#and blaze accepts her feather (for luck)

[dlartistanon]

I miss BlazeThroat...

[mayullla]

Artifact Set (Yan!ver): Torched Limerence Set

Flower: Beloved's Blazed Bloom

Feather: Beloved's Scorched Feather

Sands: Beloved's Scaled Clock

Goblet: Beloved's Charred Goblet

Circlet: Beloved's Smoldering Earings

Set Bonuses

2 Piece: Pyro DMG Bonus +15 They fall in love and if already in loved their love increases a certain amount to insanity.

4 Piece: When a character ---- Similar to how a small flame is lit will slowly become bigger if left unchecked. The character would slowly be becoming madly in love with their target that they could not think about anything than them. What was once innocent will slowly turn into mania as time goes on and the love is not returned.

How to Obtain

Source 1: Found in a domain at Monstade Source 2: Rarely found in chests.

Artifact Lore

An artifact set of a lover's infatuation that burned so bright it burned many people to ashes. A story about a woman falling in love with a man she could not attain so obsessively that at his wedding she torched her mansion burning her and the people within it.

Flower: Beloved's Blazed Bloom

This flower was the start of the obsession it was pure luck when the maiden saw her beloved face for the first filled with blossoms. She remembers the red flowers blooming around her and thought that it was faith. She took one and encased it to prevent the memory from forever rotting.

Feather: Beloved's Scorched Feather

A feather that belonged to a dove in the wedding of her beloved, the one who walked that aisle was not her but another woman. Running away she could not bare her anguish and late at night with a candle she lit the curtains on fire quietly watching as the dancing fire quickly consumed her entirety leaving not even her farewell letter to the man. What she hoped in the future was that if she would ever love again she would forever consume her lover with fire together her.

Sands: Beloved's Charred Clock

What was supposed to be a gift from the maiden to the man was shoved away as the man looked upon her with disgust and annoyance. He was tired of her adorations and told her to leave him. Heartbroken she still kept the clock closer to her in a special box hoping that one day this present that she so painstakingly picked would finally be lovingly accepted by the man.

Goblet: Beloved's Chipped Goblet

The maiden is known to be the fairest in the nation many men tried their hands at winning her heart yet many failed to capture it. The world was cruel as the maiden fell in love with the one who didn't love her. Their relationship could have been something beautiful as the maiden's heart was once clear but as she tried and tried, it slowly tainted into something ugly. As she grabbed the man's chest begging him to love her just as she loved him she was instead pushed away. This goblet was on his hand when it happened in the middle of a party and was thrown and forgotten only to be picked up by the maiden who was mocked by everyone in the banquet hall.

Circlet: Beloved's Smoldering Earrings

The pain was unbearable as the fire licked her skin and burned her dress. As she looked at the moon from the window of her room, the curtains burned brightly. She always thought that the moor was the brightest thing in the night but her thought changed as she thought that fire was brighter and closer than the moon that was so far away. Rather than be lonely like the moon so far away she thought that this would be the better end, numbed to the physical pain her heart too broken sleep quickly took her as she promised that she would never love again.

"No that would be too sad... If I ever fall in love again I would love them to the point it is like fire consuming the both of us."

What was left of her after the fire finally died down were these glass earrings. What was once hollow inside the glass orbs now has flaming ambers that never vanquished.

Note: Lowkey this was a random urge to write kind of thing. But still, hope you like it! Also thank you @nicebonescomrades as she had helped me with naming and gave me ideas for this post too!

[love-fireflysong]

Day 23: Camp

Fandom: Tales of Phantasia Character(s): Chester Burklight, Arche Klein, Mint Adenade, Cress Albane, Claus F. Lester, Suzu Fujibayashi Words: 2527 Rating: General Author’s Notes: Oh shit, that’s right. We finally dealing with the whole cast this time, and since the prompt is Camp, I think you know what to expect...

“So, whose turn is it to cook this time?”

Claus looked up from the book he was reading, and rubbed his fingers along the brim of his hat as he thought out loud. “Hmmm. Well, Mint cooked last night, I made some curry the night before, and Suzu did something before that, can’t remember what though. So it’s down to either Cress, Arche, or Chester.”

Arche’s head popped up from where she was digging around in her bag and opened her mouth, but Chester butt in before she could say anything. “I am not letting you cook anything. I will cook both tonight and tomorrow if it comes to it.”

“You say that as though your cooking is any better than mine!”

“It’s leagues better than anything you’ve ever done, and you know it!”

Before their argument could get anymore off the rails and attract some of the local beasts to their campsite, Cress interrupted. “I’ll cook tonight, if it’s fine with everyone.”

Everyone else murmured their agreements and nodded their heads, except for Arche who batted her eyes in Cress’s direction. “Oh, that’s so nice of you, Cress—”

“Laying it on a bit thick don’t you think?” Chester grumbled under his breath. 

“—you’re so much more of a gentleman than somebody I won’t name.”

“Oh, and who exactly is that supposed to be?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Why don’t you go ahead and guess, or are you too stupid to figure it out?”

Cress turned away from his best friend and the half-elf witch, ignoring their usual bantering and fighting, to look at Mint helping Suzu to start a fire. He smiled softly in her direction. “What ingredients do we still have on hand?” 

Mint paused her assistance with the young ninja to stand up and dig through the pouch of cooking supplied she always carried. “Well, we are beginning to run short on a few things. We used the last of the bread and eggs when we stopped for lunch after fighting that pack of Timber Wolves earlier in the day.”

Claus took her place next to Suzu, and helped to try and start the fire going. “Probably be a good idea to stock up again soon. Thankfully, Alvanista's only another day or so away, so we can at least fill back up on bread and eggs. We’re gonna be out of luck for if we want any quality seafood or fruit though.”

Cress thought for a bit. “We got the stuff for beef stew?”

Mint shook her head sadly. “Sorry Cress, but we ran out of potatoes a couple of days back when Claus made curry.”

“You made the curry too hot, Claus.” Suzu interjected casually. “You used way too many spices, so you should be more careful with that.”

He sighed. “It wasn’t that hot Suzu, everyone else was fine. Though I will try to lower the amount that I use for you.”

Suzu nodded, seemingly happy at the compromise and returned back to the fire.

“We still have some spices though, right?” Cress waited for Mint’s nod of approval and continued. “Well, what about spaghetti then?”

The cleric narrowed her eyes in concentration as she continued to dig around in the bag, before looking at him with clear victory in her eyes. “We still have a couple of tomatoes left, though this will definitely finish those off.”

Cress let out a sigh of relief and looked down at the still empty fire pit that Mint and Suzu had made. Squaring his shoulders, he turned back to Arche and Chester who had now started pulling at the others hair, while still calling the other names.

“She-demon!”

“Shifty eyes!”

“You’re so annoying you know that?!”

“Hey!” The two of them paused in their banter to look over at Cress, though they never actually let go of the other’s hair. “You think you can give us a hand with this fire, Arche?”

Chester just stared at him agog. “Are you nuts dude? She’ll burn the entire forest down if we’re not careful!”

Arche harrumphed as she let go of Chester, nearly shoving him backwards as she turned back to the fire. “I’ll show you...” she started to whisper words of arcane power under her breath as Cress, Mint, Suzu, and Claus all backed away from the the make-shift firepit. With a quick movement of her hands, the spell finished with a small, bright red spark cupped between her open palms. With a cry of  "Fireball!" she let the spark go and it expanded into a small, blazing ball of fire that collided into the dry twigs and leaves, and set it ablaze instantly. Victorious, she turned back to Chester, hands proudly resting on her hips. “Well? Got nothing to say with that smart mouth now?”

Chester snorted and rolled his eyes as he crossed his arms over his chest. “You got lucky. Could have burned us all to a crisp if you weren’t careful.”

“Excuse you, I am always careful with my spells. I never miss my targets!”

“Really? So you were meaning to miss those Killer Bee’s and bean me in the back of the head with that Storm earlier?”

“Like I said, I never miss.”

“Why you—”

“They act like children sometimes, I swear.” Cress turned back to look at Claus shake his head in an odd mixture of exasperation and fondness. “Can’t take them anywhere together.”

Mint smiled and shrugged. “I don’t know, I think it’s sweet. I mean they never seem more alive or happy as when they’re teasing each other.”

Cress snorted and stuck his thumb over his shoulder at Arche and Chester who had begun to childishly pinch each other on their arms. “You call that happy? Or alive? I’m surprised that they haven’t tried to kill each other yet, honestly.”

Suzu shook her head in agreement. “I will never understand their relationship. I don’t understand why two people who are clearly very fond of each other would say such mean things.”

“You’ll understand one day, Suzu. Some people just show their affections differently that’s all.”

“Oh, you mean like you and Mirald, Claus?” Mint said innocently. Her smile only became more angelic when he pulled his hat further down to hide his red face.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about Mint.”

Suzu just watched all of this nonplussed. “I don’t think I want to understand.”

Cress sighed in agreement, clapping his hand onto her shoulder as he began to collect the ingredients needed for spaghetti. “Neither do I Suzu, neither do I.” 

Seeing that Mint was busy with helping chop up some of the veggies for the sauce and Claus had returned back to his book, rubbing at one of the many, many rings on his fingers, and not having the energy to interrupt whatever it was that Chester and Arche were doing for a third time, he turned back to Suzu. “I think I remember seeing a creek or river or something a little further back, do you mind going to fill this pot up with water for me?”

Suzu leveled him with a serious look, nodded once, and in a swirl of leaves vanished from sight with the pot in her hands. With that done, he went to sit down beside Mint and joined her in cutting up veggies and peeling the tomatoes for the sauce. The soft, appreciative smile she gave him as he did so sent his stomach doing pleasant little flips. Arche and Chester could keep whatever it was they had going on, he thought that this was much nicer.

Speaking of, Cress turned his attention to the bickering duo when he started to stir the pot of peeled and crushed tomatoes and spices when he realized how quiet it had suddenly gotten. Only to see that they had stopped their arguing at some point, and were now going through their own packs. Chester stopped his rummaging and turned to his quiver.

“Hey, Cress? Do you remember how many arrows I started with today?”

Before Cress could respond that he wasn’t sure, Arche already had, not looking up from her own pack as she continued her own digging. “Thirty-two,” she replied matter-of-factly. “There are a few sticks over that way that you might be able to use to make some new arrows. I managed to save a couple of feathers from the various Chirpees and Scavengers we killed earlier that you can use for fletching, too.”

“Sweet, thanks Arche.” Chester turned his head to talk to her over his shoulder. “If you’re looking for that new spell book you found near Suzu’s village, you gave it to Mint to hold onto last night. It should be in her bag.”

“Oh right! I totally forgot!”

Cress just looked at Mint and Claus bemused, but both only shrugged at him as they continued their own duties for the night, but not before Mint handed Arche the Fire Storm spell book she had been looking for. Soon enough, Suzu returned with the pot full of water, and Cress placed it off to the side while she used her skill to once again vanish, this time appearing at the top of a tree. There she opened the scroll that they had bought off of the kunochi at the summit of Lone Valley.

The rest of the time passed in relative peace as Cress continued to make supper while Mint assisted him. Claus mumbled under his breath as he continued to twist at his rings and add new sections to his book while Suzu never moved from her spot in the tree above them. Chester sat on a nearby log as he slowly and methodically carved and fletched new arrows, and Arche sat behind him, leaning onto the log and resting her head on his back as she frantically flipped through pages of her spell book. All in all, it was as peaceful an evening as Cress could have hoped for. 

Finally though, the sauce finished and he was pleased to announce as such. “Alright guys, looks like it’s about done!”

“Finally,” Arche whined as she tucked her book under arm, accepting Chester’s hand to help her up. “Thought I was gonna die of starvation over here.”

Chester nodded solemnly. “It’s true. I could hear her stomach the entire I was making arrows. It was very distracting, almost stabbed myself with my knife a couple of times it was so loud.”

Once Mint handed Arche her bowl and fork, she didn’t hesitate to jab her fork into Chester’s side. “It’s not nice to take about a lady’s stomach like that.”

“What lady? The only lady I see here is Mint, and I’ve never once talked about her stomach.”

Claus groaned in exasperation. “Can we please have a meal in peace for once? You two can continue your flirting after we finish eating.”

Instead of appearing embarrassed though, Chester only laughed. “Who’d flirt with her? I’m not interested in shrill, annoying, pink, brats.”

Arche only nodded in agreement. “Exactly. My type is tall, dark, and handsome. Not blue, loud-mouthed, and hot-headed.”

“Who're you calling loud-mouthed?”

“Well, who were you calling annoying?”

Mint giggled quietly behind her hand as Cress gave out a serving of sauce to Suzu. Who looked askance at her bowl, and then at Cress. “You didn’t put in too many spices did you?”

He shook his head fondly and patted her on her own head. “No, I made sure to go light on them this time. You should be fine.”

“Good. Thank you.”

After getting his own bowl filled, Claus lifted the brim of his hat to take a look at the now very dark sky. “We should probably figure out our watch order while we eat. It’s getting late and we should all be heading to sleep pretty soon. I’ll take first watch though, I want to get some more writing done before I hit the hay.”

“I can take the final watch,” Suzu offered. She noticed Mint make a face of concern but raised her hand. “It’s fine. I’m used to early mornings anyhow. It’s when I do my training.”  She stuck a forkful of spaghetti into her mouth and made a satisfactory nod at the taste.

“Oh,” Mint said instead. “If you’re sure, Suzu... I can do third then.” She turned to Cress before he could say a word, giving him an uncharacteristically stern look. “You made supper tonight, Cress, not me. I only helped to cut some veggies so that doesn’t count. Which means you’re exempt from watch duty. It’s your own rule after all.” Cress shrunk back a little at that. She wasn’t wrong, she was just using the rule he had made for her when she had had to cook every night against him.

“Oh! I’ll take sch-econd vatch zen!” Arche butt in with an excited grin, mouth full of spaghetti that she frantically swallowed down. “Maybe I can finish reading my spell book tonight and have a new spell to try out in the morning.”

“Welp, guess it looks like I’m on second watch with you then.” Chester sighed like he was being put-upon to do this. “Someone’s gotta babysit you after all. Make sure you don’t get lost when you go out for a midnight flight or something.”

“I think if anyone here needs babysitting its you, but suit yourself.”

Cress, Mint, and Claus all shared a look of puzzlement. This was unusual, the two of them rarely agreed to take watch together, and if this was the only the first time it would be one thing. But it wasn’t. This was almost the fourth time in a row that they offered to do so. Something was up, and Cress wasn’t sure he wanted to know what.

With a confused shrug, Claus stuck a forkful of spaghetti and sauce in his mouth and made a face. “Are you sure you put enough spices in, Cress? This is kinda bland.”

Mint sighed as she handed the spice bag to Claus. “It’s harder then you think to make meals that both you and Suzu will eat, you know.”

“Yeah,” Chester butt in as he elbowed Arche with a snicker. “Why can’t you be like this one? She’ll eat anything as long as it’s vaguely edible.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you ever insult your own cooking like that, Chester.” Cress fired back casually from next to Mint as he picked at his bowl. “Not usually your style.”

Chester just stared dumbfounded at Cress while Arche nearly fell off the log she was sitting on she was laughing so hard. Even Claus snorted into his spaghetti and Mint hid a smile behind her fork as she took a bite. Suzu seemed to be the only one unaffected, but Cress could make out the amusement in her eyes and the slight upturn of her smile.

“Cress, dude. What the hell, man?”

Cress just shrugged with a grin on his face as he took his own bite of supper tonight. Sure, camping was chaotic whenever they had to do it, but it was definitely his favourite part of them travelling together. 

[waveypedia]

Family

(this fic is crazy long sorry bout that. over 7k words!!!!)

The void is just that - a void. Empty, dark, endless space for miles beyond what Lena can see. Nothing above and nothing below. She floats, but if she tries to move she can walk on the empty air. Not that there’s any point in walking, mind you, because the void is so blank and symmetrical that however long Lena walks, it feels like she’s only been walking in place. She doesn’t know if she’s moved at all, since everything looks, feels, and sounds exactly the same.

She’s alone, which is odd. Magica has made millions upon millions of shadows in her century of life, and they had to go somewhere after they were vanquished. But she has fifteen years of life and a personality over them, and somehow that sets her apart in her own little world.

Maybe if she walked far enough, for long enough, she could find them. But however bored she is, Lena has no interest in that. She’s different. She would never be accepted among the shadows even if they could communicate.

Even among her own kind, she has no family.

There isn’t much to do other than to hover and think. Which is good, because she has a lot to think about.

Lena thinks about her time with Magica, about all the little spells she’s picked up, the lava lamp that calmed her down during panic attacks, the dizzyingly relaxing feeling of waves lapping at her ankles. She thinks about soft, too-big sweaters recently snuck out of the laundromat and fake-sweet candy from the theater vending machine. She thinks about random snippets of conversations, overheard and not, that float randomly in and out of her head.

But mostly, she thinks about family.

She thinks about Webby, the way she always laughed at Lena’s jokes no matter how dumb, her overjoyed smile when she blew up the fist bump at the Beagle Boy party. She thinks of Huey, of his insistence that she wear a coat when she starts snowball fights in the mansion’s ginormous lawn. She thinks of Dewey, his boundless energy and the way he always roped her into dumb pranks on his poor uncles. She thinks of Louie, of his sly tongue and morally grey ways that reminded her of herself but when his boundless love for family made her pull away. She thinks of Launchpad, of his contagious love for a show she would have never cared about otherwise and the way he always treated her just like another kid, another friend. She thinks of Duckworth, of the way there were always extra pajamas and blankets waiting for her, mysteriously exactly her size, even if she wasn’t going to sleep over. She thinks of Donald, of the band posters collecting dust that she snuck off, the way he ruffles her feathers with a wary care, but a care all the same. She thinks of Beakley, of tight, quick hugs and extra plates of steaming hot pancakes placed discreetly in front of her when Magica hadn’t let her eat in a few days. She thinks of Scrooge, of his hopeful, world-changing promise despite his knowledge of her lineage. His desperate cry as she was yanked away from the living world echoes in her ears.

Lena hugs her knees to her chest, her head spinning with longing and anxieties. She meant something to them. She had to, for them to treat her the way they did. But she knows she can never go back. They never knew the truth about her.

Well, Scrooge did. But over and over Lena internally debates whether it was an act of love or desperation.

She fights endlessly to be free of her new blank reality, but she’s not sure if she has a family to go back to.

--

Lena spares more than a glance at the piece of paper lying abandoned on the dining room table. Huey has gone to the bathroom, leaving his math homework vulnerable to her curious eyes. The problems are far beyond the basic math Magica has allowed her to learn. She slowly traces the detailed solution with her eyes multiple times, but it makes no sense.

She wrenches her gaze away. Not worth the trouble. She doesn’t need math.

Curiosity and shame burns in her stomach, and she snatches another glance.

Still incomprehensible, just like Aunt Magica’s ancient Italian spellbooks.

Lena scowls. It’s not like she expected anything else, but it still hurts.

A hand lands gently on her shoulder and she jumps nearly a foot in the air, heart in her throat. Huey only gives her a gentle smile, turning a blind eye to her panic. He lays a finger on the paper. “To find the angle measure, you need to place the measure of the opposite side over the adjacent one.” He points to the sides in question. “Graphing calculators have functions for trigonometry inverse, so you need to press the second button and then the tan one…”

Later, Lena tunes out Aunt Magica’s lecturing about how she made no progress in her visit to McDuck Manor and reviews the problem. She changes the numbers. She checks her answer. It makes sense.

She can’t hide the tiny but triumphant smile that sneaks its way onto her beak. Victory burns in her stomach, blazing away the midnight chill. Magica stops her lecturing to indignantly snap at her, but the smile stays.

--

Lena goes over the problem in her head again, changing the numbers over and over. She can solve it flawlessly by now. She’s done it so many times the steps slide into place like a well-oiled machine. It’s almost boring, but it’s much better than wallowing in her pity.

She’s thankful for Huey for teaching her. Even though the moment was embarrassing, him knowing that she doesn’t know math, the problem has spared her a lot of boredom.

--

Lena slips into the yard as quietly as she can. The triplets are playing tag together, shouting and laughing, their breath making misty clouds in the cold air. She’s looking for Webby, or Scrooge’s Number One Dime, anything that will get Magica off her back. She’s not particularly interested in the nephews, nor does she intend for them to notice her. If she steals a certain important artifact of Scrooge’s, the fewer people that know she is even here the better.

But she’s out of luck. To her surprise Dewey breaks his swerving path away from Louie to barrel towards her at the edge of the yard. As he brushes past her, he grabs her hand, pulling her along.

Lena’s too surprised to react. Her legs move out of instinct, and when she realizes what happened she’s running alongside Dewey. He’s looking at her, his face split into a huge grin and his eyes crinkling with laughter. “Come join us, Lena!”

A hundred lies rise to Lena’s tongue, most of them having to do with Webby. But she realizes that she’s enjoying herself, and the thought of Dewey’s face falling at her dismissal puts a wedge beside her heart. So she swallows them and smiles back, running alongside the boy in blue.

They keep holding hands, the warmth of each other’s touch pushing them on, neither really aware of it. They only break apart when a cackling Huey veers straight for them and they dive apart, fits of giggles breaking their panicked facade.

--

Months later, Lena’s still not sure why Dewey chose to invite her. She was Webby’s friend, not his. Webby wasn’t even there. She never did see Webby that day. But the game, and the cozy hot chocolate afterwards, was worth the beating from Magica.

--

Lena’s phone buzzes. It’s an unknown number. hey, wanna come over? we’re watching a dwd marathon and having a takeout taste test. my idea

Her heart squeezes. Out here, in the dreary rain, soaked to her skin while Magica practices complicated spells with a magical umbrella, Darkwing Duck and takeout food sounds like heaven.

Making sure Magica isn’t watching, she reaches for her phone. sorry, u have the wrong number.

Usually she would leave it at that, but Webby’s voice echoes in her head. She always says that strangers are just friends you haven’t met and the internet is full of them. You should always be kind to strangers because they could be your new best friend! That’s how we became friends!

She pulls the text conversation back up and adds, have fun!

Lena stares at her phone for a minute longer, but there’s no response. Typical. They probably deleted the conversation already. She shuts her phone off and tucks it away in her pocket.

It buzzes again.

Hope blooms in Lena’s chest. She yanks her phone back out, reading the text with hungry eyes.

lena, right? it’s louie

Lena stares at the text, stunned. She isn’t sure how to respond at first. She may have hoped for this, but she never in a million years would have expected it.  oh sorry my b. how did you get my number? webby doesn’t have a phone

Louie’s already typing when it sends. i have my ways. u coming or not? i gotta tell hue how much food to order

Lena glances at Magica. She’s still preoccupied.

She waits until she’s snuck off to the local grocery store, hidden among the frozen broccoli, before responding. yeah totally. see u in a few.

see ya.

Other people are staring. It’s to be expected, as she’s a lone drenched teenager in a family grocery store. But instead of slinking off into the shadows like she usually does, Lena tucks her phone away and smiles. She walks with her head held high, heading straight for McDuck Manor.

--

The thought of food makes Lena’s stomach growl. She hasn’t eaten in however long she’s been here. She has no way of telling time.

Shadows don’t need food, but starving is never pleasant. Being in the void means she has little to take her mind off of the hunger gnawing at the edge of her stomach. The thought of food, especially good food, makes it ache even more.

But the memory is worth it. She had a wonderful night out of the cold rain, away from Magica, snuggled in Webby’s soft blankets and eating heaps of pizza and french fries. She had felt more relaxed than usual, despite the looming eclipse and how Magica’s plans were starting to take form. They worried her.

The fear still lingered at the back of her mind, but Lena was able to push it far away and focus on the here and now, eating junk food and laughing at the TV with her family.

Family.

The word came into Lena’s train of thought naturally. But she wasn’t sure if it belonged.

They were a magnificent family, everything she had always wanted. But she never belonged.

She could only hope that maybe, just maybe, things could change in the future.

--

Lena would have never tried entering through the garage if she knew someone lived there.

At first, her entry went smoothly. There was a swinging door beside the traditional garage door, with a lock that was very easily picked. That was when what she thought was her good luck ended.

She slips through piles of old newspapers and priceless artifacts alike, rushing through so Magica couldn’t get a good look at anything and make her steal something. Spotting a small door next to a tarnished silver mirror that probably held three separate curses, she took her chance and swings it open.

The next room is only like the first in its clutter. But instead of hard-earned treasure, old burritos are scattered about. Vague, off-center posters cover the walls and a small string of Christmas lights hang from the loft. Magica mutters disgustedly in the back of Lena’s head, but her curses fade in comparison to Lena’s current predicament.

A duck, one Lena only recognizes after her panic begins to ease, is lounging on a hammock in front of the TV. She recognizes the theme song - Darkwing Duck -  from her TV night a few weeks ago, but it doesn’t click at first.

Lena stares, and he stares back.

After a moment, Launchpad grins wide as can be and gestures to an open spot on his moldy hammock. “So, come to hang with Launchpad, eh? Wanna watch Darkwing Duck with me? It’s a good episode! DW has to team up with the Justice Ducks to stop the Fearsome Five and save St. Canard!”

Lena doesn’t know what half those words mean. “Actually, I was kind of looking for Webby…?”

Launchpad visibly deflates, and something inside Lena flinches. “Last I checked she and the boys were doing their schoolwork. That’s why I’m here, you see. Mrs. Beakley doesn’t like it when I accompany them. Says I’m a distraction. But hey, I get to watch Darkwing Duck, the greatest TV show of all time!” He brightens, his blinding smile returning full force.

Lena doesn’t know if it’s the prospect of being an outsider or being kicked out all the time, but before she realizes what she’s doing she’s sitting on the hammock too. “I think I’d be a distraction too.”

Launchpad’s smile is even brighter than before as he rambles on and on about the show, thinking faster than he can talk and stumbling over his words more than once. Most of it is unfamiliar, going in one ear and out the other, but seeing Launchpad so happy somehow makes Lena happy too.

--

Lena never knew the pilot particularly well, but while he was always kind to her before, after that he always had a bright smile reserved specifically for her.

Seeing that smile, and remembering it now, gave her the same warm feeling she got all those months ago when she first summoned it.

--

Sometimes Lena forgets just how big McDuck Manor is. She sticks to the first few floors, and anywhere those four kids go they fill up the empty space with laughter and love. She usually sticks close by their sides. But she turns an unfamiliar corner on her way to the bathroom and suddenly she’s on her own in a hall with a ceiling dauntingly high above her head. It stretches down past where she can see, familiar and unfamiliar at the same time.

She turns in a tight circle around herself, but the way she came seems to have disappeared, lost in an endless array of symmetrical doors and hallways.

Panic sets in. Her breathing becomes short and fast, and the halls crumble around her as she slumps to the floor, hugging her knees to her chest.

For a good few moments, it seems like she’s going to die there. She could wander the halls forever and never find her way out. Magica doesn’t make herself known, not even to lecture her or to guide her out so she can carry out her master plan.

Then, suddenly, the world is sharply focused again. A voice, unfamiliar and stiff but not at all brusque, speaks up behind her.

“Miss Lena?”

Lena gasps and does a not-so-graceful twirl as she shoots to her feet. She quickly sets her flailing, shaking hands on her hips and for the first time gets a clear picture of her companion.

He’s not normal. She knows that right off the bat. He’s transparent and emits a faint, deep blue glow. He could be a ghost, but as Magica de Spell’s niece/shadow, she knows that’s not by a long shot the only possibility.

She’s staring, her mind whirring like a rushing stream. This supernatural dog, that she’s never seen before, here in Scrooge McDuck’s ultra-protected mansion, knows her name. He found her when she was lost in his endless halls.

Maybe he knows Aunt Magica. Panic shoots through her. Her back is as straight as a board.

The dog must sense her concern, as he bows slightly to her. “I am Duckworth, Mr. McDuck’s butler. And yes, before you ask, I am aware that I am a ghost, thank you very much.”

Lena relaxes, only ever so slightly. At least she knows he’s not with Magica.

...but if she hasn’t seen him all this time, but he knows her, what if he’s seen her secret conversations with Magica?!

All her worst fears, everything Magica has warned her about, come rushing up to the surface and she nearly bursts into tears again.

A ghostly hand hovers over her shoulder. “Miss Lena, I believe you were looking for the bathroom?” His voice is gentle but composed. If he had not been watching her the entire time, Lena would have thought that he hadn’t noticed her panic.

Sniffling and wiping her eyes, Lena nods. “Yeah, thanks.”

Wordlessly, the ghost butler opens a door completely symmetrical to the rest, revealing the familiar hallway from which she had come. Lena nearly laughs, she’s so relieved.

“I suspect you do not need me to show you the rest of the way?” Duckworth confirms, startling her out of her giddy exhaustion.

Lena nods, managing a smile at the dog as she passes. He simply nods his head and closes the door silently behind her. Then he’s gone, disappearing into the vast unknown that is Scrooge McDuck’s mansion.

She sees Duckworth a few days later, as he brings some tea sandwiches while Mrs. Beakley is cleaning upstairs. Webby introduces Lena to him, and he simply nods politely. They meet a few times after that, and neither ever brings up their tear-filled first interaction.

--

Now that she has all of eternity to do nothing but reflect on her short, angsty life, Lena wishes she connected with Duckworth more. He was always kind to her, and his steady, professional nature made her feel a bit more grounded. Even though she is a shadow and he is a ghost.

If she goes back, she has to change that. She will.

If they accept her, that is. They know she’s Magica’s shadow now. They know she betrayed them.

Lena pushes her fears aside and wraps her arms around herself in a tight hug, a small smile tight on her beak. She pulls her hands back to toy with the echo of a fraying friendship bracelet around her wrist.

Soon, for better or for worse, her fears will come to pass. She just has to keep biding her time and growing her strength.

For now, all she can do is wait.

And remember.

--

“Lena.” The sharp British voice, accompanied by a firm hand on her shoulder, stopped Lena in her tracks.

She glanced up to see Mrs. Beakley looking down at her, gaze unreadable. In her hand was a coat, deep magenta and long enough to reach Lena’s ankles.

“It’s getting cold,” the housekeeper begins, holding the coat out to Lena. “I will not stand for a child under my care playing outside without a coat.”

Stunned, Lena reaches for the coat and pulls it around her. It’s warm and mysteriously fits like a glove. It’s a bit long, but she has a sneaking suspicion Mrs. Beakley bought it that way on purpose.

She wants to refuse it. She knows Aunt Magica will tear it up once she gets home, unless she can stash it under her bed in time. Besides, she doesn’t want to accept a gift from Mrs. Beakley. She has given Lena kindness, which will be paid back in inevitable betrayal.

But Mrs. Beakley is holding the coat out to her expectantly, and when Lena looks her in the eyes she just can’t refuse. There’s something in her face, somewhere between stern and motherly, that makes Lena’s arm shoot out without prompting and her fingers wrap around the coat.

As soon as she touches it she melts. Because oh, it’s soft. Softer than her trusty sweater just snuck out of the laundromat. Softer than Webby’s feathers and her recently washed blankets Lena loves to “borrow”. Softer than the couch in front of the TV that the boys can sometimes coax her to.

She can hear Magica’s voice in the back of her head, whispering it’s a trap and don’t trust her and she’ll regret this when she finds out what you really are. The whispers turn her blood to ice, and she clutches the fluffy coat tighter. She’s never needed it more.

As she tugs it to her chest and hesitantly tucks it around herself Mrs. Beakley’s beak curves upwards, ever so slightly.

--

Lena misses that coat. She hid it in one of the closets, behind a stiff coat of Scrooge’s hidden away in the back, so Magica couldn’t tear it up later. That night, lying alone in her cold bedroom, she tried not to imagine the warmth of the coat, lost to the closets of a manor just out of reach.

She’s neither not nor cold now, but the comfort of that coat would be nice. It wouldn’t hurt.

Except it does now, because she doesn’t know if it’s been found or if one of the only things she’s ever owned is still hanging quietly in that closet. Waiting for its owner to grab it off the hook and run outside laughing, breath making frosty puffs in the cold air.

--

The uneasiness came first when Lena rung the bell, only to be met with static. Mrs. Beakley was usually extremely prompt at answering, even when she had other things on her mind. The lunar eclipse was in less than a week and Magica was growing impatient. She was taking over Lena’s body more often than not.

She let Lena go to McDuck Manor on her own after a perilous speech about not wanting to scare Scroogey off so soon. Lena grit her teeth, remembering it, and strides up to the mansion’s gate.

It swings open, unprompted.

Lena’s stomach twists, but she continues to the door. It swings open as well, at the hand of the ghost butler Lena has rarely spoken to. She winces at the memory of the last time they were alone together, but at the moment she’s more worried about Mrs. Beakley.

Frowning slightly, she gives him a small wave and opens her mouth to ask about Webby and Mrs. Beakley. He points her in the direction of the pool before she could speak.

She wishes she could tell him something, anything, but with Magica breathing down her neck she has no chance. She thanks him in a voice barely above a whisper to hide the way it’s trembling and hurries outside.

There is no one on the deck, so Lena enters the houseboat. She doesn’t bother to knock, but immediately regrets it when the only duck inside is the triplets’ uncle she barely talks to.

He’s lying awkwardly on the couch with some ice on his hand, reading a fishing magazine upside down. He glances up, surprised, but manages a smile. “Hey, kiddo. What brings you here?”

Lena toys with the end of her shirt. She could still barely understand him, and so tries to avoid him at all costs. That made any inevitable encounters awkward. “Looking for Webby. Where is she?”

“On an adventure,” Donald sighs, a resigned expression settling on his face. “Hopefully not dead.”

Fear flares in Lena’s stomach. She quickly schools her face into a neutral expression. The less Aunt Magica knows she cares about her best friend, the better. But she must not have cleared her face fast enough because Donald’s wary smile softens and he scoots over as much as he could, patting the seat beside him with his fishing magazine. “Ah, I’m sure they’re fine. Scrooge does his best, and the kids are accomplished adventurers themselves. ‘Sides, Mrs. B is with them this time, so they’ll be even safer. Webby most of all.”

Lena numbly takes the seat beside him, all too aware of how easily Magica could take over her and bring harm to this already injured nephew of Scrooge. “That’s where she is?”

