issues Out There awaited, galaxies wheeled, empires collapsed, karma would not be denied, and Real Japonica must always be present at some exact point in five- dimensional space, or chaos would resume it’s dominion. She returned to the Sound Mind to find that Cyborg Japonica had somehow malfunctioned and gone skipping into the kitchen and done something gross to the Soup of the Day, and now they would have to pour it all down the sink. Actually, it was the Soup of the Night, a sinister indigo liquid which probably didn’t deserve much respect, but still, Cyborg Japonica could have showed some self-control. Naughty, impulsive Cyborg Japonica. Perhaps Real Japonica should not let her have those special high-voltage batteries she had been asking for. That would show her. Dr. Blatnoyd, escorting her out through a roomful of disapproving faces, only grew more bedazzled. So this was a free-spirited hippie chick! He saw these girls on the streets of Hollywood, on the TV screen, but this was his first up-close encounter. No wonder Japonica’s parents didn’t know what to do with her—his assumption here, which he didn’t examine too closely, being that he did. “And actually, I wasn’t too sure about who he was till I came in for my first Smile Evaluation…” At which point in Japonica’s reminiscing, in popped the lecherous toothyanker himself, zipping up his fly. “Japonica? I thought we’d agreed never to—” Catching sight of Doc—”oh, you’re still here?” “I escaped again, Rudy,” she twinkled. Denis also now came lurching in. “Hey man, your ride’s in a body shop.” “It signed itself in, Denis?” “I sort of mashed the front end. I was looking at these chicks out on Little Santa Monica—” “You went to Beverly Hills for a pizza, and rear-ended somebody there.” “Needs a new … what do they call that, with the hoses, where the steam comes out—” “Radiator—Denis, you said you took driver ed in high school.” “No, no, Doc, you said did they have Driver Ed, and I said yes cause they did, this dude Eddie Ochoa, that there wasn’t a cop south of Salinas could get near him, and that’s what everybody called him—” “So, like, you … never actually… learned …” “All that stuff they wanted you to remember, man?” Xandra, visibly disheveled, now came running in after Denis, yelling, “I told you you couldn’t come up here,” then spotted Japonica and screeched to a halt. “Oh. Smile Maintenance Chick. How lovely,” while scaling tiny glares Dr. Blatnoyd’s way like the star-shaped blades in kung fu movies. “Miss Fenway,” the doctor began to explain, “may seem a little psychotic today….” “Groovy!” cried Denis. “What?” Blatnoyd blinking. “Being insane, man? it’s groovy, where are you at, man?” “Denis …” Doc murmured. “It is not ‘groovy’ to be insane. Japonica here has been institutionalized for it.” “Yep,” beamed Japonica. “Like, in the place? Psychedelic! They put those volts in your head, man?” “Volts ‘n’ volts,” twinkled Japonica. “Whoa. Bad for la cabeza, man.” “C’mon, Denis,” said Doc, “we’re gonna have to figure out how to catch a bus back to the beach.” “If you need a ride, I’m heading that way,” offered Japonica. Running a fast eyeball diagnostic, Doc could see nothing too alarming—right at the moment she was being as sane as anybody here, not too many useful remarks Doc could pass, so he settled for, “Everything cool with your brakes and lights, Japonica? license-plate lights and so forth?” “A-OK? Just had Wolfgang in for periodic maintenance?” “That’s…” “My car?” Yes, another warning buzzer, but Doc was now on to obsessing over the vast numbers of law enforcement likely to be deployed between here and the beach. “Excuse me,” wondered Xandra, who’d been staring at Denis, “is that a slice of pizza on your hat?” “Oh wow, thanks, man, I’ve been lookin all over for that…” “Mind if I tag along with you people?” asked Dr. Blatnoyd. “Contingencies of the road and so forth.” Wolfgang turned out to be a ten-year-old Mercedes sedan with a roof panel passengers could slide back, allowing them, like dogs in pickups, to stick their heads out in the wind if they wanted. Doc rode shotgun, widebrim fedora down over his eyes, trying to ignore a deep foreboding. Dr. Blatnoyd climbed in the back with Denis and then spent some time trying to push a #66 market bag full of something under the front seat on Doc’s side. “Hey,” exclaimed Denis, “what’s in that bag you’re stuffing under Doc’s seat?” “Pay no attention to that bag,” advised Dr. Blatnoyd. “It will only make everybody paranoid.” Which it did, except for Japonica, who was maneuvering them smoothly up Sunset through the late rush-hour traffic. Denis had his head out the roof. “Drive slower,” he called down after a while, “I want to dig this.” They were crossing Vine and about to go past Wallach’s Music City, where each of a long row of audition booths inside had it’s own lighted window facing the street. In every window, one by one as Japonica crept by, appeared a hippie freak or small party of hippie freaks, each listening on headphones to a different rock ‘n’ roll album and moving around at a different rhythm. Like Denis, Doc was used to outdoor concerts where thousands of people congregated to listen to music for free, and where it all got sort of blended together into a single public self, because everybody was having the same experience. But here, each person was listening in solitude, confinement and mutual silence, and some of them later at the register would actually be spending money to hear rock ‘n’ roll. It seemed to Doc like some strange kind of dues or payback. More and more lately he’d been brooding about this great collective dream that everybody was being encouraged to stay tripping around in. Only now and then would you get an unplanned glimpse at the other side. Denis waved, yelled and flashed peace signs, but nobody in any of the booths noticed. At last he slid back down into the Mercedes. “Far out. Maybe they’re all stoned. Hey! That must be why they call those things headphones!” He put his face closer to Dr. Blatnoyds than the dentist was really comfortable with. “Think about that, man! Like, headphones, right?” Japonica was driving so skillfully that it wasn’t till they were out of the white dazzle of Hollywood and across Doheny that Doc noticed (a) it was now dark and (b) the headlights weren’t on. “Ah, Japonica, like, your lights?” She was humming to herself, a tune Doc recognized, with dawning concern, as the theme from Dark Shadows. After four more bars, he tried again. “Like, it would be so groovy, Japonica, really, to have some lights working is all, seeing ‘s how Beverly Hills cops are known to lurk uphill on these different cross streets? just waiting for minor violations, like lights, to pop folks on?” Her humming was way too intense. Doc made the mistake of looking over, only to find her staring at him and not the road, eyes glittering ferally through a blond curtain of California-chick hair. No, this was not reassuring. Though hardly a connoisseur of the freakout, he did recognize a wraparound hallucination when he saw one and understood immediately that while she likely didn’t see Doc at all, whatever she was seeing was indeed physically out there, in the gathering fog, and just about to— “Everything all right, baby?” Rudy Blatnoyd rang in. “Oo-oooo” warbled Japonica, putting some vibrato onto  it and stepping on the gas, “Ooo-ooo woo-oo, woo-ooo…” Cross traffic, neighborhood machinery such as Excaliburs and Ferraris, came blurring by at high speed, missing them by small clearances. Dr. Blatnoyd, as if wishing to start a therapeutic discussion, was glaring at Denis. “There. That’s just what I’ve been talking about.” “You didn’t say nothing about it happening while she’s driving, man.” Japonica had meantime decided that she must run every red light she could find, even speeding up to catch  some before they could turn green. “Urn, Japonica, my dear? That was a red light?” Blatnoyd pointed out helpfully. “Ooh, I don’t think so!” she explained blithely. “I think that was one of Its eyes!” “Oh. Well, yes,n Doc soothed. “We can sure dig that, Japonica, but then again—” “No, no, there’s no It’ watching you!” Blatnoyd now in some agitation. “Those are not eyes,’ those are warnings to come to a full stop and wait till the light turns green, don’t you remember learning that in school?” “That’s what those colors are for, man?” Denis said. Suddenly, like a UFO rising over the ridgeline, the flashing lights of a police car appeared uphill and came swooping down on them, the siren screaming. “Like, shit,” Denis heading for the hatch in the roof again, “I’m outta here, man,” overlooking for the moment the streetscape rushing past. Feeling no sign of deceleration, Doc, trying not to think about the paper bag under the seat, kept reaching with his foot for the brake pedal, meantime trying gently to steer the car over to the shoulder. If he’d been in his own ride and by himself, he might have chosen to make a run for it, at least open a door an inch or two and get rid of the bag, but by the time he could bring himself to try even that, the Man was on top of them. “License and registration, miss?” The cop seemed to be focused on Japonica’s tits. She smiled back at him in high- intensity silence, occasionally glancing at the Smith & Wesson on his hip. His partner, a rookie even blonder than he was, came and leaned on the passenger side, content for the moment to watch Denis, who had paused in his effort to climb through the roof to gaze at the strobing array of colored lights on top of the cruiser, and now and then go, “Oh wow, man.” “Are you the Great Beast?” inquired rattling-mad Japonica in her sub-jailbait lilt. “No no no,” Blatnoyd droning desperately, “that’s a policeman, Japonica, who only wants to make sure you’re all right…” “Just the license and registration if you wouldn’t mind,” said the cop. “You know you were driving without your headlights, miss.” “But I can see in the dark,” Japonica nodding emphatically, “I can see real good\n “Her sister went into labor about an hour ago,” Blatnoyd imagining he was charming their way out of a ticket, “and Miss Fenway promised she’d be there in time to see the baby born, so she might’ve been a little inattentive back there?” “That case,” said the cop, “maybe somebody else ought to be driving.” Japonica promptly jumped in the back seat with Blatnoyd, while Doc slid over behind the wheel and Denis moved up front to ride shotgun. The cops looked on beaming, like instructors at an etiquette class. “Oh and we’ll need everybody’s ID, too,” the rookie announced. “Sure thing,” Doc bringing out his PI license. “What’s it about, Officer?” “New program,” shrugged the other cop, “you know how it is, another excuse for paperwork, they’re calling it Cultwatch, every gathering of three or more civilians is now defined as a potential cult.” The rookie was making checkmarks on a list attached to a clipboard. “Criteria,” the other cop continued, “include references to the book of Revelation, males with shoulder-length or longer hair, endangerment through automotive absentmindedness, all of which you folks have been exhibiting.” “Yeah man,” Denis put in, “but we’re in a Mercedes, and it’s only painted one color, beige—don’t we get points for that?” Doc noticed for the first time that both cops were... well, not trembling, the police wouldn’t tremble, but vibrating for sure, with the post-Mansonical nerves that currently ruled the area. “We’ll hand this all in, Mr. Sportello, it’ll go in some master data bank here and in Sacramento, and unless there’s wants or warrants we don’t know about, you won’t hear any more on this.” FOLLOWING DR. BLATNOYD’S directions, Doc turned off Sunset, braking almost immediately for a guard gate staffed by private heat of some kind. “Evening, Heinrich,” boomed Rudy Blatnoyd. “Nice to see you, Dr. B.,” replied the sentry, waving him through. They went winding through Bel Air, up hillsides and canyons, arriving at a mansion with another gate, low and nearly invisible inside it’s landscape gardening, seeming so much constructed of night itself that at sunrise it might all disappear. Behind the gate glimmered a pale slash through the dark, which Doc finally figured out was a moat, with a drawbridge over it. “Won’t be a minute,” Dr. Blatnoyd climbing out, grabbing the bag from under the front seat and getting into a cryptic discussion over the gate intercom with a voice Doc guessed to be female, before the gate opened and the drawbridge came down, rumbling and creaking. Then the night was very quiet again—not even the distant freeway traffic could be heard, or the footpads of coyotes, or the slither of snakes… “Way too quiet,” said Denis, “it’s freaking me out, man.” “I think we’ll wait here on this side of the moat,” Doc said. “Okay?” Denis rolled an enormous joint and lit up, and soon the interior of the Mercedes was full of smoke. After a while there was shrieking on the gate intercom. “Hey man,” said Denis, “you don’t have to yell, man.” “Dr. Blatnoyd wishes us to inform you,” announced the woman at the other end, “that he will be remaining as our guest, and there is thus no further need for you to wait.” “Yeah, and you talk like a robot, man.” It took them a while to find their way back to Sunset. “I guess I’ll crash with some friends in Pacific Palisades,” Japonica announced. “Mind letting us off at the Greyhound in Santa Monica? We can grab the midnight local.” “By the way, aren’t you the man who found me and brought me back to my dad that time?” “Just doing my job,” Doc immediately defensive. “Did he really want me back?” “I’ve worked gigs like that a couple of times since,” Doc said carefully, in case she had to drive much more tonight, “and he seemed like your standard worried parent.” “He’s an asshole,” Japonica assured him. “Here, this is my office number. I don’t have regular hours, so you may not always find me in.” She shrugged and managed a smile. “If it’s meant to be.”

THINGS WERE WEIRD for a few days with the Dart over in  Beverly Hills, though Doc imagined it was having itself a nice time in the company of all those Jaguars and Porsches and so forth. When he finally went over to pick up his ride, at Resurrection of the Body, a collision emporium somewhat south of Olympic, he ran into his friend Tito Stavrou having a lively argument with Manuel the owner. Tito ran a limo service, though there was only one unit in his fleet, unfortunately not one of those limos able to Glide from the Curb, much less Insert Itself Effortlessly into Traffic—no, this one lurched from the curb percussively into traffic, being in fact garaged for at least half of any given premium period (as Tito’s latest insurance carrier had just discovered, much to it’s own, and you can imagine how much to Tito’s, dismay) or being attended to by various sand-and-fill crews around the Greater L.A. Area. One calendar year it got repainted six times. “You sure you mean limo and not limón?” suggested Manuel, as part of the recreational abuse he liked to lay on Tito whenever the vehicle showed up with a new set of dings. They stood out in the main shed, assembled from a Quonset hut first cut in half lengthwise and the two pieces then rearranged so that they met in a point high overhead to make a sort of churchlike vault. “It would be cheaper if you just pay me in front, small fee, anytime you want it painted, just bring it by, day or night, any color in stock includin the metallics, in and out in a couple hours.” “What worries me,” said Tito, “is that ‘in and out,’ you know, all these high-risk elements of the auto-parts community you deal with?” “This is Resurrection, ése! Were in the miracle business! If Jesus turned water into wine in front of your face? would you be goin, ‘What’s this I’m drinkin, I wannit Dom Perignon,’ or some shit? If I was that picky about what comes in here for a paint job? ask for what? their license and registration? Then they’re really pissed off, they go someplace else, plus I get put on a shit list I might not want to be on?” Manuel noticed Doc for the first time. “You the Bentley?” “The’64 Dodge Dart?” Manuel looked back and forth between Doc and Tito for a while. “You guys know each other?” “That would really depend,” Doc was about to say, but Manuel went on. “I was gonna charge you more, but guys like Tito here, they’re sub-sidizin guys like you.” The amount on the invoice was nevertheless a Beverly Hills type of number, and half Doc’s day got blown setting up a payment schedule. “Come on,” said Tito, “I’ll buy you lunch. I need your advice on something.” They went down to Pico and headed toward Rancho Park. This street was a chowhound’s delight. Back when Doc was still new in town, one day around sunset—the daily event, not the boulevard—he was in Santa Monica near the western end of Pico, the light over all deep L.A. softening to purple with some darker gold to it, and from this angle and hour of the day it seemed to him he could see all the way down Pico for miles into the heart of the great Megalopolis itself, having yet to discover that if he wanted to, he could also eat his way down Pico night after night for a long while before repeating an ethnic category. This did not always turn out to be good news for the indecisive doper who might know he was hungry but not necessarily how to deal with it in terms of specific food. Many was the night Doc ran out of gas, and his munchies- afflicted companions out of patience, long before settling on where to go eat. Today they ended up at a Greek restaurant called Teké, which according to Tito meant an old-time hashish parlor in Greek. “I hope this won’t be a problem,” said Tito, “but word is around you’ve been working on this Mickey Wolfmann case?” “Not how I’d put it. Nobody’s paying me. Sometimes I think all it is is guilt. Wolfmann’s girlfriend is my ex-old lady, she said she needed help, so I’ve been trying to help.” Tito, who had made a point of facing the front entrance, lowered his voice till Doc could hardly hear him. ‘“I’m taking a chance that you ain’t bent, Doc. You ain’t bent, are you?” “Not so far, but I could always use a nice envelope full of cash.” “These guys,” an unhappy look crossing Tito’s face, “don’t hand you envelopes, it’s more like, do what they want, maybe they don’t fuck you up too bad.” “You’re sayin this is mob-related—” “I only wish. I mean, I know some Family badasses who scare most people, they sure scare me, but I wouldn’t ever go to them with this, they’d just take a look at who it is and go, like, ‘Pasadena, man.’” “Not to mention you owe them money.” “No more, I kicked all that.” “What. No horses, no pan parlors? No Li’l T-Rex? No Salvatore ‘Paper Cut’ Gazzoni? No Adrian Prussia?” “Nope, even Adrian’s off my ass anymore, all paid off, the vig, everything.” “Good news cause sooner or later that fucker’d be reachin for his baseball bat, going to town on your head or somethin. Man gives loan-sharkin a bad name.” “They’re all in my sorry past now, I been twelve-steppin it, Doc. Meetings, everythin.” “Well, Inez must be happy. How long’s it been?” “Comin up on six months next weekend. We’re gonna go celebrate it in style, too, we’re takin the limo to Vegas, stayin at Caesar’s—” “Excuse me, Tito, am I confusing Las Vegas with someplace else where all they do is fucking gamble nonstop? How do you expect to—” “Avoid temptation? Hey that’s just it, how’m I ever gonna know? Thing is to jump in, see what happens.” “Oboy. This is all cool with Inez?” “Her idea.” Mike the owner and cook appeared with a huge plate of dolmadhes, Kalamata olives, and midget spanakopitas it looked like it would take a week to polish off. “You’re sure you want to eat here,” he greeted Tito. “This is Doc, he saved my life once.” “And this is how you thank him?” Mike shaking his head in reproof. “Think long and hard, my friends,” muttering back to the kitchen. “I saved your life?” Tito shrugged. “That time up on Mulholland.” “You saved mine, man, you’re the one knew where it was,” this particular “it” being a car-napped 1934 Hispano- Suiza J12 whose return Doc had been negotiating with a Lithuanian thyroid case who showed up carrying a modified AK-47 with a banana clip so oversize that he kept tripping over it, which looking back was what had saved everybody’s lives, probably. “I was doin that all for myself, man, you happened to be there when we brought it back and all that money started flyin around.” “Whatever, Doc—there’s somethin now that you’re the only one I can tell it to.” A quick look around. “Doc, I was one of the last people to talk to Mickey Wolfmann before he dropped off the screen.” “Shit,” replied Doc, encouragingly. “And no, I haven’t been near the heat with this. It would get back to these guys before I was out the door, and I’d end up a shark hors oeuvre. “D and D, Tito.” “What happened, Mickey got to where he didn’t always trust his drivers. They were most of ’em ex-cons, which meant they had their own IOUs to pay off that sometimes he didn’t know about. So once in a while he calls me on the unlisted line, and I pick him up someplace we decide on at the last minute.” “You used that limo? Not exactly a low profile.” “Nah, we’d use Falcons or Novas, I can always score one on short notice, even a VDub if it ain’t painted too funny.” “So the day Mickey disappeared… he called you? you took him someplace?” “He wanted me to pick him up. He called in the middle of the night, it sounded like a pay phone, he was talking real quiet, he was scared, like somebody was after him. He gave me an address out of town, I drove up there and waited, but he never showed. After a couple hours I was getting too much attention so I split.” “Where was this?” “Ojai, near someplace called Chryskylodon.” “I’ve been hearing about it,” Doc said, “some nuthouse for the upper brackets. Old Indian word that means ‘serenity.’” “Ha!” Tito shook his head. “Who told you that?” “It’s in their brochure?” “It ain’t Indian, it’s Greek, trust me, they talked Greek around the house all the time I was coming up.” “What’s it mean in Greek?” “Well, it’s squashed together a little, but it means like a gold tooth, this one here—” He tapped at a canine. “Oh, shit. Tang’? Could it be that?” “Yeah, close enough. Gold fang.”