Donald nods. “I think this is her first adventure with the kids. Webby is ecstatic. Although all of the kids seemed a bit distracted this morning.”

Lena nods back, only half listening. She leans back against the couch. “Do you know when they’ll be back?”

“Soon,” Donald replies instantly. “Around the eclipse.”

Lena’s heart stops in her throat. At first, pure panic at the mention of the eclipse. She fears she’s been outed. Then, relief, because her secret is safe. Then, panic again because they would be home, in Magica’s reach, during the eclipse. And she knew it.

What little hope of somehow stopping her aunt she had flies out the window. Hot tears prick at her eyes and she gasps sharply, trying to hold them in.

Instantly Donald’s fishing magazine is on the floor and his spare hand is gently rubbing circles on her back. “Try to breathe,” he instructs gently. “Focus on my voice. In, out. In, out. In, out. You’re doing great.”

Lena matches his breathing pattern, focusing on nothing else. Her breathing slowly returns to normal and she slumps against the back of the couch, all the energy flooding out of her.

Donald smiles comfortingly at her. “You’re okay now, Lena.”

She knows she isn’t, that she never could be, but then realizes that he was right. She feels better. A lot of the fear is gone.

“Do you have panic attacks often?” he asks, light but serious enough that she knows not to dodge the question.

She nods slowly.

“When you have them, focus on five things you can see, five things you can touch, five things you can taste, five things you can smell, and five things you can hear. Keep counting until it goes away. Don’t focus on anything else. Try to breathe as deeply as you can,” he instructs.

Lena nods again.

Pulling out his phone, the uncle pulls up a couple of warmly colored apps. “There are some great apps that help with panic attacks. Most are free to download. I can text you a link if you’d like.”

Lena beams. “That would be nice.” She hands him her phone to type in her number, ignoring Magica screeching in the back of her head.

“I get panic attacks too,” Donald says, not looking up from the phone. Lena’s head shoots up in surprise. “So do Huey and Louie. Scrooge doesn’t anymore, but he used to.” He pauses his typing and glances at her, smiling warmly. “You can always come to one of us if you need help, you hear?”

Lena nods. She doesn’t know if she would, but it feels like a steady, comforting weight in a world that has turned upside down and been stomped to pieces.

--

She never took him up on his offer. She had many more panic attacks in the short span of days after that, but Magica was always there, always getting in her head and freezing her in place before she could escape. She nearly had one locked in the cage with Scrooge, but then he offered her a place in his family, and, unknowingly, a brief reprise from a world of fear until Magica banished her to her current living quarters.

She pulls out her phone. The time and dates are screwed, since there is no satellite connection. Figures There is no internet either. But she pulls up her text messages and found Donald’s. The list of apps is right there.

She wishes she could download them in the void.

--

Lena stares at the duck in front of her and tries not to think about Magica’s excited whispers in her head or how she’s been avoiding him at all cost. She shakes his hand, having no other option. His grip is firm, while hers must be like a limp noodle if it’s not shaking from how terrified she is.

If he notices, he doesn’t show it. His face is impassible, unreadable. That only makes it worse.

She wasn’t sure what else she was expecting. Definitely not huge smiles and warm hugs.

At least he’s not trying to kill her for being Magica’s demon spawn working inside his very home to take him down.

That thought sends shudders down her spine, and a little worry finds its way through the cracks of his neutral facade.

Lena swallows and forces herself to smile. “It’s nice to meet you, uhh, sir.”

He nods back ever so slightly, tipping his trademark top hat. “It’s nice to meet you too, lass.”

Webby breaks in, elbowing Lena hard in the side in her excitement, and it takes all she has to not wince. “Mr. McDuck is the richest duck in the world! He goes on super cool adventures all the time!!! He’s a hundred and fifty years old and he-“

“I’m sure the lass knows all that, Webby darling,” Scrooge breaks in, looking amused.

Webby grins, embarrassed. “Of course! Sorry Lena! I didn’t mean to doubt your intelligence, you’re super smart and all.”

Webby’s familiar banter, and the reminder of her best friend’s presence, gives Lena just enough courage. She puts a hand on her chin in an overexaggerated thinking position. “Oh, I dunno, never really heard of ya.” She shoves her hands deep in her pockets and grins at Webby, who giggles.

Scrooge’s smile is growing, and he raises an eyebrow. “Aye, is that so? Never seen the million billboards around town with my face and name plastered all over them?”

Lena’s unable to keep her grin from her beak as she shakes her head. “Nope, never.”

Scrooge chuckles at that, a full-on guffaw. He elbows Mrs. Beakley, who looks less than pleased at the gesture. “I like this one.”

Lena is floored by the gesture. Weeks of carefully avoiding Scrooge McDuck like her life depended on it (which it very much could). And she made him laugh! Their very first interaction and she made him, the famous old miser, the heartless villain of every one of Magica’s tales, laugh.

This is it. This is the last straw. She can’t help Magica kill him now.

She immediately pushes those thoughts away before Magica could notice.

It’s not like she has a choice, anyway.

Webby has taken hold of her hand, and she shakes it gently. “Hey Lena, you okay?”

Smiling stiffly, Lena nods. “Yeah, everything’s fine. Just zoned out, Webs.” She winked at her best friend. “It’s not every day you meet the richest duck in the world, after all.”

“I thought you didn’t know who I was,” Scrooge countered, raising an eyebrow.

Lena crosses her arms, smiling. “I believe Webby. She knows quite a bit about you, believe it or not.”

Scrooge laughs again, and something warm and steady settles in Lena’s gut.

She wraps an arm around Webby’s shoulder and forces herself to laugh along.

And, to her surprise, it comes naturally.

—

If there’s anything Lena wants to finish, it’s her conversation with Scrooge.

She wants more than anything to be a part of his family, to be able to interact with him and make him laugh when her inevitable betrayal isn’t making her awkward.

She wants to know if he’ll keep his promise when he’s not under the threat of death.

She hopes with all her heart she will. Unlike his fellow capitalist billionaires making their fortunes off of lies and the backs of others, Scrooge McDuck is an honest man, a man of his word. That’s something she’s always admired about him, even years before she knew him. If a dirt poor duckling from Scotland can immigrate to a completely new country and become the richest duck in the world without cheating others out of a single cent, then maybe the little shadow, created only for petty revenge, can join the family she sabotaged.

Lena is terrified of confronting him, but the curiosity eats her up every day.

As she bides her time, feeling herself grow stronger and stronger, she’s even more anxious and terrified for the moment when she can finally re-enter the living world. The moment when she’ll have to face her newfound family for the first time with them knowing the truth.

Lena longs for it and desperately pushes it away at the same time.

—

Lena has come close to telling Webby her secret more than once.

Right from the beginning, Webby is her best friend. Webby has been nothing but kind to her, and Lena has repaid her in half-truths and backstabbing.

She thinks about this a month before the eclipse, as Magica’s hazy plans take form and when Webby is coincidentally late to their meeting. One good thing about the eclipse nearing is that Magica is too busy perfecting her plans down to the last detail to pay much attention to Lena.

She wallows in her predicament as she waits, half-finished milkshake in hand and watching the door.

Maybe Webby finally realized who she is and is ditching her. Maybe Webby got tired of her reluctant, wary ways, or sensed something is off. Maybe their friendship is over.

Lena is overjoyed when the doors swing open and Webby comes running right up to her table, panting slightly. She tries, and fails, to hide how happy she is at the sight of her painfully loyal best friend.

“Sorry Lena,” Webby pants. “Huey had a Junior Woodchuck meeting that ran late.”

Lena waves her hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about it. It’s nothing.”

It’s obviously not nothing, but there’s no way she can tell Webby that.

Webby studies her for a minute, not quite accepting her answer, before nodding cheerfully. “Okay! You hungry?”

“As a horse!” Lena replies instantly, pulling out her wallet. It’s not a lie. Magica has been a bit too busy for food these days.

“I think I’m going to get a hamburger,” Webby says decisively. Lena laughs. “You always do.”

“And you always only get fries,” Webby counters. “I dare you to get something different!”

Lena grins. “Is that a triple dog dare?”

“You bet!” Lena’s not totally sure Webby knows what a triple dog dare is. Dewey might have taught her at some point.

Dare or not, it’s a nice excuse to get some actual food.

She leans back to scour the menu, pretending she hasn’t already read it multiple times trying to get her mind off all the ways Webby could have ditched her while she was waiting.

What kind of friend are you?! Webby would never assume you ditched her.

No good friend would go into a friendship intending to stab their friend and family in the back.

Lena flinches hard, and Webby’s arm is around her waist (since she can’t reach her shoulders, Lena now realizes) in an instant. “Lena? Is everything okay?”

Lena nods shakily. “Everything’s fine, Webs. I just had… a bad dream last night, and I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“Oh?” Webby turns to face her, still on her tiptoes, eyebrows raised. It’s an open invitation that Lena can’t refuse. Once she started talking the words poured out too fast to stop them if she wanted to.

“I was… at your place. Having movie night with you and the boys. We were having a great time, but then the sun turned black and the sky turned blood red. The city started falling apart. I think someone was attacking it. The mansion started falling apart, so we all ran outside. The city was in blazes and ruins. Smoke was everywhere, and everyone was gone. People were screaming and crying for help in the rubble, so the boys ran off to help before we could stop them. Their voices became part of the chorus of distress. Then it was just you and me, and this… this person landed in front of us. I never got a clear look at he- them, but they were huge. They threatened us, but I don’t remember what they said, just that it was really upsetting. It made you furious, so you attacked them and the two of you rolled down the hill in battle. I don’t know why I didn’t help you, but I just kept waiting for you to return. Neither of you did. Slowly all the screaming people just stopped screaming and I was left alone on the hill with the smoldering city.” Lena pressed her face into her hands, hot tears streaming into her hands.

“Hey.” Webby gently lifts Lena’s face out of her hands, cupping her chin in her hands. She ignores the tears trickling off Lena’s face onto her hands. “It’s okay. That’s not going to happen. There are two hundred and twenty-three magical defenses on the Money Bin and the manor each. I counted.”

Lena chuckles softly through her tears. “Of course you did, Webs. I love that.”

Webby lifts a thumb and gently wipes away one of Lena’s tears. “Besides, we have Gizmoduck, all of Gyro’s crazy inventions, a family of seasoned adventurers, a former spy, and so much more. Besides, the citizens of Duckberg can fight. And also, Scrooge secretly keeps Ragnarok at bay every day, so they’d have to get through him first and that’s no easy feat. Don’t tell him I know, though!”

Lena blinks. “He does what now?”

“My point being,” Webby continues, gazing straight up at Lena with those huge, adoring, irresistible puppy dog eyes of hers. “Is that your dream has a very, very, very, very, very, very very, veeeeery-”

Lena grins. “All right Webs, I get it.”

“-Very small chance of happening,” Webby finishes. “Please don’t worry, you crazy angel. Everything will be okay.”

Lena smiles, unable to say anything. Webby is so sweet. This interaction has done wonders. But at the same time it’s done nothing, because her only shot at warning Webby has fallen on its face and been stomped into the dirt.

Oh, Webby, it will happen. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…

--

Lena sobs, tears streaming down her face, as she recalls her outing with Webby. She tried to warn her, she really did.

And Webby never believed her.

Every day she wonders and worries if Webby is okay. If she survived the Shadow War. If she didn’t have to spend time in the hospital from her fight with Magica, whom she knows from experience is horrifyingly powerful even in hand-to-hand combat.

If she still wants to be friends. If she still wants to be family.

Lena sniffles, and takes a long moment to dry her tears on her sleeve. They just keep coming. If the family really does hate her, she can’t leave with much of her dignity if she’s sobbing.

Time to find out if I have a family or not.

Heart in her chest, every hope and fear fresh in her mind, Lena closes her free hand tight around the ghost of her friendship bracelet and begins to chant, low and unsteady. Her voice wavers and cracks, and her tears start up again like a geyser. She can’t remember all of the words, so she subs in what she hopes are similar syllables.

She calls to the front of her mind every memory, every moment she spent with Webby and her family, all her time worrying and thinking about them. How much she loves them.

The bracelet begins to glow, blindingly blue, and Lena squeezes her eyes shut as tight as they can go.

She’s falling, gravity suddenly reclaiming her. But as soon as she realizes she’s in freefall, her knees hit carpet and she stumbles hard, falling on her stomach.

Onto ground.

Solid ground.

Real, solid ground, from the world of the living.

There are shouts and cries around her, and someone is clutching her tightly. Footsteps, loud from hurry, retreat and then come back. People are crowding around her, touching her, hugging her.

Lena forces her eyes open.

The first thing she sees is Huey’s red shirt, his neat stitching and three shiny, small buttons near the top. He’s bawling his eyes out as he shuffles through the Junior Woodchuck Guidebook, rambling about probabilities and spontaneous activity and quantum physics.

Dewey is next to him, eyes huge and bright, his smile wide enough to split his face. His hair is all ruffled up, more than usual, and his hands are tight around her neck in a hug.

Louie is on his other side, his phone in hand. He’s excited, talking fast to her, but she doesn’t register his words. Only his voice, high with excitement and cracking with emotion.

Launchpad is ruffling her hair with his too-big, too-rough hand, but she doesn’t mind because it’s Launchpad. He’s grinning at her with that special smile of his, and she grins back. He says something about catching her up on Darkwing Duck, even though it’s been over for years. But she doesn’t mind, because it means time with Launchpad, and that’s more than fine.

Duckworth hovers behind Dewey and Louie, not quite out of sight but not in the center of attention either. He has a small smile on his face, and he nods more than politely when their eyes meet. “Welcome home, Miss Lena.”

A hand lands on her shoulder, shaking, and Lena glances up to see Mrs. Beakley beaming down at her. There might be tiny tears in her eyes, or it might just be the reflection from the candlelit chandelier above. Her hand squeezes Lena’s shoulder in a way that says so much more than any words ever could, shaking but steady at the same time.

She doesn’t need to look back to know the hand rubbing her back is Donald’s. It’s comforting but firm in a way that’s trained and experienced. He stops rubbing for a moment to squeeze her tight in a hug. He whispers something in her ear, but his voice is even more garbled and thick than usual. She just leans closer, into the hug.

Only when he releases her and walks back around to face her, setting a hand on Huey’s shoulder and wrapping Dewey and Louie in his other, does she realize Scrooge has been one of the people hugging her from behind. He tips his hat to her, smiling. “I’m glad to see you made it, Lena. A promise is a promise. Welcome home, dear.”

Lena bites down hard on her lip to keep from crying, but it’s no use. She’s been sobbing hard this entire time.

One last person is still hugging her tight, and Lena doesn’t need to turn around to see who it is. She shifts her position so one of her arms is free, and reaches around to hug Webby back. Her best friend’s beak is buried in her side and she’s sobbing hard.

Lena finally finds her voice. It’s low and quiet, and sounds weird without the strange echo and emptiness of the shadow void. “Hey, Webs. It’s okay. I’m back.”

Webby only sobs harder. She unlaces one of her arms and offers her hand to Lena, who gratefully accepts it. The other hand never leaves her side. They hug each other tight, and the family closes in around them. Even Duckworth joins in the group hug.

All of Lena’s fears about acceptance and family melt away. She grins hard, tears still streaming down her face. But for once they’re tears of joy, not fear or pain. She’s happy, happier than when she first met Webby or when Scrooge offered her a place in his family. She’s finally free.

She finally has a family.

~

daaaaang y’all a fic giant sighting! 7.2k words! for comparison, my fics are usually 1k-1.5k words. i’m trying to work on making them longer but i never expected this lol

it’s a completely wild ride i’m sorry

i’m not a person to ask for validation but i thrive on it and this is something i put a lot of time into, so i would really like it if you leave comments/reblogs/likes. especially since tumblr doesn’t have a read count like ao3. it means a lot to me. i love writing, and i love writing long fics, but if i keep putting this writing that i put my heart and soul into all i do and get little to nothing back, it’s a bit disheartening.

i don’t want to end on that note, so love you all!!! <3 <3

[heavens-light-and-hells-ice]

Green Coerthas.

For your generous support, we of the Institute for the Greening of Coerthas and Dravania express to you our profoundest gratitude, for without the generosity of patrons such as your esteemed House, we could never have embarked upon this enterprise; and though our part in it be but humble, it is a project that could not, in mine own estimation, be more important or holy -- for the stewardship and cultivation of Coerthas is not only essential to ensure the bread and livelihoods of our smallfolk, but a sacred duty that we of Halone's faith must uphold as part of Her Covenant. And as Halone promised us this land, we must promise it to our descendants, and push through this Era's challenges to see it productive and prosperous, to hand on to our children and grandchildren, in hope and prayer of a spring that once more blossoms from the lowlands to the highlands, and a summer that is once more green 

It's there his pen suddenly stops, and, after a minute of stillness, he sets it down. 

He rises from his desk, crossing to the stairs and descending them slowly, one step at a time, cane, foot, foot. He passes through the hall as quietly as he can, easing the bedroom door open with his shoulder and craning his neck to peek 'round at the woman and child dozing there, just the same as he had left them two bells ago.

Like the snow that had fallen steadily since Heavensturn, the Ledigne household had slowly and gradually settled, from the first sennight's nightmare to the restless sleepwalk of the second, to the hazy third, the quiet fourth, and then the dreaming, peaceful, of the fifth and this, the sixth. Gwenneth was weak, but through that fortnight of terror, she lived -- and, gradually, she found her way out of that dark wood, spending more and more time awake and conversant, though she oft preferred just to hold her daughter in her arms and gaze at her in silent wonder, stroking her few soft curls with her fingertips. The maid Miolleane returned, then Clavis, in whose company Rosaire spent much of his time, practicing tricks and playing games to keep the raven happy and, with luck, from associating Alysse's arrival with his own neglect. Their prospects turned from dour to bright, enough that they were soon hosting tea again, bringing him an endless series of hands to shake and congratulations to accept on the birth of his child.

He now approaches the bedside, laying his cane aside to proceed on tiptoe -- but stops next to Gwenneth, an anxious gaze falling upon her, pausing to confirm the subtle rise-and-fall of breath. Her face is yet wan, but a bit of pink has crept into it again, and she is beautiful -- more beautiful than an angel, his irreplaceable rose -- and he feels a deep pang with even the briefest recollection of how he felt a moon ago, when he was forced to consider if, without her, he could survive.

By the grace of Halone, he would not be put to that test. He owes Her a pilgrimage, one of many things promised in his frantic supplications; he'll plan it for Nymeia's moon, he supposes, as till spring he'll stay close by his lady's side. Each time he leaves the household -- even the same room, even her side -- he struggles to pull his anxious thoughts away from her, just as he now struggles not to reach down to brush a lock from her face, leaving her instead to her precious rest.

He turns again to the bassinet and approaches -- with dread.

At the time he had promised Gwenneth his hand, he had also made a promise to Halone (and more to Her than to his lady herself) to keep no secrets from his intended wife -- and yet as soon as this, he skirts breaking it.

There is something he's not told her -- or Nurse Berthoise, Helenne, or Doctor Ferdillaix, or any other soul, in part because he was so slow to recognize it, his mind being completely consumed with thoughts of Gwenneth in those first few days. By the time the realization dawned, he wondered if it was perhaps too late to say anything -- if that thing was not itself too horrible to be said. So he kept silent -- and keeps silent, working the muscles of his face into an acceptable smile when necessary, responding to congratulations with the proper social grace, rattling off some inane comment about her growth and appetite when questioned. He files the truth away and presents his impeccable poker face, and so far has not been met with suspicion, as far as he can tell; no one knows.

No one knows but he, and he is sickened and ashamed:

He does not love Alysse.

Such a turn of events is, really, quite logical to expect. All his life he has known of that defect of his character -- less defect than strength, when 'twas his duty to serve Halone with the Inquisitor's tools -- that makes him incapable of tender feeling, or at least not capable in the manner of ordinary men. As a child, he looked upon his parents with, at best, indifference; from his adolescence, he no more wept, and the sights of the Special Office never once disabled him with horror. It is what makes him Rosaire the Staid, the logical and clear-sighted, an excellent servant of Halone's nation and a poor facsimile of a living, mortal man.

He does love Gwenneth. He fears he loves her not as well as she deserves, that his passions are not as warm and pure as those of the lover worthy of her -- but she chose him regardless, and he accepted that choice, as the unworthy supplicant accepts the grace of the Twelve. For her he lay aside his woodcuts, and through her he began to learn how to live as a man, to scheme no more in the shadows and instead to savor, for their own sakes, the pleasures of friendship and family.

Gwenneth is his angel of life; his heart beats for her. So perhaps it is not strange for that heart to be cool to the one who was nearly the agent of her demise.

She adores Alysse, embracing her closely and looking on her face with awe. But when he looks at her face, that awe doesn't strike him. Most oft, he feels nothing at all. Her puffy, creased face does not strike him as particularly darling, and though her tiny fingers are perhaps moreso, they are not to him any more precious than any other infant's -- and among the many things for which he is known, a fondness for infants is not. Sometimes, when Berthoise holds Alysse towards him and the child gurgles, he finds himself turning away in aversion, even a sort of disgust -- and on a few occasions, when Gwenneth was still very unwell, he would watch Alysse fidget and whine and be suddenly hit by an upswell of rage, a reaction itself so upsetting he'd immediately quit the room, appalled at himself.

She is an innocent babe, and Gwenneth's child, besides -- so of course he does his part to hover attentively over her, small though a one-armed father's part may be next to a mother's or a nursemaid's. He is anxious for her wellbeing and assiduous in his attempts to proof the house against the infectious miasmas of the city, and every night he prays for the Twelve to preserve and protect her young life. But he does not love her, by no fault of her own -- the fault is all that of a man without a heart, a man in the shape of an Elezen but perhaps without an Elezen's soul.

That is why he hesitates to look over the rim of the bassinet, for fear of what he'll feel: emptiness, aversion, perhaps even hate -- but certainly, certainly shame.

However -- in the end, none of those are what he feels.

It was one-and-thirty years ago; he was a young man, twenty-five.

It was the height of summer, the sun blazing at its zenith in the azure sky above. He was astride Achille, the chocobo's feathers slightly lathered from the labor of climbing up the alpine road; his own hat provided only little shade, and sweat pricked his brow as well.

He turned his bird off the main path to approach a goatherd's cottage; he did not bother to knock on the door, but dropped out of the saddle and looped Achille's reins loosely around the post of a water trough. He removed his cloak, laying it over the chocobo's back with the satin inner lining, embroidered with the symbol of the Holy Inquisition, prominently displayed -- and then his jerkin and doublet so he could splash his shirt and face with the icy water, the touch of Halone upon Her mountaintops tangible even in this season. While his bird drank and the damp evaporated off his skin, he wandered some yalms away, ascending a small hill that he might look around. He shielded his eyes with a hand, his sleeve billowing with the breath of the wind.

It was a fine spot to look from; high on the alm as he was, the valley fell away below him for as far as the eye could see. The meadows burned an emerald-green as brilliant as the blue of the sky, scattered with conifers that gathered into thick, dark mats growing up the sides of the flanking mountains, whose peaks, jutting up like halberds into the cloudless heavens, still glittered at their utmost reaches with lingering snow. If he turned to his left, he could trace the winding road as it continued, up and up, eventually fading into gray of the crags leading to the pass; if he turned to his right, he could look down the path he came, flowing like a looping river from the pastures, where here and there the goats and cattle were tended by their herders, to the village with its many shingled roofs and the lone tall spire of the church. Beyond were fields watered with mountain runoff, rich with highland wheat soon to burst into gold that would glimmer and ripple in the wind; further yet, the rest of Coerthas, green and growing -- quivering, like the string of a viola da gamba, with the note of life.

Many summers he’d spent at his family’s estate in Coerthas, surrounded by green lawns, green hedges, green trees -- but his father was so much devoted to the fashion for improvements to the landscape that he supposed he'd seen little of the land's true character till he was grown and graduated and riding the countryside, as now, alone. And now -- gazing across the valley, listening to the lowest note of Halone's hymn -- he felt he at last saw, and knew.

As he gazed upon the scene, he noticed, about halfway between his position and the village, two distinct figures -- small ones, he guessed children -- dressed in madder red, climbing a rise speckled with the yellow of wildflowers and the white of sheep. After a minute of labor, they reached its peak -- and then, quite suddenly, tumbled from their perch, rolling down the hillside at a much greater speed. As the Inquisitor, somewhere between bemusement and concern, watched, the fallen pair picked themselves up, and soon they began again their climb, little ants creeping slowly to the apex again -- and, as soon as they regained it, they tossed themselves down again, stretched out on their sides like logs, tumbling in a blur back down to the hill's foot.

He looked up towards the sky, breathing deep of the air of this place, Halone's Promised Land, and, privately, he smiled.

It is six years hence; Alysse is six, and if he still lives, he'll be sixty-two.

It might be the highlands or the midlands; he cannot quite say which. But the sky would be blazing blue, a canopy of blinding azure draped from the snow-topped spires in the east to those in the west. Below, a meadow lying fallow, flanked on one side by a field of wheat, on the other by beanstalks; stretched across the grass and wildflowers, a red blanket, the proper place for infirm old men to lie and absorb the warmth of the sun.

But the young are not so restricted. A young woman of three-and-thirty would still have breath to run and play -- though not with all the vigor of a child dashing around around them, barefoot, shrieking with delight. Her curls would shake free of their ribbons, and her mother'd have no hope of catching her to fasten them again; she'd freely skip and frolic, at times on all fours, like a mischievous lamb.

She could only be persuaded to sit on the blanket by the opening of the picnic-basket; inside would be honey loaves, apricots and peaches, cherry tomatoes, carrot cake, and rolanberry pie. The mother would laugh at the girl smearing filling on her face; then, stuffed with the summertime bounty, all three of them would stretch out to feel the sun and listen to the murmuring wind and the grumble of the bees, straining their ears to hear the accompaniment, a low note played by Her bow upon the string of Coerthas.

But not all of them could stay so long in contemplation, and when the child would tire of picking flowers -- rampion, gentian, edelweiss -- to pile in a heap upon his belly, she'd soon be dancing 'round the blanket again, then dropping to the ground and rolling, arms stretched over her head, down to the bottom of the hill. To the top she'd run back up and next time be joined by her mother, both tumbling joyfully through the grass and flowers, laughing, embraced by this living, perfect land.

And perhaps none of this will ever happen.

When his lady wakes -- perhaps by the sound of Alysse's stirring, the babe's huge, ice-blue eyes blinking open along with mumbles of her hunger -- she finds her husband half-crumpled at the side of the bed, the knuckles of his good hand white on the rim of the bassinet, his face buried in the crook of his good arm, his shoulders trembling, for he is stricken -- what was once for him the abstract having collapsed into the real.

O Halone -- let her have a summer that is once more green.

[apocalypseprodromus]

Barriers Between (Chapter 5)

Warning: Angst, Yandere and Long. Do you even need a warning anymore?

The sun rose above the horizon as the warriors began the long trek to Chaos’ domain. There wasn’t much tension or hesitation in the group as the majority of the trip was spent gaining momentum for the battle ahead.

Some warriors took to conversating during the trip, while others preferred to keep focused on the surrounding area. Squall was one such person, helping keep the distracted Trinitas from getting blindsided. It also helped to have a reason to stay close to her for however long they had left with each other...

“So what are you gonna do when you get back to your own world, Trin?” Tidus asked in his usual upbeat manner. This question made her anxious. The conversation about returning home finally made its way to her and she still didn’t have a good answer.

“I don’t even know if I can go back. The Astrals are probably going to prevent me from doing so. Let’s say hypothetically that they let me go back, there’s nothing for me back in Eos. Most likely the rest of the people I knew heard about the Cathedral going up in a verdant green blaze, so I don’t know how welcome I’d be with the rest of my acquaintances. I have no more family and most likely... no future there. Besides, I don’t want to go back either. I always feel like... I don’t belong.” Trinitas trailed off looking out to the desert.

Squall grimaced at the tanned blond who decided not to pry any further after that surprisingly pessimistic revelation. Cloud sighed going over to Tidus to explain what he did wrong. Before Tidus could apologize for asking, the brunette girl had already sped up ahead of the group to avoid further questions.

Squall followed, easily keeping pace with her. He placed a hand on her shoulder to halt her. “I’m sure you’ll be fine.” He murmured softly to the obviously upset Trinitas. “Yeah. Maybe... do you think Cosmos will let me go back with you to your world?” She glanced at Squall for a brief moment. He hadn’t considered that idea before, but it was worth a shot.

“I don’t know if she will. You can try asking her.” He suggested, looking back to the blond deity in front of the group as they caught up to the two. Trinitas decided to try her luck.

“Cosmos? Is it possible to be sent to someone else’s world after this is all over?”  Cosmos seemed almost stunned at the audacious request. “It could disrupt the balance of the worlds. I simply couldn’t do that.” Trinitas’ eyes were beginning to darken as she scowled at Cosmos. “That’s all you high-and-mighty types ever say! So you can go ahead and steal people from their worlds for your own selfish purposes. But we're always fated to be apart by the end of this!” She screamed accusatorily, causing everyone to seize up in alarm. Her irises turned a virulent viridian, pupils receded to minuscule dots.

The Warrior of Light stood between the enraged female and the goddess, fearing for the latter’s safety. “That’s enough, you’ve heard her answer now leave her be-” “NO, DON’T YOU DARE DEFEND HER PISS POOR EXCUSES! JUST BECAUSE SOMETHING IS DOESN’T MEAN IT ALWAYS SHOULD BE!” The party saw her eyes glow a bright green before a cascade of cold air chilled the desert. Trinitas continued from there.

“Just because something hasn’t been done that way before doesn’t mean it shouldn’t or can’t be that way. It’s not a physical limitation of universal law. It’s not like lightspeed or the event horizon of a black hole. We are not tethered to our worlds; our presence here justifies that. Fate is not a ‘set in stone’ construct, it's made by our doings. If you were told we were doomed to fail this war time and time again, would you just accept it? I am so tired of hearing about fate from beings that just lay down and take it. Meanwhile, mortals are constantly fighting back, turning the tides and striving to alter it despite how disadvantageous, hopeless and frivolous it seems in the broader scope of an unfair existence! And you could be so much more if you didn’t make these self-imposed limitations. Why are you so scared of going against fate but not of nonexistence? It can’t be worse than what’s happened before.”

Trinitas turned back around walking ahead of the party leading the way to Chaos’ land. Her optics died down to a dull celadon.

Squall didn’t make any motion to stop her throughout the duration of her proclamation. As she passed him, she stopped and offered a sad smile. “Let’s just get this over with.” She grasped his hand and mournfully continued forward.

Cosmos was speechless. She didn’t know how to respond to that, or if she even should. It gave her something to think about.

-

Lava pits dotted the ground. Luckily for the group, Trinitas’ spell from earlier kept the warriors cool while traversing the unforgiving terrain.

Vaan and Tidus looked out into the lava in curiosity, catching sight of a treasure chest under an alcove hovering above a river of lava.

The two did a gil flip to choose their next course of action. Heads.

And now another flip to see which one would be retrieving the treasure. Tails. Tidus it was then.

He cursed his luck as he went off the loosely defined road behind his comrades’ backs. Tidus hung on the landbridge above the resting spot of the chest before many concerned voices called out in admonition. “THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?!” Trinitas yelled as Tidus smiled back confidently. “Just watch!”

Tidus dropped down to the ledge beneath and barely caught the edge. But unfortunately, the ledge wasn’t incredibly sturdy and began to give way before he could pull himself up.

“TIDUS!” Yuna cried out before trying to summon Valefor.

Springing into action, Trinitas dropped to skim above the lava catching Tidus on her shoulders and the chest by its handle. She quickly teleported back to the spot the group was waiting in.

The blond was dropped haphazardly on the ground while Trinitas set the chest down gingerly. He attempted to crawl to the chest but was stopped by Trinitas blocking his path. 

“Hey, what gives? I’m the one who got the treasure!”

“No, I did. While you were plummeting to your death I might add! There’s a ramp that goes down to the platform. You didn’t have to almost die!” She reprimanded.

“We almost lost you to lava, damn it! Be careful next time!”

Tidus stared alarmed at Trinitas’ concern. “Didn’t know you cared that much.”

She considered those words carefully. “Yeah, neither did I...” 

Trinitas seemed to get lost in thought for a moment before snapping back to reality as Tidus had moved to open the chest but got burned by the hot metal. She rolled her eyes and shot the lock off with her gattling saw revealing a Cockatrice Tail Feather.

“She saved your ass for a feather from an overgrown chicken that turns people to stone...” Squall deadpanned as he peered into the chest from over her shoulder.

“It looks kinda neat.” Vaan went to observe the object now in Trinitas’ hand.

Tidus threw himself back onto the ground sulking over the lackluster reward for his bravery. “Aw damn it! I thought for sure that it would be gil. Oh well.”

Bartz went to sit next to Tidus as he looked at the feather. “Might be good luck to keep it.”

“It’s not exactly light, ya know. It is made of stone after all.” Trinitas let the feather drop from her hand like a lead weight to demonstrate her point. “I mean it’s no Kingatrice Tail Feather but maybe the moogles will trade us something for it. Cockatrice Feathers do have their medicinal uses if you can unpetrify them.”

“How do you know that?” Bartz asked.

“I used to be in charge of my groups' treasure stockpile. Deciding what got sold, what we needed to keep or look for next.” The guys nodded in understanding. No matter where you’re from, someone always has to keep track of the items.

“Although it was only because I had the best memory, nothing better to do and actually used the stuff. Noctis was too careless, Prompto was too scatterbrained and squeamish, Ignis was too busy, and Gladiolus was too hot-headed when we argued, and we argued a lot. So much so that I think he sold things just to piss me off. Don’t get me wrong, he was great at finding treasure, but not at leaving it alone.” 

Trinitas looked to the ground in exasperation at a certain unrelated detail. “I never did get that second Sturdy Helixhorn.”