§ § §

TYRION

A horse whickered impatiently behind him, from amidst the ranks of gold cloaks drawn up across the road. Tyrion could hear Lord Gyles coughing as well. He had not asked for Gyles, no more than he'd asked for Ser Addam. or Jalabhar Xho or any of the rest, but his lord father felt Doran Martell might take it ill if only a dwarf came out to escort him across the Blackwater. Joffrey should have met the Dornishmen himself, he reflected as he sat waiting, but he would have mucked it up, no doubt. Of late the king had been repeating little jests about the Dornish that he'd picked up from Mace Tyrell's men-atarms. How many Dornishmen does it take to shoe a horse? Nine. One to do the shoeing, and eight to lift the horse up. Somehow Tyrion did not think Doran Martell would find that amusing. He could see their banners flying as the riders emerged from the green of the living wood in a long dusty column. From here to the river, only bare black trees remained, a legacy of his battle. Too many banners, he thought sourly, as he watched the ashes kick up under the hooves of the approaching horses, as they had beneath the hooves of the Tyrell van as it smashed Stannis in the flank. Martell's brought half the lords of Dorne, by the look of it. He tried to think of some good that might come of that, and failed. "How many banners do you count?" he asked Brorm. The sellsword knight shaded his eyes. "Eight ... no, nine." Tyrion turned in his saddle. "Pod, come up here. Describe the arms you see, and tell me which houses they represent." Podrick Payne edged his gelding closer. He was carrying the royal standard, Joffrey's great stag-and-lion, and struggling with its weight. Bronn bore Tyrion's own banner, the lion of Lannister gold on crimson. He's getting taller, Tyrion realized as Pod stood in his stirrups for a better look. He'll soon tower over me like all the rest. The lad had been making a diligent study of Domish heraldry, at Tyrion's command, but as ever he was nervous. "I can't see. The wind is flapping them." "Bronn, tell the boy what you see." Bronn looked very much the knight today, in his new doublet and cloak, the flaming chain across his chest. "A red sun on orange," he called, "with a spear through its back." "Martell," Podrick Payne said at once, visibly relieved. "House Martell of Sunspear, my lord. The Prince of Dome." "My horse would have known that one," said Tyrion dryly. "Give him another, Bronn." "There's a purple flag with yellow balls. "Lemons?" Pod said hopefully. "A purple fleld strewn with lemons? For House Dalt? Of, of Lemonwood." "Might be. Next's a big black bird on yellow. Something pink or white in its claws, hard to say with the banner flapping." "The vulture of Blackmont grasps a baby in its talons," said Pod. "House Blackmont of Blackmont, ser." Bronn laughed. "Reading books again? Books will ruin your sword eye, boy. I see a skull too. A black banner." "The crowned skull of House Manwoody, bone and gold on black." Pod sounded more confident with every correct answer. "The Manwoodys of Kingsgrave." "Three black spiders?" "They're scorpions, ser. House Qorgyle of Sandstone, three scorpions black on red." "Red and yellow, a jagged line between." "The flames of Hellholt. House Uller." Tyrion was impressed. The boy's not half stupid, once he gets his tongue untied. "Go on, Pod," he urged. "If you get them all, I'll make you a gift." "A pie with red and black slices," said Bronn. "There's a gold hand in the middle." "House Allyrion of Godsgrace." "A red chicken eating a snake, looks like." "The Gargalens of Salt Shore. A cockatrice. Ser. Pardon. Not a chicken. Red, with a black snake in its beak." "Very good!" exclaimed Tyrion. "One more, lad." Bronn scanned the ranks of the approaching Domishmen. "The last's a golden feather on green checks." "A golden quill, ser. Jordayne of the Tor." Tyrion laughed. "Nine, and well done. I could not have named them all myself." That was a lie, but it would give the boy some pride, and that he badly needed. Martell brings some formidable companions, it would seem. Not one of the houses Pod had named was small or insignificant. Nine of the greatest lords of Dorne were coming up the kingsroad, them or their heirs, and somehow Tyrion did not think they had come all this way just to see the dancing bear. There was a message here. And not one I like. He wondered if it had been a mistake to ship Myrcella down to Sunspear. "My lord," Pod said, a little timidly, "there's no litter." Tyrion turned his head sharply. The boy was right. "Doran Martell always travels in a litter," the boy said. "A carved litter with silk hangings, and suns on the drapes." Tyrion had heard the same talk. Prince Doran was past fifty, and gouty. He may have wanted to make faster time, he told himself. He may have feared his litter would make too tempting a target for brigands, or that it would prove too cumbersome in the high passes of the Boneway. Perhaps his gout is better. So why did he have such a bad feeling about this? This waiting was intolerable. "Banners forward," he snapped. "We'll meet them." He kicked his horse. Bronn and Pod followed, one to either side. When the Dornishmen saw them coming, they spurred their own mounts, banners rippling as they rode. From their ornate saddles were slung the round metal shields they favored, and many carried bundles of short throwing spears, or the double-curved Dornish bows they used so well from horseback. There were three sorts of Dornishmen, the first King Daeron had observed. There were the salty Dornishmen who lived along the coasts, the sandy Dornishmen of the deserts and long river valleys, and the stony Dornishmen who made their fastnesses in the passes and heights of the Red Mountains. The salty Domishmen had the most Rhoynish blood, the stony Dornishmen the least. All three sorts seemed well represented in Doran's retinue. The salty Dornishmen were lithe and dark, with smooth olive skin and long black hair streaming in the wind. The sandy Dornishmen were even darker, their faces burned brown by the hot Dornish sun. They wound long bright scarfs around their helms to ward off sunstroke. The stony Dornishmen were biggest and fairest, sons of the Andals and the First Men, brownhaired or blond, with faces that freckled or burned in the sun instead of browning. The lords wore silk and satin robes with jeweled belts and flowing sleeves. Their armor was heavily enameled and inlaid with burnished copper, shining silver, and soft red gold. They came astride red horses and golden ones and a few as pale as snow, all slim and swift, with long necks and narrow beautiful heads. The fabled sand steeds of Dome were smaller than proper warhorses and could not bear such weight of armor, but it was said that they could run for a day and night and another day, and never tire. The Domish leader forked a stallion black as sin with a mane and tail the color of fire. He sat his saddle as if he'd been born there, tall, slim, graceful. A cloak of pale red silk fluttered from his shoulders, and his shirt was armored with overlapping rows of copper disks that glittered like a thousand bright new pennies as he rode. His high gilded helm displayed a copper sun on its brow, and the round shield slung behind him bore the sun- and-spear of House Martell on its polished metal surface. A Martell sun, but ten years too young, Tyrion thought as he reined up, too fit as well, and far too fierce. He knew what he must deal with by then. How many Dornishmen does it take to start a war? he asked himself. Only one. Yet he had no choice but to smile. "Well met, my lords. We had word of your approach, and His Grace King Joffrey bid me ride out to welcome you in his name. My lord father the King's Hand sends his greetings as well." He feigned an amiable confusion. "Which of you is Prince Doran?" "My brother's health requires he remain at Sunspear." The princeling removed his helm. Beneath, his face was lined and saturnine, with thin arched brows above large eyes as black and shiny as pools of coal oil. Only a few streaks of silver marred the lustrous black hair that receded from his brow in a widow's peak as sharply pointed as his nose. A salty Dornishmen for certain. "Prince Doran has sent me to join King Joffrey's council in his stead, as it please His Grace." "His Grace will be most honored to have the counsel of a warrior as renowned as Prince Oberyn of Dome," said Tyrion, thinking, This will mean blood in the gutters. "And your noble companions are most welcome as well." "Permit me to acquaint you with them, my lord of Lannister. Ser Deziel Dalt, of Lemonwood. Lord Tremond Gargalen. Lord Harmen Uller and his brother Ser Ulwyck. Ser Ryon Allyrion and his natural son Ser Daemon Sand, the Bastard of Godsgrace. Lord Dagos Manwoody, his brother Ser Myles, his sons Mors and Dickon. Ser Arron Qorgyle. And never let it be thought that I would neglect the ladies. Myria Jordayne, heir to the Tor. Lady Larra Blackmont, her daughter Jynessa, her son Perros." He raised a slender hand toward a black- haired woman to the rear, beckoning her forward. "And this is Ellaria Sand, mine own paramour." Tyrion swallowed a groan. His paramour, and bastard-born, Cersei will pitch a holy fit if he wants her at the wedding. If she consigned the woman to some dark comer below the salt, his sister would risk the Red Viper's wrath. Seat her beside him at the high table, and every other lady on the dais was like to take offense. Did Prince Doran mean to provoke a quarrel? Prince Oberyn wheeled his horse about to face his fellow Domishmen. "Ellaria, lords and ladies, sers, see how well King Joffrey loves us. His Grace has been so kind as to send his own Uncle Imp to bring us to his court. " Bronn snorted back laughter, and Tyrion perforce must feign amusement as well. "Not alone, my lords. That would be too enormous a task for a little man like me." His own party had come up on them, so it was his turn to name the names. "Let me present Ser Flement Brax, heir to Homvale. Lord Gyles of Rosby. Ser Addam Marbrand, Lord Commander of the City Watch. jalabhar Xho, Prince of the Red Flower Vale. Ser Harys Swyft, my uncle Kevan's good father by marriage. Ser Merlon Crakehall. Ser Philip Foote and Ser Bronn of the Blackwater, two heroes of our recent battle against the rebel Stannis Baratheon. And mine own squire, young Podrick of House Payne." The names had a nice ringing sound as Tyrion reeled them off, but the bearers were nowise near as distinguished nor formidable a company as those who accompanied Prince Oberyn, as both of them knew full well. "My lord of Lannister," said Lady Blackmont, "we have come a long dusty way, and rest and refreshment would be most welcome. Might we continue on to the city?" "At once, my lady." Tyrion turned his horse's head, and called to Ser Addam Marbrand. The mounted gold cloaks who formed the greatest part of his honor guard turned their horses crisply at Ser Addam's command, and the column set off for the river and King's Landing beyond. Oberyn Nymeros Martell, Tyrion muttered under his breath as he fell in beside the man. The Red Viper of Dorne. And what in the seven hells am I supposed to do with him? He knew the man only by reputation, to be sure ... but the reputation was fearsome. When he was no more than sixteen, Prince Oberyn had been found abed with the paramour of old Lord Yronwood, a huge man of fierce repute and short temper. A duel ensued, though in view of the prince's youth and high birth, it was only to first blood. Both men took cuts, and honor was satisfied. Yet Prince Oberyn soon recovered, while Lord Yronwood's wounds festered and killed him. Afterward men whispered that Oberyn had fought with a poisoned sword, and ever thereafter friends and foes alike called him the Red Viper. That was many years ago, to be sure. The boy of sixteen was a man past forty now, and his legend had grown a deal darker. He had traveled in the Free Cities, leaming the poisoner's trade and perhaps arts darker still, if rumors could be believed. He had studied at the Citadel, going so far as to forge six links of a maester's chain before he grew bored. He had soldiered in the Disputed Lands across the narrow sea, riding with the Second Sons for a time before forming his own company. His tourneys, his battles, his duels, his horses, his carnality ... it was said that he bedded men and women both, and had begotten bastard girls all over Dome. The sand snakes, men called his daughters. So far as Tyrion had heard, Prince Oberyn had never fathered a son. And of course, he had crippled the heir to Highgarden. There is no man in the Seven Kingdoms who will be less welcome at a 7)7rell wedding, thought Tyrion. To send Prince Oberyn to King's Landing while the city still hosted Lord Mace Tyrell, two of his sons, and thousands of their men-at-arms was a provocation as dangerous as Prince Oberyn himself. A wrong word, an ill-timed jest, a look, that's all it will take, and our noble allies will be at one another's throats. "We have met before," the Domish prince said lightly to Tyrion as they rode side by side along the kingsroad, past ashen fields and the skeletons of trees. "I would not expect you to remember, though. You were even smaller than you are now." There was a mocking edge to his voice that Tyrion misliked, but he was not about to let the Dornishman provoke him. "When was this, my lord?" he asked in tones of polite interest. "Oh, many and many a year ago, when my mother ruled in Dome and your lord father was Hand to a different king." Not so different as you might think, reflected Tyrion. "It was when I visited Casterly Rock with my mother, her consort, and my sister Elia. I was, oh, fourteen, fifteen, thereabouts, Elia a year older. Your brother and sister were eight or nine, as I recall, and you had just been bom." A queer time to come visiting. His mother had died giving him birth, so the Martells would have found the Rock deep in mouming. His father especially. Lord Tywin seldom spoke of his wife, but Tyrion had heard his uncles talk of the love between them. In those days, his father had been Aerys's Hand, and many people said that Lord Tywin Lannister ruled the Seven Kingdoms, but Lady Joanna ruled Lord Tywin. "He was not the same man after she died, imp," his Uncle Gery told him once. "The best part of him died with her." Gerion had been the youngest of Lord Tytos Lannister's four sons, and the uncle Tyrion liked best. But he was gone now, lost beyond the seas, and Tyrion himself had put Lady Joanna in her grave. "Did you find Casterly Rock to your liking, my lord?" "Scarcely. Your father ignored us the whole time we were there, after commanding Ser Kevan to see to our entertainment. The cell they gave me had a featherbed to sleep in and Myrish carpets on the floor, but it was dark and windowless, much like a dungeon when you come down to it, as I told Elia at the time. Your skies were too grey, your wines too sweet, your women too chaste, your food too bland ... and you yourself were the greatest disappointment of all." "I had just been born. What did you expect of me?" "Enormity," the black-haired prince replied. "You were small, but far-famed. We were in Oldtown at your birth, and all the city talked of was the monster that had been born to the King's Hand, and what such an omen might foretell for the realm." "Famine, plague, and war, no doubt." Tyrion gave a sour smile. "It's always famine, plague, and war. Oh, and winter, and the long night that never ends." "All that," said Prince Oberyn, "and your father's fall as well. Lord Tywin had made himself greater than King Aerys, I heard one begging brother preach, but only a god is meant to stand above a king. You were his curse, a punishment sent by the gods to teach him that he was no better than any other man." "I try, but he refuses to learn." Tyrion gave a sigh. "But do go on, I pray you. I love a good tale." "And well you might, since you were said to have one, a stiff curly tail like a swine's. Your head was monstrous huge, we heard, half again the size of your body, and you had been born with thick black hair and a beard besides, an evil eye, and lion's claws. Your teeth were so long you could not close your mouth, and between your legs were a girl's privates as well as a boy's." "Life would be much simpler if men could fuck themselves, don't you agree? And I can think of a few times when claws and teeth might have proved useful. Even so, I begin to see the nature of your complaint." Brorm gave out with a chuckle, but Oberyn only smiled. "We might never have seen you at all but for your sweet sister. You were never seen at table or hall, though sometimes at night we could hear a baby howling down in the depths of the Rock. You did have a monstrous great voice, I must grant you that. You would wail for hours, and nothing would quiet you but a woman's teat." "Still true, as it happens." This time Prince Oberyn did laugh. "A taste we share. Lord Gargalen once told me he hoped to die with a sword in his hand, to which I replied that I would sooner go with a breast in mine." Tyrion had to grin. "You were speaking of my sister?" "Cersei promised Elia to show you to us. The day before we were to sail, whilst my mother and your father were closeted together, she and Jaime took us down to your nursery. Your wet nurse tried to send us off, but your sister was having none of that. 'He's mine/ she said, 'and you're just a milk cow, you can't tell me what to do. Be quiet or I'll have my father cut your tongue out. A cow doesn't need a tongue, only udders."' "Her Grace learned charm at an early age," said Tyrion, amused by the notion of his sister claiming him as hers. She's never been in any rush to claim me since, the gods know. "Cersei even undid your swaddling clothes to give us a better look," the Dornish prince continued. "You did have one evil eye, and some black fuzz on your scalp. Perhaps your head was larger than most ... but there was no tail, no beard, neither teeth nor claws, and nothing between your legs but a tiny pink cock. After all the wonderful whispers, Lord Tywin's Doom turned out to be just a hideous red infant with stunted legs. Elia even made the noise that young girls make at the sight of infants, I'm sure you've heard it. The same noise they make over cute kittens and playful puppies. I believe she wanted to nurse you herself, ugly as you were. When I commented that you seemed a poor sort of monster, your sister said, 'He killed my mother/ and twisted your little cock so hard I thought she was like to pull it off. You shrieked, but it was only when your brother Jaime said, 'Leave him be, you're hurting him/ that Cersei let go of you. 'It doesn't matter/ she told us. 'Everyone says he's like to die soon. He shouldn't even have lived this long."' The sun was shining bright above them, and the day was pleasantly warm for autumn, but Tyrion Lannister went cold all over when he heard that. My sweet sister. He scratched at the scar of his nose and gave the Dornishman a taste of his "evil eye." Now why would he tell such a tale? Is he testing me, or simply twisting my cock as Cersei did, so he can hear me scream? "Be sure and tell that story to my father. It will delight him as much as it did me. The part about my tail, especially. I did have one, but he had it lopped off." Prince Oberyn had a chuckle. "You've grown more amusing since last we met." "Yes, but I meant to grow taller." "While we are speaking of amusement, I heard a curious tale from Lord Buckler's steward. He claimed that you had put a tax on women's privy purses." "It is a tax on whoring," said Tyrion, irritated all over again. And it was my bloody father's notion. "Only a penny for each, ah ... act. The King's Hand felt it might help improve the morals of the city." And pay for Joffrey's wedding besides. Needless to say, as master of coin, Tyrion had gotten all the blame for it. Brorm said they were calling it the dwarf's penny inthestreets. "Spread your legs for the Halfman, now," they were shouting in the brothels and wine sinks, if the sellsword could be believed. "I will make certain to keep my pouch full of pennies. Even a prince must pay his taxes." "Why should you need to go whoring?" He glanced back to where Ellaria Sand rode among the other women. "Did you tire of your paramour on the road?" "Never. We share too much." Prince Oberyn shrugged. "We have never shared a beautiful blonde woman, however, and Ellaria is curious. Do you know of such a creature?" "I am a man wedded." Though not yet bedded. "I no longer frequent whores." Unless I want to see them hanged. Oberyn abruptly changed the subject. "It's said there are to be seventyseven dishes served at the king's wedding feast." "Are you hungry, my prince?" "I have hungered for a long time. Though not for food. Pray tell me, when will the iustice be served?" "Justice." Yes, that is why he's here, I should have seen that at once. "You were close to your sister?" "As children Elia and I were inseparable, much like your own brother and sister." Gods, I hope not. "Wars and weddings have kept us well occupied, Prince Oberyn. I fear no one has yet had the time to look into murders sixteen years stale, dreadful as they were. We shall, of course, just as soon as we may. Any help that Dome might be able to provide to restore the king's peace would only hasten the beginning of my lord father's inquiry - " "Dwarf," said the Red Viper, in a tone grown markedly less cordial, "spare me your Lannister lies. Is it sheep you take us for, or fools? My brother is not a bloodthirsty man, but neither has he been asleep for sixteen years. Jon Arryn came to Sunspear the year after Robert took the throne, and you can be sure that he was questioned closely. Him, and a hundred more. I did not come for some mummer's show of an inquiry. I came for justice for Elia and her children, and I will have it. Starting with this lummox Gregor Clegane ... but not, I think, ending there. Before he dies, the Enormity That Rides will tell me whence came his orders, please assure your lord father of that." He smiled. "An old septon once claimed I was living proof of the goodness of the gods. Do you know why that is, Imp?" "No," Tyrion admitted warily. "Why, if the gods were cruel, they would have made me my mother's firstborn, and Doran her third. I am a bloodthirsty man, you see. And it is me you must contend with now, not my patient, prudent, and gouty brother." Tyrion could see the sun shining on the Blackwater Rush half a mile ahead, and on the walls and towers and hills of King's Landing beyond. He glanced over his shoulder, at the glittering column following them up the kingsroad. "You speak like a man with a great host at his back," he said, "yet all I see are three hundred. Do you spy that city there, north of the river?" "The midden heap you call King's Landing?" "That's the very one." "Not only do I see it, I believe I smell it now." "Then take a good sniff, my lord. Fill up your nose. Half a million people stink more than three hundred, you'll find. Do you smell the gold cloaks? There are near five thousand of them. My father's own swom swords must account for another twenty thousand. And then there are the roses. Roses smell so sweet, don't they? Especially when there are so many of them. Fifty, sixty, seventy thousand roses, in the city or camped outside it, I can't really say how many are left, but there's more than I care to count, anyway." Martell gave a shrug. "In Dome of old before we married Dacron, it was said that all flowers bow before the sun. Should the roses seek to hinder me I'll gladly trample them underfoot." "As you trampled Willas Tyrell?" The Domishman did not react as expected. "I had a letter from Willas not half a year past. We share an interest in fine horseflesh. He has never bome me any ill will for what happened in the lists. I struck his breastplate clean, but his foot caught in a stirrup as he fell and his horse came down on top of him. I sent a maester to him afterward, but it was all he could do to save the boy's leg. The knee was far past mending. If any were to blame, it was his fool of a father. Willas Tyrell was green as his surcoat and had no business riding in such company. The Fat Flower thrust him into tourneys at too tender an age, just as he did with the other two. He wanted another Leo Longthom, and made himself a cripple." "There are those who say Ser Loras is better than Leo Longthom. ever was," said Tyrion. "Renly's little rose? I doubt that." "Doubt it all you wish," said Tyrion, "but Ser Loras has defeated many good knights, including my brother Jaime." "By defeated, you mean unhorsed, in tourney. Tell me who he's slain in battle if you mean to frighten me." "Ser Robar Royce and Ser Emmon Cuy, for two. And men say he performed prodigious feats of valor on the Blackwater, fighting beside Lord Renly's ghost." "So these same men who saw the prodigious feats saw the ghost as well, yes?" The Domishman laughed lightly. Tyrion gave him a long look. "Chataya's on the Street of Silk has several girls who might suit your needs. Dancy has hair the color of honey. Marei's is pale white-gold. I would advise you to keep one or the other by your side at all times, my lord." "At all times?" Prince Oberyn lifted a thin black eyebrow. "And why is that, my good imp?" "You want to die with a breast in hand, you said." Tyrion cantered on ahead to where the ferry barges waited on the south bank of the Blackwater. He had suffered all he meant to suffer of what passed for Dornish wit. Father should have sent Joffrey after all. He could have asked Prince Oberyn if he knew how a Dornishman differed from a cowflop. That made him grin despite himself. He would have to make a point of being on hand when the Red Viper was presented to the king.