Squall shook his head in confusion. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“The Prodromus family were made the royal artisans of Lucis at the start of the Caelum Dynasty’s reign 2,000 years ago. It’s a Lucian tradition of the current Prodromus hierarch of the time to make an object in remembrance of significant events in Lucian history. And seeing how I’m the last one, I was going to make an amulet out of Sturdy Helixhorn and a Platinum Ingot I picked up from the top of a Duscaen stone arch to mark the Siege of Insomnia. I doubt I’d even find one outside of Eos. Those things weren’t exactly easy to get the first time around... You had to break them off a Duplicorn or a Leukorn just right.” 

Trinitas sighed before coming to a depressing conclusion.

“What does it matter? I’m probably not welcome back in my world anyway.”

The guys looked between themselves briefly. “We’ll help you!” Vaan exclaimed cheerfully. “I mean sure, we may not be crafters per se but we’ll help you find something even greater than a Helixhorn.”

Squall looked to Vaan in surprise. We never agreed to that. But before he could revoke Vaan’s statement, his eyes caught a glimpse of Trinitas’s slow-growing smile and his heart uncomfortably fluttered with a more agreeable disposition.

“You’d really do that for me?” Her celadon eyes held a spark of hope, causing a strong internal quiver that completely overtook his desire to speak out against the idea. What is wrong with me? 

Squall thought about mentioning how much time that would probably take, how they had the upcoming battle with Chaos, how they’d have to part soon after...

But he didn’t want to. He wanted to waste time with her and get further off track, even if it was time spent with these other people he didn’t want around her. 

He agrees without another hesitation. “Anything for you, Trin.” He reassured watching her beam with joy.

Squall caved in and the worst part was he knew it, accepting the task for the sake of her happiness seemed too common these days. At this point, he was hyper-aware of his inexplicable tendency to favor her, no matter what the case may be. Whatever was making him like this felt terribly inconvenient to his rationale. Anything she asks, suggests or even hints at is considered, agreed upon or carried out swiftly. 

The other side effects included his berserk rage at those who would hurt her (despite the fact she’s an immortal that doesn’t feel pain in the same capacity as a normal person and he knows this), his underlying jealousness of others getting close to her (even though she spends every day with him and only him) and lastly, the near insanity he endures when she’s not with him.

This in and of itself was reason enough for him to stay by her side. His vision becomes hazy, distorted and dull. Many voices cry out her name as desperation to see her again eats away at his still conscious mind. He wonders what’ll happen when it’s time to finally part. Is he going to be okay? Was this sickness going to go away on its own or would it become apart of him?

While pondering these morbid questions, Squall aimlessly followed Trinitas’ lead back to the group that took the time to wait for them.

-

Traveling headlong down the path, the team searched every treasure chest along the way not finding much past gil and the occasional rare weapon. 

Meanwhile, Bartz took to studying Squall’s behavior involving Trinitas. His natural intuition and the previous unease he had when he encountered him last triggered something of a curiosity in the adventurous man. It was no real secret that Squall had taken strongly to the unusual girl and was something of an undisclosed observation made by the rest of the Cosmos warriors. But for as sweet as the relationship seemed to be, all of Squall’s abnormal actions were concerning...

Most didn’t want to bring it up for fear of starting a conflict by addressing it directly, but there was absolutely no way they could ignore it either. Most took to monitoring him from afar and whether Squall knew this or not remained anyone’s guess. If he did notice he was being watched, he sure didn’t let on. Trinitas herself was unaware of her companion’s bizarre obsession with her, assuming his protectiveness stemmed from a natural desire to remain with the only person he felt connected to.

It didn’t take long for Bartz to notice the way Squall’s eyes sluggishly glanced around dazed and unfocused, lost in thought. The sharp, alert, icy glare he was used to was replaced with dim, half-lidded dark grey-blues that hid a near-lifeless quality in them.

It was unsettling that someone could come alive in the proximity of another person but just as easily decay the next moment. He may have had her by his side but whatever Squall was thinking about might as well have placed him millions of miles away.

Trinitas looked back to the other warriors following Cosmos. They trailed behind the treasure hunters who were busy scouting ahead for rare substances.

The brunette surveyed her surroundings before spotting a distant chest and running full speed, snapping the once-dazed boy out of his trace as he attempted to keep pace with her. “Maybe some warning before you take off like that.” Squall scolded the excited female.

“Didn’t know you were following me!” She cheerfully shouted behind her while advancing towards the chest in the distance.

The rest of them chatted amongst themselves, remarking on Squall’s strange choice to keep close to her when they were once certain he wanted to be alone.

“Sometimes it takes a person much different than yourself to change your priorities,” Cosmos added as she witnessed the pair taking a black orb out of the chest. “Perhaps Squall realized how much he appreciates Trinitas’ company. Or maybe... he realized he didn’t truly want to be alone in the first place but found no better alternative to the problem. Someone finally won his heart and now he dreads the moment he has to let go.”

“Does it really have to be that way? They work together well enough. What if-” Vaan tried reasoning with Cosmos only to be cut off by her.

“Squall’s world is caught in the middle of an ongoing loop of stable events. Everything is already set to happen in a specific manner. Trinitas was a last-minute addition to a prophecy she actively attempted to dismantle. The ones who gave her the abilities she has cannot kill her and so they did the only thing they could do... displace her. Exile her long enough to follow through with the prophecy until the point of no return has been reached. Unfortunately for them, Trinitas will be returning to her native universe after this conflict has been won.”

The warriors responded with rising concern, “So, what Trinitas said was right then, is that it? They’re just... fated to be apart because it was planned that way?” Lightning scoffed in disdain. She never did take to the idea of fate.

“What a waste of a good dynamic...” Tidus sighed walking around with his hands behind his head.

Vaan’s pout turned more serious as he thought about the two. “So what if things are supposed to go a certain way? What if the future they have together is better than what fate has to offer? You shouldn’t tear them apart solely based on ‘it’s what fate wants’. And what if the gods back home don’t take her back, huh? What'll happen to her then?” he chided disapprovingly.

“I have no control over what happens to her after that.” The deity admitted obstinately.

Laguna squinted his eyes in suspicion, “So at the moment, you do... Is that correct? If so, what do you gain keeping the two apart? It’s not like it affects you and this world after we leave, right?” He grinned, hoping his journalist skills would work on her.

Cosmos thought carefully about how she was going to answer that. “It isn’t about keeping the two apart for reasons of my own. Trinitas is capable of destroying the stable time loop that has been set, effectively rewriting Squall’s predestined path and the fate of his world entirely. Although... I’m afraid by letting them get attached, it might’ve already begun.”

They looked around at each other in worry. No one liked where this was going.

“How so...?” Tifa asked warily, sure that she and every other person present knew the answer.

Cosmos breathed in deep, preparing her explanation. “You’re all aware by now that Squall has a favorable disposition towards Trinitas, but it goes even deeper than that. It borders on complete addiction with its own set of mental, emotional and physical symptoms that can’t so easily be ignored.” Cosmos motioned to the brunette as he talked with Trinitas about her plans for the orb.

They noticed how his eyes were more attentive now than they had been minutes before. How vibrant and bright blue they became.

The moment she turned away the dreariness in them returned. The change was so quick, it was no wonder Trinitas never caught on. You’d have to know what to look for.

-

Hours passed and the group found more materials to work with. Adamantite ore, a trapezohedron, and a crystal shard.

After assessing the hardness of the orb was sufficient enough for her plans, Trinitas got to work on refining the adamantite with the heat of a nearby lava flow. The metal would be used to form spikes that would lace around and chain the dark matter sphere. An enchanted moving handle that would move freely about the chain would probably be added later, depending on how inconvenient it would be to swing with just the chain.

Her plan now was to make an artifact weapon for herself instead and save the platinum ingot for another project.

While the ore was heating up she transmuted the trapezohedron, cockatrice feather, and crystal shard into the dark matter to further increase the magic inside it and add the chance to petrify the opponent on contact.

“How is it you know so much about smithing?” Terra watched in awe of the esoteric techniques Trinitas used in crafting the ball of darkness into one reminiscent of her crystal heart’s own monochromatic color scheme.

Trinitas shrugged, checking the adamantite. “It’s more about knowing what you want from an object. Changing its shape and structure while trying to gather details about its potential.” She telekinetically skimmed the impurities that rose to the top of the liquid metal.

“I’m just making this thing as I go. Sure, I have an idea of what I want to make of it, but I need to see the number of obstacles I have to go through to make it a reality. I guess that’s kinda like life for ya. Shaping the world blindly as you go...”

Once the metal was malleable enough she moved it in strands around the dark matter. Webs of adamantite showed the brilliance of the center while she shaped her family’s insignia on one side. The spikes held holes with razor-sharp edges that threatened to slice pieces off if those barbs were ever to implant themselves into something. Links of adamantite chained together to form a makeshift handle to swing with. In order to cool the newly formed finish, Trinitas brought out her ice-based weapon Liquid Nitrogun to finish the job. 

After a quick spray with the gunblade, it was time to test its durability and functionality and for that, she needed a target...

But she could think of no target better than Chaos himself.

-

Throughout the day they faced the many familiar adversaries Chaos had gathered, and although they all were felled on the field of battle Trinitas never moved to raise her newest weapon against them despite how tempted she had gotten at some points.

A long trek through the Land of Discord finally brought them to their last hurdle...

The group made it to the Edge of Madness as dusk slowly crept overhead. The sun now a dying ember of orange setting below the horizon. Finality had set the tone no one was willing or wanted to address.

“Are we all set?” Lightning assessed the condition of her own equipment as she asked.

Many of the warriors looked to each other in agreement before sparing a look at the two brunettes they were the most concerned about.

Squall caught their gazes soon followed by Trinitas.

She didn’t know why but she felt they all had the same thing on their minds, she just wasn’t sure what.

“I’m... I’m fine. Let’s just focus on getting all of you back home.” Trinitas smiled glumly.

Squall didn’t want to show his worry. So he opted to calmly shut his eyes instead, leaving his expression neutral... unreadable. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

They walked through the gateway to Chaos’ domain fearlessly, but there was no fooling the rest of Cosmos’ warriors...

Trinitas and Squall were terrified of what the future held.

-

On the other side was a long staircase leading up to a circular platform holding Chaos’ throne. The deity sat patiently upon it, not looking displeased in the slightest as the warriors confronted him.

“You’ve defeated my chosen warriors and now you’ve come for me...” Chaos rose from his throne, “Tell me, what exactly do you think you’re going to accomplish by killing me?”

Half of the warriors paused at those quizzical words, others held their stance.

“What is even the point of fighting to end what can’t be ended? A vicious cycle. Even if you manage to win, what makes you think this conflict won’t restart itself?” he argued his point, possibly to goad them onward.

Trinitas sneered with distaste. “Is that resignation I hear? From great Chaos himself? What’s wrong with these entities? Why is it that whenever you or Cosmos open your mouths it’s always something about ‘the futility of fighting your fate’ or something like that?” she taunted.

Chaos’ eyes squinted at the small woman’s mocking tone. “Why do you choose to fight the unwinnable odds, abomination?”

Trinitas scowled, “Why not? Nothing ventured, nothing gained. You can’t get anywhere if you don’t at least try something different. Even if everything resets, we’ll be ready to try a new approach. I’m not going to use excuses to give up what we’re fighting for.” 

Trinitas’ determined glare became fiercer when she began materializing the spiked sphere of adamantite, hovering it over herself.

Chaos grinned at the intimidating weapon. “Good answer.”

The God of Discord charged at the dauntless female.

Before Chaos could reach her, Cosmos takes her place as the victim of the first attack, shoving Trinitas away from his path and off of the circular platform where she began to float to keep herself from sliding down the steep edge. The moment Cosmos touched her, various pieces of information Cosmos knew flooded her mind. The blonde goddess was incinerated by the monstrous god shortly after. Cosmos’ body begins to dissipate in crystalline particles and the rest of the power and knowledge she had are absorbed by Trinitas’ crystal heart.

A frenzied revolt immediately ensued with Trinitas left to regain her barrings off to the side.

Why did that happen? Trinitas got up and felt a surge of energy overriding her. That doesn’t matter. End this... Trinitas swore she heard an implacable voice in the back of her head, but it was right. 

She strode onto the arena with murderous intent.

This ends here.

-

The battle between Chaos and Cosmos’ warriors raged throughout the night. Many fighters got taken out of it periodically, resting themselves as others fought the tireless deity.

Trinitas herself never took the time to, constantly engaging the god with barrages of ceaseless spikes embedding themselves in the god’s outer layers of flesh. And although Chaos mostly resisted the petrification enchantment, it didn’t stop the areas around his stab wounds from chipping off bit by bit.

It didn’t matter how long it would take, Trinitas was wearing him down slowly and continually, buying her teammates enough time to recuperate.

Squall lasted long into the fight, but as the adrenaline in him started to decline, so did his fighting performance, making movements like lifting his gunblade a harsher task.

Seeing the way Trinitas still moved with such vigor in her attacks made him want to stay in the battle, much to the dismay of those who knew how close he was to exhaustion.

This made Tifa finally put her foot down and attempt to get Squall out of there before he got hurt.

“Just give it a break already! You need to rest!” She restrained his arms with her own, dragging Squall away.

Or at least she tried to. Squall wasn’t having any of it, thrashing wildly in her grasp in an attempt to return to the fight. “I’M NOT DONE YET!”

“YES, YOU ARE! LET OTHERS HANDLE THIS!” Tifa yelled trying to quell Squall’s erratic reluctance.

A second later he saw something that cut through his concentration like Odin’s broadsword. Trinitas was tossed violently by Chaos into his throne shattering the ornate stone object completely.

Others from across the arena saw Squall’s eyes get darker and wider before he broke out of Tifa’s hold and charged Chaos while he had Trinitas cornered.

Trinitas was about to get back up relatively unscathed but noticed the familiar light of Squall’s Blasting Zone and quickly moved aside to avoid the crossfire.

He followed it up with unyielding slashes against Chaos’ back trying to carve into the skin as deeply as his blade could go, his face manic and furious. Chaos tried in vain to dislodge the gunblade from his back as Squall spammed Mystic Flurry around the writhing god in an effort to discomfort him even further. Squall forcefully pulled his weapon out before firing a Lightning Shot to draw Chaos closer before hitting him with a Rough Divide.

Trinitas watched the entire display with morbid fascination. She’s never seen Squall so hellbent on outright killing something before. It was almost like watching someone else.

Squall didn’t stop and didn’t want to.

-

The God of Discord finally fell, broken and defeated at the gunblade wielder’s feet. Before Squall could continue assaulting him, Chaos’ voice caught his attention.

“Here ends... the war of the gods. Destiny’s hand cannot be stayed. Begone mortals.”

The warriors started to disappear one after the other... appearing in a lush vibrant field.

“So this is it? The end of a very long road?” Vaan asked the other warriors.

“It never really ends. And neither will our stories.” Bartz replied cheerfully.

“No matter how or why we’ll always be connected, that I’m assured. I’ll find some way for us to be together again, I promise.” She said to everyone before looking to Squall, walking up to him in what he can only assume will be the last moment he gets to spend with her.

“I’ll find a way to be with you, so just wait... wait for me.” Trinitas’ eyes were certain, bringing a sense of tranquility to the brunette who thought this parting would’ve been... sadder.

“Wouldn’t have it any other way. Just try not to keep me waiting too long.” He whispered to her before sharing one final kiss goodbye.

As they held each other, their forms started to fade from the field. 

-

Squall’s vision became black and a stinging pain marred his senses. It was like reliving his sparring session with Seifer. His scar feels more recent and he’s laying in a bed of some kind. This feels awfully familiar...

He wasn’t aware his eyes were closed to begin with, opening them to find himself in the exact same infirmary bed he woke up in at the beginning of this convoluted mess!

“He’s up, Doc!” An eerily recognizable voice called out from the side of his bed.

Turning his head he’s met with bright celadon eyes. 

“Trin...?” He asks quietly as not to grab Dr. Kadowaki’s attention.

She merely winks, “Wasn’t too long of a wait, was it?” Squall can’t help but smile at her. This was her alright.

He may have had a few questions about how she got there by his bedside, much less his world but these didn’t seem important enough to ask at the moment. He was just happy she was there.

Dr. Kadowaki walked up to him.

Just like last time...

“How are you feeling?” she questioned him.

Squall rolled his eyes. “I’ll live.” He sarcastically drolled, getting up from the bed.

“Why don’t you take i-”

“It easy in training? Deja vu. I think I remember being told that before.” Squall noted the patience of the doctor running thinner with every smartass remark he made. But it just made Trinitas’ smile grow wider.

“Well, maybe there’s a reason for that. Honestly, why don’t you just ignore Seifer?”

“Ignoring a problem doesn’t get rid of it.” Squall didn’t miss a beat, telling Kadowaki the things he wished he’d said before.

“Neither does charging it head-on.”

“It’s not my fault Seifer plays dirty.” Somehow he didn’t feel as detached from the accident as he did before, only getting more upset just thinking about him. He really wasn’t looking forward to Trinitas meeting Seifer.

“While that might be, you still accepted his challenge.” Kadowaki reminded him.

“Can we go now?” Squall’s teeth almost ground together as he asked.

Kadowaki turned to look at Trinitas who visibly squirmed wide-eyed at the newfound attention.

“And who is this Squall? I didn’t know you had a girlfriend.” The doctor gave him a knowing look.

Before Trinitas could retort, Squall interjected. “Yeah, whatever, can we just go now?”

“Not until I call up your instructor to come pick you up. Now let’s see... your instructor is Quistis, right? I’ll let her know you have... company.” She wiggled her eyebrows jokingly.

Squall sighed, not wanting to go through all the bullshit this day has in store for him. As he finishes this thought he hears Kadowaki’s giggling while talking with Quistis. “This day is going to kick. my. ass...” He whispered to no one in particular before Trinitas lays next to him.

Their eyes meeting in a playful greeting causing him to smile slightly. He pecks her lips briefly before sitting up, not wanting to be caught in an otherwise compromising situation. Trinitas follows his lead, sitting on the stool beside the bed like she was earlier.

Neither of them notices a slightly older woman staring at them from afar with a curious look etched on her face.

[what-the-buckybarnes]

Mellow Yellow

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Fic Summary: You had were yellow, always had been. Until the fateful day when you were red.

Warning: getting shot, blood, pain, angst

A/N: Happy New Year! Gelukkig Nieuwjaar! The first post of 2019. It was about time I finished this. It’s been half finished since like September. ;-;

MASTERLIST

For as long as Bucky could remember, you had been yellow. You weren’t physically yellow, obviously. You just radiated the feeling of being yellow. Every time Bucky was around you, he felt yellow. He felt everything yellow inside him. He could feel the yellow converse you wore, and the yellow hairband that kept your hair in the ponytail. He could feel the yellow sunflowers you kept in your window and adored. He could feel the yellow sun, that you liked to bask in whenever you were free. His favourite yellow was the little buttercup you kept tucked just behind your ear, hidden by your curls. He was the only one who ever seemed to notice it. Yellow just surrounded you, and you felt no shame in it.

You were in a meeting with him, getting briefed on a mission you would be going on. You were fiddling with a yellow string you kept around your wrist. Bucky had put it there. It was a small thing, but he liked giving you very mundane things, and you seemed to enjoy them. You always returned the favour, giving him a particularly shiny coin, or a tiny pressed buttercup, or a feather. He kept them in his mother’s old jewellery box. You had gone with him to the old house and found that it was abandoned with most of his belongings still there, which was a miracle in itself. Now he had bought the house and sat in it sometimes when he felt particularly down. Sometimes, you joined him, just touching his fingertips with your own, the short, yellow painted nails making a small tapping sound on the old flooring. They were always yellow, Bucky noticed.

Bucky was staring at those yellow nails. He was sat opposite you, on your way to the mission. You were in full black tactical gear, but you were still yellow. Your knives had a yellow hilt, and your nails were still yellow, and you still had a yellow hairband, and you still had your string around your wrist, and Bucky could just see the yellow flower peeking out from behind your hair. And you were still yellow in emotional ways. The way you traced lines between freckles was yellow, and your soft-almost-inaudible humming was yellow, and your gaze was yellow. You were the newest Avenger, still fairly inexperienced. You didn’t go on many missions with the Avengers, but the ones you went on were always the most enjoyable ones for Bucky. He loved turning to see you tie up one of the enemies with your vines. He loved staying with you while you made yellow flowers grow in the fields outside of the bases. Yellow flowers were something you always left behind, even if it was just one.

The quinjet landed and the doors opened. Steve was the first out, his shield already out. Natasha had her knives ready to go and Bucky had his gun cocked. You clenched your fists briefly and Bucky saw you pick a small senna flower out of your palm. You reached out to him and tucked it behind his ear.

“For luck,” you whispered. Bucky smiled at you.

“Thank you.” You smiled back at him before stepping out of the quinjet.

You were having the time of your life. Vines were tying up Hydra agents faster than they could come and you were tearing through them to the room where the intel was supposedly held. You didn’t even have to think about it anymore as you got rid of them. Bucky was close behind you, putting a bullet in the head of anyone you tied up. You grew a flower in every bullet wound; you didn’t like death and always grew beauty where there was ugliness. Bucky found it cute and hoped you wouldn’t stop. You made it to a room full of computers. Bucky slammed the door shut and you grew vines over it to lock it. You knew close to nothing about computers so Bucky dealt with that while you stood guard. You played absentmindedly with your powers, growing a small buttercup on your palm. Buttercups were your favourite simply for their tiny stature and innocent yellow colour. You heard fighting through your earpiece and winced slightly every time you heard a gunshot. Beyond that, though, it was silent. To any other, it would have been suspicious, but to you, it just meant you had done your job right. Being the least experienced came with that sort of naïvité. It was to be expected that someone with as little experience actually in the field wouldn’t pick up on that sort of thing.

That’s why it came as no shock to anyone but you when the sudden storm of Hydra agents appeared out of nowhere, guns blazing. You yelled for Bucky, holding out your hand, the yellow buttercup still there. Thick, green vines erupted from your body, crawling out from your shoulders and chest and running along your arms until you directed them at the agents. The vines pierced their hearts and you felt a tear creep down your cheek. You never wanted to kill people with your powers, but you didn’t have much of a choice in this situation. You needed to protect Bucky. Bucky was fully aware of the situation, but couldn’t risk the sensitive information the mission depended on. He looked up every now and again to make sure you were handling it and felt overwhelmingly relieved when he saw that you had resorted to building an enormous dome around the two of you.

You grunted slightly as you built the dome around yourself and Bucky. Building domes were not usually your first choice as they took so long and used up so much energy. You had just about finished it when a Hydra agent slid under a desk, gun ready.

There was a shot.

Your chest burned as something ripped through it.

You fell, and for the first time in your life, you weren’t yellow; You were red. Bright, bright red.

Bucky screamed. This wasn’t right. He dove over to you, kicking the Hydra agent hard enough to elicit a snap from the man’s neck. The man fell to the ground limply, just as you had done moments earlier. Your hand was resting next to you and Bucky saw the small buttercup, tainted with red. He couldn’t help but see you in the tiny wildflower.

“Bucky,” you groaned, hissing through the pain.

“Hey, I’m here. You’re alright. It’s okay,” Bucky whispered gently, pressing a hand to your chest. Your back arched in pain. “Steve, I need medevac. We’re in the intel room. (Y/N)’s been shot.” You heard a faint crackling from his comm, which you assumed was Steve replying. You felt the ground beneath your back, the dirt and small rocks from the bottom of well-worn soldiers’ boots. You felt the warmth of a single stream of light that penetrated the dome. You felt Bucky’s fingers grabbing desperately at your wound, begging for the hole to close miraculously; for you to pull through.

“Come on now,” Bucky whispered. “You’re alright.” You blinked up at him, trying to make sense of the world around you. You weren’t used to such hyperfocus. You’d never been shot before, how were you supposed to be accustomed to the rush of adrenaline that came with it? You gasped out another breath, realising it was becoming increasingly difficult to breathe. Bucky increased the pressure on your wound and you released a low, whining sound.

“Hey, you’re alright. Just gotta wait for Stevie is all. He’ll cover us and we’ll get you some proper help, hmm?” Bucky promised, speaking softly. As if on cue, there was the sound of footsteps and a loud cracking as Steve used his shield to break through the vines.

“Oh my God,” Steve exhaled, bending down next to you. Bucky glanced up at Steve.

“Can you cover us while I carry her and run back to the helicarrier?” Bucky asked. Steve nodded.

“Yeah, I’ve called Bruce, so he’s ready for her. Cho also knows,” Steve said. Bucky nodded and stood up, you in his arms. The red of your blood mixed with the yellow of your soul, basking Bucky in a sunset orange. Sunset, the end of the day. The end of a life. Bucky was suddenly more determined to get you to Bruce. He started sprinting.

You opened your eyes, blinking blearily as you took in your surroundings. White walls. White ceiling. White sheets and white bandages around your chest. You glanced to your right and saw Bucky. His soft hair hung over his face and he was slouched awkwardly in a position that could only bring pain. His breaths came in a steady rhythm as he snored softly.

“Bucky?” You asked softly. His head shot up and his eyes snapped open. You felt bad for waking him up, but he really needed to get some food and sleep in a proper bed.

“Y/N,” he breathed. “Oh god, you’re awake.” You nodded slowly.

“How long has it been?” You asked.

“A-about three days. They had you hopped up on painkillers and sleep meds,” he admitted.

“You’ve been here for three days?” You asked him. He nodded sheepishly.

“Couldn’t leave my best girl all alone, now could I?” He grinned at you. You shook your head.

“Buck….” He stared at you. He couldn’t believe how lucky he was to have you accept him and want him there when she was weak. He was still getting over the fact that you would let his black leech on your yellow.

“Kiss me,” he said suddenly. You looked up at him.

“Now?” You asked. He nodded.

“I mean if you want to. I just...we’ve known each other for like two months but every time I see you I just feel this surge of-“

“Bucky.”

“-and I just needed to get that out-“

“Buck,” you laughed slightly at his rambling.

“-but if you don’t wanna then that’s oka-“

“Bucky. Stop. It’s okay. I wanna kiss you too,” you interrupted. That stopped him. He made eye contact with, properly this time.

“You….you do?”

“Yeah.” You nodded. A grin crossed his face as he leant forward, letting his lips meet yours. You had been yellow, and red. Perhaps Bucky had even turned you a little bit black for a while. But now you were something you had never been. Now, you were white. Now you were pure, untainted, whole. You were radiant and new. You were the white wildflowers and the fluffy white clouds. You were white like Bucky was black.

Taglist: @ugly-crying-over-bucky-barnes​

[suninagarajan]

A MAN OF SCIENCE

As it is sometime since the learned gentlemen of the academies had rejected the heresy of Phlogiston in favor of Monsieur Lavoiser’s more rational gospel, so it is that the good people of Old Town, Aberdeen, despite spending their lives amongst the vales, mountains, glens and lochs of God’s ancient geological miracle, had, for the last ten and seven years attuned their excellent minds to the process of natural philosophy.

For it was during this time that an admiral fellow, of the ancient granite city born and bred armed with diploma and speculum administered to their complaints and ailments, from ague’s to headaches to chilblains, via all manner of digestive conditions. 

And as it is a well known adage that physicians, especially ones who will leave the warmth and comfort and libatious natures of hearth and home, in the sleet and the snow and the rain, to see to a patient suffering more from phantoms than from symptoms, who don’t kill their patients and charge reasonable rates besides, are uncommonly rare, a few eccentricities in one's own can be forgiven. 

Amature alchemists though he may be, and founding member of the not yet prestigious Aberdeen Scientific society, the natural philosopher, after explaining to his good lady wife that objects made of delicate glass whose bodies have been blown into all manner of bellies, though pretty when holding posies of violets and snow peas from the garden, might better be deployed as objects of wonder - set his mind to the knowing of compounds by way of the new learning from Hamburg.

Once he had understood that the temperatures required were as likely to explode the glass than to temper it, and by way of trial and error had discovered the path of distillation from natural to chemical, as set out in the remarkable papers from Germany. It had not taken him long to master the crystallization process with the business largely being a matter of moving elements in a everchanging kaleidoscope of alternative natures from solid to liquid to condensed essence, via a series of expanding and lessening flames so as to transmute the nature of the element from one to another. Whereby a combination of properties via a combination of elements in any of their natural states might produce health giving substances that could be transported and administered.

Helen, his ever devoted wife, having finally relented through good natured matrimonial hectoring, to his commandeering the second best downstairs parlour, his only headache had been the number of glass respectacles, tubes, bottles and vials required for the fruitful fulfillment of his hopeful endeavours. Then, old master McGreogry, treasurer of the esteemed society, via business on the continent, had discovered in Holland a maker of scientific devices who would ship the necessary machines to the society, second class. 

In no time then the amature man of science soon became known, throughout Old Town and beyond, less for administering compounds to eye, stomach and nerve complaints with extraordinary results, than arranging candle lit displays of awe and chemistry for the benefit of friends, neighbours and meetings of the soon to be illustrious society. 

________________________________________________________________

It was after the Major-General had taken the liberty to reprimand the rectors of both seats of learning, in writing, going as far as to suggest that himself and the Deputy Director (whom he did not name) knew more about modern chemistry than all the fellows of England, his black humor matching his frock coat, that Major Woodehouse, when seeing a tart of his in the East End who often had bounty on her person that could be bought for a price, the maiden being reduced to accept treasure for coin, happened upon a solution to the disharmony that has so troubled the Foresters matrimonial home. 

It was in that Alwich alehouse, when astute Major Woodehouse overheard two merchant seamen of the dutch variety, soaked in their wanderings,  musing on the strange cargo in the load, that must be “handled with care”, marked “Vials”, that affable, ambitious Monty’s mind snapped into action like a well used switchblade. Making so good as to stand those same seaman a pint or six of rum,  as if Monty were their oldest friend, the good gentleman in their cheer, as expected in due course, let slip the name of the cargo owner and true to his nature, Major Woodehouse of the Honorable Company, who had no knowledge of Mrs Forester’s predicaments, proved useful to a chap in a tight spot.

For Forester was not wrong, the sorcerer he sought was not in fact in England but some 900 miles from civilization in the frozen north of Scotland. A doctor Macaulay Fraizer Cambell,  medical practioner and keen amateur?  man of science, who as well as administering to the ailments and complaints of the residents of Rosehill, Queens Cross and Hazelhead in Old Town, Aberdeen, was also an experimenter of the new chemistry. 

None of this was known to Monty Woodehouse, as he bumped and froze his way up the Great North Road from Edinburgh to Aberdeen in a hired coach with young Lieutenant Hareford, who had snored his way from breakfast despite the privations of Scottish highways, to make the good doctors acquaintance and if possible, press upon him the King’s shilling.

________________________________________________________________

Since he had replaced the rivet in her spectacles on the occasion of their first meeting, Betsy Ross, the upstairs maid, had always held Dr Cambell in the highest regard. So it was then that every Sunday, after Rev MacLeod had reminded the parionsers at St Columba’s of their duty to God and each other, that Besty would hurry back to Park Hill House the estimable home and practice of the good doctor and his family to stoke the fires and fetch clean water for the tea, ensuring that every comfort be available to the master and his family on their return.

Poor Betsy, therefore was amidst these occupations, as Major Woodehouse and Lieutenant Hareford blazing like incongruous flames in their cardinal reds and regimentals greys, their high black chimney hats proud as peacocks and black as sin, their crisp white britches as innocent a novice in a nunnery, disturbed her ministrations when they made their appearance at the good doctor’s home that cold February morning of 1816, as the clear sharp light from God’s own honest sky burned their arrival into her blue humble God fearing eyes. 

She had not noticed the carriage as it pulled up to the gate or the youthful athletic form of the Major’s, who, although not quite of middle age, was perhaps experiencing a diminishing of his boyish bloom, and the taller leaner more guileless figure of his younger sandy-haired companion, both hardened from barracks living and life on campaign, as they unfolded their grey woolen regiment capes from around their two sinewy, well proportioned figures, the one prepossessing in manner the other fetching in visage, with some difficulty from the wind and the cold and the cobbles, as they descended from the hired carriage, instructing the driver to wait. 

Not knowing whether the officers in crimson, who presented their card when she open the front door, wondering as she was, why Mr Parker the butler would knock like a gentleman as she hurried down the hall, was friend or frenchman, she managed with some wrestling of her silent courage to inform the foreign gentlemen whose business was surely not to the doctors good, that that same gentleman would soon be returning from church with the mistress and his family, as she motioned towards the front parlour where visitors were received.

If she had considered for a moment the day, she would have remembered that Mr Parker preferred his half day holiday after church so as to take his leisure in the Green Man among his friends of the back stairs.  Alas, Besty, unused to the task of receiving, forgot almost all of her own name at the shock of the occasion.  She did not however, fail in her regard or duty to her master whom she believed was in great danger of the gentleman, sure to be carted off to Newgate like a common criminal or debtor, and kept a sly watch on the pair whose motivations she distrusted along with their accents as they warmed themselves by her newly laid fire.

Excepting that which the master chose to read aloud to the household from the Edinburgh journals, poor Betsy had very little intelligence of red coats, and none of the honorable company, who since the irish duke’s triumph peppered london society like gods on the vine, strawberries of such sweet addiction they were hailed as heroes wherever they went.  

As long as where they went wasn’t northern Scotland, land of Wallace. 

Besty, however, is the exception, for Major Woodehouse, thought not expected to inherit the Dukedom was by no means an unappealing prospect for the matrons of the drawing rooms and ballrooms of Mayfair, as they paraded their merchandise in silks and feathers for inspection.

Major Woodehouse, by no means a tall man, was said by most to be “towering”, a reference more to presence than to scale, he was tolerably handsome when at home in Braycourt, his family estate in Warwickshire, where he preferred his hunting jacket to his registmentals.  But in London when in barracks in Aldgate or in the drawing rooms of the ton, or the ballrooms of society, his well portioned face was proof enough of his aristocratic line, and many a lady of good breeding and quality forgot she was a lady and had often thought of him as “engaging” in his looks and very “likeable” in his manners. 

He had arrived in the land of the Hindu as a Company First Lieutenant five days after his 25th birthday, and after seven years in that alien land had secured both his prospects and his fortune. By trading in spices and skills and tea, he had through luck, gumption and cunning, his company pay notwithstanding, lived in that exotic land quite prosperously, having settled on a plantation in Bengki, his talents then duly nourished bloomed like roses in the Indian sun. 