§ § §

BRAN

The tower stood upon an island, its twin reflected on the still blue waters. When the wind blew, ripples moved across the surface of the lake, chasing one another like boys at play. Oak trees grew thick along the lakeshore, a dense stand of them with a litter of fallen acorns on the ground beneath. Beyond them was the village, or what remained of it. It was the first village they had seen since leaving the foothills. Meera had scouted ahead to make certain there was no one lurking amongst the ruins. Sliding in and amongst oaks and apple trees with her net and spear in hand, she startled three red deer and sent them bounding away through?the ?rush. Summer saw the flash of motion and was after them at once. Bran watched the direwolf lope off, and for a moment wanted nothing so much as to slip his skin and run with him, but Meera was waving for them to come ahead. Reluctantly, he turned away from Summer and urged Hodor on, into the village. Jojen walked with them. The ground from here to the Wall was grasslands, Bran knew; fallow fields and low rolling hills, high meadows and lowland bogs. It would be much easier going than the mountains behind, but so much open space made Meera uneasy. "I feel naked," she confessed. "There's no place to hide." "Who holds this land?" Jojen asked Bran. "The Night's Watch," he answered. "This is the Gift. The New Gift, and north of that Brandon's Gift." Maester Luwin had taught him the history. "Brandon the Builder gave all the land south of the Wall to the black brothers, to a distance of twenty-five leagues. For their ... for their sustenance and support." He was proud that he still remembered that part. "Some maesters say it was some other Brandon, not the Builder, but it's still Brandon's Gift. Thousands of years later, Good Queen Alysanne visited the Wall on her dragon Silverwing, and she thought the Night's Watch was so brave that she had the Old King double the size of their lands, to fifty leagues. So that was the New Gift." He waved a hand. "Here. All this." No one had lived in the village for long years, Bran could see. All the houses were falling down. Even the inn. It had never been much of an inn, to look at it, but now all that remained was a stone chimney and two cracked walls, set amongst a dozen apple trees. One was growing up through the common room, where a layer of wet brown leaves and rotting apples carpeted the floor. The air was thick with the smell of them, a cloying cidery scent that was almost overwhelming. Meera stabbed a few apples with her frog spear, trying to find some still good enough to eat, but they were all too brown and wormy. It was a peaceful spot, still and tranquil and lovely to behold, but Bran thought there was something sad about an empty inn, and Hodor seemed to feel it too. "Hodor? " he said in a confused sort of way. "Hodor? Hodor? " "This is good land." Jojen picked up a handful of dirt, rubbing it between his fingers. "A village, an inn, a stout holdfast in the lake, all these apple trees ... but where are the people, Bran? Why would they leave such a place?" "They were afraid of the wildlings," said Bran. "Wildlings come over the Wall or through the mountains, to raid and steal and carry off women. If they catch you, they make your skull into a cup to drink blood, Old Nan used to say. The Night's Watch isn't so strong as it was in Brandon's day or Queen Alysanne's, so more get through. The places nearest the Wall got raided so much the smallfolk moved south, into the mountains or onto the Umber lands east of the kingsroad. The Greatjon's people get raided too, but not so much as the people who used to live in the Gift." Jojen Reed turned his head slowly, listening to music only he could hear. "We need to shelter here. There's a storm coming. A bad one." Bran looked up at the sky. It had been a beautiful crisp clear autumn day, sunny and almost warm, but there were dark clouds off to the west now, that was true, and the wind seemed to be picking up. "There's no roof on the inn and only the two walls," he pointed out. "We should go out to the holdfast." "Hodor," said Hodor. Maybe he agreed. "We have no boat, Bran." Meera poked through the leaves idly with her frog spear. "There's a causeway. A stone causeway, hidden under the water. We could walk out." They could, anyway; he would have to ride on Hodor's back, but at least he'd stay dry that way. The Reeds exchanged a look. "How do you know that?" asked Jojen. "Have you been here before, my prince?" "No. Old Nan told me. The holdfast has a golden crown, see?" He pointed across the lake. You could see patches of flaking gold paint up around the crenellations. "Queen Alysanne slept there, so they painted the merlons gold in her honor." "A causeway?" Joien studied the lake. "You are certain?" "Certain," said Bran. Meera found the foot of it easily enough, once she knew to look; a stone pathway three feet wide, leading right out into the lake. She took them out step by careful step, probing ahead with her frog spear. They could see where the path emerged again, climbing from the water onto the island and turning into a short flight of stone steps that led to the holdfast door. Path, steps, and door were in a straight line, which made you think the causeway ran straight, but that wasn't so. Under the lake it zigged and zagged, going a third of a way around the island before jagging back. The turns were treacherous, and the long path meant that anyone approaching would be exposed to arrow fire from the tower for a long time. The hidden stones were slimy and slippery too; twice Hodor almost lost his footing and shouted "HODOR!" in alarm before regaining his balance. The second time scared Bran badly. If Hodor fell into the lake with him in his basket, he could well drown, especially if the huge stableboy panicked and forgot that Bran was there, the way he did sometimes. Maybe we should have stayed at the inn, under the apple tree, he thought, but by then it was too late. Thankfully there was no third time, and the water never got up past Hodor's waist, though the Reeds were in it up to their chests. And before long they were on the island, climbing the steps to the holdfast. The door was still stout, though its heavy oak planks had warped over the years and it could no longer be closed completely. Meera shoved it open all the way, the rusted iron hinges screaming. The lintel was low. "Duck down, Hodor," Bran said, and he did, but not enough to keep Bran from hitting his head. "That hurt," he complained. "Hodor," said Hodor, straightening. They found themselves in a gloomy strongroom, barely large enough to hold the four of them. Steps built into the inner wall of the tower curved away upward to their left, downward to their right, behind iron grates. Bran looked up and saw another grate just above his head. A murder hole. He was glad there was no one up there now to pour boiling oil down on them. The grates were locked, but the iron bars were red with rust. Hodor grabbed hold of the lefthand door and gave it a pull, grunting with effort. Nothing happened. He tried pushing with no more success. He shook the bars, kicked, shoved against them and rattled them and punched the hinges with a huge hand until the air was filled with flakes of rust, but the iron door would not budge. The one down to the undervault was no more accommodating. "No way in," said Meera, shrugging. The murder hole was just above Bran's head, as he sat in his basket on Hodor's back. He reached up and grabbed the bars to give them a try. When he pulled down the grating came out of the ceiling in a cascade of rust and crumbling stone. "HODOR!" Hodor shouted. The heavy iron grate gave Bran another bang in the head, and crashed down near Jojen's feet when he shoved it off of him. Meera laughed. "Look at that, my prince," she said, "you're stronger than Hodor." Bran blushed. With the grate gone, Hodor was able to boost Meera and Jojen up through the gaping murder hole. The crannogmen took Bran by the arms and drew him up after them. Getting Hodor inside was the hard part. He was too heavy for the Reeds to lift the way they'd lifted Bran. Finally Bran told him to go look for some big rocks. The island had no lack of those, and Hodor was able to pile them high enough to grab the crumbling edges of the hole and climb through. "Hodor, " he panted happily, grinning at all of them. They found themselves in a maze of small cells, dark and empty, but Meera explored until she found the way back to the steps. The higher they climbed, the better the light; on the third story the thick outer wall was pierced by arrow slits, the fourth had actual windows, and the fifth and highest was one big round chamber with arched doors on three sides opening onto small stone balconies. On the fourth side was a privy chamber perched above a sewer chute that dropped straight down into the lake. By the time they reached the roof the sky was completely overcast, and the clouds to the west were black. The wind was blowing so strong it lifted up Bran's cloak and made it flap and snap. "Hodor," Hodor said at the noise. Meera spun in a circle. "I feel almost a giant, standing high above the world." "There are trees in the Neck that stand twice as tall as this," her brother reminded her. "Aye, but they have other trees around them just as high," said Meera. "The world presses close in the Neck, and the sky is so much smaller. Here ... feel that wind, Brother? And look how large the world has grown." It was true, you could see a long ways from up here. To the south the foothills rose, with the mountains grey and green beyond them. The rolling plains of the New Gift stretched away to all the other directions, as far as the eye could see. "I was hoping we could see the Wall from here," said Bran, disappointed. "That was stupid, we must still be fifty leagues away." just speaking of it made him feel tired, and cold as well. "Jojen, what will we do when we reach the Wall? My uncle always said how big it was. Seven hundred feet high, and so thick at the base that the gates are more like tunnels through the ice. How are we going to get past to find the three-eyed crow?" "There are abandoned castles along the Wall, I've heard," Jojen answered. "Fortresses built by the Night's Watch but now left empty. One of them may give us our way through." The ghost castles, Old Nan had called them. Maester Luwin had once made Bran learn the names of every one of the forts along the Wall. That had been hard; there were nineteen of them all told, though no more than seventeen had ever been manned at any one time. At the feast in honor of King Robert's visit to Winterfell, Bran had recited the names for his uncle Benjen, east to west and then west to east. Benjen Stark had laughed and said, "You know them better than I do, Bran. Perhaps you should be First Ranger. I'll stay here in your place." That was before Bran fell, though. Before he was broken. By the time he'd woken crippled from his sleep, his uncle had gone back to Castle Black. "My uncle said the gates were sealed with ice and stone whenever a castle had to be abandoned," said Bran. "Then we'll have to open them again," said Meera. That made him uneasy. "We shouldn't do that. Bad things might come through from the other side. We should just go to Castle Black and tell the Lord Commander to let us pass." "Your Grace," said Jojen, "we must avoid Castle Black, just as we avoided the kingsroad. There are hundreds of men there." "Men of the Night's Watch," said Bran. "They say vows, to take no part in wars and stuff." "Aye," said Jojen, "but one man willing to forswear himself would be enough to sell your secret to the ironmen or the Bastard of Bolton. And we cannot be certain that the Watch would agree to let us pass. They might decide to hold us or send us back." "But my father was a friend of the Night's Watch, and my uncle is First Ranger. He might know where the three-eyed crow lives. And Jon's at Castle Black too." Bran had been hoping to see Jon again, and their uncle too. The last black brothers to visit Winterfell said that Benjen Stark had vanished on a ranging, but surely he would have made his way back by now. "I bet the Watch would even give us horses," he went on. "Quiet." Jojen shaded his eyes with a hand and gazed off toward the setting sun. "Look. There's something ... a rider, I think. Do you see him?" Bran shaded his eyes as well, and even so he had to squint. He saw nothing at first, till some movement made him turn. At first he thought it might be Summer, but no. A man on a horse. He was too far away to see much else. "Hodor?" Hodor had put a hand over his eyes as well, only he was looking the wrong way. "Hodor?" "He is in no haste," said Meera, "but he's making for this village, it seems to me." "We had best go inside, before we're seen," said Jojen. "Summer's near the village," Bran objected. "Summer will be fine," Meera promised. "It's only one man on a tired horse." A few fat wet drops began to patter against the stone as they retreated to the floor below. That was well timed; the rain began to fall in earnest a short time later. Even through the thick walls they could hear it lashing against the surface of the lake. They sat on the floor in the round empty room, amidst gathering gloom. The north-facing balcony looked out toward the abandoned village. Meera crept out on her belly to peer across the lake and see what had become of the horseman. "He's taken shelter in the ruins of the inn," she told them when she came back. "it looks as though he's making a fire in the hearth." "I wish we could have a fire," Bran said. "I'm cold. There's broken furniture down the stairs, I saw it. We could have Hodor chop it up and get warm." Hodor liked that idea. "Hodor," he said hopefully. Jojen shook his head. "Fire means smoke. Smoke from this tower could be seen a long way off." "If there were anyone to see," his sister argued. "There's a man in the village." "One man." "One man would be enough to betray Bran to his enemies, if he's the wrong man. We still have half a duck from yesterday. We should eat and rest. Come morning the man will go on his way, and we will do the same." Jojen had his way; he always did. Meera divided the duck between the four of them. She'd caught it in her net the day before, as it tried to rise from the marsh where she'd surprised it. It wasn't as tasty cold as it had been hot and crisp from the spit, but at least they did not go hungry. Bran and Meera shared the breast while Jojen ate the thigh. Hodor devoured the wing and leg, muttering "Hodor" and licking the grease off his fingers after every bite. It was Bran's turn to tell a story, so he told them about another Brandon Stark, the one called Brandon the Shipwright, who had sailed off beyond the Sunset Sea. Dusk was settling by the time duck and tale were done, and the rain still fell. Bran wondered how far Summer had roamed and whether he had caught one of the deer. Grey gloom filled the tower, and slowly changed to darkness. Hodor grew restless and walked awhile, striding round and round the walls and stopping to peer into the privy on every circuit, as if he had forgotten what was in there. Jojen stood by the north balcony, hidden by the shadows, looking out at the night and the rain. Somewhere to the north a lightning bolt crackled across the sky, brightening the inside of the tower for an instant. Hodor jumped and made a frightened noise. Bran counted to eight, waiting for the thunder. When it came, Hodor shouted, "Hodor!" I hope Summer isn't scared too, Bran thought. The dogs in Winterfell's kennels had always been spooked by thunderstorms, just like Hodor. I should go see, to calm him ... The lightning flashed again, and this time the thunder came at six. "Hodor!" Hodor yelled again. "HODOR! HODOR!" He snatched up his sword, as if to fight the storm. Jojen said, "Be quiet, Hodor. Bran, tell him not to shout. Can you get the sword away from him, Meera?" "I can try." "Hodor, hush," said Bran. "Be quiet now. No more stupid hodoring. Sit down." "Hodor?" He gave the longsword to Meera meekly enough, but his face was a mask of confusion. Jojen turned back to the darkness, and they all heard him suck in his breath. "What is it?" Meera asked. "Men in the village." "The man we saw before?" "Other men. Armed. I saw an axe, and spears as well." Joien had never sounded so much like the boy he was. "I saw them when the lightning flashed, moving under the trees." "How many?" "Many and more. Too many to count." "Mounted? "No." "Hodor." Hodor sounded frightened. "Hodor. Hodor." Bran felt a little scared himself, though he didn't want to say so in front of Meera. "What if they come out here?" "They won't." She sat down beside him. "Why should they?" "For shelter." Jojen's voice was grim. "Unless the storm lets up. Meera, could you go down and bar the door?" "I couldn't even close it. The wood's too warped. They won't get past those iron gates, though." "They might. They could break the lock, or the hinges. Or climb up through the murder hole as we did." Lightning slashed the sky, and Hodor whimpered. Then a clap of thunder rolled across the lake. "HODOR!" he roared, clapping his hands over his ears and stumbling in a circle through the darkness. "HODOR! HODOR! HODOR!" "NO!" Bran shouted back. "NO HODORING!" It did no good. "HOOOODOR!" moaned Hodor. Meera tried to catch him and calm him, but he was too strong. He flung her aside with no more than a shrug. "HOOOOOODOOOOOOOR!" the stableboy screamed as lightning filled the sky again, and even Jojen was shouting now, shouting at Bran and Meera to shut him up. "Be quiet!" Bran said in a shrill scared voice, reaching up uselessly for Hodor's leg as he crashed past, reaching, reaching. Hodor staggered, and closed his mouth. He shook his head slowly from side to side, sank back to the floor, and sat crosslegged. When the thunder boomed, he scarcely seemed to hear it. The four of them sat in the dark tower, scarce daring to breathe. "Bran, what did you do?" Meera whispered. "Nothing." Bran shook his head. "I don't know." But he did. I reached for him, the way I reach for Summer. He had been Hodor for half a heartbeat. It scared him. "Something is happening across the lake," said Jojen. "I thought I saw a man pointing at the tower." I won't be afraid. He was the Prince of Winterfell, Eddard Stark's son, almost a man grown and a warg too, not some little baby boy like Rickon. Summer would not be afraid. "Most like they're just some Umbers," he said. "Or they could be Knotts or Norreys or Flints come down from the mountains, or even brothers from the Night's Watch. Were they wearing black cloaks, Jojen?" "By night all cloaks are black, Your Grace. And the flash came and went too fast for me to tell what they were wearing." Meera was wary. "If they were black brothers, they'd be mounted, wouldn't they?" Bran had thought of something else. "It doesn't matter," he said confidently. "They couldn't get out to us even if they wanted. Not unless they had a boat, or knew about the causeway." "The causeway!" Meera mussed Bran's hair and kissed him on the forehead. "Our sweet prince! He's right, Jojen, they won't know about the causeway. Even if they did they could never find the way across at night in the rain." "The night will end, though. If they stay till morning..." Jojen left the rest unsaid. After a few moments he said, "They are feeding the fire the first man started." Lightning crashed through the sky, and light filled the tower and etched them all in shadow. Hodor rocked back and forth, humming. Bran could feel Summer's fear in that bright instant. He closed two eyes and opened a third, and his boy's skin slipped off him like a cloak as he left the tower behind ... ... and found himself out in the rain, his belly full of deer, cringing in the brush as the sky broke and boomed above him. The smell of rotten apples and wet leaves almost drowned the scent of man, but it was there. He heard the clink and slither of hardskin, saw men moving under the trees. A man with a stick blundered by, a skin pulled up over his head to make him blind and deaf. The wolf went wide around him, behind a dripping thornbush and beneath the bare branches of an apple tree. He could hear them talking, and there beneath the scents of rain and leaves and horse came the sharp red stench of fear ...