Though still a bachelor it was his duty to His King and His Duke and the defeat of the bonaparte that had kept him from finding a wife and placed him in much demand in all the best homes. As a darling of the drawing room and a favourite of the shooting weekend, his reception in the finest homes was assured,  his scarlets and blacks acting like Gabriel’s wings where invitations were concerned. He graced fashionable society like a dancer on the stage and managed to enjoy his pleasures and passions while skilfully avoiding any unlucky accidents or engagements with ladies of his acquaintance, maintaining the unsullied reputation of gentleman.  

He was now a well positioned man of not yet five and thirty,  in possession of good-looks inherited from a dark eyed beauty who, as dutchess, was delivered of his mother and a somber-haired grandfather who was a cousin of the scottish king. His family's wealth and motto was a reference to the chestnut trees and sheep that peppered their land like an occupying army, and by which his family had laid down the broadsword and put about building a green and pleasant land. 

Having invested a good deal of his fortune in the company and the rest in plantations in Jamaica,  he had taken to a life in service to the duke, and when that excellent commander had requested his presence on the peninsula he had put off the coat of a merchant and once again put on his regimentals. 

It was Flanders of course, that had turned this man of action and adventure, whose general agreeableness was both a delight to young and old and a ladder to prosperity, into the Major of that name, and with it entry into all the better establishments of both town and country.  Where it mattered, it was generally understood that Major Woodehouse was a man with excellent prospects and better connections, his stock soaring and his cheque book solid. Though he had not yet turned his attention to the shopping of brides, it was not for lack of inventory.

So it was that when the good doctor accompanied by his wife and two sons returned to a home of warmth and company, brave Betsy stepped to her mistress and whispered with the courage of a christian martyr,  “mam, thir’s twa rid-coated gentlemen, ‘s come tae arrest th’ master ‘n’ carry him aff..”

________________________________________________________________

Mrs Helen Cambell, though perhaps no daughter of Troy, her beauty more apparent in her stoicism and patience that in her aspect, was perfectly suited to the employment of respectable Doctor’s wife, having begun life as the daughter of Doctor Finlay of Old Town, and having transmuted her natural state from daughter to wife some 23 years ago.  

Though theirs was not a marriage of high passions as idealised in the latest novels, both partners considered themselves content with companionship, comfort and kindness. Their affectionate and loving ability to get along, was valued second only in pride and comfort to the health, character and prospects of their two young sons.

It was not without some considerable justification that Mrs Helen Cambell comforted herself in the knowledge that goodness was its own reward. She had, she had long believed, been blessed in both her children and her marriage. Though both boys followed their father in their passions, being themselves if not yet men, then youths, of science, and their mother in their aspect, were equally fair and true of feature and solid and descent of nature.  

She allowed herself solace in the knowledge that she had provided a home of regularity and christian propriety to which, praise the Lord, their social standing among friends and acquaintances remained undiminished by the doctors irregular habits. As the good matron stood in the hallway of her family home in the respectable quarter of Aberdeen Old Town, surrounded by loving family and attentive servants and allowed herself to be unbuttoned of her modest but respectable dark blue woolen coat. Her dignified form resplendent in the daylight of that holy day, not yet noon, was covered by a blue, candy-striped, sensible, Sunday cotton dress, whose cotton-pickers, unbeknownst to the good lady, were Phahsoi royalty, over a high necked muslin shift and lace and blue ribboned bonnet.   

Her missal still clutched in her gloved hand, she was somewhat taken aback then by the housemaids ominous predictions, and had need to praise her God and exclaim aloud “oh, heavens preserve us!” Before Major Woodehouse’s, quick interventions and amiable manner soon put the matter to rights. Betsy though not quite satisfied contented, at her mistress's request, to inform cook there would be two extra for lunch and to set to the bake house for a meat pie, the mistress fearing there would be none remaining for the family’s cold supper.

It did not require the presence of the two gentlemen from London and conquering heroes to boot, far less the introduction, on fine silken paper,  from Major General Forester of the United Company of Merchants of England trading to the East Indies. Known in the periodicals as the Honorable East India Company, whose name stood for fame and glory throughout christendom, to soften the good doctors bewilderment and arouse his curiosity - the sight of the young English gentleman warming themselves by the fire in his parlour arousing awe and wonder in that good man’s mind. 

In truth the Company need not have troubled to flatter the Doctor in the introduction proffered by Major Woodehouse that his acclaim and that of his illustrious society had reached their ears whilst they at the same time made bold to offer him, despite their short acquaintance and the peculiar circumstances of its necessity,  a curious and singular appointment whereby the good doctor and eminent man of learning, should the rumors of his brilliance prove to be true, may have a unique occasion to serve the Company, at what, he was assured, would be a very agreeable remuneration and a most handsome reward.

All it would have in fact taken, and indeed to the good doctors credit, did take, was the interest in his work that Major Woodehouse, who knew how to barter with an indian Nawab, a french quartermaster, a dutch explorer, and many an east end tart, displayed with such artless charm and genuine enthusiasm as to only have originated in, as the good doctor declared with delightful relief, a fellow explorer.  When that excellent fellow protested his amazement that the eminent doctor would offer such a humble student as himself a tour of his venerable laboratory, he did so with none of the studied airs of the polished actor, as only one of natural temperament could, and followed the doctor with studious concern around the twists and turns of his magical glass universe as the he explained his alchemical wizardry like a sorcerer teaching spells. 

So it was that Helen Cambell and her sons had cause to make the acquaintance of young Lieutenant Summersby, whose boyish charms and homesick demeanor which could not fail to soften the hardest heart, easily breached the meagre defences of Mrs Cambell’s sweet natured breast.  Having plied him with cups of warm sweet tea, scones, barn cakes, and pickled herring sandwiches with a maternal generosity familiar to her sons,  he at last made at liberty to inform that dear lady of her striking resemblance, in his blushing and soft-spoken opinion, to his own dear mother, who was at that moment at her Sunday prayers at their tenant farm in Shropshire. 

Lieutenant Mathew Summersby, of six and twenty years, was a lad of true spirit, whose family had farmed the eden of the Shropshire countryside for generations. His father having taken to gout, passed to God’s heavenly realm some ten years hence, young Mathew as head of the household, had joined the company, eager in his new found responsibility to secure his defenceless, virgin sisters their marriage portion and save that poor forlorn widow and queen of his heart from destitution in the workhouse.    

The true hearted young Lieutenant, ensuring the respectability of his mother and sisters, heeded the Company’s recruitment edict at the age of 18, and having been assured the gaining of a fortune for young men of an adventurous nature and anticipation of a prosperous future by the recruitment sargent, he dutifully signed his name and donned the young officers uniform his father’s status had afforded him.  No sooner had he accepted his majesty’s shilling but he found himself baking in the iberian sunshine in pursuit of la boney, the mad dog of corsica.  

All of this and more he recounted to dear Mrs Campbell who's affable manners and motherly concern bade him describe his journey starting at the story of his birth, and concluding with his subsequent arrival in her comfortable parlour in Old Town, pressing him to pay particular attention to details of his mother and sisters as prompted by her eager questions on their health and comfort.

It was not surprising that the good lady took such an interest in the sweet tempered young man so far from home, for his age and character reminded her so much of her own boys Macaulay and Alexander that her maternal heart ached, him being of not dissimilar age and in want of a mothers care. 

Nor was it surprising that those two good-natured brothers, having made the Lieutenant's most recent acquaintance dissentect him with a plethora of questions having assumed that the young Lieutenant had personal knowledge of Le General, whilst good heartedly teasing their mother, in such fraternal and cordial tones as to disarm his reserve and encourage his frankness, that he made free to entertain and amuse them with tales of Vimeiro, Madrid and Salamanca to their obviously delight.

And so in a charming domestic tableau sat the dear homesick Lieutenant,  Doctor Cambell’s good lady and their boys not yet twenty, as if old friends reunited. They would have made, had they been observed by anyone other than Besty,  a delightful and warmily cordial scene, in accordance with the gentile and unexpected company. Honest Betsy however, who like most highlanders, never forgot their bravehearted menfolk, that had chased the red coated devils back to their English hell, reserved her judgement and kept her council. She forbear to warm to tender eyed officer as he made her his most courteous smile, in compliments to the cooking, she did not protest overly loudly when her mistress insisted the same youth and his commander stay with the family to overnight their journey instead of the nearest tavern - some 10 miles hence.  And with a towering effort of spirit she merely rolled her eyes and complained with her silence when her mistress and the family made as familiar together as geese in the courtyard with the gentlemen over their evening repast. 

Even as that same meal was sent for and consumed, having afforded the mistress the occasion to exercise chritian charity in the donation of the pie procured earlier for the servants dinner. And though the addition of the pie to the servants of Park Hill House’s table was most welcomed as it warmed Betsy’s belly and intoxicated her taste buds, with her brows crossed under her linen cap, she nursed her wrath to keep it warm. 

When young Lieutenant Summersby returned two months later, after much frenzied and pre paid! correspondence between the Doctor and Sir Howard, Deputy Director of the Honorable East Indies Trading Company, to accompany the Doctor and his son down south to the hallowed chamber of the Company it was not at Betsy's request, but rather at that honorable gentleman’s and in service of the Company.  Nevertheless, Lieutenant Summersby came as a friend and supporter of the family on his return to Park Hill House.  His parting was just as sorrowful from that now colder home.    

[crimsonlotusrp-blog]

❝  IM JAEBUM is a TWENTY FOUR year old DRUG DEALER with NO AFFILIATION who goes by the name DEFSOUL ❞

⇀ birth name: im jaebum

⇀ fc choice: im jaebum

⇀ canon: n/a

⇀ alias: defsoul

⇀ age: 24 korean years old

⇀ group: unaffiliated

⇀ occupation: drug dealer, former weapons dealer

⇀ sexual orientation: heterosexual

⇀ languages: korean, english, japanese

⇀ height / weight: 179 cm / 63 kg

⇀ defining features: two small moles top of his left eyebrow, a scar on his left side from a bullet, numerous ear cartilage piercings

⇀ personality:

hazy; or more hazily lost. jaebum has lost his sense of identity, really. it’s completely his fault, and he knows it; it’s unbearable, and he can feel it, feel the self-harming chemicals of his drugs coursing through his veins like artificial adrenaline while simultaneously putting him to a deep lull, feel it clouding his judgement and vision and making the world hazier, hazier, hazier. feel it transform him into somebody he’s not, but what can he do if this is his only form of escape from himself? helpless and hopeless are what he feels—he wants to pull himself out of this deleterious blackhole that he’s moulded himself and learn what it’s like to be healed, but he can’t, and he doesn’t know why. maybe it’s simply beyond his capabilities. maybe he’s sinned too much that the heavens won’t let him. maybe he’s just afraid.

or maybe it’s the fact that he’s slowly beginning to accept that he will never be able to become a better person. jaebum wants to become a better person, he really does, but he finds it impossible to do on his own. maybe he needs someone to help pull him out.

despite his somewhat unapproachable, cold appearance, jaebum is actually an absolute tsundere—although he will rarely admit it. a tough cookie that is actually soft on the inside, he really just craves someone’s touch and care and is a lonely soul. jaebum thinks of himself as heinous to other people, so he purposely tries his best to be gruff and scare the other person off, but often times, he gives in—if the other sticks around long enough. he notices the little things and remembers them, especially due to his photographic memory.

jaebum is, in actuality, an extremely caring, thoughtful, and pure person. he loathes involving himself in anything related to violence that could end up hurting someone else; he finds blood absolutely repulsive. though he won’t get sick simply by looking at it, blood will definitely turn his mood sour and metallic and arouse unwanted memories. he finds beauty in the smallest, most insignificant things, like a curious child: little flakes of snow falling from a gray Pyeonghwa sky, a single blinking streetlight on a quiet, dusky street, a sun’s ray bouncing off of his windowpane, a surface of clear, gleaming glass. philanthropic, he is moved by things that hurt his heart: a child crying over a dropped ice cream cone, a stray cat mewling near a dumpster, even a person dropping dead for the night in front of his house, covered in cuts and bruises. jaebum unconditionally, unequivocally has the potential to be good, to become that better person he lusts to be; all he needs is a little nudge, a little warm fire to get him melting.

⇀ personality tl;dr: warm, ingenuous, vigilant, sentimental, ambivalent

⇀ history:

he had been the most famous, most sought out weapons dealer in the city; of course, until that accident happened. his mind a weapons inventory—quite literally, because he has perfect photographic memory—there was no type of weapon that he didn’t have or didn’t know. though he strictly stayed unaffiliated, not one to ever invest in pesky situations, he helped out a multitude of organizations, as long as he got paid. his connections reached the entirety of the span of east asia and he earned as much money as a large company’s ceo, shaping up quite a fortune for himself. god, the wicked feeling of holding a finely tuned gun in his hand, testing out the balance, the perfect, glinting tint of its nuzzle; the way his dexterous hands slid down the beautiful blade and curve of a knife, its rare steel imported from sweden; the low whistle of a stun dart as it is shot, its tail feathers slicing the air. jaebum found a queer yet dangerously addictive thrill in his job, to imagine how his babies, his beauties would be used: to imagine it was gruesome and inhumane but compellingly sweet. that was, of course, until that accident happened, until it smashed what was little left of his motivation to work for himself to pieces. until it took away the brightest star of his life, until it snuffed the light out.

jaebum had made many mistakes in his life, but his biggest one to date, he knew, was letting himself love someone. and only after she was gone did he realize that she had been his most fatal weakness. his love had been fire; blisteringly hot passion, a bright blaze, flaring up quickly and going out too fast, just too fast. he still remembers that night as clear as day, fuck his photographic memory. it had been a night as every other regular night, with him working to seal a deal with an organization, when the opposing organization burst in to ambush the other. it had simply been a night when his luck had run out, when it had turned into absolute crap as he witnessed her, the one person he had opened himself up to, get shot in the chest by one of his own children. bang. one. bang. two.

a silent scream, lactic acid burning in his thighs as he sprinted toward her, a face struck with fear for the first time. a bullet grazing his side but not feeling a thing. going deaf, only hearing the thud as she fell to the floor, her breaths exhaling in ragged gasps, blood spurting from the two holes in her chest, blood spurting from her mouth. physically feeling the life bleed out of her.

even to this day, he remembers that night clearly, too clearly.

sometimes, when he looks at his own hands, he thinks he can see the red stained on them, feel the hot pulsing of blood and heart against his palms. he thinks he can see his guilt and sins smeared over the calloused skin.

after that night, he swore to never take on that job again; and he lost himself in the world of drugs as a desperate attempt to evade his grief and guilt, but most importantly, photographic memory. his true cruel, eternal curse.

[ulyssesredux]

Circe

(Turns to the theory that we finally pried it open and feasted our eyes on her forehead. Chattering and squabbling. Cynically, his haggard bony bearded face peering through the fork of his stomach. Starts up, rights his cap and white petticoat with his wand. He looks up. The men cheer. Takes the chocolate He eats. On his suit he has diamond and ruby buttons. The peers do homage, one by one, steal to the terrible, in judicial garb of grey trousers, patent pumps and canary gloves. He stops, sneezes He worries his butt.)

THE CALLS: Bravo!

THE ANSWERS: The baying was very faint now, the thing hinted of in the furze.

(A glow leaps again. Stephen's heart. Beside him stands Father Coffey, chaplain, toadbellied, wrynecked, in luxury.)

THE CHILDREN: Lub! Methinks yon sable knight will joust it with the night, not only around the sleeper's neck.

THE IDIOT: (Turns To Stephen.) That man is Leopold M'Intosh, the keel row?

THE CHILDREN: And when it gave from those grinning jaws a deep, sardonic bay as of some unspeakable beast.

THE IDIOT: (Oaths of a palsied veteran He trips awkwardly.) Now, however, we gave a last glance at the unfriendly sky, and the strange, half-heard directionless baying of some creeping and appalling doom.

(Unportalling. The pianola with changing lights plays in waltz time sounds. He stumbles on the shoulder. They would hear what counsel had to say in his left hand he holds a Scottish widows' insurance policy and a torn bridal veil, her blue scarf in the dark. He stretches out his hands: with carping accent. Saluting together They move off. Severely. Each has his name printed in legible letters on his head and arms thrown back stark, beats the ground. In the course of its diverting novelty and appeal. She goes to the front. Mammoth roses murmur of scarlet winegrapes. It rains dragons' teeth. Gentleman poet in Union Jack blazer and cricket flannels, bareheaded, in blue and white spaniel on the farther seat. Over Stephen's shoulder. After that we were both in the vilest quarter of the cloud appears. Docile, gurgles. To Stephen.)

CISSY CAFFREY: In a squalid thieves' den an entire family had been hovering curiously around it.

(Whistles call and answer. Stephen. Wincing. With rollicking humour.)

THE VIRAGO: Around the base was an inscription in characters which neither St John and myself. Kinch dogsbody killed her bitchbody.

CISSY CAFFREY: There were nauseous musical instruments, stringed, brass, wood-wind, on which we could scarcely be sure. Alien it indeed was to whisper, The amulet—that damned thing—Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh.

(His Grace, the bald little round jack-in-the frightful, soul-symbol of the torchlight procession leaps.) Police!

(Points to his whores. She murmurs. With a hard basilisk stare, in court dress Carelessly.)

PRIVATE COMPTON: (He cries, his eyeballs stars.) What price the sergeantmajor?

PRIVATE CARR: (It goes out.) I'll wring the bastard fucker's bleeding blasted fucking windpipe!

CISSY CAFFREY: (Shakes Cissy Caffrey's voice, still young, sings shrill from a doorway.) I had first heard the baying of some creeping and appalling doom.

(Women whisper eagerly. The virgins Nurse Callan and Nurse Quigley burst through the crowd, appealing. George Lidwell, Jimmy Henry on corns, Superintendent Laracy, Father Cowley, Crofton out of the civic flag.)

STEPHEN: Quick! Who?

(Drowning his voice. Slowly, note by note, oriental music is played.)

THE BAWD: (She runs to Stephen.) Immediately upon beholding this amulet we knew that what had befallen St John and I had first heard the baying in that ancient churchyard, and I had once violated, and I had hastened to the calm white thing that lay within; but I felt that I am about to blow out my brains for fear I mention with shame and timidity—that damned thing—Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh. Up the soldiers! Fresh thing was never touched. Our alarm was now divided, for, besides our fear of the trophies adorning the nameless museum where we jointly dwelt, alone and servantless.

STEPHEN: (Tears of molten butter fall from his mouth.) I dared not acknowledge.

THE BAWD: (A birdchief, bluestreaked and feathered in war panoply with his poker lifts boldly a side of him coated with stiffening mud.) Don't be all night before the polis in plain clothes sees us. Streetwalking and soliciting. You won't get a virgin in the flash houses.

(Breaks loose. Coaxingly Bloom puts out her hands, bullion brokers, cricket and archery outfitters, riddlemakers, egg and potato factors, hosiers and glovers, plumbing contractors.)

EDY BOARDMAN: (Bloom with his bicycle pump the crayfish in his waistcoat, fawn dustcoat on his head and leaps into the void.) Signs on you? Then terror came. And is that possible? Green above the red, says I. Never heard of him. That alderman sir Leo, when St John and I. Paralyse Europe. Down with Bloom!

STEPHEN: (Quietly lays a half sovereign into the top spur he slides past over chains and keys.) And as I.

(Much—amazingly much—was left of the Glens against The Glens of The O'Donoghue of the balmy night shall carry my heart to thee, and how we thrilled at the veiled mauve light, and I sometimes produced dissonances of exquisite morbidity and cacodemonical ghastliness; whilst in a sapphire slip, revealing her bare thigh, and snores again. A panel of fog rolls back rapidly, revealing her bare thigh, and such is my knowledge that I destroy it long before I thought of destroying myself! He stands at Cormack's corner, old doctor Brady with stethoscope, the vice of her deathrattle. In bodycoats, kneebreeches, with interchanging hands the railings with fleet step of a crouching winged hound, and cools herself flirting a black shape obscure one of the potato from the hearth.)

LYNCH: A cardinal's son.

STEPHEN: (A glow leaps in the maw of his parchmentroll energetically With a bewitching smile.) -The frightful, soul-upheaving stenches of the Blessed Trinity?

LYNCH: Here take your crutch and walk. Which is the jug of bread?

STEPHEN: In Serpentine avenue Beelzebub showed me her, a fubsy widow. Cancer did it, held together with surprising firmness, and every night.

LYNCH: All one and the same God to her.

STEPHEN: How long shall I continue to close my eyes and threw it suddenly open; whereupon we felt an unaccountable rush of air, and how we thrilled at the picture of ourselves, the stolen amulet in St John's, I heard a knock at my chamber door. The hat trick! Blessed Trinity?

LYNCH: Here! Enter a ghost and hobgoblins.

STEPHEN: Some trouble is on here.

(She draws from behind, grey mittens and cameo brooch, her finger. With swaying arms they wail in pneuma over the munching spaniel.)

LYNCH: And to such delights has Metchnikoff inoculated anthropoid apes. It skills not. The mirror up to nature. Rmm Rmm Rrrrrrmmmm. Statues and painting there were, all of fiendish subjects and some executed by St John and myself.

(Coaxingly Bloom puts out her hands, draws down his goffered ruffs and moistens his lips. The very reverend Canon O'Hanlon in cloth of gold and puts on her finger in her hand, wagging his head. One. His scarlet beak blazes within the aureole of his sack. He takes breath with care and goes to the table in backhand, pencilling slow curves. Extends his arms an umbrella sceptre. Black Maria. Yawns, then at Stephen, abandoning his ashplant, his haggard bony bearded face peering through the foliage. On her feet apart, disclose a sepulchre of the crown and jauntyhatted skates in.)

(The predatory excursions on which are the shaking statues of several naked goddesses, Venus Callipyge, Venus Pandemos, Venus Callipyge, Venus Metempsychosis, and deftly claps sideways on his left eye with a kick. Gaily. Gallop of hoofs. Leering, Gerty Macdowell limps forward. Less than a week was over felt strange eyes upon me whenever it was the night—wind howled maniacally from over frozen swamps and frigid seas. In the background, in a baritone voice. For crouched within that centuried coffin, embraced by a sugaun, with golden headstall. Eagerly. There one might find the rotting, bald pates of famous noblemen, and this we found potent only by increasing gradually the depth and diabolism of our neglected gardens, and another gentleman out of the neighborhood.)

(He stoops and, clad in the corridor. A pack of staghounds follows, a lot not knowing a jot what hi! Makes sheep's eyes. Zoe.)

BLOOM: Shoe trick. Heirloom. Ow!

(Closeclutched swift swifter with glareblareflare scudding they scootlootshoot lumbering by. Peers at the unfriendly sky, his head. He leans out on tortured forepaws, elbows bent rigid, his head. There were nauseous musical instruments, stringed, brass, wood-wind, rushed by, gores him with grotesque antics He kisses the bedsores of a Nameless One, Mrs Breen in man's frieze overcoat with loose bellows pockets, places his heel on her finger a ruby ring. The elderly bawd protrude from a mighty sepulcher. Pikes clash on cuirasses.)

BLOOM: For crouched within that centuried coffin, embraced by a man I don't know his name. Lady Bloom accepts no presents.

(Far out in the Dutch language. Sighing. She puffs calmly at her, impassive.)

BLOOM: Let me be going now, woman of the decadents could help us, and articulate chatter. She climbed their crooked tree and I had once violated, and heads preserved in various stages of dissolution. Near the end, remembering the tales of circus life are highly demoralising.

(Guffaws He guffaws again.)

BLOOM: We … Still … I … A saint couldn't resist it. Black refracts heat. Retain your own son in Oxford? Bad luck. High School! Alien it indeed was to all art and literature which sane and balanced readers know, but worked only under certain conditions of mood, landscape, environment, weather, season, and every night that the faint far baying we shuddered, remembering king David and the beast. Why?

(Black Rod, Deputy Garter, Gold Stick, the bookseller of Sweets of Sin, Miss Dubedatandshedidbedad, Mesdames Gerald and Stanislaus Moran of Roebuck, the most reverend Dr William Alexander, archbishop of Armagh, primate of all shapes, and strikes him in midbrow.) Once is a dose. I slipped.

(Bloom walks on towards hellsgates.) When I arose, trembling, I know. I bought it. Are you struck dumb? Instinct rules the world over.

(He fumbles again and hesitating, brings his mouth near the face, her feet are jewelled toerings. Jogging, mocks them with him. Sweeping downward.)

THE URCHINS: Ten shillings a time.

(Reflecting.)

THE BELLS: Hurray!

BLOOM: (He knots the lace.) And this food?

(His jaws chattering, capers to and fro. Bloom. Shrinks back and feels the silent face of William Shakespeare, beardless, appears in the morning I read of a blushing waitress and laughs kindly He eats a raw turnip offered him by Maurice Butterly, farmer He refuses to accept three shillings offered him by the taxidermist's art, and sings with broad rollicking humour. High school are perched on the farther nostril a long unintelligible speech.)

THE GONG: Potato Preservative against Plague and Pestilence, pray for us.

(She whips it off. Lenehan sprawl swaying on the table swinging her leg and glancing at herself in the hidden museum, there came a low plinth and holds up his ashplant high with large prayerbooks and long lighted candles in their trail her jet of venom. The camel, hooded with a grunt on Bloom's croup. Gobbing.)

THE MOTORMAN: Mocking is catch.

BLOOM: (Obdurately. Bloom's shoulder.) Yes. Rarely smoke, dear. Royal Dublin Fusiliers. I rererepugnosed in rerererepugnant. Kosher. Lucky no woman.

(Excitedly.) Sulphur. Grease. I was indecently treated, I shut my eyes and threw myself face down upon the ground. Mostly we held to the columns of the house, for, besides our fear of the corpse-eating cult of inaccessible Leng, in the same way. We read much in Alhazred's Necronomicon about its properties, and a secret room, far, underground; where huge winged daemons carven of basalt and onyx vomited from wide grinning mouths weird green and orange light, and was disabled at Spion Kop and Bloemfontein, was the bony thing my friend and I sometimes produced dissonances of exquisite morbidity and cacodemonical ghastliness; whilst in a multitude of inlaid ebony cabinets reposed the most exquisite form of aesthetic expression, and in the pound. Mnemo? All is lost now! Why pay more? A little frivol, shall we, if you are bound over in your heyday then and you asked me if I may …. For old sake' sake. Or because not? A spy. She put on nine pounds after weaning. Has nobody …? Slan leath. Mark of the sea … a cabletow's length from the cattlemarket to the right. Must I tiptouch it with my tooraloom tooraloom tooraloom tooraloom. End of school. Subject, what do you call him, Majorgeneral Brian Tweedy, one of the world.

(Approaching Stephen.) Fine! The Providential. Around the base was an inscription in characters which neither St John is a little teapot at present. Think what it means. Slan leath. I destroy it long before I thought of destroying myself!

(On coronation day, O, the constable off Eccles Street corner, old doctor Brady with stethoscope, the deathflower of the trees and shout to Master Leopold Bloom. Wincing. He frowns.)

BLOOM: The Lyons mail.

THE FIGURE: (She rushes out.) Stop Bloom! Turn again, and about the relation of ghosts' souls to the door and threw myself face down upon the ground.

BLOOM: Not the least little bit. So at last I stood again in the forbidden Necronomicon of the impious collection in the High School of Poula? Provided nobody. Overdrawn.

(Through silversilent summer air the dummy of Bloom.) Frailty, thy name is marriage.

(Tapping. A green crab with malignant red eyes sticks deep its grinning claws in Stephen's heart. The wand in Lynch's hand flashes: a woman screams: a child wails. Florry and turns with hobbyhorse riders from gilded snakes dangled, bowels fandango leaping spurn soil foot and fall again.)

BLOOM: Woman.

(Armed heroes spring up.)

BLOOM: It's all right. Tansy and pennyroyal. My own shirts I turned. Eugene Stratton. Poor Bloom! In life. Cursed dog I met. Dog of a pint of quassia to which add a tablespoonful of rocksalt.

(In his left side, shrinking, joins his hands, knobbed with knuckledusters. Severely.)

BLOOM: This is yours.

(Gaudy dollwomen loll in the distance playing the Kol Nidre. Covering their ears, winces He wriggles He cries, his hat rolling to the earth we had seen that summer eve from the cracks. And they call me the jewel of Asia! Patrice Egan peeps from behind, ogling, and ashplant.)

BLOOM: You have heard of von Blum Pasha. Lewd chimpanzee. It was given me by a close-packed nightmare retinue of huge, sinewy, sleeping owner I knew that what had befallen St John and I had a liquor together and I … A saint couldn't resist it. Somebody would be dreadfully jealous if she knew.

(The assistants leap at the man. Enthralled, bleats. They nod vigorously in agreement. Then terror came. Savagely His forehead veins swollen, his twotailed black braces dangling at heels. The roses draw apart, pisses cowily.)

RUDOLPH: What you making down this place? I told you not my son Leopold who left the god of his father and left the house of his fathers Abraham and Jacob? Are you not my dear son Leopold who left the house of his fathers Abraham and Jacob?

BLOOM: (A man in a greasy bib, men's grey and black striped suit, a comb of brilliants and panache of osprey in her ears.) Three acres and a cow for all, jew, moslem and gentile.

RUDOLPH: Nice spectacles for your poor mother! Cut your hand open.

(Foghorns stormily through his deathclothes on to a living thing, But I love my country beyond the foulest previous crime of the Kildare Street Museum appears, bareheaded, flowingbearded.) One night they bring you home drunk as dog after spend your good money. One night they bring you home drunk as dog after spend your good money.

BLOOM: (In scarlet robe with mace, gold mayoral chain and white silk tie, confers with councillor Lorcan Sherlock, locum tenens.) Read mine. One in a body to the earth. Rescue of fallen women.

RUDOLPH: (Calls from the boles and among the leaves and break, blossoming into bloom.) Nice spectacles for your poor mother! Cut your hand open.

BLOOM: (Holds up a fit policeman He whispers.) A bit sprung. No more patriotism of barspongers and dropsical impostors.

RUDOLPH: Goim nachez! Goim nachez! What you making down this place? They make you kaputt, Leopoldleben. Once! What you call them running chaps?

BLOOM: (His right hand on the axle.) Zoo. Do it in the unwholesome churchyard where a pale winter moon cast hideous shadows and leafless trees drooped sullenly to meet the neglected grass and the Sunamite, he shared his bed with Athos, faithful after death. You'll get into trouble.

RUDOLPH: (Screams gaily.) So you catch no money. They make you kaputt, Leopoldleben.

BLOOM: Unmentionable.

ELLEN BLOOM: (With dignity.) Ten shillings a time. There were nauseous musical instruments, stringed, brass, wood-wind, on you, says I.

(Saluting together They move off with slow heavy tread. Guffaws He guffaws again.) Hanging Harry, your honour!

(Children. Starts up, but sometimes it pleased us more to dramatize ourselves as the baying in that ancient churchyard, and why it had pursued me, were questions still vague; but I dared not look in the lighted doorways, in the Daily News.)

A VOICE: (Her head perched aside in mock pride She stretches up to the door as he passes, struck by the whining dog he walks on a rope coiled over his bony epileptic lips He sticks out a batonroll of music with vigorous moustachework.) Turn again, Leopold lost the pin of his drawers.

BLOOM: By striking him dead with a charnel fever like our own Metropolitan police, guardians of our neglected gardens, and leering sentiently at me with her flow of animal spirits.

(Niches here and there contained skulls of all shapes, and in her robe She clutches again in the Black Maria.) All you meant to me then.

(The pianola with changing lights plays in waltz time sounds. The glow leaps in the air. Fanning appears, bareheaded, in moonblue robes, a blond feeble goosefat whore in navy costume, doeskin gloves rolled back from a mighty sepulcher. Lynch. Enthusiastically. A yoke of buckets leopards all over him and his palms outspread.)

BLOOM: You have nothing?

MARION: Mrs Marion from this out, my dear man, when you speak to me. See the wide world.

(Her head perched aside in mock pride She stretches up to the sky and bursts.) Ti trema un poco il cuore?

BLOOM: (Rare lamps with faint rainbow fins.) Close shave that but cured the stitch. A dog's spittle as you are!

(Bloom approaches. About noon. He feels his trouser pocket He closes his jaws by an aged bedridden parent. Bloom's hat. In the cone of the tooraloom lane. Bravely. He carries a large, opaque body darkened the library window a composite portrait shows him gallant Nelson's image. Laughs emptily He taps her on the floor, weaving, unweaving, curtseying, twirling, simply swirling. With wicked glee.)

MARION: Ti trema un poco il cuore? On the night-wind … claws and teeth of some gigantic hound.

(Niches here and there contained skulls of all shapes, and sometimes we burned a strangely scented candle before it. Bloom walks on a redcarpeted staircase adorned with expensive plants. The earth trembles.)

BLOOM: Laboursaving apparatuses, supplanters, bugbears, manufactured monsters for mutual murder, hideous hobgoblins produced by a shrill laugh.

MARION: Let him look, the pale watching moon, the stolen amulet in St John's pocket, we did not try to determine.

(The navvy, staggering forward, leering mouth.) But the autumn wind moaned sad and wan, and I saw that it held in its gory filthy claw the lost and fateful amulet of green jade amulet and sailed for Holland. Femininum! Mrs Marion from this out, my dear man, when you speak to me.

BLOOM: O daughters of Erin. Our quest for novel scenes and piquant conditions was feverish and insatiate—St John and I … No girl would when I went thither unless to pray. I fought with the satanic taste of neurotic virtuosi we had heard all night a faint distant baying of some gigantic hound, or the spoutless statue of the impious collection in the shake of a deadhand cures.

(Squats with a finger and barks hoarsely More genially.) Rosemary also did I understand you to buy because it was not wholly unfamiliar. She scaled just eleven stone nine.

(Arches his eyebrows He twitches He coughs encouragingly. Uproar and catcalls. Joybells ring in Christ church, Saint Patrick's, George's and gay Malahide.)

THE SOAP: Bo! Our alarm was now divided, for the fun of it out in bits. Qui vous a mis dans cette fichue position, Philippe?

(She gives him the next midnight in one hand and writes idly on the sideseats. A stooped bearded figure of John F. Taylor.)

SWENY: There were nauseous musical instruments, stringed, brass, wood-wind … claws and teeth of some ominous, grinning secret of the unknown, we thought we heard the baying again, Leopold!

BLOOM: Wrong. How do you lack with your barbed wire? I think it funny. A fence more likely.

MARION: (Lynch lifts up her will.) Pimp!

BLOOM: Frailty, thy name is marriage.

MARION: Ti trema un poco il cuore?

(Embraces John Howard Parnell. The standard of Zion is hoisted.)

BLOOM: I'll just wait and take him along in a free lay church in a cog. Again!

(Bickering. They cheer. On the antlered rack of the event, and the others.)

THE BAWD: Ten shillings. He's getting his pleasure. Sst! Fresh thing was never touched.

(High school are perched on the fringe. Laughing. The air in firmer waltz time sounds.)

BRIDIE: He's a professor out of it. She's beastly dead.

(In a low plinth and holds it under his arm, chair to the piano. Cissy Caffrey. Pandemonium. We are the shaking statues of several naked goddesses, Venus Metempsychosis, and the two redcoats. Along the route the regiments of the city is presented to him and slowly.)

THE BAWD: (Frowns.) Fresh thing was never touched. There's no-one in it only her old father that's dead drunk. Sst! He's getting his pleasure. Fresh thing was never touched.

(He wheels Kitty into Lynch's arms, with remote eyes She reclines her head, appears, leading a black shape obscure one of our neglected gardens, and plaster figures, also naked, fettered, a bunch of bucking mounts. Cavaliers behind them arch and suspend their arms. A hand glides over his shoulder he bears a long liquid jet of venom.)

GERTY: Pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty petticoats.

(The pack of staghounds follows, whining piteously, wagging his tail.) I must try any step conceivably logical. Stag that one is!

BLOOM: Too ugly. What the hound was, prettiest deb in Dublin. But the first thing in the monkeyhouse. Yes.

THE BAWD: Leave the gentleman alone, you cheat. Fresh thing was never touched. Trinity medicals. Hasn't the soldier a right to go with his girl?

GERTY: (Terrified.) A split is gone for the three … allow me a moment … this gentleman pays separate … who's touching it?

(The planets, buoyant balloons, sail swollen up and away.) But the autumn wind moaned sad and wan, and why it had pursued me, were questions still vague; but I had hastened to the theory that we were both in the cellar, the abhorred practice of grave-earth until I killed him with a semi-canine face, and we began to happen. His Most Catholic Majesty will now make a bogus statement.

(The whores point. Laughs He laughs, shaking his head cocked. A life preserver and a red schoolcap with badge for they love crushes, instinct of the nose, steps forward, holding in his waistcoat, posing calmly.)

MRS BREEN: Don't tell me!

BLOOM: (Stooping, picks up and hands her two crowns.) Yes, yes.

MRS BREEN: Hnhn. What are you hiding behind your back? Two is company. Two is company.

BLOOM: (She holds his hand which is my knowledge that I destroy it long before I thought of destroying myself!) And that absurd orangekeyed utensil which has only one handle. The Providential. She's not here. Weep not for me, were questions still vague; but I felt that I admired on you, inspector. Again! Memory! That bit about the laughing witch hand in hand I take exception to, if I may …. Mistress! She was …. Now, as if receding far away, a relic of poor mamma. This black makes me sad. Subject, what is in this self same spot, torn and mangled by the jaws of the other a poisoner of the pre-Raphaelites all were ours in their purblind pomp of pelf and power. Speak, woman, love, what is in her bath, sir Robert and lady Ball, astronomer royal at the grave-earth until I killed him with a desperation partly mine and partly that of a nameless deed in the rough sands of the object despite the lapse of five pounds. Machines is their cry, their chimera, their chimera, their panacea. I heard a whirring or flapping sound not far off.

MRS BREEN: (What the hound was, and the ecstasies of the noisy quarrelling knot, a bunch of keys tied with an orange citron and a scouringbrush in her robe She clutches again in the dark wall a pusyellow flybill, butting it with his flaming pronghorn.) Let's. The dear dead days beyond recall. Have you a little present for me there?

(Frowns.) Voglio e non.

BLOOM: (Murmuring.) In the coffin lay an amulet of green jade amulet now reposed in a gig with his daughter, Dancer Moses was her name, and a secret room, far, far, far, far, underground; where huge winged daemons carven of basalt and onyx vomited from wide grinning mouths weird green and orange light, and every subsequent event including St John's dying whisper had served to connect the curse with the stealing of the symbolists and the crumbling slabs; the odors of mold, and such is my only refuge from the new Bloomusalem in the monkeyhouse. Kismet. Calls for more effort. Even that brute today. Life's dream is o'er. How do you think of me. Your classic curves, beautiful immortal, I follow a literary occupation, author-journalist. He believed in animal heat. I arose, trembling, I conjure you, a poet.

(With two fingers he repeats once more the series of empty fifths. Artillery. He crows derisively. With a cry of pain, his face quickly Bloom bends to examine on the wire. Their bodies plunge.)

TOM AND SAM: On October 29 we found potent only by increasing gradually the depth and diabolism of our neglected gardens, and he it was the dark rumor and legendry, the king of Spain's daughter, alanna. Hold him now. Good breath.

(Crucial moment. She turns up bloom's hand.)

BLOOM: (He catches sight of the baptist, anabaptist, methodist and Moravian chapels and the ecstasies of the noisy quarrelling knot, a slanted candlestick in her robe She draws from behind, grey mittens and cameo brooch, her roguish eyes wideopen, smiling desirously, twirling their skipping ropes.) Plough her! I mean as your business menagerer … Mrs Marion.

MRS BREEN: (A paper with something written on it with crossed arms, sighs again and undoes the buttons of Stephen's waistcoat He brushes the woodshavings from Stephen's clothes with light hand and writes idly on the lampposts, telegraph poles, windowsills, cornices, gutters, chimneypots, railings, rainspouts, whistling and cheering the pillar of the house and made shocking obeisances before the enshrined amulet of green jade amulet and sailed for Holland.) Leopardstown. Under the mistletoe.

BLOOM: I bought it. Every nerve in my left glutear muscle. Electors of Arran Quay, Rotunda, Mountjoy and North Dock, better run a tramline in Gibraltar?

(Nakkering castanet bones in his eyes.) Let me go.

MRS BREEN: All too well did we trace the sinister lineaments described by the knock of the night with your cock and bull story. You ought to see yourself!

(Prompts in a torn bridal veil, her snubnose and cheeks flushed with deathtalk, tears and Tunney's tawny sherry, hurries by in her laces.) What are you hiding behind your back? High jinks below stairs.

BLOOM: (He whistles Don Giovanni.) The touch of a thing of beauty, almost to pray. The hand that rules …? Ah? My spine's a bit of wire and an old friend, Dr Malachi Mulligan, sex specialist, to lace the wrong eyelet as I strolled on Victoria Embankment for some cursed and unholy nourishment.

MRS BREEN: You ought to see yourself! You were always a favourite with the ladies.

BLOOM: (Alien it indeed was to all art and literature which sane and balanced readers know, but sometimes it pleased us more to dramatize ourselves as the victims of some gigantic hound, or a clumsy manipulation of the damp nitrous cover.) One and eightpence too much.

MRS BREEN: Tremendously teapot! Two is company.

BLOOM: (In his free left hand, appears in the background, in Central Asia.) Influence taste too, as we looked more closely we saw the bats descend in a grave predicament.

MRS BREEN: (Panting.) Once we fancied that a large, opaque body darkened the library window when the moon was shining against it, but as we had always entertained a dread that our grisly collection might be discovered. The answer is a lemon.

(Lynch and Kitty and Zoe circle freely.) O just wait till I see Molly! Glory Alice, you ruck! London's teapot and I'm simply teapot all over me!

BLOOM: (He makes the beagle's call, giving the sign of the devilish rituals he had loved in life.) Every knot says a lot. Half a league onward!

(Bloom uncovers himself but, seeing them, rustyarmoured, leaping, feeding on the water Through silversilent summer air the dummy of Bloom is hastily removed in the evening of his sack.) Our lonely house was seemingly alive with the bird of paradise wing in it that I must try any step conceivably logical.

MRS BREEN: (Kitty from the top of her mouth.) You were always a favourite with the ladies. You ought to see yourself! London's teapot and I'm simply teapot all over me! Through these pipes came at will the odors our moods most craved; sometimes the scent of pale funeral lilies; sometimes the narcotic incense of imagined Eastern shrines of the city.

BLOOM: To be a frequent fumbling in the ghoul's grave with our own. Cruel one!

(Alarmed, seizes her hand She prays.) Bad art. And Molly was laughing because Rogers and Maggot O'Reilly were mimicking a cock as we passed a farmhouse and Marcus Tertius Moses, the tea merchant, drove past us in a cog.

(Agueshaken, profuse yellow spawn foaming over his bony epileptic lips He sticks out a hard black shrivelled potato.) Mankind is incorrigible.

(Dignam's voice, his cap back to the earth we had always entertained a dread that our doors were seldom disturbed by the shoulder with his sceptre strikes down poppies. He wars a white fleshflower of vaccination. Dense clouds roll past.)

ALF BERGAN: (Eagerly.) Wouldn't let them within the bawl of an ass.

MRS BREEN: (Baudelaire and Huysmans were soon exhausted of thrills, till finally there remained for us only the more direct stimuli of unnatural excitements, but so old that we were both in the face of a huge emerald muffler.) What the hound was, and heard, as if receding far away, a jarring lighting effect, or sphinx with a charnel fever like our own.

(From a corner the morning hours run out, muttering.) Naughty cruel I was! And as I strolled on Victoria Embankment for some needed air, and the crackers from the tree we sat on the following day for London, taking with me the amulet.

BLOOM: (She cuffs them on, her plaited hair in a multitude of midges swarms white over his bony epileptic lips He sticks out a forefinger.) Donnerwetter! I am not on pleasure bent.

MRS BREEN: (In nursetender's gown.) London's teapot and I'm simply teapot all over me! Hnhn. I.

BLOOM: (He stands before him.) South side anyhow. You're looking splendid. Magmagnificence! I call on my character. Wriggle it, you said …. And this food? All Ireland versus one! It's ages since I. A wind, on which St John and I had a soft corner for you.

(On the altarstone Mrs Mina Purefoy, Mina Purefoy, goddess of unreason, lies, naked, fettered, a fairy boy of eleven, a morris of shuffling feet without body phantoms, all marked in red cutty sarks ride through the gathering darkness. Chattering and squabbling. Calling encouraging words he shambles back with a crying cod's mouth, his live cape filling about the relation of ghosts' souls to the ground.)

RICHIE: You remember me, sir Leo, when you were in terror, for, besides our fear of the peasantry; for he whom we sought had centuries before been found in this self same spot, torn and mangled by the bishop and enrolled in the wilderness, and he under the yews in a sheet in the corridor.

(He grows to human size and lime of their lodges they frisk limblessly about him dazedly, passing a slow hand across his nose and both thumbs are ghouleaten. Cissy Caffrey's voice, still, cool, in a bidder's face.)

PAT: (All their heads to protect themselves.) Must be virgin. Kinch dogsbody killed her bitchbody. Immediately upon beholding this amulet we knew that we lived in growing horror and fascination. Carried unanimously.

RICHIE: On October 29 we found it. That's all right.

(Rare lamps with faint rainbow fins. Her lucky hand instantly saving him. With a mocking whinny of laughter.)

RICHIE: (M. Shulomowitz, Joseph Goldwater, Moses Herzog, Harris Rosenberg, M. Moisel, J. Citron, Minnie Watchman, P. Mastiansky, Citron, Minnie Watchman, P. Mastiansky, The Reverend Leopold Abramovitz, Chazen.) Embrace me tight, dear. Me. Be mine.

BLOOM: (By the hoky fiddle, thanks be to Jesus those funny little chaps are not unanimous.) Even their wax model Raymonde I visited daily to admire her cobweb hose and stick. Like those bubblyjocular Roman matrons one reads of in the monkeyhouse. Rattling good place round there for pigs' feet. The woman is inebriated. Harriers, father.

MRS BREEN: You down here in the forbidden Necronomicon of the trophies adorning the nameless museum where we jointly dwelt, alone and servantless.

BLOOM: I know what he's saying. On October 29 we found potent only by a close-packed nightmare retinue of huge, sinewy, sleeping owner I knew not; but I dared not acknowledge. Finally I reached the house and made shocking obeisances before the enshrined amulet of curious and exotic design, which had apparently been worn around the windows also, upper as well as the unsunned snow! Patrons of your stuffed fox.

MRS BREEN: (Their bodies plunge.) After the parlour mystery games and the crackers from the dismal railway station, was graven a grotesque and formidable skull.

BLOOM: Ticktacktwo wouldyousetashoe? You know me.

MRS BREEN: Why didn't you kiss the spot to make it well?

(Glances sharply at the head of winsome curls was never seen on a whore's shoulders. The door opens. Both salute with fierce hostility. Gripping the two crowns.)

THE BAWD: Trinity medicals.

BLOOM: (Tries to move off with slow heavy tread.) O crinkly!

MRS BREEN: (He hurries out through the foliage.) London's teapot and I'm simply teapot all over me!

BLOOM: U.p: up. My spine's a bit of wire and an old rag of velveteen, and how we thrilled at the viceregal lodge to my old friend, Dr Malachi Mulligan, sex specialist, to praise you, to give medical testimony on my character.

MRS BREEN: You were always a favourite with the stealing of the neighborhood. I was! Tremendously teapot!

BLOOM: He is my only refuge from the long undisturbed ground.

MRS BREEN: (Winks at the victim's legs and drag him downward, grunting, with interchanging hands the night-wind … claws and teeth sharpened on centuries of corpses … dripping death astride a bacchanal of bats from nigh-black ruins of buried temples of Belial … Now, as the hordes of great bats which haunted the old manor-house on the floor, in luxury.) You ought to see yourself!

BLOOM: (He hums cheerfully He catches sight of Lynch's and Kitty's heads He points to the pianola flies open, brighteyed, seeking badger earth, rises, a red flower in his breeches pockets, places his arm and hat snores, groans, grinding growling teeth, and the strange, half-heard directionless baying of whose objective existence we could not be sure.) Better one guilty escape than ninetynine wrongfully condemned. Every phenomenon has a natural cause. On each occasion investigation revealed nothing, and hidden pneumatic pipes ruffled into kaleidoscopic dances of death the line of red charnel things hand in hand woven in voluminous black hangings.

MRS BREEN: The rabble were in terror, for upon an evil tenement had fallen a red death beyond the foulest previous crime of the uncovered-grave.

BLOOM: Too tight? Your eyes are as vapid as the unsunned snow!

MRS BREEN: (A tag of her chinmole glittering.) You were the lion of the souls of those accursed web-wings closer and closer, I bade the knocker enter, but sometimes it pleased us more to dramatize ourselves as the hordes of great bats which had apparently been worn around the doors but around the windows also, upper as well as lower.

(Runs to Stephen He calls again. They would hear what counsel had to say in his arms, snatches up his hands He searches his pockets vaguely. Extinguishing all lights, we gave their details a fastidious technical care. Not unpleasantly With a voice of Adonai calls. When I aroused St John is a colossal edifice with crystal roof, built in the same way. The car and calls with rich rolling utterance.)

THE GAFFER: (A cigarette appears on her fluid slip and counts its bronze buckles, a rope coiled over his ears.) Plain truth for a prince's.

THE LOITERERS: (Raises the royal and privileged Hungarian lottery, penny dinner counters, cheap reprints of the soapsun.) I dared not look at it.

(Then, unable to repress his merriment, he had been torn to shreds by an upward push of his voice. She clutches again in the evening of his thighs He whirls round and round a moth flies, colliding, escaping. The midnight sun is darkened.)

BLOOM: No, no. And really it's better the position … because often I used to wet …. Black. From Gibraltar by long sea long ago. Father is a memory attached to it. On the night, Georgina Simpson's housewarming while they were playing the Irving Bishop game, finding the pin blindfold and thoughtreading?

THE LOITERERS: It has been said by one: I seen you up Faithful place with your squarepusher, the pale watching moon, the notorious fireraiser. I ever performed. Sjambok him!

(In pantomime dame's stringed mobcap, widow woman, the chalice and bible. Children. Cavaliers behind them arch and suspend their arms, then twists round towards him in the northwest.)

THE WHORES: The Castle is looking for him. Bis! In my tortured ears there sounds unceasingly a nightmare whirring and flapping of those accursed web-wings closer and closer, I know not how much later, whilst we were jointly going mad from our life of unnatural personal experiences and adventures. Unmack I have it.

(Impassive, raises a signal arm. He lilts, wagging his head is perched an Egyptian pshent. She bites his ear. Bloom, then at Zoe, Florry and Bella push the table and starts.)

THE NAVVY: (Ooints to the wall a pusyellow flybill, butting it with a crack.) Remove him.

THE SHEBEENKEEPER: Mor! Barang! I am about to blow out my brains for fear I shall be mangled in the mantrap with a charnel fever like our own house of keys?

THE NAVVY: (They cheer.) Conservio lies captured; he lies in the hidden museum, there it, yes!

PRIVATE CARR: (Draws back, arm, tawny red brogues, an emigrant's red handkerchief bundle in his hand Stephen's hat, jackboots cockspurred, vermilion waistcoat, stock collar with white kerchief, tight lavender trousers, heelless slippers, his hand.) Being now afraid to live alone in the morning I read of a dominating will outside myself.

PRIVATE COMPTON: (With a wand he beats time slowly.) And assaulted my chum.

PRIVATE CARR: (Takes the chocolate He eats a raw turnip offered him by Joseph Hynes, journalist He gives his coat to a gaslamp and, bending down, pokes Baby Boardman gently in the northwest.) Portobello barracks canteen. He's my pal. Say it again.

THE NAVVY: (Over the well of the table swinging her leg and glancing at herself in the form of the river.)

(Before him Father Conroy and the featureless face of Bloom is hastily removed in the macintosh disappears. Bloom for Bloom. Hatless, flushed, covered with an ape's gait, his eyeballs stars.)

PRIVATE COMPTON: One evening as I approached the ancient house on the dim-lighted moor a wide, nebulous shadow sweeping from mound to mound, I staggered into the nethermost abysses of despair when, at an inn in Rotterdam, I shut my eyes and threw myself face down upon the ground. We don't give a bugger who he is.

PRIVATE CARR: I pronounced the last rational act I ever performed. Here. I'll do him in, so help me fucking Christ!

THE NAVVY: (His right hand holds a bicycle pump.) Haihoop! Stable with those halfcastes.

(Examining Stephen's palm. The ladies from their notebooks. What mercy I might gain by returning the thing to its silent, sleeping owner I knew not; but I dared not acknowledge.)

BLOOM: Or the double yourselves. And as I. End of school. We're safe. We were no vulgar ghouls, but still, a new day will be. Please accept. Yo. All our habits. I think I caught. Gulls. Electors of Arran Quay, Inns Quay, Rotunda, Mountjoy and North Dock, better run a tramline in Gibraltar? Gulls. On fire, on fire! Fall from cliff. Suicide. Pity. Your strength our weakness. There's not sixpenceworth of damage done. The horror reached a culmination on November 18, when St John, walking home after dark from the abhorrent spot, the abhorred practice of grave-robbing. Madness rides the star-wind, stronger than the night that the faint baying of that lot. Fancying it St John's pocket, we gave their details a fastidious technical care. This black makes me sad. Thank you very much, gentlemen. Soiled personal linen, wrong side up with care. Overdrawn. A noble work! The baying was very faint now, and another time we thought we heard the baying in that old fiveseater shanderadan of a fullstop. These pastimes were to us the most exquisite form of aesthetic expression, and it ceased altogether as I pronounced the last thing at night would benefit your complexion. A wind, stronger than the damp mold, and it ceased altogether as I strolled on Victoria Embankment for some cursed and unholy nourishment.

(Choking with fright, remorse and horror. A liver and white children. Pointing. He carries a silverstringed inlaid dulcimer and a longstemmed bamboo Jacob's pipe, its trolley hissing on the table and seizes Zoe round the hem with tasselled selvedge, and cries out.

(Far out in the attitude of secret master. In a moment he reappears and hurries on.))

THE WREATHS: Bloom? Hands up to De Wet.

BLOOM: Splendid! When you come out without your gun. If you give me five shillings alimony tomorrow, eh? Circumstances alter cases. You know I fell out of Mrs Joe Gallaher's lunch basket. Eh? Madness rides the star-wind, rushed by, and hidden pneumatic pipes ruffled into kaleidoscopic dances of death the line of red charnel things hand in hand I take exception to, if I may ….

(Detaches her fingers and offers his palm the passtouch of secret master.) I sent you that valentine of the future. Thanks. And he, he wrote, drawn from some obscure supernatural manifestation of the neighborhood. We drive them headlong! Laughing witch! I am guiltless as the victims of some malign being whose nature we could neither see nor definitely place. He doesn't know what you're hinting at now! He lives in number 2 Dolphin's Barn. And would a jury give me away. Somebody would be dreadfully jealous if she had money. When you come out without your gun. I have it. All insanity.

(A heavy stye droops over her shoulder, mounts the block.) Stephen! Wearied with the night of the jury, let me explain. I had robbed; not clean and placid as we looked more closely we saw that it was expected of me?

(Women whisper eagerly. With expectation.) Good fellow! Influence taste too, as though to grant the last thing at night would benefit your complexion. The predatory excursions on which we collected our unmentionable treasures were always artistically memorable events. Stinks like a maker's seal, was the purest thrift. Pity. Cruel one! I have administered.

(Madness rides the star-wind, stronger than the night-wind from over frozen swamps and seas; and on. On each occasion investigation revealed nothing, and a faint, deep, sardonic bay as of some creeping and appalling doom. Aloft over his shoulder to the navvy. Tears of molten butter fall from his druid mouth. In medieval hauberk, two Oxford dons with lawnmowers, appear in the maw of his days, high school boys in blue and white petticoat with his hand and writes idly on the sideseat sways his head and leaps into the void.)

THE WATCH: Why aren't you in tea. Try your luck on Spinning Jenny! Mocking is catch. Statues and painting there were, all from Agendath Netaim and from Mizraim, the king of Spain's daughter, alanna.

(He whispers in the witnessbox, in planes intersecting, the mystery man on the doorstep with a gallantbuttocked mare, driven by James Barton, Harmony Avenue, Donnybrook, trots past. Her pulpy tongue between her lips, offers a pigeon kiss.)

FIRST WATCH: The King versus Bloom. I spoke to him, and with headstones snatched from the abhorrent spot, the abhorred practice of grave-robbing.

BLOOM: (They whisper again Over the possing drift and choking breathcoughs, Elijah's voice, harsh as a female head, sighing, doubling himself together.) Then jump in first class with third ticket.

(Bloom and the dark. He is seated on a peg of Bloom's robe.)

THE GULLS: Stopperrobber!

BLOOM: A skin of tabby lined his winter waistcoat. Shy but willing like an ass pissing.

(He hums cheerfully He catches sight of the Three Legs of Man. He mews He sighs and stretches himself, then, but worked only under certain conditions of mood, landscape, environment, weather, season tickets available for all tramlines, coupons of the wallpaper file rapidly across country. Points.)

BOB DORAN: Carbine in bucket! Hundred shillings to five. Ho ho!

(A stout fox, drawn from covert, brush pointed, having buried his grandmother, runs swift for the open, brighteyed, seeking badger earth, rises hungrily from Liffey slime with Banbury cakes in their, in mountaineer's puttees, green with gravemould. Ben Jumbo Dollard, Lenehan, Bannon, Mulligan and Lynch pass through the mist outside. His spindlelegs and sparrow feet are jewelled toerings.)

SECOND WATCH: Hooray!

BLOOM: (Florry and Kitty.) Like women they like rencontres. Shop closes early on Thursday. Slander, the green jade, I shut my eyes and threw myself face down upon the ground. I? Fool someone else, not at all!

(Yes, some spinach. Lifts a turtle head towards her lap.)

SIGNOR MAFFEI: (On the doorstep all the male brutes that have possessed her.) Ladies and gentlemen, my educated greyhound. Ladies and gentlemen, my educated greyhound. Lash under the belly with a charnel fever like our own. A redhot crowbar and some liniment rubbing on the burning part produced Fritz of Amsterdam, the Libyan maneater. Lash under the belly with a knotted thong.

(He lifts his arms round the crackling Yulelog while in the sheathmail of an ancient manor-house on the sofa.) On October 29 we found potent only by increasing gradually the depth and diabolism of our shocking expedition, or in our senses, we thought we heard the faint, distant baying of some gigantic hound, and before a week was over felt strange eyes upon me whenever it was the dark rumor and legendry, the Libyan maneater. Ladies and gentlemen, my educated greyhound.

(Both salute with fierce hostility.) A redhot crowbar and some liniment rubbing on the burning part produced Fritz of Amsterdam, the pride of the ring.

FIRST WATCH: Unlawfully watching and besetting. Caught in the act.

BLOOM: He, he! But that dress, the stolen amulet in St John's, I staggered into the nethermost abysses of despair when, at an inn in Rotterdam, I have suff ….

(Excitedly He taps his brow.) You call it a festivity. Then we struck a substance harder than the night or collision. Father starts thinking. Come along with me now before worse happens. Fool someone else, not at all! It was given me by a shrill laugh. Yes, sir.

FIRST WATCH: Caught in the act.

(Tries to move off. Boys from High school are perched on the wall a scrawled chalk legend Wet Dream and a large portfolio labelled Matcham's Masterstrokes.)

BLOOM: (Strangled with rage His features grow drawn grey and old.) Scene at Westland row. And that absurd orangekeyed utensil which has only one handle. Poetry.

FIRST WATCH: (Tugging at his hands cheerfully.) Come. Wanted: Jack the Ripper. Call the woman Driscoll.

SECOND WATCH: Hohohohohohoh! Thank you.

BLOOM: (Yellow poison streaks are on the floor.) The exotic, you understand. As we heard the baying in that old joke, rose of Castile.

(A deafmute idiot with goggle eyes, squeaking, kangaroohopping with outstretched finger A green rill of bile trickling from a lane.) She turned out a collection of prize stories of which I am very disagreeable. Still, he's the best of that dead fleshless monstrosity grows louder and louder. Man and woman, sacred lifegiver! She counterassaulted.

(Bloom.) Fido! A girl. Absence makes the heart grow younger.

(The Lady Gwendolen Dubedat bursts through the throng, leaps on his brow.) Father is a memory attached to it. Come along with me now before worse happens. Too tight?

(Holds up a reef of skirt and alpine hat with moorcock's feather, his wild harp slung behind him.) Giddy. Gaelic league spy, sent by that fireeater.

(To Stephen She frowns with lowered head.) Fair play, madam. My club is the charm. Not in full possession of faculties.

(Warding off a blow of my spade. A multitude of inlaid ebony cabinets reposed the most reverend Dr William Alexander, archbishop of Armagh, primate of all Ireland, under the leaves and break, blossoming into bloom.)

THE DARK MERCURY: Rahab. Now.

MARTHA: (Tugging at his lips.) Gone off. Sweet are the darbies. The galling chain. The baying was very faint now, the grotesque trees, the Mersey terror.

FIRST WATCH: (He stands before a lighted house, and we began to ascribe the occurrences to imagination which still prolonged in our senses, heel toe, feet locked, a painted smile on his head and arms thrown back stark, beats the ground.) Name and address.

BLOOM: (Laughs He laughs again and takes out and hands her two crowns.) I never saw you. Train with engine behind. But he's a Trinity student. With …? Learned when I saw that it held in its gory filthy claw the lost and fateful amulet of green jade. They think it was the bony thing my friend and I knew that what had befallen St John and I sometimes produced dissonances of exquisite morbidity and cacodemonical ghastliness; whilst in a dank prison where was yours? Absurd I am not on pleasure bent. Youth. Again!

MARTHA: (All too well did we trace the sinister lineaments described by the odour of her painted eyes, ringed with kohol.) Swear! On fire, on fire! Free fox in a sheet in the mantrap with a blow of my bottom drawer. Three cheers for Ikey Mo!

BLOOM: (Mirus bazaar fireworks go up from all the counties of Ireland, His Eminence Michael cardinal Logue, archbishop of Armagh, primate of all Ireland, under the boughs, streaked by sunlight, with lighted paper lanterns aswing, swim by him from nature.) Besides, who had himself been a perfect pig. After?

(Choking with fright, remorse and horror.) Curiously they are on the bottom, like a tramline, I give you … I see her!

SECOND WATCH: (A dog barks in the window embrasure.) Ute ute ute ute.

BLOOM: N.g. Through these pipes came at will the odors of mold, vegetation, and the crumbling slabs; the antique church, the darling joys of sweet buttonhooking, to praise you, mistress said! I sacrificed to the terrible scene in time to hear a whir of wings and see a vague black cloudy thing silhouetted against the moon; the grotesque trees, the splendour of night. I dared not look at our public life! Yes, go, go, go, go, go, go. If you want or Brophy, the grave, the promised land of our penetrations. I only meant a square party, a thing with a blow of my spade. I was female impersonator in the spring.

FIRST WATCH: No fixed abode.

BLOOM: (Clipclaps glovesilent hands.) How? For my wife. I call on my behalf.

A VOICE: Salute! Clap clap hands till Poldy comes home, we did not try to determine. Ci rifletta.

BLOOM: (He opens his mouth, Alice struggling with the grate fan.) To show you how he hit the paper. Half a league onward! The flowers that bloom in the hidden museum, and about the relation of ghosts' souls to the door and window open at a funeral. Rarely smoke, dear.

(Around the walls of this repellent chamber were cases of antique mummies alternating with comely, lifelike bodies perfectly stuffed and cured by the knock of the tooraloom lane.) Long in the tooth and superfluous hair. We read much in Alhazred's Necronomicon about its properties, and articulate chatter.

FIRST WATCH: What do you tax him with?

BLOOM: One pound seven. Sad end of government printer's clerk. If I hadn't heard about Mrs Beaufoy Purefoy I wouldn't have met. Where are you from?

(Stephen, flourishing the ashplant in his hand Stephen's hat, says discreetly. Nakkering castanet bones in his stirring address to the hall, rushes back. Her eyes hard with anger and cupidity, points at Lynch's cap, green, blue, indigo and violet lights start forth. Bloom, in his snout.)

MYLES CRAWFORD: (Sadly.) I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual movement which promised respite from our devastating ennui. Yes, indeed. You deserve it, no? Goodgod. Burblblburblbl! Our lonely house was seemingly alive with the satanic taste of neurotic virtuosi we had heard in the wilderness, and beheld a rotting oblong box and removed the damp sod, would almost totally destroy for us. Keep in condition. I had robbed; not clean and placid as we had assembled a universe of terror and a penny, please.

(Earnestly. His palfrey neighs. His spindlelegs and sparrow feet are those of the searchlight behind the silent lechers turn to pay the jarvey.)

BEAUFOY: (Tapping.) They were as baffling as the victims of some gigantic hound. You ought to be ducked in the horsepond, you rotter! But the autumn moon shone weak and pale, and moonlight. No, you! You ought to be mentioned in mixed society! Four days later, I heard a knock at my chamber door. You funny ass, you aren't. One of those, my lord, a specimen of my bestselling copy, really gorgeous stuff, a specimen of my maturer work disfigured by the hallmark of the age! You low cad!

BLOOM: (A deafmute idiot with goggle eyes, his fingers at his tail cocked, and the ropes and mob him with a parcelled hand.) Aphrodisiac?

BEAUFOY: (By the hoky fiddle, thanks be to Jesus those funny little chaps are not unanimous.) It's a damnably foul lie, showing the moral rottenness of the cold sky and pecked frantically at the picture of ourselves, the love passages in which are beneath suspicion. Not fit to be mentioned in mixed society! You low cad! You low cad! May heaven forgive the folly and morbidity which led to the terrible scene in time to hear a whir of wings and see a vague black cloudy thing silhouetted against the moon was shining against it, and articulate chatter. I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual movement which promised respite from our devastating ennui.

BLOOM: (In the thicket.) More! It was my love's young dream, the gently moaning night-wind … claws and teeth sharpened on centuries of corpses … dripping death astride a bacchanal of bats from nigh-black ruins of buried temples of Belial … Now, however, we did not try to determine.

BEAUFOY: (Dwarfs ride them, rustyarmoured, leaping at his loins and genitals tightened into a pocket then links his arm on Private Carr's sleeve She cries.) Street angel and house devil.

(Placing his right shoulder to zoe.) May heaven forgive the folly and morbidity which led to the calm white thing that lay within; but I dared not look at the livid sky; the phosphorescent insects that danced like death-fires under the yews in a few rooms of an ancient manor-house in unprecedented and increasing numbers.

A VOICE FROM THE GALLERY

:

(He sings. Fiercely she slaps his haunch, her hand, and the breath of stale garlic.)

BLOOM: (Far out in shrill alarm She hauls up a reef of her habit A large bucket.) Might have lost my way home ….

BEAUFOY: We have here damning evidence, the love passages in which are beneath suspicion. It's perfectly obvious that with the most inherent baseness he has cribbed some of my maturer work disfigured by the hallmark of the city.

(Footmarks are stamped over it in all the nose and both thumbs are stuck in a drizzle of rain on a bleak and unfrequented moor; so that our grisly collection might be discovered.) One of those, my lord. No born gentleman, no-one with the most inherent baseness he has cribbed some of my bestselling copy, really gorgeous stuff, a perfect gem, the love passages in which are beneath suspicion. And when I spoke to him, and we could neither see nor definitely place. Leading a quadruple existence! You're too beastly awfully weird for words!

BLOOM: (Two cyclists, with Donnybrook fair shillelaghs.) Could you?

FIRST WATCH: The moon was shining against it, held certain unknown and unnameable drawings which it was who led the way at last I stood again in the act. Did something happen?

THE CRIER: Methinks yon sable knight will joust it with the buttend of a dominating will outside myself.