§ § §

DAVOS

Lord Alester looked up sharply. "Voices," he said. "Do you hear, Davos? Someone is coming for us." "Lamprey," said Davos. "It's time for our supper, or near enough." Last night Lamprey had brought them half a beef-and-bacon pie, and a flagon of mead as well. Just the thought of it made his belly start to rumble. "No, there's more than one." He's right. Davos heard two voices at least, and footsteps, growing louder. He got to his feet and moved to the bars. Lord Alester brushed the straw from his clothes. "The king has sent for me. Or the queen, yes, Selyse would never let me rot here, her own blood." Outside the cell, Lamprey appeared with a ring of keys in hand. Ser Axell Florent and four guardsmen followed close behind him. They waited beneath the torch while Lamprey searched for the correct key. "Axell," Lord Alester said. "Gods be good. Is it the king who sends for me, or the queen?" "No one has sent for you, traitor," Ser Axell said. Lord Alester recoiled as if he'd been slapped. "No, I swear to you, I committed no treason. Why won't you listen? If His Grace would only let me explain-" Lamprey thrust a great iron key into the lock, turned it, and pulled open the cell. The rusted hinges screamed in protest. "You," he said to Davos. "Come." "Where?" Davos looked to Ser Axell. "Tell me true, ser, do you mean to burn me?" "You are sent for. Can you walk?" "I can walk." Davos stepped from the cell. Lord Alester gave a cry of dismay as Lamprey slammed the door shut once more. "Take the torch," Ser Axell commanded the gaoler. "Leave the traitor to the darkness." "No," his brother said. "Axell, please, don't take the light . . . gods have mercy . . . " "Gods? There is only R'hllor, and the Other." Ser Axell gestured sharply, and one of his guardsmen pulled the torch from its sconce and led the way to the stair. "Are you taking me to Melisandre?" Davos asked. "She will be there," Ser Axell said. "She is never far from the king. But it is His Grace himself who asked for you." Davos lifted his hand to his chest, where once his luck had hung in a leather bag on a thong. Gone now, he remembered, and the ends of four fingers as well. But his hands were still long enough to wrap about a woman's throat, he thought, especially a slender throat like hers. Up they went, climbing the turnpike stair in single file. The walls were rough dark stone, cool to the touch. The light of the torches went before them, and their shadows marched beside them on the walls. At the third turn they passed an iron gate that opened on blackness, and another at the fifth turn. Davos guessed that they were near the surface by then, perhaps even above it. The next door they came to was made of wood, but still they climbed. Now the walls were broken by arrow slits, but no shafts of sunlight pried their way through the thickness of the stone. It was night outside. His legs were aching by the time Ser Axell thrust open a heavy door and gestured him through. Beyond, a high stone bridge arched over emptiness to the massive central tower called the Stone Drum. A sea wind blew restlessly through the arches that supported the roof, and Davos could smell the salt water as they crossed. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the clean cold air. Wind and water, give me strength, he prayed. A huge nightfire burned in the yard below, to keep the terrors of the dark at bay, and the queen's men were gathered around it, singing praises to their new red god. They were in the center of the bridge when Ser Axell stopped suddenly. He made a brusque gesture with his hand, and his men moved out of earshot. "Were it my choice, I would burn you with my brother Alester," he told Davos. "You are both traitors." "Say what you will. I would never betray King Stannis." "You would. You will. I see it in your face. And I have seen it in the flames as well. R'hllor has blessed me with that gift. Like Lady Melisandre, he shows me the future in the fire. Stannis Baratheon will sit the Iron Throne. I have seen it. And I know what must be done. His Grace must make me his Hand, in place of my traitor brother. And you will tell him so." Will I? Davos said nothing. "The queen has urged my appointment," Ser Axell went on. "Even your old friend from Lys, the pirate Saan, he says the same. We have made a plan together, him and me. Yet His Grace does not act. The defeat gnaws inside him, a black worm in his soul. It is up to us who love him to show him what to do. If you are as devoted to his cause as you claim, smuggler, you will join your voice to ours. Tell him that I am the only Hand he needs. Tell him, and when we sail I shall see that you have a new ship." A ship. Davos studied the other man's face. Ser Axell had big Florent ears, much like the queen's. Coarse hair grew from them, as from his nostrils; more sprouted in tufts and patches beneath his double chin. His nose was broad, his brow beetled, his eyes close-set and hostile. He would sooner give me a pyre than a ship, he said as much, but if I do him this favor . . . "if you think to betray me," Ser Axell said, "pray remember that I have been castellan of Dragonstone a good long time. The garrison is mine. Perhaps I cannot burn you without the king's consent, but who is to say you might not suffer a fall." He laid a meaty hand on the back of Davos's neck and shoved him bodily against the waist-high side of the bridge, then shoved a little harder to force his face out over the yard. "Do you hear me?" "I hear," said Davos. And you dare name me traitor? Ser Axell released him. "Good." He smiled. "His Grace awaits. Best we do not keep him." At the very top of Stone Drum, within the great round room called the Chamber of the Painted Table, they found Stannis Baratheon standing behind the artifact that gave the hall its name, a massive slab of wood carved and painted in the shape of Westeros as it had been in the time of Aegon the Conqueror. An iron brazier stood beside the king, its coals glowing a ruddy orange. Four tall pointed windows looked out to north, south, east, and west. Beyond was the night and the starry sky. Davos could hear the wind moving, and fainter, the sounds of the sea. "Your Grace," Ser Axell said, "as it please you, I have brought the onion knight." "So I see." Stannis wore a grey wool tunic, a dark red mantle, and a plain black leather belt from which his sword and dagger hung. A red-gold crown with flame-shaped points encircled his brows. The look of him was a shock. He seemed ten years older than the man that Davos had left at Storm's End when he set sail for the Blackwater and the battle that would be their undoing. The king's close-cropped beard was spiderwebbed with grey hairs, and he had dropped two stone or more of weight. He had never been a fleshy man, but now the bones moved beneath his skin like spears, fighting to cut free. Even his crown seemed too large for his head. His eyes were blue pits lost in deep hollows, and the shape of a skull could be seen beneath his face. Yet when he saw Davos, a faint smile brushed his lips. "So the sea has returned me my knight of the fish and onions." "It did, Your Grace." Does he know that he had me in his dungeon? Davos went to one knee. "Rise, Ser Davos," Stannis commanded. "I have missed you, ser. I have need of good counsel, and you never gave me less. So tell me true-what is the penalty for treason?" The word hung in the air. A frightful word, thought Davos. Was he being asked to condemn his cellmate? Or himself, perchance? Kings know the penalty for treason better than any man. "Treason?" he finally managed, weakly. "What else would you call it, to deny your king and seek to steal his rightful throne. I ask you again-what is the penalty for treason under the law?" Davos had no choice but to answer. "Death," he said. "The penalty is death, Your Grace." "It has always been so. I am not . . . I am not a cruel man, Ser Davos. You know me. Have known me long. This is not my decree. It has always been so, since Aegon's day and before. Daemon Blackfyre, the brothers Toyne, the Vulture King, Grand Maester Hareth . . . traitors have always paid with their lives . . . even Rhaenyra Targaryen. She was daughter to one king and mother to two more, yet she died a traitor's death for trying to usurp her brother's crown. It is law. Law, Davos. Not cruelty." "Yes, Your Grace." He does not speak of me. Davos felt a moment's pity for his cellmate down in the dark. He knew he should keep silent, but he was tired and sick of heart, and he heard himself say, "Sire, Lord Florent meant no treason." "Do smugglers have another name for it? I made him Hand, and he would have sold my rights for a bowl of pease porridge. He would even have given them Shireen. Mine only child, he would have wed to a bastard born of incest." The king's voice was thick with anger. "My brother had a gift for inspiring loyalty. Even in his foes. At Summerhall he won three battles in a single day, and brought Lords Grandison and Cafferen back to Storm's End as prisoners. He hung their banners in the hall as trophies. Cafferen's white fawns were spotted with blood and Grandison's sleeping lion was torn near in two. Yet they would sit beneath those banners of a night, drinking and feasting with Robert. He even took them hunting. 'These men meant to deliver you to Aerys to be burned' I told him after I saw them throwing axes in the yard. 'You should not be putting axes in their hands.' Robert only laughed. I would have thrown Grandison and Cafferen into a dungeon, but he turned them into friends. Lord Cafferen died at Ashford Castle, cut down by Randyll Tarly whilst fighting for Robert. Lord Grandison was wounded on the Trident and died of it a year after. My brother made them love him, but it would seem that I inspire only betrayal. Even in mine own blood and kin. Brother, grandfather, cousins, good uncle . . . " "Your Grace," said Ser Axell, "I beg you, give me the chance to prove to you that not all Florents are so feeble." "Ser Axell would have me resume the war," King Stannis told Davos. "The Lannisters think I am done and beaten, and my sworn lords have forsaken me, near every one. Even Lord Estermont, my own mother's father, has bent his knee to Joffrey. The few loyal men who remain to me are losing heart. They waste their days drinking and gambling, and lick their wounds like beaten curs." "Battle will set their hearts ablaze once more, Your Grace," Ser Axell said. "Defeat is a disease, and victory is the cure." "Victory." The king's mouth twisted. "There are victories and victories, ser. But tell your plan to Ser Davos. I would hear his views on what you propose." Ser Axell turned to Davos, with a look on his face much like the look that proud Lord Belgrave must have worn, the day King Baelor the Blessed had commanded him to wash the beggar's ulcerous feet. Nonetheless, he obeyed. The plan Ser Axell had devised with Salladhor Saan was simple. A few hours' sail from Dragonstone lay Claw Isle, ancient sea-girt seat of House Celtigar. Lord Ardrian Celtigar had fought beneath the flery heart on the Blackwater, but once taken, he had wasted no time in going over to Joffrey. He remained in King's Landing even now. "Too frightened of His Grace's wrath to come near Dragonstone, no doubt," Ser Axell declared. "And wisely so. The man has betrayed his rightful king." Ser Axell proposed to use Salladhor Saan's fleet and the men who had escaped the Blackwater-Stannis still had some fifteen hundred on Dragonstone, more than half of them Florents-to exact retribution for Lord Celtigar's defection. Claw Isle was but lightly garrisoned, its castle reputedly stuffed with Myrish carpets, Volantene glass, gold and silver plate, jeweled cups, magnificent hawks, an axe of Valyrian steel, a horn that could summon monsters from the deep, chests of rubies, and more wines than a man could drink in a hundred years. Though Celtigar had shown the world a niggardly face, he had never stinted on his own comforts. "Put his castle to the torch and his people to the sword, I say," Ser Axell concluded. "Leave Claw Isle a desolation of ash and bone, fit only for carrion crows, so the realm might see the fate of those who bed with Lannisters." Stannis listened to Ser Axell's recitation in silence, grinding his jaw slowly from side to side. When it was done, he said, "It could be done, I believe. The risk is small. Joffrey has no strength at sea until Lord Redwyne sets sail from the Arbor. The plunder might serve to keep that Lysene pirate Salladhor Saan loyal for a time. By itself Claw Isle is worthless, but its fall would serve notice to Lord Tywin that my cause is not yet done." The king turned back to Davos. "Speak truly, ser. What do you make of Ser Axell's proposal?" Speak truly, ser. Davos remembered the dark cell he had shared with Lord Alester, remembered Lamprey and Porridge. He thought of the promises that Ser Axell had made on the bridge above the yard. A ship or a shove, what shall it be? But this was Stannis asking. "Your Grace," he said slowly, "I make it folly . . . aye, and cowardice." "Cowardice?" Ser Axell all but shouted. "No man calls me craven before my king!" "Silence," Stannis commanded. "Ser Davos, speak on, I would hear your reasons." Davos turned to face Ser Axell. "You say we ought show the realm we are not done. Strike a blow. Make war, aye . . . but on what enemy? You will find no Lannisters on Claw Isle." "We will find traitors," said Ser Axell, "though it may be I could find some closer to home. Even in this very room." Davos ignored the jibe. "I don't doubt Lord Celtigar bent the knee to the boy Joffrey. He is an old done man, who wants no more than to end his days in his castle, drinking his fine wine out of his jeweled cups." He turned back to Stannis. "Yet he came when you called, sire. Came, with his ships and swords. He stood by you at Storm's End when Lord Renly came down on us, and his ships sailed up the Blackwater. His men fought for you, killed for you, burned for you. Claw Isle is weakly held, yes. Held by women and children and old men. And why is that? Because their husbands and sons and fathers died on the Blackwater, that's why. Died at their oars, or with swords in their hands, fighting beneath our banners. Yet Ser Axell proposes we swoop down on the homes they left behind, to rape their widows and put their children to the sword. These smallfolk are no traitors . . . " "They are," insisted Ser Axell. "Not all of Celtigar's men were slain on the Blackwater. Hundreds were taken with their lord, and bent the knee when he did." "When he did," Davos repeated. "They were his men. His sworn men. What choice were they given?" "Every man has choices. They might have refused to kneel. Some did, and died for it. Yet they died true men, and loyal." "Some men are stronger than others." It was a feeble answer, and Davos knew it. Stannis Baratheon was a man of iron will who neither understood nor forgave weakness in others . I am losing, he thought, despairing. "It is every man's duty to remain loyal to his rightful king, even if the lord he serves proves false," Stannis declared in a tone that brooked no argument. A desperate folly took hold of Davos, a recklessness akin to madness. "As you remained loyal to King Aerys when your brother raised his banners?" he blurted. Shocked silence followed, until Ser Axell cried, "Treason!" and snatched his dagger from its sheath. "Your Grace, he speaks his infamy to your face!" Davos could hear Stannis grinding his teeth. A vein bulged, blue and swollen, in the king's brow. Their eyes met. "Put up your knife, Ser Axell. And leave us." "As it please Your Grace-" "It would please me for you to leave," said Stannis. "Take yourself from my presence, and send me Melisandre." "As you command." Ser Axell slid the knife away, bowed, and hurried toward the door. His boots rang against the floor, angry. "You have always presumed on my forbearance," Stannis warned Davos when they were alone. "I can shorten your tongue as easy as I did your fingers, smuggler." "I am your man, Your Grace. So it is your tongue, to do with as you please." "It is," he said, calmer. "And I would have it speak the truth. Though the truth is a bitter draught at times. Aerys? If you only knew . . . that was a hard choosing. My blood or my liege. My brother or my king." He grimaced. "Have you ever seen the Iron Throne? The barbs along the back, the ribbons of twisted steel, the jagged ends of swords and knives all tangled up and melted? It is not a comfortable seat, ser. Aerys cut himself so often men took to calling him King Scab, and Maegor the Cruel was murdered in that chair. By that chair, to hear some tell it. It is not a seat where a man can rest at ease. Ofttimes I wonder why my brothers wanted it so desperately." "Why would you want it, then?" Davos asked him. "It is not a question of wanting. The throne is mine, as Robert's heir. That is law. After me, it must pass to my daughter, unless Selyse should finally give me a son." He ran three fingers lightly down the table, over the layers of smooth hard varnish, dark with age. "I am king. Wants do not enter into it. I have a duty to my daughter. To the realm. Even to Robert. He loved me but little, I know, yet he was my brother. The Lannister woman gave him horns and made a motley fool of him. She may have murdered him as well, as she murdered Jon Arryn and Ned Stark. For such crimes there must be justice. Starting with Cersei and her abominations. But only starting. I mean to scour that court clean. As Robert should have done, after the Trident. Ser Barristan once told me that the rot in King Aerys's reign began with Varys. The eunuch should never have been pardoned. No more than the Kingslayer. At the least, Robert should have stripped the white cloak from Jaime and sent him to the Wall, as Lord Stark urged. He listened to Jon Arryn instead. I was still at Storm's End, under siege and unconsulted." He turned abruptly, to give Davos a hard shrewd look. "The truth, now. Why did you wish to murder Lady Melisandre?" So he does know. Davos could not lie to him. "Four of my sons burned on the Blackwater. She gave them to the flames." "You wrong her. Those fires were no work of hers. Curse the Imp, curse the pyromancers, curse that fool of Florent who sailed my fleet into the jaws of a trap. Or curse me for my stubborn pride, for sending her away when I needed her most. But not Melisandre. She remains my faithful servant." "Maester Cressen was your faithful servant. She slew him, as she killed Ser Cortnay Penrose and your brother Renly." "Now you sound a fool," the king complained. "She saw Renly's end in the flames, yes, but she had no more part in it than I did. The priestess was with me. Your Devan would tell you so. Ask him, if you doubt me. She would have spared Renly if she could. It was Melisandre who urged me to meet with him, and give him one last chance to amend his treason. And it was Melisandre who told me to send for you when Ser Axell wished to give you to R'hllor." He smiled thinly. "Does that surprise you?" "Yes. She knows I am no friend to her or her red god." "But you are a friend to me. She knows that as well." He beckoned Davos closer. "The boy is sick. Maester Pylos has been leeching him." "The boy?" His thoughts went to his Devan, the king's squire. "My son, sire?" "Devan? A good boy. He has much of you in him. It is Robert's bastard who is sick, the boy we took at Storm's End." Edric Storm. "I spoke with him in Aegon's Garden." "As she wished. As she saw." Stannis sighed. "Did the boy charm you? He has that gift. He got it from his father, with the blood. He knows he is a king's son, but chooses to forget that he is bastard-born. And he worships Robert, as Renly did when he was young. My royal brother played the fond father on his visits to Storm's End, and there were gifts . . . swords and ponies and fur-trimmed cloaks. The eunuch's work, every one. The boy would write the Red Keep full of thanks, and Robert would laugh and ask Varys what he'd sent this year. Renly was no better. He left the boy's upbringing to castellans and maesters, and every one fell victim to his charm. Penrose chose to die rather than give him up." The king ground his teeth together. "It still angers me. How could he think I would hurt the boy? I chose Robert, did I not? When that hard day came. I chose blood over honor." He does not use the boy's name. That made Davos very uneasy. "I hope young Edric will recover soon." Stannis waved a hand, dismissing his concern. "It is a chill, no more. He coughs, he shivers, he has a fever. Maester Pylos will soon set him right. By himself the boy is nought, you understand, but in his veins flows my brother's blood. There is power in a king's blood, she says." Davos did not have to ask who she was. Stannis touched the Painted Table. "Look at it, onion knight. My realm, by rights. My Westeros." He swept a hand across it. "This talk of Seven Kingdoms is a folly. Aegon saw that three hundred years ago when he stood where we are standing. They painted this table at his command. Rivers and bays they painted, hills and mountains, castles and cities and market towns, lakes and swamps and forests . . . but no borders. It is all one. One realm, for one king to rule alone." "One king," agreed Davos. "One king means peace." "I shall bring justice to Westeros. A thing Ser Axell understands as little as he does war. Claw Isle would gain me naught . . . and it was evil, just as you said. Celtigar must pay the traitor's price himself, in his own person. And when I come into my kingdom, he shall. Every man shall reap what he has sown, from the highest lord to the lowest gutter rat. And some will lose more than the tips off their fingers, I promise you. They have made my kingdom bleed, and I do not forget that." King Stannis turned from the table. "On your knees, Onion Knight." "Your Grace?" "For your onions and fish, I made you a knight once. For this, I am of a mind to raise you to lord." This? Davos was lost. "I am content to be your knight, Your Grace. I would not know how to begin being lordly." "Good. To be lordly is to be false. I have learned that lesson hard. Now, kneel. Your king commands." Davos knelt, and Stannis drew his longsword. Lightbringer, Melisandre had named it; the red sword of heroes, drawn from the fires where the seven gods were consumed. The room seemed to grow brighter as the blade slid from its scabbard. The steel had a glow to it; now orange, now yellow, now red. The air shimmered around it, and no jewel had ever sparkled so brilliantly. But when Stannis touched it to Davos's shoulder, it felt no different than any other longsword. "Ser Davos of House Seaworth," the king said, "are you my true and honest liege man, now and forever?" "I am, Your Grace." "And do you swear to serve me loyally all your days, to give me honest counsel and swift obedience, to defend my rights and my realm against all foes in battles great and small, to protect my people and punish my enemies?" "I do, Your Grace." "Then rise again, Davos Seaworth, and rise as Lord of the Rainwood, Admiral of the Narrow Sea, and Hand of the King." For a moment Davos was too stunned to move. I woke this morning in his dungeon. "Your Grace, you cannot . . . I am no fit man to be a King's Hand." "There is no man fitter." Stannis sheathed Lightbringer, gave Davos his hand, and pulled him to his feet. "I am lowborn," Davos reminded him. "An upjumped smuggler. Your lords will never obey me." "Then we will make new lords." "But . . . I cannot read . . . nor write . . . " "Maester Pylos can read for you. As to writing, my last Hand wrote the head off his shoulders. All I ask of you are the things you've always given me. Honesty. Loyalty. Service." "Surely there is someone better . . . some great lord . . . " Stannis snorted. "Bar Emmon, that boy? My faithless grandfather? Celtigar has abandoned me, the new Velaryon is six years old, and the new Sunglass sailed for Volantis after I burned his brother." He made an angry gesture. "A few good men remain, it's true. Ser Gilbert Farring holds Storm's End for me still, with two hundred loyal men. Lord Morrigen, the Bastard of Nightsong, young Chyttering, my cousin Andrew . . . but I trust none of them as I trust you, my lord of Rainwood. You will be my Hand. It is you I want beside me for the battle." Another battle will be the end of all of us, thought Davos. Lord Alester saw that much true enough. "Your Grace asked for honest counsel. In honesty then . . . we lack the strength for another battle against the Lannisters." "It is the great battle His Grace is speaking of," said a woman's voice, rich with the accents of the east. Melisandre stood at the door in her red silks and shimmering satins, holding a covered silver dish in her hands. "These little wars are no more than a scuffle of children before what is to come. The one whose name may not be spoken is marshaling his power, Davos Seaworth, a power fell and evil and strong beyond measure. Soon comes the cold, and the night that never ends." She placed the silver dish on the Painted Table. "Unless true men find the courage to fight it. Men whose hearts are fire." Stannis stared at the silver dish. "She has shown it to me, Lord Davos. In the flames." "You saw it, sire?" It was not like Stannis Baratheon to lie about such a thing. "With mine own eyes. After the battle, when I was lost to despair, the Lady Melisandre bid me gaze into the hearthfire. The chimney was drawing strongly, and bits of ash were rising from the fire. I stared at them, feeling half a fool, but she bid me look deeper, and . . . the ashes were white, rising in the updraft, yet all at once it seemed as if they were falling. Snow, I thought. Then the sparks in the air seemed to circle, to become a ring of torches, and I was looking through the fire down on some high hill in a forest. The cinders had become men in black behind the torches, and there were shapes moving through the snow. For all the heat of the fire, I felt a cold so terrible I shivered, and when I did the sight was gone, the fire but a fire once again. But what I saw was real, I'd stake my kingdom on it." "And have," said Melisandre. The conviction in the king's voice frightened Davos to the core. "A hill in a forest . . . shapes in the snow . . . I don't . . . " "It means that the battle is begun," said Melisandre. "The sand is running through the glass more quickly now, and man's hour on earth is almost done. We must act boldly, or all hope is lost. Westeros must unite beneath her one true king, the prince that was promised, Lord of Dragonstone and chosen of R'hllor." "R'hllor chooses queerly, then." The king grimaced, as if he'd tasted something foul. "Why me, and not my brothers? Renly and his peach. In my dreams I see the juice running from his mouth, the blood from his throat. If he had done his duty by his brother, we would have smashed Lord Tywin. A victory even Robert could be proud of. Robert . . . " His teeth ground side to side. "He is in my dreams as well. Laughing. Drinking. Boasting. Those were the things he was best at. Those, and fighting. I never bested him at anything. The Lord of Light should have made Robert his champion. Why me?" "Because you are a righteous man," said Melisandre. "A righteous man." Stannis touched the covered silver platter with a finger. "With leeches." "Yes," said Melisandre, "but I must tell you once more, this is not the way." "You swore it would work." The king looked angry. "It will . . . and it will not." "Which?" "Both." "Speak sense to me, woman." "When the fires speak more plainly, so shall I. There is truth in the flames, but it is not always easy to see." The great ruby at her throat drank fire from the glow of the brazier. "Give me the boy, Your Grace. It is the surer way. The better way. Give me the boy and I shall wake the stone dragon." "I have told you, no." "He is only one baseborn boy, against all the boys of Westeros, and all the girls as well. Against all the children that might ever be born, in all the kingdoms of the world." "The boy is innocent." "The boy defiled your marriage bed, else you would surely have sons of your own. He shamed you." "Robert did that. Not the boy. My daughter has grown fond of him. And he is mine own blood." "Your brother's blood," Melisandre said. "A king's blood. Only a king's blood can wake the stone dragon." Stannis ground his teeth. "I'll hear no more of this. The dragons are done. The Targaryens tried to bring them back half a dozen times. And made fools of themselves, or corpses. Patchface is the only fool we need on this godsforsaken rock. You have the leeches. Do your work." Melisandre bowed her head stiffly, and said, "As my king commands." Reaching up her left sleeve with her right hand, she flung a handful of powder into the brazier. The coals roared. As pale flames writhed atop them, the red woman retrieved the silver dish and brought it to the king. Davos watched her lift the lid. Beneath were three large black leeches, fat with blood. The boy's blood, Davos knew. A king's blood. Stannis stretched forth a hand, and his fingers closed around one of the leeches. "Say the name," Melisandre commanded. The leech was twisting in the king's grip, trying to attach itself to one of his fingers. "The usurper," he said. "Joffrey Baratheon." When he tossed the leech into the fire, it curled up like an autumn leaf amidst the coals, and burned. Stannis grasped the second. "The usurper," he declared, louder this time. "Balon Greyjoy." He flipped it lightly onto the brazier, and its flesh split and cracked. The blood burst from it, hissing and smoking. The last was in the king's hand. This one he studied a moment as it writhed between his fingers. "The usurper," he said at last. "Robb Stark." And he threw it on the flames.

[puddlesthewitch]

The Perfect High

There once was a boy named Gimme-Some-Roy... He was nothin' like me or you,

'cause laying back and getting high was all he cared to do.

As a kid, he sat in the cellar...sniffing airplane glue. And then he smoked banana peels, when that was the thing to do. He tried aspirin in Coca-Cola, he breathed helium on the sly, and his life became an endless search to find the perfect high.

But grass just made him wanna lay back and eat chocolate-chip pizza all night,

and the great things he wrote when he was stoned looked like shit in the morning light.

Speed made him wanna rap all day, reds laid him too far back, Cocaine-Rose was sweet to his nose, but the price nearly broke his back.

He tried PCP, he tried THC, but they never quite did the trick. Poppers nearly blew his heart, mushrooms made him sick. Acid made him see the light, but he couldn't remember it long. Hash was a little too weak, and smack was a lot too strong. Quaaludes made him stumble, booze just made him cry, Then he heard of a cat named Baba Fats who knew of the perfect high.

Now, Baba Fats was a hermit cat...lived high up in Nepal, High on a craggy mountain top, up a sheer and icy wall. "Well, hell!" says Roy, "I'm a healthy boy, and I'll crawl or climb or fly,

Till I find that guru who'll give me the clue as to what's the perfect high."

So out and off goes Gimme-Some-Roy, to the land that knows no time, Up a trail no man could conquer, to a cliff no man could climb. For fourteen years he climbed that cliff...back down again he'd slide . . .

He'd sit and cry, then climb some more, pursuing the perfect high.

Grinding his teeth, coughing blood, aching and shaking and weak, Starving and sore, bleeding and tore, he reaches the mountain peak. And his eyes blink red like a snow-blind wolf, and he snarls the snarl of a rat,

As there in repose, and wearing no clothes, sits the god-like Baba Fats.

"What's happenin', Fats?" says Roy with joy, "I've come to state my biz . . .

I hear you're hip to the perfect trip... Please tell me what it is. "For you can see," says Roy to he, "I'm about to die, So for my last ride, tell me, how can I achieve the perfect high?"

"Well, dog my cats!" says Baba Fats. "Another burned out soul, Who's lookin' for an alchemist to turn his trip to gold. It isn't in a dealer's stash, or on a druggist's shelf... Son, if you would find the perfect high, find it in yourself."

"Why, you jive mother-fucker!" says Roy, "I climbed through rain and sleet,

I froze three fingers off my hands, and four toes off my feet! I braved the lair of the polar bear, I've tasted the maggot's kiss. Now, you tell me the high is in myself? What kinda shit is this?

My ears, before they froze off," says Roy, "had heard all kindsa crap; But I didn't climb for fourteen years to hear your sophomore rap. And I didn't climb up here to hear that the high is on the natch, So you tell me where the real stuff is, or I'll kill your guru ass!"

"Okay...okay," says Baba Fats, "You're forcin' it outta me... There is a land beyond the sun that's known as Zabolee. A wretched land of stone and sand, where snakes and buzzards scream, And in this devil's garden blooms the mystic Tzutzu tree.

Now, once every ten years it blooms one flower, as white as the Key West sky,

And he who eats of the Tzutzu flower shall know the perfect high. For the rush comes on like a tidal wave...hits like the blazin' sun. And the high? It lasts forever, and the down don't never come.

But, Zabolee Land is ruled by a giant, who stands twelve cubits high, And with eyes of red in his hundred heads, he awaits the passer-by. And you must slay the red-eyed giant, and swim the river of slime, Where the mucous beasts await to feast on those who journey by. And if you slay the giant and beasts, and swim the slimy sea, There's a blood-drinking witch who sharpens her teeth as she guards the Tzutzu tree."

"Well, to hell with your witches and giants," says Roy, "To hell with the beasts of the sea--

Why, as long as the Tzutzu flower still blooms, hope still blooms for me."

And with tears of joy in his sun-blind eyes, he slips the guru a five, And crawls back down the mountainside, pursuing the perfect high.

"Well, that is that," says Baba Fats, sitting back down on his stone, Facing another thousand years of talking to God, alone. "Yes, Lord, it's always the same...old men or bright-eyed youth... It's always easier to sell 'em some shit than it is to tell them the truth."

Shel Silverstein

[love-ya-tommo-row]

I was tagged by @inziam  ❤️ ❤️ ❤️ ❤

️ Favorite snack?