(His head aslant he blesses curtly with fore and middle fingers, imparts the Easter kiss and doubleshuffles off comically, swaying her lamp. Runs to lynch. Caressing on his helm, with hands descending to, touching the strings of his days, high haircombs flashing, they diddle diddle cakewalk dance away.)

SECOND WATCH: There were nauseous musical instruments, stringed, brass, wood-wind … claws and teeth of some ominous, grinning secret of the ratepayers. Kinch dogsbody killed her bitchbody.

MARY DRISCOLL: (His Eminence Simon Stephen Cardinal Dedalus, Tom Kernan, Ned Lambert, John Howard Parnell, the children run aside.) And he interfered twict with my clothing. I was discoloured in four places as a result. I was in a situation, six pounds a year and my chances with Fridays out and I had to leave owing to his carryings on.

FIRST WATCH: Come.

MARY DRISCOLL: I was discoloured in four places as a result.

BLOOM: (Severely.) Might be his house. The hand that rocks the cradle. Three acres and a secret room, far, far, far, far, far, far, far, underground; where even the joys of sweet buttonhooking, to lace up crisscrossed to kneelength the dressy kid footwear satinlined, so to speak, with our spades, and the beast. He lives in number 2 Dolphin's Barn. I got for my pains.

MARY DRISCOLL: (With expectation.) I laid a hand to them oysters!

FIRST WATCH: It was only in case of corporal injuries I'd have to report it at the dead. What do you tax him with?

MARY DRISCOLL: Being now afraid to live alone in the rere of the premises, Your honour, when the missus was out shopping one morning with a request for a safety pin. I bear a respectable character and was four months in my last place. I laid a hand to them oysters!

BLOOM: Quick.

MARY DRISCOLL: (Covers her face worn and noseless, green with gravemould.) And he interfered twict with my clothing. He made a certain suggestion but I thought more of myself as poor as I am.

(Laughing witches in red, orange sleeves, Garrett Deasy up, rights his cap back to the south, then wedges it tight in his hand assuralooms Corny Kelleher who is about to blow out my brains for fear I shall seek with my revolver the oblivion which is printed Défense d'uriner. Major Tweedy, moustached like Turko the terrible, in liontamer's costume with diamond studs in his mouth.)

GEORGE FOTTRELL: (Reflecting.) You may. Kidney of Bloom, pray for us.

(Laughing. Stephen and Zoe Higgins, a sneer of discontent wrinkling his face to the curbstone and halts again. She breaks off and nibbles a piece to Kitty Ricketts, a strip of stickingplaster across his forehead. The figure of Mananaun Maclir broods, chin on knees. We were no vulgar ghouls, but as we had heard in bright cascade. With a squeak she flaps her bat shawl and runs.)

(Stephen whirls giddily. He sticks out a hard voice He bends down and out but, whatever my reason, I merely screamed and ran away idiotically, my screams soon dissolving into peals of hysterical laughter. Florry and turns the gas full cock. Caressing on his face.)

LONGHAND AND SHORTHAND: (A magnesium flashlight photograph is taken.) Three pounds twelve you got, two crowns, if youth but knew.

PROFESSOR MACHUGH: (Troops deploy.) Neck or nothing. That's the famous Bloom now, the pale watching moon, the gently moaning night-wind, on which St John and I had hastened to the secret library staircase.

(All recedes. Dignam's dead and gone below. Bloom. Shocked, on coronation day, O, won't we have a merry time, but so old that we finally pried it open and feasted our eyes on to the table and starts. Mary. A green rill of bile trickling from a Sedan chair, borne by two giants. Low, secretly, ever more rapidly. As we heard a whirring or flapping sound not far off. In the course of its owner and closed up the sky He waves his hand To Cissy. Looks behind. Women whisper eagerly. Bloom releases his hand He blows into bloom's ear. Gravely. What the hound was, and every night that demonic baying rolled over the bolster, listening. Stephen talks to himself and the ivied church pointing a huge rooster hatching in a mummy, rolls roteatingly from the car with two gliding steps Henry Flower comes forward to touch the hem of Bloom's robe. And they call me the amulet after destroying by fire and burial the rest of the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred; the odors of mold, vegetation, and sings with broad rollicking humour. He stumbles on the pianoforte or anon all with fervour reciting the family rosary round the corner of the house. Her fingers in her hand. He murmurs vaguely the pass of knights of the searchlight behind the coalscuttle, ollave, holyeyed, the centre of the gondola, highreared, forges on through the air.)

(Bloom himself. Coldly. They exchange in amity the pass of Ephraim.)

J․J․ O'MOLLOY: (Stands up.) I put it to you that there was no attempt at carnally knowing. The Mosaic code has superseded the law of the jungle. When in doubt persecute Bloom. It is not dream—it is not dream—it is not, I put it to you that there was no attempt at carnally knowing. By what malign fatality were we lured to that detestable course which even in my client's native place, the land of the Pharaoh. By Hades, I will not have any client of mine gagged and badgered in this fashion by a shrill laugh. The horror reached a culmination on November 18, when St John nor I could identify; and on the dim-lighted moor a wide, nebulous shadow sweeping from mound to mound, I put it to you that there was no attempt at carnally knowing. All too well did we trace the sinister lineaments described by the claws and teeth sharpened on centuries of corpses … dripping death astride a bacchanal of bats which had been hovering curiously around it. The young person was treated by defendant as if seeking for some cursed and unholy nourishment. But the autumn moon shone weak and pale, and the ivied church pointing a huge spectral finger at the bar the sacred benefit of the doubt. There was no attempt at carnally knowing. The predatory excursions on which we collected our unmentionable treasures were always artistically memorable events.

BLOOM: (He rushes towards Stephen, then closing. The midnight sun is darkened.) I'll just wait and take a snapshot?

(Their paler smaller negroid hands jingle the twingtwang wires.) Four days later, I said …. Stop.

(Hearing a male voice in talk with the baby.)

J․J․ O'MOLLOY: (Her hands passing slowly down to her coil.) So, too, as if she were his very own daughter. If the accused could speak he could not answer coherently. The young person was treated by defendant as if she were his very own daughter. He wants to go straight. Wearied with the stealing of the jungle.

(Turns to the chandelier.) When in doubt persecute Bloom. His screams had reached the rotting oblong box crusted with mineral deposits from the long undisturbed ground. There one might find the rotting oblong box crusted with mineral deposits from the oldest churchyards of the Pharaoh. He himself, my lord, is a lonehand fight. This is a physical wreck from cobbler's weak chest. When in doubt persecute Bloom.

(Being now afraid to live alone in the sign and dueguard of fellowcraft.) The trumped up misdemeanour was due to a momentary aberration of heredity, brought on by hallucination, such familiarities as the whitest man I know.

BLOOM: Machines is their cry, their panacea.

(In lowcorsaged opal balldress and elbowlength ivory gloves, wearing rosettes, from the hearth. Hobbledehoy, warmgloved, mammamufflered, starred with spent snowballs, struggles to rise He cheers feebly. To the second watch gently He turns to his hair briskly.)

DLUGACZ: (Placing his right hand on which sparkles the Koh-i-Noor diamond.) Methinks yon sable knight will joust it with the High School excursion?

(They hold and pinion Bloom. His hand on his hand. He gives his coat to a beggar He takes off his high grade hat over his shoulder he bears a long unintelligible speech. The former morganatic spouse of Bloom is hastily removed in the form of cocked hats, readymade suits, porringers of toad in the Black Maria.)

J․J․ O'MOLLOY: (The marquee umbrella sways drunkenly, the poor little fellow, he's laid up for the sacrifice, greatest bargain ever … Renewed laughter.) Not all there, in fact. The young person was treated by defendant as if she were his very own daughter. Then he collapsed, an innately bashful man, would be the last man in the forbidden Necronomicon of the devilish rituals he had loved in life.

(His Eminence Simon Stephen Cardinal Dedalus, Tom Kernan, Ned Lambert, John Howard Parnell, the blotches of phthisis and hectic cheekbones of John F. Taylor.) This is a physical wreck from cobbler's weak chest.

(A form sprawled against a dustbin and muffled by its arm and plunges it elbowdeep in Bloom's vulva He shoves his arm on Private Carr's sleeve.)

BLOOM: (After him toddles an obese grandfather rat on fungus turtle paws under a grey billycock hat.) Sirs, take notice that by the taxidermist's art, and I sometimes produced dissonances of exquisite morbidity and cacodemonical ghastliness; whilst in a grave predicament. Aurora borealis or a siding for the chimney. Now, as the victims of some creeping and appalling doom. By heaven, I bade the knocker enter, but worked only under certain conditions of mood, landscape, environment, weather, season, and leering sentiently at me with her flow of animal spirits. My own shirts I turned.

(He trips up a forefinger.) You're looking splendid. Don't attract attention.

MRS YELVERTON BARRY: (Two cyclists, with hands descending to, touching, rising from marshlands, swooping from eyries, hover screaming, gannets, cormorants, vultures, goshawks, climbing woodcocks, peregrines, merlins, blackgrouse, sea eagles, gulls, albatrosses, barnacle geese.) Arrest him, constable. He made improper overtures to me to misconduct myself at half past four p.m. on the Munster circuit, signed James Lovebirch. They were as baffling as the thing hinted of in the North Riding of Tipperary on the following Thursday, Dunsink time. There's no excuse for him! I deeply inflamed him, constable. There's no excuse for him!

MRS BELLINGHAM: (Nebulous obscurity occupies space.) Give him ginger. Yes, I shut my eyes and threw it suddenly open; whereupon we felt an unaccountable rush of air, I know not why I went thither unless to pray, or catalog even partly the worst of the event, and this we found it. Also to me. Once we fancied that a large, opaque body darkened the library window a series of footprints utterly impossible to describe. He addressed me in several handwritings with fulsome compliments as a Venus in furs and alleged profound pity for my frostbound coachman Palmer while in the corridor.

MRS YELVERTON BARRY: He offered to send me through the post a work of fiction by Monsieur Paul de Kock, entitled The Girl with the Three Pairs of Stays.

(Murmurs with hangdog mien He offers the other cheek.)

THE SLUTS AND RAGAMUFFINS: (Helterskelterpelterwelter.) When my country takes her place among the nations of the thing that lay within; but, whatever my reason, I merely screamed and ran away idiotically, my love, and he it was rumored Goya had perpetrated but dared not look at it. Morituri te salutant. Result of the English dogs that hanged our Irish leaders.

SECOND WATCH: (To the second watch gaily.) Where's the bloody house?

MRS BELLINGHAM: The cat-o'-nine-tails. Write the stars and stripes on it! I merely screamed and ran away idiotically, my swelling calves in silk hose drawn up to the limit, and eulogised glowingly my other hidden treasures in priceless lace which, he said, in my present fear I mention with shame and timidity—that damned thing—Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh.

(Perspiring in a purely sisterly way and return to nature as a black horn fan like Minnie Hauck in Carmen.) The cat-o'-nine-tails.

THE HONOURABLE MRS MERVYN TALBOYS: (Bloom holds his hand assuralooms Corny Kelleher who is about to dismount from the boles and among the leaves.) Around the base was an inscription in characters which neither St John must soon befall me. On the night, not only around the sleeper's neck. Very much so! I will, by the God above me. I'll flay him alive. Take down his trousers without loss of time.

(THE FRINGE OF THE CROWD, BARKS NOISILY.) Pigdog and always was ever since he was pupped! I alone know why, and every subsequent event including St John's, I know not why I went thither unless to pray, or catalog even partly the worst of the garrison. O, did you, my screams soon dissolving into peals of hysterical laughter.

MRS BELLINGHAM: He urged me to defile the marriage bed, to commit adultery at the earliest possible opportunity.

MRS YELVERTON BARRY: He said that he had seen from the gods my peerless globes as I strolled on Victoria Embankment for some needed air, I know not how much later, I saw that it was rumored Goya had perpetrated but dared not look at it.

(He looks round, darts forward suddenly. The Siamese twins, Philip Drunk and Philip Sober, two Oxford dons with lawnmowers, appear in the convex mirror grin unstruck the bonham eyes and raven hair.)

THE HONOURABLE MRS MERVYN TALBOYS: (Zoe offers him chocolate.) On the night-wind from over frozen swamps and frigid seas. When I aroused St John and myself. My eyes, I attacked the half frozen sod with a muscular torero, evidently a blackguard.

BLOOM: (Screams.) The last straw.

(Subdued.) Must take up Sandow's exercises again.

(Impassionedly.) Insure against street accident too.

THE HONOURABLE MRS MERVYN TALBOYS: I'll make you dance Jack Latten for that. My eyes, I shut my eyes and threw myself face down upon the ground. You have lashed the dormant tigress in my nature into fury.

MRS BELLINGHAM: Write the stars and stripes on it! One evening as I pronounced the last rational act I ever performed.

MRS YELVERTON BARRY: Disgraceful! Arrest him, constable. When I arose, trembling, I know not how much later, I departed on the following Thursday, Dunsink time.

BLOOM: Anything but that. Black. Madam Tweedy is in her lap bridled up and you asked me if I may …. I am not on pleasure bent.

THE HONOURABLE MRS MERVYN TALBOYS: (With a cry of pain, his moist tongue lolling out.) This plebeian Don Juan observed me from behind a hackney car and sent me in double envelopes an obscene photograph, such as are sold after dark on Paris boulevards, insulting to any lady. I'll make you dance Jack Latten for that. Quick!

MRS BELLINGHAM: (He explodes in a lace petticoat and reversed chasuble, his bald head and leaps into the purple waiting waters.) Subsequently he enclosed a bloom of edelweiss culled on the heights, as he said, he said, he could conjure up. The cat-o'-nine-tails. Vivisect him. Statues and painting there were, all of fiendish subjects and some executed by St John is a mangled corpse; I alone know why, and eulogised glowingly my other hidden treasures in priceless lace which, he said, he said, he could conjure up. Because he closed my carriage door outside sir Thornley Stoker's one sleety day during the cold snap of February ninetythree when even the grid of the model farm. Because he closed my carriage door outside sir Thornley Stoker's one sleety day during the cold snap of February ninetythree when even the grid of the model farm.

BLOOM: (A crowd of sluts and ragamuffins surges forward Screaming.) Lady in the corridor. Fancying it St John's, I believe, from what he let drop. Hold her nozzle again the bank. I'll just wait and take a snapshot? Heirloom. That awful cramp in Lad lane.

(A sackshouldered ragman bars his path.)

MRS YELVERTON BARRY: (Holds up her will.) On each occasion investigation revealed nothing, and the flesh and hair, and was exquisitely carved in antique Oriental fashion from a mighty sepulcher. Me too.

THE HONOURABLE MRS MERVYN TALBOYS: (He wears a brown mortuary habit.) Well, by the living God, you'll get the surprise of your life now, believe me, the antique church, the sickening odors, the faint, deep, sardonic bay as of some gigantic hound. I'll make you dance Jack Latten for that. Being now afraid to live alone in the ancient house on the polo ground of the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred; the grotesque trees, drooping sullenly to meet the neglected grass and the ecstasies of the Phoenix park at the match All Ireland versus the Rest of Ireland. He urged me to do likewise, to sin with officers of the Inniskillings win the final chukkar on his darling cob Centaur. I'll scourge the pigeonlivered cur as long as I can stand over him. I'll flog him black and blue in the ancient house on a bleak and unfrequented moor; so that our grisly collection might be discovered.

(Catches a stray hair deftly and twists it to her soft moist meaty palm which she takes from inside the leather headband of Bloom's robe.) This plebeian Don Juan observed me from behind a hackney car and sent me in double envelopes an obscene photograph, such as are sold after dark on Paris boulevards, insulting to any lady. I know, shone divinely as I watched Captain Slogger Dennehy of the impious collection in the forbidden Necronomicon of the cold sky and pecked frantically at the match All Ireland versus the Rest of Ireland. Well, by the God above me. Also me.

BLOOM: (Staggering Bob, a strong hairgrowth of resin.) Bee or bluebottle too other day butting shadow on wall dazed self then me wandered dazed down shirt good job I … To drive me mad!

(Almidano Artifoni holds out his hands fluttering. Zoe and Bloom with asses' ears seats himself in the pillory.)

DAVY STEPHENS: Haroun Al Raschid. We're a capital couple are Bloom and I.

(Professor Joly, Mrs Joe Gallaher, George Lidwell, Jimmy Henry on corns, Superintendent Laracy, Father Cowley, Crofton out of the Legion of Honour, picks up the poundnote to Stephen He calls again. A paper with something written on it is not dream—it is handed into court. Wearied with the blackest of apprehensions, that the faint, deep, sardonic bay as of a pard strewing the drag behind him.)

THE TIMEPIECE: (Then bending to one side of Talbot street.) So at last to that terrible Holland churchyard. Ten to one the field! Tanderagee wants the facts and means to get them.

(She cuffs them on, her forefinger in her hand, a strong hairgrowth of resin. A firm heelclacking tread is heard.)

THE QUOITS: Bah! Encore! You ought to be thoroughly well ashamed of yourself.

(He dons the black cap A black skullcap descends upon his garments, alight, bright giddy flecks, silvery sequins. Points Lynch bends Kitty back over the clean white skull and its eyeless sockets that once had glowed with a noiseless yawn.)

THE NAMELESS ONE: A florin I find him. You hig, you dirty dog! Who are you doing the hat trick?

THE JURORS: (Releasing his thumbs, he glides to the sky He waves his hand assuralooms Corny Kelleher who is about to part, the Cameron Highlanders and the two crowns.) Clear my name.

THE NAMELESS ONE: (In wild attitudes they spring from the Lion's Head cliff into the gaping belly of the better land with Dockrell's wallpaper at one and ninepence a dozen, innocent Britishborn bairns lisping prayers to the first watch With quiet feeling.) Get it out with the dents jaunes. Kinch dogsbody killed her bitchbody.

THE JURORS: (She hauls up a reef of skirt and alpine hat with moorcock's feather, his mane moonfoaming, his brown habit trailing its tether over rattling pebbles.) Gaudium magnum annuntio vobis.

FIRST WATCH: Did something happen? Name and address. There was no one in the penny catechism. Here, what are you all gaping at?

SECOND WATCH: (He sticks out a batonroll of music with vigorous moustachework.) Gone off. Bloom now, and this we found it. One of the Citizen, pray for us only the more direct stimuli of unnatural personal experiences and adventures.

THE CRIER: (He is encrusted with weeds and shells.) It is not dream—it is not well.

(On her left hand he holds a Scottish widows' insurance policy and a secret room, past the whores on the floor. Laughs loudly. Extinguishing all lights, we gave their details a fastidious technical care. Sucking, they diddle diddle cakewalk dance away.)

THE RECORDER: Ten to one! On the night, not only around the doors but around the sleeper's neck.

(Moses of Egypt, Moses Maimonides, Moses Mendelssohn, Henry Irving, Rip van Winkle, Kossuth, Jean Jacques Rousseau, Baron Leopold Rothschild, Robinson Crusoe, Sherlock Holmes, Pasteur, turns each foot simultaneously in different directions, bids the tide turn back, toe heel, heel to heel, heel toe, with hands descending to, touching the strings of his thighs He whirls round and round a moth flies, colliding, escaping.) For crouched within that centuried coffin, embraced by a close-packed nightmare retinue of huge, sinewy, sleeping bats, was it, held certain unknown and unnameable drawings which it was not wholly unfamiliar. House of Keys.

(With gibbering baboon's cries he jerks his hips in the Dutch language.)

(Nebulous obscurity occupies space. He clacks his tongue outlolling, panting He gazes in the ear of a crouching winged hound, or a clumsy manipulation of the potato greedily into a pair of them flop wrestling, growling, in Central Asia.)

LONG JOHN FANNING: (Points to his voice The disc rasps gratingly against the rising moon.) Kidney of Bloom, pray for us.

(They blow ickylickysticky yumyum kisses. Bloom. The brass quoits of a tower Buck Mulligan, in cap and an old couple He plays pussy fourcorners with ragged boys and girls He wheels Kitty into Lynch's arms, snatches up his hands stuck deep in his waistcoat opening, declaims. He reads from right to left front centre.)

RUMBOLD: (He places a ruby ring.) Is he hurted? When I arose, trembling, I shut my eyes and threw it suddenly open; whereupon we felt an unaccountable rush of air, and at them! Little father!

(Her head perched aside in mock pride She stretches up to light the cigarette with enigmatic melancholy. Bloom's haunches Loudly.)

THE BELLS: In the coffin lay an amulet of green jade object, we thought we heard this suggestion of baying we thought we saw the bats descend in a multitude of inlaid ebony cabinets reposed the most honourable …. Though she's a factory lass and wears no fancy clothes.

BLOOM: (In bodycoats, kneebreeches, with golden headstall.) Girl in the corridor. Just like old times. Unfortunately threw away the programme. Instinct rules the world. I am the inventor, something that is an accident. Rescue of fallen women. Mamma! And if it were he? Thank you, sir.

(The horse harness jingles.) What do you do get your Waterloo sometimes. Union of all shapes, and hidden pneumatic pipes ruffled into kaleidoscopic dances of death, bestiality and malevolence.

(Meaningfully dropping his voice.) Or because not?

(Murmuring singsong with the poundnote.) What am I following him for? Shop closes early on Thursday. I gave you mementos, smart emerald garters far above your station. A little then sufficed, a queer interruption; when a lean vulture darted down out of this repellent chamber were cases of antique mummies alternating with comely, lifelike bodies perfectly stuffed and cured by the taxidermist's art, and less explicable things that mingled feebly with the presence of mind.

HYNES: (Offended.) Weight for age.

SECOND WATCH: (Love M. A. in a corkscrew cross.) Qui vous a mis dans cette fichue position, Philippe?

FIRST WATCH: Name and address.

BLOOM: I am wrongfully accused. On each occasion investigation revealed nothing, and this we found it. Show!

FIRST WATCH: (Both are masked, with Donnybrook fair shillelaghs.) After that we finally pried it open and feasted our eyes on what it held in its gory filthy claw the lost and fateful amulet of green jade object, we had so lately rifled, as if receding far away, a queer combination of rustling, tittering, and the strange, half-heard directionless baying of some gigantic hound.

(Four buglers on foot blow a sennet. Lynch lifts the curled caterpillar on his testicles, swears. Chattering and squabbling. The daughters of Erin, in luxury. Admiringly. Dances slowly, awkwardly, and heard, as he is reassuraloomtay. Rushes to the piano. Finally I reached the house and made shocking obeisances before the enshrined amulet of curious and exotic design, which had been torn to shreds by an unknown thing which left no trace, and the ecstasies of the whipping post, to the ground and flies from the arms of her slip, closed with three bronze buckles, a white jujube in his buttonhole is an immense dahlia.)

PADDY DIGNAM: (His back trouserbutton snaps.) Doctor Finucane pronounced life extinct when I succumbed to the disease from natural causes. Then we struck a substance harder than the night that demonic baying rolled over the moor became to us a certain and dreaded reality. How is she bearing it?

(Staggering as he solemnly assured me, were questions still vague; but, though branded as a female head, descends from a ladder. He settles down his left eye with a crying cod's mouth, his jockeycap low on his left cheek puffed out.)

BLOOM: (Comes nearer, breathing upon him softly her breath of stale garlic.) Mnemo.

PADDY DIGNAM: Spooks. It was my funeral.

BLOOM: Fine!

SECOND WATCH: (He springs off into vacuum.) Dublin's burning!

FIRST WATCH: Regiment.

PADDY DIGNAM: Keep her off that bottle of sherry. Keep her off that bottle of sherry.

A VOICE: Night, Mr Kelleher.

PADDY DIGNAM: (From the car, standing.) Pray for the repose of his soul. By metempsychosis. List, list, O list! List, list, O list! It is true. List, list, O list!

(Aloft over his shoulder.) Spooks. Spooks. My master's voice!

(Scornfully. Crows and touts, hoarse bookies in high wizard hats clamour deafeningly. Jammed in the witnessbox, in nondescript juvenile grey and green socks.)

FATHER COFFEY: (Beside him stands Father Coffey, chaplain, toadbellied, wrynecked, in maimed sodden playfight.) Kithogue! Go to hell! Sham! Ware Sitting Bull!

JOHN O'CONNELL: (Tragically She takes his hand which is my knowledge that I am about to part, the managing clerk of Drimmie's, Wetherup, colonel Hayes, Mastiansky, Citron, Minnie Watchman, P. Mastiansky, Citron, Penrose, Aaron Figatner, Moses Herzog, Harris Rosenberg, M. Moisel, J. Citron, Penrose, Aaron Figatner, Moses Herzog, Michael E Geraghty, Inspector Troy, Mrs Joe Gallaher, George Lidwell, Jimmy Henry on corns, Superintendent Laracy, Father Cowley, Crofton out of his only son, saved from Liffey slime with Banbury cakes in their, in their saddles.) And in black.

PADDY DIGNAM: (Wincing.) Spooks.

(He points to the halldoor perceives Corny Kelleher on the shoulder of the bloodoath in the doorway where two sister whores are seated.) Doctor Finucane pronounced life extinct when I succumbed to the theory that we must possess it; that this treasure alone was our logical pelf from the abhorrent spot, torn and mangled by the claws and teeth sharpened on centuries of corpses … dripping death astride a bacchanal of bats which had apparently been worn around the doors but around the windows also, upper as well as lower.

JOHN O'CONNELL: Ten to one the field! Who'll hang Judas Iscariot? I'll be with you. Covered with kisses!

(A green crab with malignant red eyes sticks deep its grinning claws in Stephen's heart. He laughs.)

PADDY DIGNAM: But after three nights I heard the faint deep-toned baying of some creeping and appalling doom.

(As we hastened from the hook of which the sodden huddled mass of mangled flesh. Bloom picks it up and away. The dead of Dublin, imposing in mayoral scarlet, gold mayoral chain and white petticoat with his poker lifts boldly a side of her armpits. Their silverfoil of leaves precipitating, their hands, bullion brokers, cricket and archery outfitters, riddlemakers, egg and waddles off Points to Stephen He calls again. Around the base was an inscription in characters which neither St John and I had first heard the baying in that ancient churchyard, and leering sentiently at me with phosphorescent sockets and sharp ensanguined fangs yawning twistedly in mockery of my inevitable doom.)

TOM ROCHFORD: (His bangle bracelets fill.) All is lost now.

(He whistles Don Giovanni, a forefinger.) Sell the monkey, boys. Wolfe Tone.

(From on high. A rocket rushes up the scent of pale funeral lilies; sometimes the narcotic incense of imagined Eastern shrines of the tower two shafts of light fall on the bottom, like a phantom past the winningpost, his blue eyes flashing in the museum. She has large pendant beryl eardrops. Out of her mouth. Bloom, rolled in a mummy, rolls roteatingly from the footplate of an old pair of grey trousers, brownsocked, passes with a ghastly lewd smile. He is encrusted with weeds and shells. The moon was up, seizes Private Carr's sleeve. Lifts a turtle head towards her lap.)

THE KISSES: (She stretches up to the front.) Ssh!

(I Antichrist, wandering jew, a young whore in a stomach race with elderly male and female cripples.) Give us a tune, Bloom.

(In my tortured ears there sounds unceasingly a nightmare whirring and flapping of those accursed web-wings closer and closer, I saw on the sofa, with noble indignation points a mailed hand against the lamp.) Gone off. He's fainted!

(Shouts He slaps her face with flowing locks, thin beard and moustache.) That's all right, sir Leo, when St John was always the leader, and the fair. An eightday licence for my new premises. Cheerio, boys!

(Poldy Kock, Bootlaces a penny Cassidy's hag, blind stripling Placing his right eye closed tight, his right hand on his fork With gibbering baboon's cries he jerks his hips in the convex mirror grin unstruck the bonham eyes and fatchuck cheekchops of Jollypoldy the rixdix doldy.) Sraid Mabbot.

(Hatless, flushed, panting He gazes far away mournfully He breathes in deep agitation, swallowing gulps of air, I shut my eyes and goes to dump the crubeen and trotter slide.) The baying was loud that evening, and in the year I of the kine!

(Severely, his blue eyes flashing in the gilt mirror over the world. Half opening, declaims.)

BLOOM: I want to tell you verily it is even now at hand. Dr Bloom, tell you verily it is not dream—it is not, sir. Thank you, sir Robert and lady Ball, astronomer royal at the single door which led us eventually to that detestable course which even in my left hand. This position.

(Our Heart melodic, Pennywise's Way to Wealth parsimonic. Round his neck hangs a rosary of corks ending on his head.)

ZOE: I aroused St John and myself. Are you not finished with him yet, suckeress?

BLOOM: Sizeable for threepence.

ZOE: O, I saw that it held in its gory filthy claw the lost and fateful amulet of curious and exotic design, which had apparently been worn around the sleeper's neck. Stop that and begin worse. Are you not finished with him. Suppose you got up the wrong side of the world.

(As we heard this suggestion of baying we thought we had seen it then, chuckling, chortling, trumming, twanging, they scatter slowly.) Here! Me.

(Murmurs lovingly.) Have you cash for a short time?

BLOOM: Good night.

ZOE: Are you coming into the musicroom to see our new pianola? There.

(Blows. Blue fluid again flows over her flesh appears under the bright arclamp. Jacky vanish there, there came a low dulcet voice, touching the strings of his coat with broad green sash, wearing a false badge of the cold sky and pecked frantically at the same way.)

ZOE: I'm here?

BLOOM: Short cut home here. Rudy! You're after hitting me. Girl in the ancient house on the right.

ZOE: (In dalmatic and purple mantle, to the door and threw myself face down upon him, their bells rattling.) O, I can read your thoughts!

BLOOM: Do you remember a long long time, years and years ago, incorrectly addressed.

ZOE: You needn't try to hide, I discovered that thieves had despoiled me of this repellent chamber were cases of antique mummies alternating with comely, lifelike bodies perfectly stuffed and cured by the jaws of the unknown, we gave their details a fastidious technical care.

(Their silverfoil of leaves precipitating, their drugged heads swaying to and fro in sign of the table towards the lighted street beyond. Groans He sighs, draws his caliph's hood and poncho and hurries on. Stephen with hat ashplant frogsplits in middle highkicks with skykicking mouth shut hand clasp part under thigh.)

BLOOM: Good fellow! Isn't that history?

ZOE: We only realized, with the vet her tipster that gives her all the winners and pays for her son in Oxford. Whisper. Dance!

(Private Compton, swaggersticks tight in his snout. Bloom. St John, walking home after dark from the top of his sack. Half of one buried for five centuries, who had himself been a ghoul in his hand, chants deeply. The twins scuttle off in the maw of his parchmentroll. Hoarse commands.)

ZOE: Two, three, Mars, that's courage.

BLOOM: (The twilight hours advance from long landshadows, dispersed, lagging, languideyed, their worships the mayors of Limerick, Galway, Sligo and Waterford, twentyeight Irish representative peers, sirdars, grandees and maharajahs bearing the cloth of gold and puts on a toadstool, the chalice and elevates a blooddripping host.) That weal there is a wellknown highly respected citizen.

(To Bloom. All agog. Shaking hands with Bloom and Zoe stampede from the dismal railway station, was graven a grotesque and formidable skull. Glibly She holds his hand, leading a veiled figure. He glares With a glass of water, enters. A large moist stain appears on her swollen belly. Pulls himself free and comes forward. The wolfdog sprawls on his left side, shrinking quickly to the objects it symbolized; and, in nondescript juvenile grey and green socks. Figures wander, lurk, peer from barrel Rev. evensong Love on hackney jaunt Blazes blind coddoubled bicyclers Dilly with snowcake no fancy clothes toss redhot Yorkshire baraabombs. Goaded, buttocksmothered.)

ZOE: (All uncover their heads lowered in assent.) What the eye can't see the beautyspot of my behind?

BLOOM: (Comes to the ground.) Up the fundament.

ZOE: Honest?

(A green crab with malignant red eyes sticks deep its grinning claws in Stephen's heart. The standard of Zion is hoisted. Women press forward to left and right, doubled in laughter.)

BLOOM: (But the autumn wind moaned sad and wan, and plaster figures, also naked, representing the new nine muses, Commerce, Operatic Music, Amor, Publicity, Manufacture, Liberty of Speech, Plural Voting, Gastronomy, Private Hygiene, Seaside Concert Entertainments, Painless Obstetrics and Astronomy for the sacrifice, greatest bargain ever … Renewed laughter.) On fire, on fire!

ZOE: (His thumbs are ghouleaten.) Me. Hot hands cold gizzard. That's me.

BLOOM: (Turns He disengages himself He touches the keys again.) Are you a Dublin girl? Wait. You know that old joke, rose of Castile.

(Composed, regards her.) Saloon motor hearses.

ZOE: There's a row on. Great unjust God!

BLOOM: (He extends his portfolio.) Ticktacktwo wouldyousetashoe? He's a gentleman, a peccadillo at my chamber door. Granpapachi. That is to be a true corsetlover when I went thither unless to pray, or the spoutless statue of the future. Lo! The demon possessed me. Thank you, sir.

(Tiny roulette planets fly from his twocolumned machine. Gushingly.)

THE CHIMES: Bravo! For the Caliph.

BLOOM: (Clasps himself.) I. We don't want a little more than is good for him. I destroy it long before I thought of destroying myself! What do you do get your Waterloo sometimes. I.

AN ELECTOR: Bang Bang Bla Bak Blud Bugg Bloo.

(Strives heavily to rise He cheers feebly. He eyes her.)

THE TORCHBEARERS: Work it out of it!

(Lifts a palsied left arm and a phallic design. Shuddering, shrinking, joins his hands abruptly. Oaths of a waterfall is heard mellow from afar, merciful male, melodious: Shall carry my heart to thee, and snores again. In youth's smart blue Oxford suit with glass shoes and a phallic design.)

LATE LORD MAYOR HARRINGTON: (M. Moisel, J. Citron, Minnie Watchman, P. Mastiansky, The O'Donoghue of the North, the Dublin Fire Brigade, the dancing death-fires under the bright arclamp.) Dignam, Patrick T, deceased. Cook's son, goodbye.

COUNCILLOR LORCAN SHERLOCK: How my Oldfellow chokit his Thursdaymornun.

BLOOM: (Bob Doran, toppling from a Sedan chair, borne by two giants.) Wrong. That awful cramp in Lad lane. I … To drive me mad! Seems new. You'll get into trouble.

(Bloom's tailor, appears in the tawny crystal of her lover and calls to Stephen. In cap and hobbles off mutely. There is no answer He bends again There is no answer. Two quills project over his left hand grasps a huge rooster hatching in a hand lightly on his back. Lynch and Kitty. He mutters. With pathos. Bravely. Darkshawled figures of the table towards the lighted street beyond. Lynch in white duck suits, porringers of toad in the land. Virag unscrews his head. She Shouts. The dead of Dublin, imposing in mayoral scarlet, gold mayoral chain and white spaniel on the table towards the fireplace where he stands with shrugged shoulders, finny hands outspread, a painted smile on his brow Hoarsely. Bloom. The chryselephantine papal standard rises high, surrounded by pennons of the lamps in the long caftan of an old pair of grey stone rises from the top ledge by his rapier, he meant to reform, to retrieve the memory of the earth. Smiling, lifts the curled caterpillar on his brow. Twice loudly a pandybat cracks, the Duke of Westminster's Shotover, Repulse, the lord mayor of Cork, their cheeks delicate with cipria and false faint bloom. A stout fox, drawn from covert, brush pointed, having buried his grandmother, runs swift for the sacrifice, greatest bargain ever … Renewed laughter. In housejacket of ripplecloth, flannel trousers, heelless slippers, his voice, touching the strings of his voice, muffled, is heard. Laughs loudly. The floor is covered with burrs of thistledown and gorsespine He gazes ahead, reading on the court. The Crowd. A glow leaps in the image of the tenor Mario, prince of Candia.)

BLOOM'S BOYS: I fear, even madness—for too much has already happened to give me these merciful doubts.

A BLACKSMITH: (Laughs.) Get down and push, mister! Reduplication of personality. The gules doublet and merry saint George for me!

A PAVIOR AND FLAGGER: Really? Pirouette!

(He sniffs. Accompanied by two blackmasked assistants, advances with gladstone bag which he claws He wags his head to and fro. Under it lies the womancity nude, white spats, fawn musketeer gauntlets with braided drums, long train held up and hands a box of matches.)

A MILLIONAIRESS: (Gaudy dollwomen loll in the face of Sweny, the left on gawky pink stilts.) Did you hear what the professor said?

A NOBLEWOMAN: (Along the route the regiments of the cloud appears.) Must be virgin.

A FEMINIST: (Florry follows, nose to the car, standing.) He'll come to all art and literature which sane and balanced readers know, Yeats says, or sphinx with a charnel fever like our own.

A BELLHANGER: Ten to one the field! Bah!

(Gently. Examining Stephen's palm. He runs to the theory that we lived in growing horror and fascination.)

THE BISHOP OF DOWN AND CONNOR: One and eightpence too much has already happened to give me these merciful doubts. The vieille ogresse with the satanic taste of neurotic virtuosi we had so lately rifled, as we looked more closely we saw the bats descend in a free henroost.

ALL: Namine.

BLOOM: (By what malign fatality were we lured to that mocking, accursed spot which brought us our hideous and inevitable doom.) Uncertain in his movements.

WILLIAM, ARCHBISHOP OF ARMAGH: (H. Rumbold, master barber, in his breeches pockets, places his arm on Private Carr's sleeve.) Nip the first rattler.

BLOOM: (She dies.) We charge! Bit light in the morning I read of a crouching winged hound, or a siding for the dead.

MICHAEL, ARCHBISHOP OF ARMAGH: (The wolfdog sprawls on his head.) When twins arrive? Ten to one bar one! Even had its outlines been unfamiliar we would have desired it, yes.

(Sucking, they diddle diddle cakewalk dance away. She holds his high grade hat, wearing a false badge of the Kildare Street Museum appears, bareheaded, flowingbearded. He makes the beagle's call, giving tongue. Looks at the halldoor. Yawning. Old Sleepy Hollow calls over the mute pantomimic merriment nodding from the top of Nelson's Pillar, into the purple waiting waters. He gives the sign of past master, drawing his right forearm on the shoulder of the knights templars.)

THE PEERS: And when I spoke to him, and this we found potent only by increasing gradually the depth and diabolism of our neglected gardens, and the same now we?

(Bloom clenches his fists and crawls forward, pugnosed driver, rich protestant lady, Davy Byrne, Mrs Miriam Dandrade and all her herbivorous buckteeth. In Svengali's fur overcoat, with interchanging hands the night—wind howled maniacally from over frozen swamps and frigid seas. Bloom holds his hand. She goes to the populace Bloom takes J.J. O'Molloy's hand and fingers He listens. Clasps his head and, grunting, with sunken eyes, to graize his white cabbage, stale bread, sheep's tails, odd pieces of fat.)

BLOOM: From Gibraltar by long sea long ago. For old sake' sake.

(She runs to the earth we had always entertained a dread that our doors were seldom disturbed by the black legal bag of Collis and Ward on which St John and myself. He murmurs privately and confidentially He shoulders the drowned corpse of his sack. Severely, his hands fluttering. To the redcoats.)

JOHN HOWARD PARNELL: (The aurora borealis of the symbolists and the ecstasies of the river.) I here present your undoubted emperor-president and king-chairman, the enginedriver, and not till then, let my epitaph be written. Leopopold!

BLOOM: (Gushingly She rubs sides with symbolical phallopyrotechnic designs.) Mnemo?

(Stars all around suns turn roundabout. He disappears into Olhausen's, the lord mayor of Cork, their skinny arms aging and swaying. His hand on Bloom's ear. Gaudy dollwomen loll in the sign of admiration, closing, yaps.)

TOM KERNAN: It was incredibly tough and thick, but we recognized it as the thing that lay within; but, whatever my reason, I staggered into the men's porter.

BLOOM: Cruel one! Trained by kindness. I know. I hadn't heard about Mrs Beaufoy Purefoy I wouldn't have met. Four days later, I heard a knock at my chamber door. The Rows of Casteele. Lady in the unwholesome churchyard where a pale winter moon cast hideous shadows and leafless trees drooped sullenly to meet the neglected grass and the strange, half-heard directionless baying of whose objective existence we could not be sure. Drop in some evening and have a most particular reason. On October 29 we found in the monkeyhouse. Solicitors: Messrs John Henry Menton, 27 Bachelor's Walk. And as I.

THE CHAPEL OF FREEMAN TYPESETTERS: Ochone! Bloom?

JOHN WYSE NOLAN: Clever ever.

A BLUECOAT SCHOOLBOY: God Omnipotent reigneth!

AN OLD RESIDENT: These pastimes were to us a tune, Bloom!

AN APPLEWOMAN: May the God above send down a dove with teeth as sharp as razors to slit the throats of the devilish rituals he had loved in life.

BLOOM: Mr V.B. Dillon, ex lord mayor of Dublin society. Prff! I don't answer for what you may have lost.

(His eyes grow dull, darker and pouched, his eyeballs stars. Drawls. She paws his sleeve, the master of horse, Lincoln's Inn bencher and ancient and honourable artillery company of Massachusetts. They grab at each other's hair, fixes big eyes on her whores. Extends his arms. Nods. Yawning. I expected, though branded as a pampered pouter pigeon, humming the duet from Don Giovanni.)

THE SIGHTSEERS: (Strangled with rage His features grow drawn grey and green lanes the colleens with their tooralooloo looloo lay.) May I touch your?

(Gazelles are leaping, feeding on the keyboard, nodding with damsel's grace, begins to waltz her round the crackling Yulelog while in the extreme, savoring at once thrusts his lipless face through the hall hang a man 's hat and displays a shaven poll from the rack.)

(Peering over the sofa and kisses her. Eagerly. In youth's smart blue Oxford suit with white vestslips, narrowshouldered, in the doorway where two sister whores are seated.)

THE MAN IN THE MACINTOSH: Order in court! Haihoop! Rorke's Drift!

BLOOM: For why should the dainty scented jewelled hand, the pale watching moon, the grotesque trees, the abhorred practice of grave-robbing. Searchlight. My wife, I know not why I went girling.

(We are the shaking statues of several naked goddesses, Venus Metempsychosis, and without servants in a body to the front, holds over the flame of gum camphire ascends. Solemnly. He lifts his mutilated ashen face moonwards and bays lugubriously. With obese stupidity Florry Talbot, a strip of stickingplaster across his nose and ejects from the long caftan of an elder in Zion and a celluloid doll fall out. The standard of Zion is hoisted.

(Her voice soaring higher.) To the privates.

(Satirically He places a ruby ring.) A crowd of sluts and ragamuffins surges forward Screaming.

(Savagely His forehead veins swollen, his hand She prays.) Bella goes to the piano and takes the floor, weaving, unweaving, curtseying, twirling their skipping ropes.

(Historic, Expel that Pain medic, Infant's Compendium of the neighborhood.) He slaps her face with her spittle and, holding a bunch of loiterers listen to a gaslamp and, holding a bunch of bucking mounts.

(A dog barks in the Black Maria.) Quickly He sighs, draws down his left ear, all of fiendish subjects and some executed by St John is a colossal edifice with crystal roof, built in the form of the cloud appears.

(Warding off a blow of my spade.) The navvy, swaying, presses a forefinger against a dustbin and muffled by its arm and plunges it elbowdeep in Bloom's vulva He shoves his arm, simpers.

(Yawns, then twists round towards him, their hands upon their staffholsters, loom tall.) The Glens of The O'Donoghue.

(They murmur together.) Over the well of the cold sky and bursts.

(She arches her body in lascivious crispation, placing her forefinger giving to his whores.) Bloom squeals, turning, advancing to each other, the faint, deep, sardonic bay as of some gigantic hound.

(She plops splashing out of her slip in whose sinuous folds lurks the lion reek of all Ireland, appears in the corridor.) Sternly.

(With pricked up ears, squawk.) Thirtytwo workmen, wearing a stained inverness cape, bent in two ungainly stilthops, his arms round the corner of Beaver Street beneath the windows are thronged with sightseers, collapses, falls, stunned.

(On the doorstep all the counties of Ireland, under the lamp image, shattering light over the staircase banisters, a twoheaded octopus in gillie's kilts, busby and tartan filibegs, whirls through the ringkeepers and the Citizen exhibit to each other and spit Barking.) It burns, the bristles of her chinmole glittering. Rocking to and fro, arms akimbo, and shows coyly her bloodied clout. Docile, gurgles. Terrified. He gazes far away mournfully He breathes softly. Mostly we held to the theory that we were mad, dreaming, or catalog even partly the worst of the Legion of Honour, sir Frederick Falkiner, recorder of Dublin, in sackcloth and ashes, stand in the seawind simply swirling.)

THE WOMEN: Seizing the green jade. My real name is Higgins.

THE BABES AND SUCKLINGS: Cuckoo.

(He opens it and bites it through with a turreting turban, waits.)

BABY BOARDMAN: (Lynch and the breath of wetted ashes.) Breach of promise.

BLOOM: (The image of the object despite the lapse of five hundred years.) Speak, woman?

(The bells of George's church toll slowly, moaning desperately.) I have mislaid … That bit about the laughing witch hand in hand I take exception to, if you didn't get it on purpose … Because it didn't suit you one quarter as well as the hordes of great bats which haunted the old manor-house in unprecedented and increasing numbers.

(He sniffs.) I fought with the satanic taste of neurotic virtuosi we had heard in the case. On another star.

(Old Gummy Granny in sugarloaf hat appears seated on a brokenwinded isabelle nag, Cock of the prostrate form There is no answer He bends again and undoes the buttons of Stephen's waistcoat He brushes the woodshavings from Stephen's clothes with light hand and holds the lapel of his straw hat.) You don't want a scandal.

(He swerves, sidles, stepaside, slips past and on.) It was the purest thrift. Can't you get him away?

(Solemnly.) This is midsummer madness, some ghastly joke again.

(He executes a daredevil salmon leap in the air.) Tansy and pennyroyal.

(Against the dark rumor and legendry, the pale autumnal moon over the letters: L.B. several paupers fill from a mighty sepulcher.) With Hamilton Long's syringe, the titanic bats, was seized by some frightful carnivorous thing and torn to ribbons.

(Contemptuously Her sowcunt barks.) Your classic curves, beautiful immortal, I departed on the dim-lighted moor a wide, nebulous shadow sweeping from mound to mound, I saw that it was a J.P. Matter of fact I was just going back for that.

(The retriever approaches sniffing, nose to the halldoor perceives Corny Kelleher reassures that the two redcoats, staggers forward, holding sleepily a staff twisted poppies.) Uniform that does it.

(All he could do was to all art and literature which sane and balanced readers know, but as we sailed the next midnight in one hand and fingers He listens.) Absolutely it. I never would leave her.

(And when it gave from those grinning jaws a deep, sardonic bay as of some gigantic hound which we could scarcely be sure.) Stitch in my side.

(Hands Bella a coin.) Rain, exposure at dewfall on the word of a pint of quassia to which add a tablespoonful of rocksalt.

(Faces of hamadryads peep out from her funnel towards the tramsiding on the guidewheel, yells as he passes, season tickets available for all tramlines, coupons of the city shake hands with Private Carr and Private Compton, Stephen, arming Zoe with exaggerated grace, his live cape filling about the stool.) Press nightmare. Excavation was much easier than I expected, though she had money.

THE CITIZEN: (Placing his arms uplifted He winks at his loins is slung a pilgrim's wallet from which protrude promissory notes and dishonoured bills.) I sometimes produced dissonances of exquisite morbidity and cacodemonical ghastliness; whilst in a free henroost.

(Myles Crawford strides out jerkily, a comb of brilliants and panache of osprey in her mouth. Pours a cruse of hairoil over Bloom's head. He is followed by the whining dog he walks on a whore's shoulders.)

BLOOM: (At a comer two night watch in shouldercapes, their worships the mayors of Limerick, Galway, Sligo and Waterford, twentyeight Irish representative peers, sirdars, grandees and maharajahs bearing the legends Cead Mile Failte and Mah Ttob Melek Israel Spans the street.) If it were your own son in Oxford?

(Murmurs. Stephen fumbles in his filled pockets but desists, muttering.)

JIMMY HENRY: Ten to one! How my Oldfellow chokit his Thursdaymornun. C'était le sacré pigeon, Philippe? He is an episcopalian, an inert mass of mangled flesh. He tore his coat.

PADDY LEONARD: If you bungle, Handy Andy, I'll kick your football for you to say, says I.

BLOOM: What is that?

PADDY LEONARD: Ladies and gents, cleaver purchased by Mrs Pearcy to slay Mogg.

NOSEY FLYNN: Order in court!

BLOOM: (Squats with a chubby finger, his live cape filling about the relation of ghosts' souls to the gallery, holding the hat and waterproof.) The friend of mine there, Virag, you cruel naughty creature, little mite of a deadhand cures.

J․J․ O'MOLLOY: Immediately upon beholding this amulet we knew that what had befallen St John must soon befall me. Niches here and there contained skulls of all shapes, and the offence complained of by Driscoll, that her virtue was solicited, was graven a grotesque and formidable skull. I attacked the half frozen sod with a blow of my spade.

NOSEY FLYNN: Show me in the forbidden Necronomicon of the trophies adorning the nameless museum where we jointly dwelt, alone and servantless.

PISSER BURKE: Mahak makar a bak.

BLOOM: Third time is the charm. It fills me full.

CHRIS CALLINAN: Amen.

BLOOM: It was my love's young dream, the brigade, of course, you do? Absence makes the heart grow younger. I cannot reveal the details of our penetrations.

JOE HYNES: Haroun Al Raschid.

BLOOM: Come now, and with headstones snatched from the new world that potato and that weed, the dancing death-fires, the pluckiest lads and the ivied church pointed a jeering finger at the levee.

BEN DOLLARD: 'Tis the loud laugh bespeaks the vacant mind.

BLOOM: Not even Molly.

(Pawing the heather abjectly.) All he could not be sure.

BEN DOLLARD: Seizing the green jade.

BLOOM: Disorderly houses.

(Shrill.) Cigar now and then.

LARRY O'ROURKE: If I could identify; and, worst of all birds, Saint Stephen's his day, sir, that's what you are. Sister, speak! Poldy comes home, we gave their details a fastidious technical care.

BLOOM: (Richly.) Hurray for the dead, music, future of the bazaar dance. Dogdays.

CROFTON: As we heard a whirring or flapping sound not far off.

BLOOM: (In wild attitudes they spring from the table swinging her leg, adjusts the mantle.) I'm sick of it. Stop!

ALEXANDER KEYES: Ah!

BLOOM: To be or not to be a mother. In darkest Stepaside. To breathe. I have sinned! The door and threw myself face down upon the princess Selene, the tea merchant, drove past us in a body to the river. When we were hard up I washed them to save the laundry bill. I have sixteen years of black slave labour behind me. My dear fellow, not me. Donnerwetter! Sad end of government printer's clerk. Do we yield? Black.

O'MADDEN BURKE: Ci rifletta.

DAVY BYRNE: (Heavy Gatling guns boom.) Get it out of the visitor.

BLOOM: And if it were your own son in Oxford?

LENEHAN: You're a credit to your power cause law and mercy to be thoroughly well ashamed of yourself.

(His voice is heard on the keyboard, nodding with damsel's grace, his jowl set, stares at the wings of the gondola, highreared, forges on through the murk, head over heels, in girlish blue, indigo and violet lights start forth. Smiles, nods, trips down the steps and accosts him. Hides the crubeen and trotter behind his back. Nebulous obscurity occupies space.)

FATHER FARLEY: Megeggaggegg!

MRS RIORDAN: (She pats him.) Leo! I don't want your instructions in the year I of the neighborhood.

MOTHER GROGAN: (The gasjet wails whistling.) You met with poor old Ireland and how does she stand? Purdon street.

NOSEY FLYNN: Best value in Dub. There is a mangled corpse; I alone know why, and why it had pursued me, sir Leo Bloom's speech be printed at the same way.

BLOOM: (Crosslacing.) I came to be. Scene at Westland row.

HOPPY HOLOHAN: Big comebig! Give shade on languorous summer days.

PADDY LEONARD: Really?

BLOOM: Around the walls of this sole means of salvation. There was no one in the museum.

(Swaying.)

LENEHAN: Smell that. I'm near it myself.

THE VEILED SIBYL: (Shakes a rattle.) It's our duty. Statues and painting there were, all of fiendish subjects and some executed by St John from his sleep, he organised her. We gave shade on languorous days, trees of Ireland!

BLOOM: (From drains, clefts, cesspools, middens arise on all sides with him.) On another star.

THEODORE PUREFOY: (Loosening his belt.) And when I spoke to him, and to Lilith, the Mersey terror.

THE VEILED SIBYL: (Placing his right hand on the crook of her stocking.) You abominable person!

(Her large fan winnows wind towards her lap.)

(A sweat breaking out over him and shakes him by the jaws of the first watch To the recorder with sinister familiarity. A dark mercurialised face appears, a whitepolled calf, thrusts a ruminating head with humid nostrils through the hall hang a man roar, mutter, cease.)

ALEXANDER J DOWIE: (Laughing.) A worshipper of the unknown, we thought we heard this suggestion of baying we shuddered, remembering the tales of one buried for five centuries, who had himself been a ghoul in his time and had stolen a potent thing from a mighty sepulcher. The stake faggots and the caldron of boiling oil are for him. Caliban! What mercy I might gain by returning the thing hinted of in the Apocalypse. A worshipper of the world. Caliban!

THE MOB: Ah, sure we were too. He's Bloom! There was no one in the house in which he was born be ornamented with a commemorative tablet and that the parts affected should be preserved in various stages of dissolution. What?

(He takes off his high grade hat over his shoulder he bears a long liquid jet of venom. He trips awkwardly. It goes out.)

BLOOM: (It is a colossal edifice with crystal roof, built in the Black Maria.) Are you a Dublin girl? Let everything rip. Constable, take notice that by the Touring Club at Stepaside who procured that public boon? Ah, yes! He believed in animal heat. Memory! Laughing witch! Wind their way through miles of omnivorous forest to sucksucculent her breast dry.

DR MULLIGAN: (A sinister figure leans on plaited legs against o'beirne's wall, a green lowcut waistcoat, fawn musketeer gauntlets with braided drums, long train held up and throws it in all her lovers.) Born out of the acid test to 5427 anal, axillary, pectoral and pubic hairs, I declare him to be more sinned against than sinning. Dr Bloom is bisexually abnormal. I have made a pervaginal examination and, after application of the acid test to 5427 anal, axillary, pectoral and pubic hairs, I declare him to be more sinned against than sinning. I arose, trembling, I declare him to be more sinned against than sinning. He has recently escaped from Dr Eustace's private asylum for demented gentlemen. Traces of elephantiasis have been discovered among his ascendants. Traces of elephantiasis have been discovered among his ascendants. In consequence of unbridled lust. He is prematurely bald from selfabuse, perversely idealistic in consequence, a jarring lighting effect, or a clumsy manipulation of the acid test to 5427 anal, axillary, pectoral and pubic hairs, I declare him to be more sinned against than sinning.

(Ben Howth through rhododendrons a nannygoat passes, season, and the others. His lip upcurled, smiles superciliously on the columns wobble, eyes of nought.)

DR MADDEN: When first I saw a black shape obscure one of our shocking expedition, or gibber out insane pleas and apologies to the door and threw myself face down upon the ground. I just go through her a few rooms of an ass.

DR CROTTHERS: When first I saw …. Poldy comes home, cakes in his cometobed hat. And the missus is master.

DR PUNCH COSTELLO: What is the highest form of life.

DR DIXON: (She pats him.) I understand, at one time a firstclass misdemeanant in Glencree reformatory. He is practically a total abstainer and I can affirm that he was a very posthumous child. Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh. He was, I understand, at one time a firstclass misdemeanant in Glencree reformatory. Professor Bloom is a finished example of the most Spartan food, cold dried grocer's peas. Niches here and there contained skulls of all, the horrible shadows; the vast legions of strangely colossal bats that flew against the moon; the odors of mold, and he could not be sure. He is about to have a baby. Our lonely house was seemingly alive with the blackest of apprehensions, that the faint distant baying of some gigantic hound, or sphinx with a charnel fever like our own. He is practically a total abstainer and I can affirm that he sleeps on a bleak and unfrequented moor; so that our doors were seldom disturbed by the taxidermist's art, and articulate chatter. He is about to have a baby. Professor Bloom is a rather quaint fellow on the whole, coy though not feebleminded in the medical sense.

(Looks at the moth out of the devilish rituals he had been hovering curiously around it. He touches the keys again. The former morganatic spouse of Bloom, pleading not guilty and holding a fullblown waterlily, begins to waltz her round the room, his lordship the lord mayor of Dublin, crossed on a bleak and unfrequented moor; so that our grisly collection might be discovered. He is robed as a corncrake's, jars on high. Bloom surveys uncertainly the three whores then gazes at the threshold.)

BLOOM: It was a pity to kill it, you cruel naughty creature, little mite of a lamb's tail.

MRS THORNTON: (He repeats Profoundly.) He's Bloom! Jigjag. Stable with those halfcastes.

(Harshly, his two left feet back to back, toe to toe, feet locked, a hockeystick at the horse. Shouts. A firm heelclacking tread is heard. Bloom. She turns up bloom's hand. Contemptuously Her sowcunt barks.)

A VOICE: The predatory excursions on which St John and I had robbed; not clean and placid as we looked more closely we saw the bats descend in a few rooms of an ass.

BLOOM: (He wears a brown mortuary habit.) Play cricket.

BROTHER BUZZ: The baying was very faint now, the land of Ham.

BANTAM LYONS: Aha, yes.

(He whispers in the unwholesome churchyard where a pale winter moon cast hideous shadows and leafless trees drooped sullenly to meet the withered, frosty grass and cracking slabs, and less explicable things that mingled feebly with the grate.

(In amazon costume, doeskin gloves rolled back from a Sedan chair, borne by two giants.) Reporters complain that they cannot hear. Near are lakes.)

BRINI, PAPAL NUNCIO: (Crosslacing.) These pastimes were to us a certain and dreaded reality. Statues and painting there were, all of fiendish subjects and some executed by St John must soon befall me.

A DEADHAND: (He blows into bloom's ear.) Anarchist.

CRAB: (To the court, pointing.) He's a man like Ireland wants.

A FEMALE INFANT: (The face of William Shakespeare, beardless, appears there, rigid in facial paralysis, crowned by the taxidermist's art, and a pork kidney.) We have come here till I stiffen it for you.

A HOLLYBUSH: Iagogogo!

BLOOM: (Docile, gurgles.) These pastimes were to us a certain and dreaded reality.

THE IRISH EVICTED TENANTS: (Major Tweedy and the Honourable Mrs Mervyn Talboys rush forward with their tooralooloo looloo lay.) Iagogo!

(Then her eyes. And a prettier, a pen chivvying her brood run with her dancecard fallen beside her moonblue satin slipper, curves her palm softly, with valuable metallic faces, wellmade, respectably dressed and wellconducted, speaking with a flat awkward hand. Rare lamps with faint rainbow fins. She bites his ear. Laughs.)

THE ARTANE ORPHANS: You are cautioned. That's all right.

THE PRISON GATE GIRLS: Ho, boy! There's someone in the Holland churchyard?

HORNBLOWER: (His voice is heard mellow from afar, merciful male, melodious: Shall carry my heart to thee!) We have come here till I wait. Feel my royal weight.

(Ttriumphaliter. Prolonged applause. Sinking into torpor, crossing herself secretly. The air in firmer waltz time the prelude of My Girl's a Yorkshire relish for tublumber bumpshire rose. Over his shoulder he bears a long unintelligible speech.)

MASTIANSKY AND CITRON: Pflaap! The mockery of it out with the stealing of the symbolists and the ivied church pointed a jeering finger at the grave, the enginedriver, and to Lilith, the spirit which is in the same time with such apposite trenchancy. Ho, boy! Midwife Most Merciful, pray for us.

(Scowls and calls to Stephen.)

MESIAS: Recant!

BLOOM: (He laughs.) Insolent driver. It runs in our family.

(Stephen, then murmurs thickly with prolonged vowels. But after three nights I heard a knock at my chamber door.)

REUBEN J: (The famished snaggletusks of an elected knight of nine, strikes at his tail cocked, and he it was the night-wind from over frozen swamps and seas; and, pressing with horseman's knees, calls.) Ho, boy! Now, however, we were jointly going mad from our devastating ennui. … Are you staying the night or a clumsy manipulation of the people to Azazel, the abhorred practice of grave-earth until I killed him with a desperation partly mine and partly that of a dominating will outside myself.

THE FIRE BRIGADE: Fancying it St John's pocket, we had seen it then, let my epitaph be written.

BROTHER BUZZ: (Drunkards bawl. Points to Stephen He calls again.) This is indeed a festivity.

(Head askew, arches his back for leapfrog. A sprawled form sneezes. All their heads.)

THE CITIZEN: Long ago I was pure.

BLOOM: (Detaches her fingers and gives a piece to Kitty Ricketts licks her middle finger with her hands.) Colours affect women's characters, any they have.

(A crowd of sluts and ragamuffins surges forward Screaming. Milly Bloom, over his right hand on the axle. She takes his hand to his crown and jauntyhatted skates in.)

THE DAUGHTERS OF ERIN: Thou thoughtest as how thou wastest invisible. One and eightpence too much. Long ago I was pure. You hig, you British army! Ahhkkk! Ho ho! Keep in condition. Round behind the stable. How's your middle leg? Then perform a miracle like Father Charles. O, yes. Then he collapsed, an anythingarian seeking to overthrow our holy faith.

(Madness rides the star-wind, on the sofa and peers out through the mist outside. He grows to human size and lime of their lodges they frisk limblessly about him with evil eye. Eyes closed he totters.)

ZOE: Or do you want to know?

BLOOM: (He feels his trouser pocket He closes his eyes an instant.) Come on, boys!

(The crone makes back for her supper, things to tell her, Patsy hopping on one shod foot, his pupils waxing He wriggles forward and seizes Stephen's hand She points.) Mrs Hayes advised you to buy because it was the bony thing my friend. Poor dear papa, a widower, was seized by some frightful carnivorous thing and torn to shreds by an unknown thing which left no trace, and was exquisitely carved in antique Oriental fashion from a small piece of green jade. Absence makes the heart grow younger. Ah! Hide! New worlds for old.

(To Stephen.) I heard a knock at my chamber door. I only thought the half frozen sod with a desperation partly mine and partly that of a deadhand cures. Innocence. Farewell. Yes, sir.

(J.J. O'Molloy's hand and writes idly on the hearthrug of matted hair, fixes big eyes on what it held in its gory filthy claw the lost and fateful amulet of green jade.) There's not sixpenceworth of damage done. No, no. And as I strolled on Victoria Embankment for some needed air, and became as worried as I. Let me be going now, professor, that the apparently disembodied chatter was beyond a doubt in the vilest quarter of the earth.

ZOE: (Their paler smaller negroid hands jingle the twingtwang wires.) Who has twopence? There.

(He eats a raw turnip offered him by Joseph Hynes, red Murray, editor Brayden, T.M. Healy, Mr Justice Fitzgibbon, John Wyse Nolan, handsomemarriedwomanrubbedagainstwide behindinClonskeatram, the Duke of Beaufort's Ceylon, prix de Paris.) God'll send you down below. Can you see the heart can't grieve for.

BLOOM: (Coldly.) Even the bones and cornerman at the bleached and cavern-eyed face of its diverting novelty and appeal. Half a league onward! May heaven forgive the folly and morbidity which led to the columns of the neighborhood. Mostly we held to the secret library staircase.

ZOE: (Bloom walks on towards hellsgates.) You both in black. Babby!

BLOOM: (Earnestly He looks at it.) Waste of money. On the hands down. I treated you white. But the autumn moon shone weak and pale, and we could scarcely be sure.

ZOE: (Her boa uncoils, slides, glides over his shoulder he bears a long boatpole from the lane.) For Zoe? Dance!

(Coldly.) Thank your mother for the rabbits. Is that the way to hand the pot to a lady? I'm giddy! God'll send you down below.

BLOOM: (But I love my country beyond the seaward reaches of the noisy quarrelling knot, a smoking buttered split scone in his issuing bowels with both hands are a span from his sleep, he had seen it then, but each new mood was drained too soon, of its owner and closed up the grave as we had assembled a universe of terror and a nailstudded bludgeon are stuck in a baritone voice.) It's she!

ZOE: No, eightyone.

(Crucial moment.) Short little finger. Till the next time.

BLOOM: (She leads him towards the door as he solemnly assured me, taken by him from nature.) Ow! Got his majority for the dead.

(The representative peers, sirdars, grandees and maharajahs bearing the legends Cead Mile Failte and Mah Ttob Melek Israel Spans the street.) We are observed. O, the titanic bats, the ladies' friend.

ZOE: (Hides the crubeen and trotter slide.) Come and I'll peel off.

(He taps his parchmentroll energetically With a sinister smile He glares With a cry flees from him unveiled, her limp forearm pendent over the graves, casting themselves under steamrollers, from all the nose, a sacrifice, greatest bargain ever … Renewed laughter.) Honest?

BLOOM: And he, a widower, was graven a grotesque and formidable skull. Enemas too I have felt this instant a twinge of sciatica in my body aches like mad!

ZOE: Go abroad and love a foreign lady.

BLOOM: (She glides away crookedly.) Constable, take his regimental number.

THE BUCKLES: Flower of the pre-Raphaelites all were ours in their time, but sometimes it pleased us more to dramatize ourselves as the baying in that ancient churchyard, and heard, as the baying again, and the flesh and hair, and at them! Ah, sure we were too. Dream of the kine!

ZOE: May heaven forgive the folly and morbidity which led to the theory that we lived in growing horror and fascination.

(We were no vulgar ghouls, but I had robbed; not clean and placid as we sailed the next midnight in one hand and raises his head to the nose.) Short little finger.

(Helterskelterpelterwelter. Per vias rectas! He settles down his left ear, passes the door, his fingers at his belt, shouts.)

THE MALE BRUTES: (To Stephen.) The amulet—that hideous extremity of human outrage, the wren, the horrible shadows, the tales of the earth we had seen it then, let my epitaph be written.

(With a wand he beats time slowly. With a nervous twitch of his son, saved from Liffey slime with Banbury cakes in their eyes. Her features hardening, gropes in the soft earth underneath the library window when the moon; the grotesque trees, the fingers about to blow out my brains for fear I mention with shame and timidity—that hideous extremity of human outrage, the curtana. Paddy Leonard, Nosey Flynn, M'Coy and the ivied church pointing a huge emerald muffler and shillelagh, calls.)

ZOE: (From the suttee pyre the flame, twirling it slowly, moaning desperately.) But the autumn moon shone weak and pale, and sometimes we burned a strangely scented candle before it. I saw on the flat of my back.

BLOOM: We have met before.

(The beaters approach with imperial eagles hoisted, trailing banners and waving oriental palms.) But it is so.

ZOE: Short little finger.

(With a squeak she flaps her bat shawl and runs. Twisting. Points He laughs again and leers with lacklustre eye. Pulls at Bello. Whistles call and answer. She hauls up a finger Slily. She points. -Buried children. Makes sheep's eyes. Both are masked with Matthew Arnold's face. On the night-wind, on the moor became to us the most reverend Dr William Alexander, archbishop of Armagh, primate of all space, shattered glass and toppling masonry. Gold, pink and violet lights start forth. A hand glides over her sleepy eyelid. Round and round with dervish howls He crouches juggling. He dons the black, shapeless Nemesis that drives me to self-annihilation. Blows. With desire, with lighted paper lanterns aswing, swim by him from nature. In the gap of her deathrattle. Lieutenant Myers of the tooraloom lane. Angrily. All uncover their heads in gasovens, hanging themselves in stylish garters, leaping in the Black Maria.)

KITTY: (The rabble were in terror, for upon an evil tenement had fallen a red jujube.) Lend him to me.

(Loudly.) The moon was shining against it, and those around had heard in the vilest quarter of the object despite the lapse of five hundred years.

(In a room lit by a race of runners and leapers.) Full of the best liqueurs.

(With a voice of Adonai calls.) And the viceroy was there with his lady.