Pretzel sticks or jalapeno chips... I used to luv dry Frosted Flakes!!

Favorite place to go on vacation?

THE BEACH! Or the river- any where I can float :)

Tea or coffee?

Coffee

And what kind?

A light or medium roast with plenty of milk, or a latte if I’m fancy

What is a song that makes you dance immediately?

Shut Up and Dance by Walk the Moon

Do you play an instrument?

I play a bit of piano, but I’m v out of practice

What is your favorite type of personality?

Kind people with a good sense of humor, very caring and reassuring

Favorite comedian?

Tig Notaro

Gummy candy or chocolate?

Mrm, when I like chocolate, I like it more than gummies, but I’ve had a lot of bad chocolate and never had a bad gummy... plus gummy eggs/gummy sharks/sour gummies... GUMMIES!

What did you want to be when you grew up as a kid?

An artist or an astronaut lol

What’s your favorite physical feature of yourself?

My fingernails- I have a great oval shape, and they naturally grow into a french tip!

When was the last time you watched a show or a movie on a TV?

A couple months ago lol... for a while I put in the work to catch reruns of Boston Legal and CSI (Las Vegas, natch)

Unpopular opinion

Aslkjgals;kdjf... of what? Erm, okay, I feel like I’m the exact midpoint of anti-pro discourse re fanfiction

Are you scared of bugs?

I live in a poorly maintained building near a swamp, so I have to be v v zen regarding bugs all up in my living space. So little ones I see every day? Not bad. But big “crunchy” ones with well defined shells, or like, millipedes? Fuuuuuuck offfffff!!!!

Cats or dogs?

I’m allergic to cats, and I’m hypothetically a dog person, but I hate it when they lick me or ‘nose’ me, and I hate barking and a lot of them smell weird. Maybe I should’ve put this for my unpopular opinion!

Are you allergic to any foods?

I’m allergic to some kind of herb, but I’m not sure which! I’ve had topical reactions in my mouth twice, once when drinking a fancy cocktail with like 3 different bitters and once when eating ceviche, so I assume I’m allergic to some kind of seasoning but I don’t know exactly what

Does the description of your star sign match your personality?

I’m an Aries, and I think so!! Especially the little nuances about it. I’m really into astrology, and a lot of my luminaries/houses are scary accurate to my personality. (Other unpopular opinion- I only believe in astrology involving stellar objects visible to the naked eye!)

Favorite type of accent?

North England natch ;) Haha, I have a Texas Twang that comes out at odd times, especially when I drink, and I like it, but I have to say Zayn’s Bradford twang is quite musical and pleasing to the ears.

Name the first song that comes into your head?

Honest to god Strip That Down just popped into my head... The song I most recently listened to was Thanks for the Memories (or however u stylize it lol)

Who is the sexiest famous person to you?

Kristen Stewart’s latest pics for Charlie’s Angels are pretty ace, and I had a huuuuuuuuuuge crush on Kirsten Vangness when I was a teen!! Also that one specific picture of Liam with his shirt rucked up and the waist pack over his shoulder is like O.O

Cake or pie?

Cake with whipped cream frosting!

When was the last time you read an entire book?

Recently... I read a lot. Mostly non-fiction though.

Favorite junk food?

Flautas

Do you like your height?

Yes, I am the perfect height, I’m slightly over 5′8 which is tall for a woman and short for a man and is like the exact point the height distribution bell curves for the sexes intersect, so unlikely my insanely tall siblings (both over 6′) I have no trouble fitting clothes, transportation, or furniture!

Apples or oranges?

APPLES!!

What’s your favorite personality trait in a person?

I think I already answered this hahaha... but the thing which makes someone a best friend to me is if I can talk about ANYTHING with them, so someone who is open minded and low reactivity and has a good sense of humor and is willing to talk about ANYTHING with me right back is best

Do you like salad?

I love wedge salad and have been known to like a Caesar in my time

Which person inspires you the most?

Tempted to say Louis, which is cliche, but I really do respect how he didn’t just take the opportunity given to him, but actively fought for it. He worked so hard and put so much of himself into that band, I think he’s what made them so unique. Apart from him, I really respect and admire conscientious objectors, and I think Dorothy Day led a fascinating life that was admirable in many ways.

What is a song that has made you cry?

Pink Floyd’s Mother literally gives me existential anxiety and makes me cry in a bad way... hate it....

I’m tagging @wandukon @godgaveuslou @minimischell @iii-was-stumblin @littlelittlelarrie and @wellingtontat if they want to play!!!!

[believingbrook]

taakitz hanahaki, 2

warnings/tags for fic series: terminal illness, angst with a happy ending (yes he’ll be fine), grief. please don’t read if you’re uncomfortable with these concepts, take care of yourself!

“How do you not have cumin?”

“I’m a bachelor, Taako!”

“That’s not an excuse to keep a pathetic pantry!”

“Pathetic — ” Kravitz sputters, but Taako raps his knuckles with a wooden spoon and points the butt toward the door, not bothering to look over the bowl of spices he’s crafting.

“You. Cumin.”

“It’s cold outside.”

Taako snorts. “You’re a big boy, and also freezing eighty percent of the time. It’ll hardly register.” He uncaps the cinnamon, sprinkles in a liberal dose. “Besides, the corner store is a two-minute walk. Make yourself useful.”

Grinning, Kravitz obliges, shrugs on a coat and a scarf and his boots and complains the whole way out the door. He shuts it behind him with a parting jab about how he’s going to get hypothermia and die and Taako’s resulting snort.

It is indeed a six-minute excursion to buy cumin. When he returns, purchased goods in hand, he passes them to Taako, the top of Taako’s braid brushing beneath his chin. He’s a good head taller than Taako and always thought that, if he were to kiss him, his hands would nestle perfectly in the small of Taako’s back.

“I realize, in retrospect, that sending someone out to get ingredients when they’ve got, uh, pneumonia, is — that’s probably a bad look.”

Kravitz blinks, then waves an airy hand through the air. “Like you said. I’m a big boy.”

“Yeah,” Taako says, as close to an apology as Kravitz is going to get. “Like I said. Hey, preheat the oven, will you? 350.”

Kravitz obliges. “Celsius or Fahrenheit?”

He laughs as Taako swats at him with the spoon again, dancing out of Taako’s reach with his tongue stuck out. “Disgusting,” Taako mutters, and sticks out his tongue to match.

Kravitz settles himself in his armchair, flipping idly through an old tome while Taako cooks. It’s a pleasant backdrop while he absorbs this new story (and yes, it’s one of those trashy romance novels that Taako hates but Kravitz refuses to abandon), the sizzling and splashing and decadent aroma wafting through their apartment.

Finally Taako clanks whatever he’s prepared into the oven — Kravitz isn’t even totally sure what, exactly, Taako is making, except that his kitchen smells faintly of garlic and he’d tugged two breasts of chicken out of Kravitz’s freezer, jabbing him on how he couldn’t even freeze chicken right, because he’d stored them too close to the icebox — and slumps onto the sofa with a huff.

That’s Taako’s corner of the sofa, or at least Kravitz thinks of it that way; it’s where he always sits, and in his more fanciful moments Kravitz can make out a Taako-shaped dip in the mattress. As is his custom Taako gathers all the pillows and blankets within reach and shuffles them over his lap, laying his head dramatically on the armrest.

“Hey, uh, your sister back this weekend?’

“Yeah.” Kravitz sets his book aside. Taako and Raven got along fine in the beginning, but since — well, since Kravitz’s affliction, she’s turned colder toward him. He jokes that she hates anyone who isn’t goth, and Taako ribs him about adoring Gerard Way and the t-shirts emblazoned with Amy Lee’s face still hanging in his closet, and they don’t talk about it. “Just in time for the party.”

“Natch.” Taako sprawls along the couch cushions, head resting on one crooked elbow. His hair spills in a golden weave over the threads of Kravitz’s couch and for one impulsive moment Kravitz wants to reach out, thread his fingers through that hair, find out how soft it really is.

“She saved my life, you know,” Kravitz says.

“Huh?”

“Raven. When we were kids.” He hadn’t meant to say that, hadn’t truly thought it out, but Kravitz hates that his sister and Taako don’t get along. That they don’t get along because of him. Out of everyone in their little family, Taako and Raven’s icy relationship is surpassed only by his and Lucretia’s. “I used to love swimming.”

“I could deffo get behind you in Spandex.”

Kravitz’s heart clenches. “I was eleven, Taako.”

Taako rolls over, quirks an eyebrow at him upside-down. “When’s the last time you went swimming, Krav?”

“Thirteen years ago.”

There’s a pause as Taako does the math. His eyes widen briefly, before narrowing again. Kravitz clears his throat. “I jumped in the river because there was something shiny at the bottom. And I was pretty good at swimming — this was back when I was a kid, and Raven was just a teenager, she took me to the river sometimes because she knew I loved it.” Kravitz drums his fingers against his thigh. “There was a current beneath the river. I almost drowned, but Raven — she pulled me out.”

Taako studies him. “Touching,” he says dryly. “Why are you telling me this?”

“It’s been ten years,” Kravitz says. “There’s little you don’t know about me already.” Kravitz stills his anxious hands. “Also I know you don’t like my sister and I hate it.”

“Shit, me too.” Taako looks toward the ceiling and crosses his legs. “We got along just fine until junior year, then she got all weird.”

Kravitz bites his lip. “Yeah, I know.”

There’s silence for a beat, then Taako rolls his head toward Kravitz and sits up. “Kravitz,” he says dangerously.

“What?”

“Give me that.”

He’s looking at Kravitz’s book. He snatches it up and holds it to his chest. “No.”

“Do not make me come over there and get it, Kravitz.”

“You’re gonna make fun of it!”

“Oh you know I am,” Taako says, hefting himself to his feet. He perches on one arm of the sofa and stares Kravitz down. “Hand it over, I just wanna read the back.”

Kravitz holds it tighter to his chest. “Don’t you have cooking to be doing?”

Taako snatches for it, but Kravitz twists out of the way. “It’s in the oven, bubbeleh, it’s not my problem for at least another fifteen minutes. Plenty of time to do some investigating.” He shuffles onto Kravitz’s lap and grabs again, but Kravitz holds the book tighter.

“This is awfully rude, Taako.”

Taako grins a sharp shark’s grin. “That’s me,” he says, pleased, and digs his fingers into Kravitz’s sides. “Rude and uncivilized.”

Kravitz lets out an extremely undignified squeak. “Oh come on — !” Kravitz snickers, trying to squirm away from Taako’s fingers and failing. “This isn’t fair, we aren’t fifteen — ha — oh come on, this isn’t fair — ”

He breaks away to snort, curling in on himself in a last-ditch defensive attempt. “Oh no you don’t,” Taako says, and even though Kravitz is currently occupied resisting the urge to throw Taako off his lap (he could and they both know it — Taako never was athletic, ‘too much effort’), he can hear the smile in Taako’s voice. “C’mon, Bones, I just wanna read it — ”

“You’re gonna make fun of me!”

“Perish the thought,” Taako says, and finds a sensitive spot along Kravitz’s sides and digs his fingers in. Kravitz rears backward, trying to wriggle away, but Taako snatches the book from his hands.

Kravitz laughs breathlessly, recomposing himself. The air brushes along the petals in his throat and he coughs once, twice, before clearing his throat and declaring, “I hate you.”

“You could never,” Taako says smugly, still perched atop Kravitz’s knees.

“I hate that my tickle spots are the same after ten years,” Kravitz grumbles, burying his face in Taako’s chest. “I’m an adult now, those shouldn’t still work!”

“Not how biology works, homeslice,” Taako says absently, pinching Kravitz’s nose with the hand not occupied holding the back cover in front of his face. Kravitz shakes his head to dislodge Taako’s fingers, smacks Taako’s hand away. “Oh my god, Kravitz.”

Kravitz groans, low and defeated.

“This is awful. This is awful, how do you — a horse? Why is this — is this a gay cowboy story?” Taako tucks two fingers beneath his chin and tugs his face up, brandishing the book at him with the other. “Are you reading a — a fuckin’ homosexual Western?”

“It’s a good genre,” Kravitz defends, blushing furiously. He snatches for the book, but Taako dances out of the way. He’s always been faster than Kravitz. “I don’t need you critiquing my taste in literature.”

“Listen ��� okay, no, first of all, you definitely do, because this is unacceptable and second, literature? This cannot be called literature, Kravitz! Literature has the word “lit” in and therefore by default cannot be applied to anything you read!”

“I’ve read the draft of your cookbook.”

Taako freezes, then hits him lightly in the chest with his own book. “Take your trash back,” he sulks. “Can’t sully my hands with it anymore.”

“You know I’m right, Taako!”

“I will confess to no such thing.”

“You don’t need to,” Kravitz sing-songs, leaning forward, bracing his elbows on Taako’s knees. “I already know everything I need to.”

Taako stares him dead in the eyes, then pokes his nose. “False. I — I don’t have anything better than false, and also fuck you.”

Kravitz goes to lick his finger and Taako yanks it back, retching. “You’re disgusting!”

“Learned it from Lup,” Kravitz shrugs, grinning unabashedly up at him. “Your sister, your fault.”

“No, that’s not even — you are so far off,” Taako says, disentangling himself from Kravitz’s lap and going to check on the kitchen. “By that logic that means you also gotta blame me for trying to set you up with Barold during freshman year and I want no part of that.”

“I think that worked out for Lup in the end, though,” Kravitz says, standing and stretching. “Chicken done?”

“Almost,” Taako says, putting the oven mitts back. It’d taken Kravitz four years to drill organization into Taako’s head — in this flat everything has a place and will be returned there, thank you. “Five minutes or so.”

“How long until people arrive?”

“You have a clock on your wrist.”

Kravitz sprawls out over the couch and grins cheekily at him. “Too far away.”

“You’re awful,” Taako says, rolling his eyes where Kravitz can see him. “We’ve got half an hour.”

“Cool.” He sits back, studies the ceiling, then picks his head up again. “Hey, could you grab Angus’s present? It’s in my closet.”

“Are you trying to put me back in the closet?”

“And you say my gay jokes are awful.”

Taako pauses, considering. “Okay, yeah, that one was pretty bad. What will you give me in return?”

Kravitz shrugs. “My undying love and affection?”

Taako snorts. “Disgusting,” he says, but tromps obligingly into Kravitz’s room. “Your room’s a mess!”

“Is not!”

“Your bed isn’t made, and there’s dust on the windowsill!”

Kravitz rolls his eyes. “I’m sorry I don’t dust my bedroom often enough for your tastes!”

He hears a muttered “you should be,” then silence. Kravitz closes his eyes, the delicious scent of garlic and rosemary wafting around the kitchen, and waits for Taako’s returning footsteps.

They return, far slower than they should. Kravitz sits up, and when he looks toward the entryway, Taako is carrying a jar of rose petals.

Ice chills in Kravitz’s veins.

“Taako?”

Taako doesn’t say anything as he crosses the room. Kravitz stiffens, scoots over to make room, and Taako sits, face eerily blank. This time, Taako doesn’t bother with his nest of blankets.

“What are these?”

“Petals,” Kravitz says, and in an attempt at lightheartedness says “I’d have thought you’d know that, Taako, your father is a gardener — ”

“Kravitz.”

Kravitz’s heart plummets to his stomach. Taako looks at him and Kravitz can’t hold his gaze, so he looks away, looks to the table still scuffed with bootprints from Taako’s uncaring kicked-up legs.

“Why do you keep them?”

His voice is perfectly even. Taako’s voice is never even. “I like them,” he shrugs. “I know that sounds, uh, fucked up, but — they remind me what I’m — ” He swallows, cuts himself off. “Are you angry?”

Taako ignores his last question. “Yeah, that’s pretty fucked up,” he says. He sets the jar on the table, lips pressed firmly together, eyes still shadowed with something Kravitz can’t quite understand. “You know, I don’t think I’ll ever understand you, Kravitz.”

“Taako, you still know me.”

“He’s a lucky guy.” This time, he’s the one who won’t meet Kravitz’s gaze. “Whoever he is.”

Kravitz blinks. “Taako, it isn’t — it isn’t some guy, it’s — ”

“Don’t.”

“Taako— ”

Taako’s voice is harsh with warning. “Don’t, Kravitz.”

Taako sits up, shoulders tense and gaze fixed rigid on the unlit fireplace in the wall. His jaw is locked tight and Kravitz feels like he can’t breathe and for once, it isn’t the damned garden coating his windpipe.

“Okay,” Kravitz says softly. “Okay, I won’t. Are you all right?”

Taako barks out a laugh, hands fisting in his jeans. “You’re incredible, you know that?”

It doesn’t sound like a compliment.

“I’ve been told,” Kravitz murmurs. He looks toward the fireplace as well. “The chicken’s probably done.”

Taako blinks. “Right,” he says, and stands. “Right. Yeah, it probably is.”

He stands. Kravitz hears the oven door open, shut, metal clanking against metal. There’s a beep of an interior thermometer; a pause, then the rhythmic sound of chopping.

Kravitz’s chest is tight now, too, something uncomfortably heavy pressing on his sternum. This is why he hadn’t said anything. He knew this was going to happen, knew that when Taako found out he would get scared, and he would leave.

Kravitz wants to run, badly. Wants to flee his own flat, take refuge with Hurley and Sloane. Maybe call Julia and see if her dining room table has room for one more, if she’s got tea steeping.

But too many people have left Taako already and if Kravitz leaves now he’ll smash the last of the wooden slats he hasn’t already burned. Instead he forces himself to stand, walk over to his own counter. He — he needs Taako to know this, at least.

“This isn’t your fault, Taako.”

His back is turned toward Kravitz and it stiffens at the words. There’s a pause in the rhythm of his chopping and it lulls, just for a moment; then Taako says, with a voice so unaffected Kravitz startles to hear it, “Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, my man.”

His heart drops. “Ah,” Kravitz says. In the end, he tells himself, it’s better than it could be — he could have lost Taako entirely. He can keep pretending nothing’s wrong. He — he wouldn’t mind.

Inside his throat, the roses bloom, stretching their petals a bit farther. The prickling feeling of seeds taking root trickles farther up his windpipe and he fights the urge to retch, balling a fist against his mouth and blinking back involuntary tears.

“I think Lup bought Ango trick candles,” Taako says after a while. He slides the diced carrots off the chopping board, drops them in the bowl with a brisk flick of his wrist. “I don’t even think — don’t think she needs them, to be honest. She could just relight ‘em as soon as they go out.”

“He’d realize though,” Kravitz says carefully. “He’s very intelligent.”

“He’ll figure out they’re trick candles pretty fast too,” Taako says sharply. “But yeah. Don’t freak when they keep burning.”

“I won’t.”

Taako hums absently. His back is still turned. He pulls three full tomatoes out of his bag and sets about slicing those. “How long do we have?”

“Fifteen minutes.”

“Cool cool.”

“Do you need help?”

Taako snorts. “Not from you, my man.”

Kravitz bites his lip. He doesn’t know what to say, and that’s what gets him more than anything else — he doesn’t know what to do. He’s never had to dance around Taako. The sort of easy honesty that grew between them was present from the very start, and Kravitz has uprooted it. He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know how to smooth things out into the easy camaraderie of before.

“Still got Magnus’s ducks?”

“Yeah,” Kravitz says. “Those were in the closet, too. Did you — did you grab Angus’s — ”

“Nah, got a little sidetracked.” Taako brushes a lock of hair out of his face with one shoulder. “Just be warned, I think he’s bringing some more. Takes every chance he can get to, uh, fuckin’ frisbee them at people he knows.”

“I’ll clear more space then,” Kravitz says, and leaves.

He means to grab the present and head back to the kitchen, he really does; but alone, the full weight of Taako’s stubborn denial weighs on him and he sinks to his knees on the patchwork carpet of his closet. He fights to keep his breathing even, he can’t afford to cry because then he’ll start coughing, and that —

He retches. One hand flies to his mouth and the other scrambles for the closet door, pulling it shut. The light spilling in from his bedroom ceases, leaving him in the dark, and Kravitz struggles to keep his coughs as quiet as possible.

It’s different now, this — the petals he’s coughing up seem larger, fuller somehow, and Kravitz’s eyes sting. Gods, he doesn’t want to deal with anyone right now, doesn’t want to deal with Taako. He hopes he’s not audible from the kitchen.

After several minutes the fit passes and Kravitz, now able to breathe easier, slumps back against the wall. He stares into the darkness, the faint halo of light around his door, and buries his head in his hands. Crying is out of the question, he’s too drained — he couldn’t muster tears even if he wanted them — so he dashes a hand across his eyes, his lips, reaching shakily for the water bottle Raven keeps tucked in the back corner. He unscrews it, hands still trembling, and takes a large drink to calm himself.

Kravitz counts thirty seconds, slumped against the wall, hands shaking where he’s folded them in his lap, eyes closed despite the darkness around him. Then he shuts the water bottle, replaces it, and opens the closet door, present in hand.

Scattered around him are full roses’ heads.

Kravitz doesn’t breathe, for several moments. Nothing blocking his windpipe; just shock.

It can get worse, he knows. Progress from petals to full flowers, when love is unrequited. This is what most experts call the point of no return; he probably couldn’t get surgery now, even if he wanted.

His only thought is how upset Raven will be. He hates when she worries.

He kneels, touches the head of one gently. There are at least ten, a dozen petals on each head, and scattered around him are no less than six. He thinks, I’m going to need a larger jar.

For now the smaller ones will have to do. He uncaps one — he and Raven keep them on the top shelf — and shovels them in, careful to leave their heads undamaged. He looks to the windowsill where he kept his jars, looks toward the kitchen where he can hear Taako still chopping, rhythm undaunted, then places this new jar on the sill.

“Find it?” Taako asks, when Kravitz reenters the kitchen.

“Yeah,” Kravitz rasps. One of Taako’s ears flick back toward him, though he himself does not move. Kravitz clears his throat and tries again, voice far more pleasantly full this time.

Five minutes pass in silence before the doorbell rings. Just before Kravitz opens it he hears Taako take a deep breath and glances over to find him arched over his cutting board, knuckles white around the knife.

Kravitz opens the door, a bright smile already in place.

[nattoppet-dj]

i’m sorry ur day was bad so here’s this: imagine krav lying in bed, early morning golden light filtering in thru the window, and he’s looking at taako with the dopiest, sweetest, most lovestricken gaze that you’ve ever seen on a man dead or alive. taako may even be asleep and can’t see it. it’s so soft. his synthetic heart? skips so many beats he dies again. he’s so in love with this dopey elf

thank you for helping me feel better, so here’s a little drabble of our favorite boys

For as long as Kravitz has known the cycles of life and death alike, nothing comes close to this moment. As the morning sun dapples the sheets with a soft glow, creeping up Taako’s form, the Reaper realizes just how beautiful the elf truly is. It takes his breath away. How can someone he breathes for, simultaneously wind him just by existing?

A dark hand smooths over silky blond strands lightly, brushing against a cheek as he looks down at Taako’s sleeping face. He smiles, and the heartbeat that hums for Taako stutters in his chest. 

Beautiful.

Warmed by skin and sunbeams, Kravitz feels truly at peace in these early hours each day, before they both get up to work and brace for the havoc under the sun. His hand stills, and Taako’s ear twitches. Oh, he’s been awake...

“Love?” Taako doesn’t move, but he’s also no longer breathing. It makes Kravitz warm in the cheeks and he pulls away. The elf whines in protest, giving up his act and blinking open an eye.

“Don’t stop,” he croaks, reaching for his boyfriend. Said boyfriend chuckles warmly, voice like velvet.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Taako.” And the hand is back stroking his cheek so so gently, the peaceful smile gracing Taako’s features causes Kravitz’s chest to seize in affection, and before he can stop himself Kravitz adds, “You’re beautiful like this.”

The long ear flits up, a small twitch, and the smile widens. “Natch.”

Kravitz leans down to steal that smile with a kiss, pulling back to wear it. He’s proud to find the elf staring up at him for a moment in surprise, vulnerable in the soft sleepy warmth of their bed. Perfect. Absolutely radiant. “I love you,” he hums, sliding close to hold his lover with all the adoration the Reaper can muster.

Which is, to say, a fucking lot.

“Love you too, handsome.” The words brush over Kravitz lips before Taako is kissing him again, lazy and sleepy and... it’s so good. He’s giddy on the feeling. The morning hours are always his favorite, where Taako is soft around the edges from sleep and warmth, rounded out by waves of affection that Kravitz gives him. If only it’d last forever, this precious moment with the most beautiful, precious being he’s ever known.

The kiss ends, and Taako tucks himself into his lover’s chest to settle back into the softness of slumber, hugging close.

“How ‘bout we call in for the day?” Taako proposes, voice a soft, lazy lilt against smoky skin. A chuckle rumbles from the Reaper before brushing through a river of golden sunlight to tuck behind an ear.

“Playing hooky?” Taako hums in confirmation and waves a hand in the air vaguely.

“Yup. Schedule cleared. Taako’s bound to the bed now. No escape. Clearly urgent to stay here and sleep on my-- literally and figuratively, hot boy,” he elaborates, and nuzzles into Kravitz’s neck.

The smile he stole simply widens, and he leans down to kiss it into Taako’s hair. “Sounds like it needs to be tended to immediately.” Another hum, and the elf hunkers down to doze off once more. Perfect.

Absolutely perfect. Kravitz closes his eyes once more when Taako mutters, “Love you.”

“To the moon.”

[secretradiobrooklyn]

The Singing Senator Edition | 5.22.21

Secret Radio | 5.22.21 | Hear it here.

1. Dara Puspita - “Bertamasja”

Dara Puspita was an Indonesian band, active right from the start of rock n roll — like, they jumped into it in 1964. I love how it sounds like gnarly garage rock until the lead guitar tone pulls out and reveals a super VU sound. With a surf structure! It’s just about a perfect nugget of song. 

2. Yol Aularong - “Sou Slarp Kroam Kombut Srey (Rather Die Under a Woman’s Sword)”

Yol Aularong has the wildest voice, and total commitment to rock’s magic transformative power, even in a context where he was risking his life. He does things that would make Screamin’ Jay lean back and appreciate. The arrangements and his delivery just o’erbrim with life and character. 

3. The Psychedelic Aliens - “We’re Laughing”

This band is like Atomic Forest in that they’re just the answer to any collector’s wildest dreams of rarity: they’re a Ghanaian band who released exactly 8 songs and were big in the Accra scene. The groove of this song, especially in headphones, is just mesmerizing, and his delivery gets gradually more and more abstract. It sounds like Marijata and what I wish WITCH sounded more like. Undeniable.

- Glenn Miller Orchestra - “Sunrise Serenade”

4. Prewar Yardsale - “Turn On (Live Peel Session)”

We got into Prewar Yardsale through Jeffrey. Because we got into this band that he introduced us to, he said he had some rarities and other tracks. That he sent our way, and this is from that.  

5. Chai - “In Pink (feat. MNDSGN)”

I think first it was the New York Times, then the Guardian, then the New Yorker all writing about this band essentially in the same week — and we definitely had no idea what they sound like. This song had just debuted on YouTube 18 hours earlier. I think, especially now through repeated listens, it’s a rad track. I love the way MNDSGN winds his vocals into the song, then has his passage, then smoothly winds his way out again. It’s like meeting a really interesting person at an already cool party.

6. Waipod Phetsuphan - “Ding Ding Dong”

Siamese music — Thai music. The guitar part is so primal and the drums so bright in the fills and meanwhile it sounds like he’s casting a spell. And what a refrain.

7. Jacques Dutronc - “J’ai me un tigre dans ma guitare”

One of the greats — I have loved every song of his I’ve ever heard. This song really makes me appreciate his band, especially his drummer. 

8. Orchestra Baobab - “Kelen Ati Leen”

When we started WBFFing, it was partly because we were being blown away by the indisputable proof of James Brown’s influence on, and interaction with, the entire world. I don’t think I realized JB was a lot bigger than the Beatles in huge swaths of the world. This track is fundamentally expressing a JB groove and doing their own entire thing at the same time. The lead vocals’ flavor is just off the charts and the band is SO tight. 

9. Pierre Vassilou - “Qui c’est celui-là?”

What IS this song? It’s in French but it sounds like Brazil — I guess really it sounds like Os Mutantes. 

10. Betti-Betti w T.P. Orchestre Poly Rythmo - “Mahana”

The abundance of T.P. Orchestre keeps on giving. This beautiful, beautiful song is from an album they did with Cameroonian star Betti-Betti, who basically expressed the pain of her country so precisely that the whole nation mourned her passing when she died young. This melody is just stunning, and the harmony 

- Stunt Double - “Be My Baby”

Ace track from some of our favorite people in all of LA.

11. Bug Chaser - “Crowley’s Kids”

I don’t know if Bug Chaser is active at the moment, but some of our favorite STL shows have been watching and/or playing with Bug Chaser. We did the City Museum rooftop twice — and we split favorite VU songs at the Lou Reed Farewell show. Two drumsets, way too much information per track, and an epic live show with a lead character who knows how to lose himself in a song.

12. Eko Roosevelt - “Attends Moi”

We learned about Eko Roosevelt by glimpsing him in a movie about Betti-Betti. He’s a handsome bearded gentleman behind a piano. The first songs by him that got us were super heavy disco, but this one has its own special power. Lately Paige has been singing and playing it on guitar — I’m kind of hoping that we hear her version of “Attends Moi” in another broadcast.

13. Manzanita y Su Conjunto - “Shambar”

One of the sweetest musical gifts in our life has been the discovery of Analog Africa’s ever-growing musical jackpot. They sent their list a note recently about an upcoming record focused on Manzanita y Su Conjunto and their path through cumbia music, and there are two  tracks available now counting this one. We’ll be getting this record, this shit is amazing.

Paige: “I gotta get in touch with Mrs. Link.”

14. Lizzy Mercier Descloux - “Fire”

This song is from her 1979 debut, “Press Color,” and man, what an undeniable new character on the scene! She was based in Paris, hooked up with Michel Esteban, and together they not only established a store of crucial Parisian punkness but also published a fucking MAGAZINE called “Rock News”!! While making music like this! Eventually they moved to New York in 1977 (natch) and as far as I know just continued to be the coolest humans on Earth. I can’t wait to share some of her other tracks with you — besides the brilliant first album, there’s a whole record called “Zulu Rock”! 

15. Os Mutantes - “A Minha Menina”

And as always I think: What did the Beatles think of this music?! They must have known about it, they must have. To me it really brings a whole additional level that the Beatles wanted to get to but literally didn’t know how — and Os Mutantes did. 

16. Suburban Lawns - “Janitor”

Sometimes I wonder why something that sounds so objectionable can be the most vital music in the world. Like, nothing about the lyrics or the way this song is sung should be appealing — and instead, this song is brilliantly undeniable. It’s even better when you see them performing it. If you don’t know what they look like, I guarantee you she will be a surprising character.

My favorite words on it ever are something someone wrote as a comment under the video of their TV performance of this song: “Spent 15 years as a janitor. Can confirm every word.”  

17. Sinn Sisamouth and Ros Serey Sothea - “Mou Pei Na”

These two are just amazing characters in the pre-Khmer Rouge Cambodian music world. Ros Serey Sothea’s voice is totally unique, and Sisamouth has a sincere urgency that gives the whole song a surprising narrative shape.

18. Ranil - “Ángel Terrenal”

Analog Africa again — the cure for what ails you. They are truly combing the world for music that amazes. They played the length of the Amazon river and did their best to stay out of big cities after a bad experience with a record label. So they released these psychedelic jungle masterpieces on little slabs of vinyl that they sold up and down the river. Can you freaking believe that? 

- Salah Ragab - I believe you are responsible for telling us about Salah Ragab, Josh Weinstein. So good.

Also, as promised, further information about glue traps and why they’re so harsh (and how to pull off a successful rescue!) can be found here.

19. Dagi D - “Beka”

I feel like I knew my musical life had changed when I started thinking of every visit to an Ethiopian restaurant as a valuable moment to learn as much about the music as possible — especially Meskerem in St. Louis, it must be said. It turns out modern Ethiopian pop music is super addictive and can easily get stuck in your head for days. 

20. Raxstar - “Jaaneman”

We’re still pretty new to Kensington, our neighborhood in Brooklyn. We knew that a Muslim holiday called Eid al-Fitr was happening, and when it was happening, but we were still surprised by what a joyous holiday it was in our neighborhood. Everyone of all ages was out in their fines, which involved a whole lot of sequins and shining metallic threads. The men wore a lot of caftans and those excellent long shirts and/or jackets, most with beautiful patterns. We went for a long walk and just enjoyed seeing a holiday at full pitch — excited kids and tutting grandmas, people carrying big flower arrangements (in the shape of a crescent and star!), heavy-looking tins of food headed toward a feast, even fireworks overhead. We crossed paths with a group of dudes all dressed up in various states of celebration, from a sharp Western-style two-piece suit to an even sharper South Asian suit with a Nehru collar and snug caftan. It looked like they had just finished the parental part of the night and were deciding where and who to meet up with — exactly like, say, Thanksgiving night in your hometown. It felt like, from Coney Island to McDonald, Church to Cortelyou, it was New Year’s Eve for everyone but us. 

After our walk we returned to our apartment and set up a little folding table out back to enjoy a glass of wine in the warm air. Our neighbors across the fence were still in the midst of family time, with tons of kids running around, including a teensy little girl on a tiny little pink scooter and a gaggle of beautifully awkward teens in the posture and attitude that says “stand by your cousins and let me take your picture.” As the evening wore on and the parents drifted back inside, the young adult contingent got a speaker going, and soon we were catching tracks we’d never heard before. The one that made us first pay attention was “Jaaneman,” with the vocalist’s super-charismatic delivery and priceless accent. We found ourselves Shazaming song after song, and thus started learning about Desi hip hop, a whole world of East Asian immigrant tracks that offer a lens into life in the US and UK that I haven’t really seen since watching “My Beautiful Laundrette” many years ago. Fascinating!

“Jaaneman” literally means “soul of me,” but translates to “my love” or “my darling.” Check out Raxstar — I’d love to see him play SNL and get an impression of what he’s like live. Just last month he released “Forever Jaaneman,” which updates his original smash hit and is also a very strong track.

21. Nate Smith - “Spress Theyself”

One of the last shows we got to see in St. Louis was Nate Smith at Jazz at the Bistro, and holy smokes, what a pleasure to see him do his thing up close. I love this solo album because it sounds like a practice sesh that died and went to heaven. It doesn’t have a song’s logic, but it does follow the feel of a great intuitive exploration of a beat, wandering through subdivisions and feel variations with complete ease. 

22. Jefferson Airplane - “White Rabbit”

This is Paige’s call. I think it’s cool because I can hear the direct connection between this and Erkin Koray’s Anatolian psych rock style, which I previously had no idea about. This listen through, we’ve both been appreciating how overwhelming massive Grace Slick’s voice is.

23. Marie France - “Dereglée”

Another cut off the fantastic Born Bad Records comp “Paink,” and more proof that punk was happening in other languages at the same time. (Though I think they called themselves “méchant”… or denied being méchant, depending) The album art reveals that Marie France happened to look uncannily like a punk Marilyn Monroe, which only makes both MM and MF cooler. 

24. Operation Ivy - “One of These Days”

I was never for one second a punk in high school, but I knew that the Op Ivy t-shirt was the essence of functional punk.

- Shin Joong Hyun - “Moon Watching”

25. Shin Joong Hyun - “Spring Rain”

This guy has an otherworldly sense of melody and performance that indie rock only starting catching up with decades later. This is the guy sometimes referred to as the “Korean godfather of rock.” He was active from the early ‘60s til 1975, when he was arrested, tortured and banned in South Korea. Eventually, the leader who had hammered down on him died, and he was able to begin piecing his life back together. These iconic, evocative, cinematic recordings would sound great in any decade. 

Spoiler: it wasn’t! We walked across the bridge and it was a thoroughly magical New York evening. 

[rufusdawes]

Rays of Sunshine

Like most children, I too am trapped inside the body of someone no longer able to identify as a child. It does mean however, that I still want to climb trees, stick my tongue out and screw up my face after eating disgusting grown up foods like mushrooms or oysters (to be fair I won’t actually go near either), and have a favourite animal. Well, on that last point I have several. Obviously dogs. Especially ones from my past, present and future, as well as every single one I will never meet, and all their canid cousins. Secondly, reptiles. Again this is not restrictive, though if an adult were to ask then I’d say snakes and then fine if pushed, pythons. OK, if you’re really interested, let me get my book of Australian reptiles and I can show you all the ones I’ve seen in the wild since I’ve been ticking them off since I got here. Lastly, rays though specifically this time, the stingray family.

Fortunately, I was spending holidays just after New Year’s at some friends’ house in south-west Western Australia. A stunning property sitting atop 30 acres with an olive grove, fruit trees, a small dam, and enough potential to create quite the permaculture retreat, it’s also nestled just a short drive from each of the Indian Ocean, the Southern Ocean, and the Blackwood River. Two of these supposedly contain at least four species of our stingray family which, in turn, could make me one happy little traveller.

On January 1st, 2005, I landed in Perth, WA, with a mate as we set off on an Australasian adventure from our homes back in Bristol, UK. Our very first week on Aussie soil saw us take a drive into the south-west corner of WA, including a night in Bunbury where we were able to handfeed the resident dolphins. Further down the coast, and following some Lonely Planet advice, we rocked up at a beach called Hamelin Bay. Here, we were advised, one would often see stingrays humbugging the returning fisherman for scraps as the caught haul were prepared in the shadows of what remained of a decaying wooden jetty, once used to service timber milling operations.

In 2005, we were not disappointed. My memory of the entire five week trip largely following the urban coastal part of this isle is somewhat hazy. Not through any drink or drug induced haze but merely through my own inability to remember anything other than that which may crop up during a round of Jeopardy. However, my one crystal clear memory is of stroking these huge cartilaginous cousins of sharks in the lapping shoreline of the tranquil Indian Ocean (pic below).

It was another thirteen years until I saw another in the wild. This was during a free diving adventure off the coast of Bali, involved the largest of the stingray family, the manta ray, and can be read about in a previous blog ‘Among the Fields of Bali’. Three years further along and I’m back at Hamelin Bay, just a ten minute drive from my friends’ house and almost just as I remember it.

The friends have an eleven month old son and it was he we were entertaining with an evening dip at the beach. I spent the appropriate amount of time pretending not to be excited about being back at Stingray City before getting unnecessarily excited about being back at Stingray City. To mask my inner stan, I casually sauntered towards the boat ramp and beyond, the dilapidated pillars of the jetty to find… nothing. Nada, zilch, squat. Natch. Uh oh. Upon my return to my friends I was informed that some rays had been brutally butchered by a few callous locals a few years ago. Unprotected as they were, they were fair game for a ‘catch’ and the laws insufficient for those actions to be classed as illegal. Now, the shoreline is a protected zone for the rays however, it seemed that they had not yet returned. I left deflated.

A day or two later I was in the township of Augusta which sits just up from the estuary of the Blackwood River before it empties into the Southern Ocean and is also just a ten minute drive from my holiday basecamp. Along the riverbank sit numerous cleaning stations. These are small, wooden structures utilised for the cleaning and filleting of caught fish before they’re thrown onto a barbecue at the campground behind for the freshest of feeds. The resident rays are wise to the process and loiter when someone is nearby. Here I was able to amble among eagle rays and spotted rays. If no scraps are on offer, the rays will nudge into you like a hungry puppy and loiter at your feet expectantly. I spent too many hours across a few days paddling with, and photographing these rays. In the absence of the Indian Ocean mob, I was delighted to be entertained by half a dozen or so of these wee fellas, but it wasn’t the same.

A week later, I returned alone to Hamelin Bay and trundled down to the shore to reminisce. It was sixteen years to the day when I was there earlier this trip. Now, these seven days on, I was enjoying the twilight views and a cooling ocean breeze in ankle deep water. From the corner of one eye, a dark shadow caught my attention. Watching carefully, is it a rock? Are the gentle undulations of the tide suggesting underwater movement where none exists? Perhaps it’s just a mass of seaweed. And then, a turn! A tail flicks behind it as the shadow nears. A ray is back! It turns out they didn’t disappear. My attendance earlier just unfortunate timing. On this occasion I counted a dozen or so patrolling the shoreline, a mix of black and silky stingrays. As more onlookers arrived, the rays approached, seeking the scraps they are so often presented. Considerably larger than their freshwater brethren, they are just as demanding nudging the calves and resting above feet awaiting their feed. They are rewarded often enough though are unable to distinguish between the mass of legs as to who may be a provider. It can be a surreal thirty seconds or so feeling the sand move between the toes as a result of the ray drawing water through its mouth an inch from your foot and out through the gills where gas exchange occurs, before the ray loses patience and moves onto the next grounded limb.

I returned one further time, on my last evening in the region, to wander among these graceful beauties. Sitting on the beach after my final frolic and staring out across the Western Australian horizon, I was a pretty content human. The inner child had been allowed out to play for a fortnight and is delighted to announce that his favourite animal is now the stingray. Well, at least until someone lets me pet their dog.

[thevioletcaptain]

12.20 Twigs & Twine & Tasha Banes

THE VERDICT

Have I mentioned how big a fan I am of Steve Yockey? Because I’m a big fan of Steve Yockey. The new writers that joined in S12 are fucking amazing.

Also, I am in love with Speight’s direction. This episode was gorgeous, and I’m thrilled to know that he’ll be directing again next season. Seriously, he’s been added to my slightly absurd mental list of people I’d love to have direct my scripts when I’m a wildly successful TV writer.

A play-by-play recap with meta-adjacent notes is under the cut!

ALL THE THINGS

THEN!

“Dad’s on a hunting trip, and he hasn’t been home in a few days.” Hey it’s that classic song from the first album! :P

Witches exist!

Max and Alicia also exist! And are witches! And also hunters! And are also super cute!

Ketch put a sneaky sneak device in the bunker!

Mick met an untimely death right when I was starting to like him!

The colt is a liquid!

Cas got beaten up by Dagon & now he’s hopped up on Nephilim KoolAid!

Sam appears reasonably concerned about this! Dean probably cried about it!

NOW!

Thunder and rain… ominous.

We’re in Rock River, Wyoming! Wikipedia tells me this small town is home to less than three hundred people, a quarter of whom live below the poverty line. There’s not a whole lot else I could find about it beyond the fact that in our world, there’s only one restaurant in town, and it’s not vegan :P

Anyway. This is a very pink house.

The very pink house is called Mountain Slumber Boarding House. Two black mountains and a pair of pines.

Tasha Banes drives a smart car, and the idea that she is an anti-John Winchester just went from “plausible reading of the subtext” to “so parallel that Quinn Mallory is trapped inside the concept”

(I don’t care that this reference barely makes sense and is about 20 years late to be topical. I’m still firmly in the parallel worlds are gonna factor into the finale camp, and I’m going to make as many references to Sliders as I possibly can)

But really, Tasha is the anti-John. 1. Had kids with a hunter, but knew about the supernatural beforehand 2. Raised her kids in the life as a single parent but didn’t traumatize them or force them to fit into a mould 3. Openminded, sociable, warm

IDK man I think if I sat here and listed all the things that make her an obvious anti-John I’d be here all day. There’s a lot, is my point.

Anyway.

This rude-ass woman in the foyer needs to be less awful

“I could cleanse your aura, if you like. Looks a little… muddy.” *applause*

Andy the hotel clerk is the cute kind of awkward so natch he’s gonna die :(

Tasha has Alicia and Max as her phone background :’)

Glowy purple eyes! I think the last time we saw purple eyes was Calliope in 10x05

I absolutely adore the way this sequence was shot. It’s beautiful. I don’t know how much of Tasha’s tracking spell was Yockey or how much was Speight, but the result is a gorgeous sequence that is among my favorite visuals this show has ever done. Just… the way the pendant pulls her through the house and outside… I love it.

Also, the pendant is giving me Chuck and the Samulet thoughts, but that is possibly (probably) just me

Anyone reminded of Scarecrow all of a sudden?

OH SHIT

EVEN THOUGH I ALREADY WATCHED THIS EPISODE, TASHA GETTING STABBED STILL SHOCKED THE HELL OUT OF ME

UGH I’M SO SORRY YOU WONDERFUL LADY WE HARDLY KNEW YE

*deep breath* okay cold open over, lets go

SHIT SHIT ABORT MISSION CLOSE UP OF HANDS

Dean is in prayer pose right now and I need to take a moment

He might be talking to Sam out loud, but everything about the way this shot is framed, especially while paired with the topic he’s focused on, says that he’s praying in Cas’ direction right now

“Okay, so last night…”

:’(((

“That Super-Mario power up crap? That wasn’t Cas.” :((((((((

So there’s a tweet going around at the moment that summarizes the season as Sam being sensible and Dean worrying about Cas, and this scene is the epitome of that. While Dean frets and paces and chews on his fingernails in the background, we see Sam thoughtful in the foreground.

“Cas said that he had faith in Lucifer Junior? What the hell is that supposed to mean?” :((((

“Up until now, if Cas messed up—if he did something wrong but he thought it was for the right reasons, I got it. Right? But last night? When I looked at him? I did not recognize the guy staring back at me.”

Dean is on the verge of tears. This is fine. I’m fine.

But seriously though, that quote ^ is SO MUCH, and not just because Dean is acknowledging their ridiculous staring by saying that it wasn’t the same—though that is also A Lot. He’s saying that he understood that Cas has always had their best interests at heart. Ugh, he loves him so much.

Sam whipping out the broken colt with a distinct air of “oh look, a distraction!” is one more thing to add to the Sam:head vs. Dean:heart pile

The most supernatural thing about this show is how long the batteries last in their spare phones

BANEEEESSSS god they’re both so attractive how dare

Alicia’s repeated use of “we” when the truth is “I” is certainly interesting… >_>

Dean rolling his eyes at Sam agreeing to the hunt is everything

“What the hell, man? What about Cas?”

YEAH, SAM. WHAT ABOUT CAS.

I wonder if Jody’s APB on Cas & Kelly is the reason she’s going to pop up somewhere in the final two episodes? She might be the connection somehow.

(also, you’d better believe that my Jam-shipper brain is filling in the gaps here, because Dean sure as hell didn’t call her)

(sunglasses emoji)

“Their mom’s on a hunting trip, and hasn’t been home in a week.”

OKAY SO REMEMBER WHAT I WAS SAYING ABOUT TASHA BEING THE ANTI-JOHN????

*GESTURES WILDLY*

If Dean’s sad reluctant face in this moment wasn’t literally shattering my heart, I’d probably have thoughts about it. But it is, so I can only say D: D: D: D: D:

Just look at him:

That’s a man thinking “keep it together, keep it together, keep it together” on repeat ad infinitum

WELP OUT COMES THE CELL PHONE

I’M ALREADY UPSET

YIKES THOSE SCREWS IN SHIFTER!MARY’S CHEST ARE RIDIC

Ketch is a goddamn creep and I really look forward to his death

“Mom—hey, I just wanted to let you know that um, me and Sam were, um… we’re heading out on a case with those witch twins, Max and Alicia. Um… I’ll text you the info. But, uh… I know the Brits have got you runnin’ non-stop, so if you can help out, that’d be great. Um… and even if you can’t swing by, can you call me back? Just, some stuff goin’ down, it’s… kinda got me spun out. Be good to talk to you.”

I’m speechless.

I am entirely without speech.

That. Was. HUGE.

Dean doesn’t even want to go on this hunt—he clearly thought it was a non-event, a waste of time just like Max seems to think—and it’s obvious from the way he’s constantly saying “um” and “uh” through the first part that he’s stalling before he gets to the real reason he called. He doesn’t want Mary’s help with the hunt. He wants to talk to his mom. He’s reaching out for EMOTIONAL HELP. Because “some stuff goin’ down” has kinda got him “spun out.”

THE STUFF GOING DOWN IS CAS BEING SOCKPUPPETED BY LUCIFER JUNIOR

HE WANTS TO TALK TO MARY ABOUT WHAT’S GOING ON WITH CAS, NOT BECAUSE HE THINKS SHE’LL HAVE A SOLUTION, BUT BECAUSE HE’S HURTING AND NEEDS TO VENT AND SAM ISN’T REACTING THE SAME WAY HE IS, AND HE FEELS ALONE IN HIS WORRY AND HIS FEAR AND EVEN THOUGH SAM OBVIOUSLY CARES ABOUT CAS TOO IT’S JUST NOT THE SAME.

MAN

THIS

SEASON

AND

THE

CHARACTER

GROWTH

Sincerely, season twelve has been one of my favorite seasons of the entire series at this point, and that’s saying something. They told us at the beginning that it was going to be all about character growth and relationships, so I should have been prepared, but I really wasn’t. This has been amazing.

Okay, back to Ketch and shifter!Mary

Oh, hey! He’s still a huge creep. And actual Mary looks super creeped out.

Ketch calling the shifter “it” instead of “he”

“That eye of yours twitches when you lie.” “My eye twitches all the time.”

HMMMMMMMMM

He smacked the face right off of that shifter, yikes

NYOOOM

Ooh, pretty mountains

“I got the bartender’s phone number.” Yeahhh, Max, get it.

Dean seems impressed with his bartender-number-getting-skills

“Dean… that car is still major.”

(quietly headcanons that Dean showed off the Impala to Max in 12x06 because he likes to impress cute boys with his shiny car)

Also:

Sam is like “lmao good luck with that, Max.”

But then Dean’s all “you want the tour?” and Sam’s face gets even better:

…Dean showing Max the trunk. Showing off his big guns.

“Is that a grenade launcher?” For fucks sake

*stares into the camera*

*mutters something about grenadebaiting*

Alicia: “Magic is definitely their thing, y’know?”

Sam: “Yeah. When I was growing up, Dean and my dad had the same thing with hunting. That bond.” Sam, babe……… you still don’t see what was going on, and my heart aches.

“Mary’s a great hunter… she doesn’t seem like much of a hugger.”

I’d like to take this moment to point out Sam’s adorable dimples

*weird dude emerges from storm cellar*

Max: “Not weird… at all…”

lmao I watched this episode the first time with @studio84a and she literally said the same thing right before Max did. Clearly the correct reaction.

Sam’s awkward wave is everything

UH OH THAT’S NOT MOM

“Why didn’t you call us? I mean, we called—“ *Max clears his throat* “I called and texted a lot.”

That we-i distinction, y’all. That’s been coming up a bit.

YIKES, NOT-TASHA

That busted finger is grosssss

(kudos SFX team)

Dean pretending he doesn’t like wine, then immediately pouring all of Sam’s glass into his own the second Sam gets up to leave.

Ketch is so thirsty lmao

“I remember us agreeing that was a one time thing.” You tell him, Mary

“Anyone who tells you that torture is never the answer—they haven’t been under the knife.”

Ketch, you’re fucked up, dude

Dean wants to talk to his mom so badly ;-;

[a note: at this point in my rewatch i paused to get a snack, got distracted by something shiny, and forgot to meta for five months. whoops.]

Did I mention previously that Tasha Banes is BEAUTIFUL? Because wow, congrats on your face

I adore Max trying to talk Alicia into lending him the jeep so he can go hook up with that bartender. Listen to that fake casual “sooooo”

“And your mother?” “That’s complicated.” “Yeah, family’s always complicated.”

pffft lady you don’t know the half of it :P

The whole “parents are just people” thing has come up a couple of times this season

“…and even if you can’t swing by, can you call me back? Just, some stuff goin’ down, it’s… kinda got me spun out. Be good to talk to you.”

I still can’t believe they made us hear that twice in the episode I’m DYING over it all over again, because DEAN WANTS TO TALK ABOUT HIS FEELINGS AND IT’S EVERYTHING

Mary has three emails from Dean, and the one he sent the previous day is titled JUST CHECKING IN, unlike the rest of them from him & the one from Sam that are all case related.

Basically, I would bet ACTUAL MONEY that he emailed her something along the lines of what he said in the voicemail. Because he left that message the previous night, too. Ugh ugh my heart.

Ketch you slimy fucker, sending fake emails from Mick’s account after you killed him to death >:(

Dean sitting there with the Banes and enjoying spending time with a normal family. And then not wanting to bother them with the development in the case because they’re all happy… This is hurting me in so many ways.

…oh no

I’d forgotten about what was in the cellar

:( Poor Tasha

OH NO MAX

(but like… why are none of you rushing upstairs immediately to get Alicia away from fake!Tasha though??? seriously guys wyd??)

RUN MARY RUN

These crusty ass BMoL fuckers with their futuristic murder wall >:( stay away from all of our hunter friends, you pack of dickwaffles

It still tickles me that Ketch heard Dean call him “low rent Christian Bale.”

“A werewolf shot him in the head?” “…it’s not impossible.”

Anyone else immediately think of this?

KICK HIS ENTIRE ASS, MARY

BRASS KNUCKLES TO THE JEWELS //makes fight sounds

Max’s reveal spell is so cooooool

[chanting]  t w i g   p e o p le    t w i g   p e o p le    t w i g   p e o p le

This woman is such a creep jfc

Poor adorable lobby guy :(

I really love Speight’s direction in this. Also the editing is excellent.

Aliciaaaaa :((((

This is the worst day for the Banes family ugh ughhhhhhh

“We do terrible things all the time to save each other. I mean, that’s what you do for family. Who am I to stop him?” :(((((((

This is such an upsetting episode ending. I both hope we see Max and twig!Alicia again and dread it :(

Dean’s half smile when Mary says “I love you” :3

ALL THE OTHER THINGS

Passed Bechdel-Wallace!

I’m going to be upset about Max and Alicia and Tasha for a long damn time.

Someday when I have time, I’m going to watch this episode alongside Scarecrow because I feel like there’s some connections to be made.