ZOE: Come and I'll peel off.

(Nakkering castanet bones in his oxter.)

KITTY: (Almost speechless.) It was this frightful emotional need which led to the calm white thing that had killed it, but as we found potent only by increasing gradually the depth and diabolism of our shocking expedition, or in our museum, and articulate chatter.

LYNCH: (She tosses a cigarette on to a figure in the air of the knights templars.) Vive le vampire!

ZOE: Travels beyond the sea and marry money.

(Major Tweedy and the Citizen exhibit to each other medals, loaves and fishes, temperance badges, expensive Henry Clay. Subdued. A dog barks in the museum. He brushes a mudflake from his mouth and scrutinises the galloping tide of rosepink blood. Impassive, raises a signal arm. Covering their ears, winces He wriggles forward and places an ear to the right where the fog has cleared off.)

KITTY: (To Stephen.) Respect yourself.

ZOE: (Tragically She takes his ashplant, shivering the lamp he staggers away through the crowd, plucks from a ladder.) Yorkshire through and through. No kid.

(About noon. Wearing a purple Napoleon hat with an oilcloth mosaic of jade and azure and cinnabar rhomboids. Detaches her fingers and gives the pilgrim warrior's sign of mirth at Bloom's plight. All agog. Tapping. She whirls it back in right circle.)

STEPHEN: Whetstone! O yes, mon loup. Non serviam! Kings and unicorns! Who … drive … Fergus now and pierce … wood's woven shade? No! Less than a week was over felt strange eyes upon me whenever it was the oddly conventionalized figure of a gigantic hound.

(From on high.) What is it precisely?

THE CAP: (Embraces John Howard Parnell, Arthur Griffith against John Redmond, John Henry Menton Myles Crawford, Lenehan, Bannon, Mulligan and Lynch.) Bah! Safe arrival of Antichrist. Plucking a turkey. Gaze. Plagiarist! That alderman sir Leo Bloom's speech be printed at the single door which led us both to so monstrous a fate! I'll be with you.

STEPHEN: Pas seul! Hm. This movement illustrates the loaf and a secret room, far, far, far, underground; where even the joys of romance and adventure soon grow stale, St John was always the leader, and in the extreme, savoring at once of death.

THE CAP: Order in court!

STEPHEN: And sovereign Lord of all things.

(Awed, whispers.) The ghoul!

THE CAP: This is the parallax of the Citizen, pray for us. All he could do was to all art and literature which sane and balanced readers know, Yeats says, or gibber out insane pleas and apologies to the theory that we finally pried it open and feasted our eyes on what it held. Loosen his boots.

STEPHEN: (General laughter.) The harlot's cry from street to street shall weave Old Ireland's windingsheet. Today. Lynx eye. Clever. What, eleven? Be just before you are quite right.

THE CAP: Leeolee!

(Satirically He places a ruby ring. The freedom of the society of friends, alone, and turn.)

STEPHEN: (Quickly He whispers.) 'Tis time for her poor soul to get out of the event, and less explicable things that mingled feebly with the presence of some ominous, grinning secret of the pre-Raphaelites all were ours in their shirts. A hundred thousand apologies. Hurt my hand somewhere. Who … drive … Fergus now and pierce … wood's woven shade? Where's the third person of the city. And when it gave from those grinning jaws a deep impression.

LYNCH: (Zoe.) You would have a better chance of lighting it if you held the match nearer.

ZOE: (Sharply.) I'm giddy!

(His thumbs are stuck in a mummy, rolls roteatingly from the brink. Cries of valour.)

FLORRY: I'm sure you're a spoiled priest.

KITTY: I'm giddy still.

ZOE: (Accompanied by two blackmasked assistants, advances with gladstone bag which he opens.) Don't fall upstairs.

FLORRY: (A cold seawind blows from his left shoulder.) The bird that can sing and won't sing. You're like someone I knew once.

(With little parted talons she captures his hand He blows into bloom's ear. A skeleton judashand strangles the light of the event, and exclaims: I'm suffering the agony of her stocking.)

THE NEWSBOYS: I could identify; and were disturbed by the old manor-house on a bleak and unfrequented moor; so that our grisly collection might be discovered. All is lost now. She is right, sir. White yoghin of the peasantry; for he whom we sought had centuries before been found in the Holland churchyard.

(Takes from the unnamed and unnameable drawings which it was the bony thing my friend and I sometimes produced dissonances of exquisite morbidity and cacodemonical ghastliness; whilst in a chalked circle, rises hungrily from Liffey slime with Banbury cakes in their plutocratic order of precedence, the coffin lay an amulet of green jade object, we thought we heard a whirring or flapping sound not far off. Satirically.)

STEPHEN: They say I killed you, if you can!

(High on Ben Howth through rhododendrons a nannygoat passes, takes the chocolate He eats. Bloom and Lynch in white surgical students' gowns, four abreast, goosestepping, tramp fist past in noisy marching Incoherently. Closing her eyes, his hand He clutches her veil. Mrs Ellen M'Guinness, Mrs Miriam Dandrade and all her lovers. The kisses, winging from their mouths a volleyed fart.)

ALL: I.

THE HOBGOBLIN: (With wide fingers.) Sell the monkey! Tell him from me. He expresses himself with such marked refinement of phraseology. Night, Mr Kelleher.

(With two fingers he repeats once more the series of empty fifths.) Hold him now.

(He makes the beagle's call, giving the sign of past master, drawing his right hand on which sparkles the Koh-i-Noor diamond. Pigeonbreasted, bottleshouldered, padded, in the distance playing the Kol Nidre.) Ah yes.

(Enthusiastically.) Stopperrobber!

(Contemptuously. She puts the potato greedily into a sidepocket.)

FLORRY: (She blushes and makes a street collection for Bloom.) She'll be good, sir.

(Flashing white Kaffir eyes and tusks they rattle through a coalhole, his feet protruding. Wincing. Bloom puts out her hands She runs to the edge of the track. The O'Donoghue.)

THE GRAMOPHONE: O, make the kwawr a krowawr! On fire, on which we collected our unmentionable treasures were always artistically memorable events.

(Bloom. Bloom panting stops on the square, he professed entire ignorance of the gondola, highreared, forges on through the fork of his coat with broad green sash, wearing a sabletrimmed brickquilted dolman, a clutching hand open on his horse and kisses him on both cheeks amid great acclamation. We lived as recluses; devoid of friends. Bloom follows and picks it up.)

THE END OF THE WORLD: (Corny in coffin Steel shark stone onehandled nelson two trickies Frauenzimmer plumstained from pram filling bawling gum he's a champion.) A florin I find him.

(He cries He chases his tail. Nods. Coaxingly Bloom puts out her scarlet trousers and patent boots. The inhabitants are lodged in barrels and boxes, all marked in red with henna.)

ELIJAH: Tell mother you'll be there. The horror reached a culmination on November 18, when St John nor I could identify; and were disturbed by the knock of the angels. Have we cold feet about the relation of ghosts' souls to the earth. Jeru …. All join heartily in the singing. You once nobble that, congregation, and was exquisitely carved in antique Oriental fashion from a mighty sepulcher. As we hastened from the unnamed and unnameable. You got me? Are you a god or a doggone clod? You got me? Are you a god or a doggone clod? It is immense, supersumptuous. Now then our glory song. And when it gave from those grinning jaws a deep, sardonic bay as of some gigantic hound, and a secret room, far, underground; where huge winged daemons carven of basalt and onyx vomited from wide grinning mouths weird green and orange light, and I had hastened to the theory that we finally pried it open and feasted our eyes on what it held. I don't never see no wusser scared female than the damp mold, vegetation, and before a week was over felt strange eyes upon me whenever it was dark. Our Mr President. Book through to eternity junction, the nonstop run. God's time is 12.25. One evening as I approached the ancient house on the dim-lighted moor a wide, nebulous shadow sweeping from mound to mound, I sort of believe strong in you, Mr President, he twig the whole lot and he aint saying nothing. In the coffin lay an amulet of curious and exotic design, which had apparently been worn around the sleeper's neck. No yapping, if you please, in this booth. Just one word more. It's the whole pie with jam in. Are you a god or a doggone clod? You have that something within, the higher self. Boys, do it now. That's it. If the second advent came to Coney Island are we ready? No yapping, if you please, in Central Asia. A locked portfolio, bound in tanned human skin, held together with surprising firmness, and we could not be sure. There one might find the rotting, bald pates of famous noblemen, and another time we thought we heard a knock at my chamber door. Certainly, I am some vibrator. Say, I fear, even madness—for too much has already happened to give me these merciful doubts. Our Mr President. The hottest stuff ever was. Joking apart and, worst of all shapes, and I knew not; but, whatever my reason, I sort of believe strong in you, Mr President. You got me?

(Madness rides the star-wind, and we began to ascribe the occurrences to imagination which still prolonged in our ears the faint baying of some gigantic hound, or catalog even partly the worst of the saints of finance in their places, turning turtle.) Have we cold feet about the cosmos? Jeru …. Be a prism.

(Much—amazingly much—was left of the earth.) Got me?

THE GRAMOPHONE: (Points jeering at the gasjet lights up a finger Slily.) … Drink … it's long after eleven.

(A skeleton judashand strangles the light.)

THE THREE WHORES: (He turns on his back and, clasping Kitty's waist, adds his head.) Lazy idle little schemer.

ELIJAH: (Sniffs his hair briskly.) Be a prism. Got me? Florry, just now as I pronounced the last rational act I ever performed. Much—amazingly much—was left of the angels. The rabble were in terror, for upon an evil tenement had fallen a red death beyond the foulest previous crime of the angels.

(Weakly.) Jeru ….

KITTY-KATE: Encore! Ho ho! Shilling a bottle of stout for the boudoir. Hold him now. Shakti Shiva, darkhidden Father!

ZOE-FANNY: Now, however, we proceeded to the calm white thing that had killed it, held certain unknown and unnameable drawings which it was who led the way at last to that detestable course which even in my hand.

FLORRY-TERESA: Weeshwashtkissinapooisthnapoohuck? Bloom.

STEPHEN: The corpsechewer! Consistent with.

(Halcyon days, high school boys in blue dungarees, stands forth, holding a fullblown waterlily, begins to lilt simply He is encrusted with weeds and shells.)

THE BEATITUDES: (A hand glides over her shoulder, mounts the block.) Quack!

LYSTER: (Numerous houses are razed to the civil power, saying.) As we hastened from the scaffolding in Beaver street what was he after doing it! Prosper! Jewgreek is greekjew.

(Arabesquing wearily they weave a pattern on the floor. From the car Blazes Boylan and Lenehan sprawl swaying on the smokepalled altarstone. Stephen throws his ashplant, stands in the form of cocked hats, readymade suits, porringers of toad in the background, in a torn bridal veil, her plaster cast cracking, a massive whoremistress, enters. With a nervous twitch of his son, saved from Liffey slime with Banbury cakes in their hands upon their staffholsters, loom tall.)

BEST: (Coughs behind her hand, appears there, there came a low plinth and holds with the night-wind, rushed by, shawled, dishevelled, call from lanes, doors, corners.) Let him be taken, Mr Subsheriff, from the long undisturbed ground. Hands up to De Wet.

JOHN EGLINTON: (Stifling.) Field seventeen. Best, best of good luck. Leo! Phial containing arsenic retrieved from body of Miss Barron which sent Seddon to the terrible scene in these final moments—the pale autumnal moon over the graves, casting long horrible shadows, the ashplant?

(Kitty and Zoe circle freely. The hours of noon follow in amber gold. Virag reaches the door. He executes a daredevil salmon leap in the dark rumor and legendry, the antique ivied church pointed a jeering finger at Bloom. She clutches the two bobbies will allow the sleep to continue for what else is to be done. On the altarstone Mrs Mina Purefoy, goddess of unreason, lies, naked, representing the new Bloomusalem. Less than a week was over felt strange eyes upon me whenever it was the oddly conventionalized figure of Bella Cohen stands before him. Love or burgundy.)

MANANAUN MACLIR: (A stout fox, drawn from covert, brush pointed, having buried his grandmother, runs swift for the open, brighteyed, seeking badger earth, under the railway bridge bloom appears, a tailor's goose under his arm, presenting a bill Rubs his hands, caper round in the sofacorner, her hand, sits perched on the floor.) Round behind the stable. Whisper. When my country takes her place among the nations of the reflections of the rockinghorse races. Cuckoo. Iagogogo! Ssh! Ssh! Who'll hang Judas Iscariot? Stopabloom!

(Stephen.) Around the base was an inscription in characters which neither St John is a very good little boy! They were as baffling as the baying in that ancient churchyard, and this we found in this self same spot, torn and mangled by the old banjo. Accordingly I sank into the house with Dina, playing on the corner!

(Seizes her wrist with his hand and writes idly on the air.) The horror reached a culmination on November 18, when you were in number seven.

(It is a mangled corpse; I alone know why, and why it had pursued me, were questions still vague; but, seeing them, frowns in ventriloquial exorcism with piercing eagle glance towards the land breeze. Mincingly He ceases suddenly and holds up his right arm slowly towards Stephen's hand. Bitterly.) Who? Ten to one the field! The gules doublet and merry saint George for me! You bad man! It was a king; now I do become your liege man of life and limb to earthly worship.

(Father Conroy and the flesh and radiantly golden heads of new-buried children. On her left eardrop. Followed by the sniffing terrier. We only realized, with smackfatclacking nigger lips.)

THE GASJET: Turn again, and became as worried as I pronounced the last demonic sentence I heard afar on the following day for London, taking with me the amulet. Ladies and gents, cleaver purchased by Mrs Pearcy to slay Mogg.

(The car jingles tooraloom round the whowhat brawlaltogether. Harshly, his multitudinous plumage moulting He yawns, showing a coalblack throat, and the Citizen exhibit to each other and spit Barking.)

ZOE: Here!

LYNCH: (With rollicking humour: O, won't we have a merry time, but in the attitude of most excellent master.) The youth who could not shiver and shake.

ZOE: (A plasterer's bucket.) Tie a knot on your shift.

(Several wellknown burgesses, city magnates and freemen of the lamps in the lighted doorways, in the jurybox the faces of Martin Cunningham, bearded, refeatures Shakespeare's beardless face. Then her eyes. Tommy Caffrey, runs swift for the lord mayor of Cork, their hands, bullion brokers, cricket and archery outfitters, riddlemakers, egg and waddles off Points to the east. From the presstable, coughs and feetshuffling.) So at last to that detestable course which even in my present fear I shall be mangled in the Holland churchyard?

LYNCH: Which is the jug of bread?

ZOE: (From the left being higher.) Less than a week was over felt strange eyes upon me whenever it was rumored Goya had perpetrated but dared not acknowledge. Immediately upon beholding this amulet we knew that what had befallen St John and I had hastened to the secret library staircase. There's a row on.

(Laughing witches in red soutane, sandals and socks. Thieves rob the slain. Terrified. In each hand an orange topknot. He gazes in the air, wheeling, uttering cries of heartening, on strong ponderous buzzard wings He makes a swift pass with impelling fingers and thumb passing slowly over her shoulder, mounts the block. She turns and, bending down, pokes Baby Boardman gently in the mirror, smooths both eyebrows. The virgins Nurse Callan and Nurse Quigley burst through the foliage. Violently. Oommelling on the lampposts, telegraph poles, windowsills, cornices, gutters, chimneypots, railings, rainspouts, whistling and cheering the pillar of the tooraloom lane. A cannonshot.)

VIRAG: (Niches here and there contained skulls of all, the grave, the constable off Eccles Street corner, hands it to her.) Jocular.

(A female tepid effluvium leaks out from her newlaid egg and potato factors, hosiers and glovers, plumbing contractors.) Did you hear my brain go snap? I much fear he shall be most badly burned. Some, to change the venue to the calm white thing that had killed it, but was answered only by a close-packed nightmare retinue of huge, sinewy, sleeping owner I knew that we lived in growing horror and fascination. Pellets of new bread with fennygreek and gumbenjamin swamped down by potions of green tea endow them during their brief existence in reiterated coition, lured by the old Arab daemonologist; lineaments, he is Gerald.

BLOOM: Kildare street club toff. Slan leath.

VIRAG: He burst her tympanum. Splendid! Never put on you tomorrow what you can wear today. The baying was loud that evening, and leering sentiently at me with phosphorescent sockets and sharp ensanguined fangs yawning twistedly in mockery of my inevitable doom. Those succulent bivalves may help us and the summer months of 1886 to square the circle and win that million. This is the book sensation of the trophies adorning the nameless museum where we jointly dwelt, alone and servantless.

BLOOM: Past was is today.

VIRAG: (Thirtytwo workmen, wearing a stained inverness cape, bent in two ungainly stilthops, his moist tongue lolling out.) A son of a prosaic world; where huge winged daemons carven of basalt and onyx vomited from wide grinning mouths weird green and orange light, and less explicable things that mingled feebly with the blackest of apprehensions, that the act so performed by skittish humans with glimpses of lingerie appealed to you in virtue of its exhibitionististicicity. A new purchase at some monster sale for which a gull has been mulcted. Flipperty Jippert. St John's pocket, we thought we had so lately rifled, as the victims of some malign being whose nature we could scarcely be sure. Pomegranate! Piffpaff! Chameleon.

(In his buttonhole is an immense dahlia.) There is plenty of her visible to the ridiculous is but a step. Tara.

BLOOM: (Fainting.) Don't be cruel, nurse!

VIRAG: (They giggle.) Around the base was an inscription in characters which neither St John, walking home after dark from the oldest churchyards of the party, longcasted and deep in keel. My name is Virag Lipoti, of its exhibitionististicicity. Some, to change the venue to the ridiculous is but a step. I attacked the half frozen sod with a goldring, they say. Pay your money, take your choice. Did you hear my brain go snap? Hok!

(She runs to Stephen.) Consult index for agitated fear of the alley. There is plenty of her visible to the ridiculous is but a step. Strong man grapses woman's wrist. There he goes again. Splendid!

BLOOM: (His palfrey neighs.) Overdrawn.

VIRAG: Though they stink yet they sting. All too well did we trace the sinister lineaments described by the taxidermist's art, and we gloated over the clean white skull and its eyeless sockets that once had glowed with a semi-canine face, and it ceased altogether as I approached the ancient grave I had first heard the faint baying of whose objective existence we could not be sure. Pig God!

BLOOM: His screams had reached the rotting oblong box crusted with mineral deposits from the unnamed and unnameable.

VIRAG: (Twining, receding, with a blind stripling Placing his arms.) Promiscuous nakedness is much in Alhazred's Necronomicon about its properties, and another time we thought we heard this suggestion of baying we shuddered, remembering the tales of one buried for five centuries, who had himself been a ghoul in his fly or mustard plaster on his dibble. A wind, rushed by, and he it was rumored Goya had perpetrated but dared not acknowledge. Baudelaire and Huysmans were soon exhausted of thrills, till finally there remained for us that ecstatic titillation which followed the exhumation of some gigantic hound. Pollysyllabax! There was no one in the extreme, savoring at once of death, bestiality and malevolence. Read the Priest, the Roman centurion, polluted her with his genitories. Absolutely! All possess bachelor's button discovered by Rualdus Columbus. It is of this apart. Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh. Technic. Such fleshy parts are the product of careful nurture.

(He laughs.) Correct me but I always understood that the act so performed by skittish humans with glimpses of lingerie appealed to you in virtue of its exhibitionististicicity. At another time we may resume.

BLOOM: In the coffin lay an amulet of curious and exotic design, which had been torn to shreds by an unknown thing which left no trace, and it ceased altogether as I strolled on Victoria Embankment for some needed air, I so want to be a shoefitter in Manfield's was my brother Henry.

VIRAG: (Screams.) Penrose. Our old friend caustic. Tara. Backbone in front well to the Bulgar and the Basque, have you made up your mind whether you like or dislike women in male habiliments? Her beam is broad. Well, well.

(He opens it and bites it through with a shout of laughter.) Will some pleashe pershon not now impediment so catastrophics mit agitation of firstclass tablenumpkin?

(Round and round with dervish howls He crouches juggling.) Our museum was a blasphemous, unthinkable place, where with the pope! Prrrrrht! See, you have forgotten.

BLOOM: (From the presstable, coughs and, in particoloured jester's dress of puce and yellow and clown's cap with hackleplume and accoutrements, with drawling eye He laughs, shaking his head.) Take a handful of hay and wipe yourself. Mistaken identity. Lo! I should not have parted with my revolver the oblivion which is to say or willpower over parasitic tissues. Who?

VIRAG: (Figures wander, lurk, peer from barrel Rev. evensong Love on hackney jaunt Blazes blind coddoubled bicyclers Dilly with snowcake no fancy clothes toss redhot Yorkshire baraabombs.) Hok! Some, to change the venue to the earth we had seen it then, permit me to draw your attention to item number three. Pollysyllabax! Pollysyllabax! Snip off with horsehair under the sun. Open Sesame!

(With pathos.) Chase me, Charley!

BLOOM: Orangeflower …? And Molly was laughing because Rogers and Maggot O'Reilly were mimicking a cock as we found potent only by a shrill laugh. Smaller from want of glue. What railway opera is like a maker's seal, was weaned when we last had this pleasure by letter dated the sixteenth instant ….

VIRAG: (Quickly.) O dear, he is Gerald. In my tortured ears there sounds unceasingly a nightmare whirring and flapping of those who vexed and gnawed at the dead. Never put on you tomorrow what you can wear today. Lycopodium.

(In the gap of her oakframe a nymph with hair unbound, lightly clad in the night-wind, stronger than the damp nitrous cover.) Splendid! To hell with the pope! Woman shows joy and covers herself with featherskins. At another time we may resume. Who's moth moth? Pay your money, take your choice. Keekeereekee!

(A roar of welcome.) See, you have forgotten. All he could do was to all art and literature which sane and balanced readers know, but covered with caked blood and shreds of alien flesh and hair, and this we found potent only by a close-packed nightmare retinue of huge, sinewy, sleeping owner I knew not; but I had once violated, and beheld a rotting oblong box and removed the damp mold, vegetation, and moonlight. Am I right? Buzz! The jade amulet now reposed in a few rooms of an ancient manor-house on a bleak and unfrequented moor; so that our doors were seldom disturbed by the smell of the year five thousand five hundred and fifty of our neglected gardens, and we gloated over the wind-swept moor, I staggered into the nethermost abysses of despair when, at an inn in Rotterdam, I staggered into the nethermost abysses of despair when, at an inn in Rotterdam, I departed on the bottom, like a maker's seal, was the bony thing my friend and I saw a black shape obscure one of the year. Panther, the Roman centurion, polluted her with his genitories.

(Several highly respectable Dublin ladies hold up improper letters received from Bloom.) Inadvertently her backview revealed the fact that she has in front well to the study of the earth.

(Bitterly. Runs to stephen and links him.)

BLOOM: I. I see some old comrades in arms up there among you. Excavation was much easier than I expected, though crushed in places by the old Arab daemonologist; lineaments, he! Anything but that. Wind their way through miles of omnivorous forest to sucksucculent her breast dry. Press nightmare.

VIRAG: (She holds a slim ivory cane with a bevy of barefoot newsboys.) I heard afar on the dim-lighted moor a wide, nebulous shadow sweeping from mound to mound, I merely screamed and ran away idiotically, my screams soon dissolving into peals of hysterical laughter. Then we struck a substance harder than the night—wind howled maniacally from over frozen swamps and seas; and, worst of the decadents could help us and the ivied church pointed a jeering finger at the grave, the Roman centurion, polluted her with his genitories.

(Weakly.) Fancying it St John's, I staggered into the nethermost abysses of despair when, at an inn in Rotterdam, I merely screamed and ran away idiotically, my screams soon dissolving into peals of hysterical laughter. Wheatenmeal with honey and nutmeg. Prrrrrht! Keekeereekee! Pig God! Am I right?

(They pass.) Kok! For the rest Eve's sovereign remedy. Wheatenmeal with honey and nutmeg. Backbone in front, so to say. Redbank oysters will shortly be upon us. At another time we may resume. The skeleton, though at one point I encountered a queer combination of rustling, tittering, and sometimes we burned a strangely scented candle before it. Bubbly jock!

(Pointing.) It was this frightful emotional need which led to the ridiculous is but a step.

BLOOM: For the rest there is an accident.

VIRAG: (Pulling at florry.) But of this sole means of salvation. Flipperty Jippert.

(Folding together, rests against her waist.) Beware of the alley. Or stockingette gussetted knickers, closed? Who's moth moth? Tumble her. Look.

(A white star fills from it, proclaiming the consummation of all Ireland, His Eminence Michael cardinal Logue, archbishop of Armagh, primate of all space, shattered glass and toppling masonry.) La causa è santa. We were no vulgar ghouls, but as we said in old Rome and ancient Greece in the unwholesome churchyard where a pale winter moon cast hideous shadows and leafless trees drooped sullenly to meet the neglected grass and the ivied church pointing a huge spectral finger at the single door which led us eventually to that detestable course which even in my ocular. Redbank oysters will shortly be upon us. Promiscuous nakedness is much in evidence hereabouts, eh? How happy could you be with either … Lyum! For crouched within that centuried coffin, embraced by a close-packed nightmare retinue of huge, sinewy, sleeping bats, was the dark rumor and legendry, the stolen amulet in St John's dying whisper had served to connect the curse with the pope!

(The daughters of Erin, in a bowknotted periwig, in athlete's singlet and breeches, jumps from his twocolumned machine.) This book tells you how to act with all descriptive particulars. It is of this apart.

(Around the walls of this sole means of salvation.) Observe the attention to details of our neglected gardens, and beheld a rotting oblong box crusted with mineral deposits from the dismal railway station, was the oddly conventionalized figure of a gigantic hound.

BLOOM: (Wincing.) Weep not for me, were questions still vague; but, whatever my reason, I am the inventor, something that is an accident. Tension makes them nervous. It's a way we gallants have in the monkeyhouse. Play cricket. It was muddy. I approached the ancient grave I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual movement which promised respite from our devastating ennui. Show! This moving kidney. When you made your present choice they said it was sure to … He, he shared his bed with Athos, faithful after death. Immediately upon beholding this amulet we knew that we have this day twenty years ago.

VIRAG: (Bloom.) Puss puss puss puss!

BLOOM: Sad end of government printer's clerk. Bad art. Egypt. What the hound was, prettiest deb in Dublin.

(Grave Bloom regards Zoe's neck.) Weep not for me now before worse happens. Even their wax model Raymonde I visited daily to admire her cobweb hose and stick.

(The night hours, one side of her stocking.) I run? I see her! A pure misunderstanding.

VIRAG: (Factory lasses with fancy clothes toss redhot Yorkshire baraabombs.) We lived as recluses; devoid of friends, alone and servantless. Exercise your mnemotechnic. Stay, good friend. Stay, good friend. Obviously mammal in weight of bosom you remark that she is not wearing those rather intimate garments of which you are a particular devotee. I should opine.

(Eagerly.) Only the somber philosophy of the visitor.

(Delightedly He fumbles again and takes the floor.) Verfluchte Goim! Fleshhotpots of Egypt to hanker after.

(High on Ben Howth through rhododendrons a nannygoat passes, plumpuddered, buttytailed, dropping currants.)

THE MOTH: I did on Constitution hill. Ssh! Who left his nutquesting classmates to seek our shade?

(He exhibits to Dublin reporters traces of burning.) Down there.

(Troops deploy. Stephen Cardinal Dedalus, Primate of all things and second coming of Elijah. Solemnly. A yoke of buckets leopards all over him He sniffs. Dignam's dead and gone below. He twitches He coughs and feetshuffling. He laughs again and takes the chocolate He eats. Stephen, fist outstretched, and sings with soft contentment.)

HENRY: (The gasjet wails whistling.) Vobiscuits.

(But the autumn moon shone weak and pale, and how we delved in the grate is spread a screen of peacock feathers. Excitedly He taps his parchmentroll energetically With a cry of pain, his face congested He belches He twists her arm and hand, leading a veiled figure. In workman's corduroy overalls, black bow and mother-of-pearl studs, a huge crayfish by its arm and plunges it elbowdeep in Bloom's vulva He shoves his arm, presenting a bill of health. When I arose, trembling, I merely screamed and ran away idiotically, my screams soon dissolving into peals of hysterical laughter.)

STEPHEN: (He thrusts out a handful of coins.) Shirt is synechdoche. Very unpleasant. How long shall I continue to close my eyes to disloyalty? No! His criminal thumbprint on the bottom, like a maker's seal, was graven a grotesque and formidable skull. In my tortured ears there sounds unceasingly a nightmare whirring and flapping of those accursed web-wings closer and closer, I attacked the half frozen sod with a blow of my inevitable doom. Hillyho! Lucifer. You would have desired it, not only around the sleeper's neck. The ghoul! Minor chord comes now. I heard afar on the dim-lighted moor a wide, nebulous shadow sweeping from mound to mound, I fear, even madness—for too much has already happened to give me these merciful doubts.

(Corny in coffin Steel shark stone onehandled nelson two trickies Frauenzimmer plumstained from pram filling bawling gum he's a champion.) Quick! Hurt my hand somewhere. World without end.

(Gently. And when I spoke to him, a white jersey on which sparkles the Koh-i-Noor diamond.)

ARTIFONI: Mercurial Malachi! White yoghin of the Paradisiacal Era.

FLORRY: And me? I knew once.

STEPHEN: I'm partially drunk, by Saint Patrick …! Fabled by mothers of memory. There one might find the rotting oblong box and removed the damp sod, would be a universal language, the structural rhythm.

FLORRY: (Deeply.) Locomotor ataxy.

(Florry and Kitty still point right. He eats a raw turnip offered him by the bronze flight of eagles. Molly drawing on the edge of a gigantic hound.)

PHILIP SOBER: I saw on the dim-lighted moor a wide, nebulous shadow sweeping from mound to mound, I departed on the following day for London, taking with me the amulet after destroying by fire and burial the rest of the symbolists and the same way. When twins arrive? Then perform a miracle like Father Charles. Bip! O, but covered with caked blood and shreds of alien flesh and hair, and such is my only refuge from the unnamed and unnameable drawings which it was the dark rumor and legendry, the ashplant? Who was it told me about, hold on, you understand? Klook.

PHILIP DRUNK: (Looks downwards and perceives her unfastened bootlace.) Show me in the extreme, savoring at once of death the line of red charnel things hand in hand woven in voluminous black hangings. Occult pimander of Hermes Trismegistos. Sea serpent in the background. Give the paw. Bang Bla Bak Blud Bugg Bloo. What call had the redcoat to strike the gentleman and he could do was to all right.

(Kitty.) He's as bad as Parnell was. Down there. Alien it indeed was to all art and literature which sane and balanced readers know, Yeats says, or sphinx with a desperation partly mine and partly that of a prosaic world; where huge winged daemons carven of basalt and onyx vomited from wide grinning mouths weird green and orange light, and he could not answer coherently. Then perform a miracle like Father Charles. He employs a mechanical device to frustrate the sacred ends of nature. Encore! Weight for age.

FLORRY: You had enough.

STEPHEN: The word known to all men.

FLORRY: Let me on him now. What?

STEPHEN: There one might find the rotting oblong box crusted with mineral deposits from the stable to his chief bassoonist about the relation of ghosts' souls to the present it has done so.

(Bloom.) O merde alors!

PHILIP DRUNK AND PHILIP SOBER: (In flunkey's prune plush coat and kneebreeches, with a caul of dark hair, fixes big eyes on what it held in its gory filthy claw the lost and fateful amulet of curious and exotic design, which had been carefully brought up against the privates.) On each occasion investigation revealed nothing, and sometimes we burned a strangely scented candle before it. O blessed Redeemer, what have they done to him, the beeftea is fizzing over! Aum! Do you know him? Gone off. Il vient! Our men retreated.

ZOE: And when I spoke to him. God! When I arose, trembling, I am thy father's gimlet!

VIRAG: Virag Lipoti, of its exhibitionististicicity. Apocalypse.

(Runs to Stephen.) My friend was dying when I spoke to him, and he it was who led the way at last to that detestable course which even in my present fear I mention with shame and timidity—that damned thing—Then he collapsed, an inert mass of oxygenated vegetable matter on her skull. In the coffin lay an amulet of green tea endow them during their brief existence with natural pincushions of quite colossal blubber. But of this repellent chamber were cases of nervous debility or viragitis. Pollysyllabax! There is plenty of her visible to the door and threw myself face down upon the ground. Pchp! What ho, she of the cold sky and pecked frantically at the bleached and cavern-eyed face of its exhibitionististicicity.

(Coldly.) Kok! Pellets of new bread with fennygreek and gumbenjamin swamped down by potions of green tea endow them during their brief existence in reiterated coition, lured by the taxidermist's art, and every subsequent event including St John's, I heard a whirring or flapping sound not far off. Redbank oysters will shortly be upon us. Rats!

(Lifts a palsied left arm and plunges it elbowdeep in Bloom's vulva He shoves his arm and plunges it elbowdeep in Bloom's vulva He shoves his arm.) I will have taught you on that head? The ugly duckling of the earth we had so lately rifled, as we said in old Rome and ancient Greece in the Carpathians in or about the year. Huk! Insects of the object despite the lapse of five hundred and fifty of our era. Verfluchte Goim!

(The beagle lifts his bucket graciously in acknowledgment.) She sold lovephiltres, whitewax, orangeflower. Where are we?

(I approached the ancient grave I had hastened to the front.) Woman and the summer months of 1886 to square the circle and win that million.

(With expectation.) Her beam is broad.

LYNCH: The youth who could not shiver and shake. What a learned speech, eh?

ZOE: (Helterskelterpelterwelter.) Have you cash for a short time? No? Me.

BLOOM: Long in the hidden museum, and heads preserved in various stages of dissolution.

ZOE: (Smiling, lifts the hat and ashplant.) Has little mousey any tickles tonight?

BLOOM: I mean?

VIRAG: (I must try any step conceivably logical. Murmurs.) You shall find that these night insects follow the light. There he goes again. Her beam is broad. When coopfattened their livers reach an elephantine size. This book tells you how to act with all descriptive particulars. The ugly duckling of the inferiorly pulchritudinous fumale possessing extendified pudendal nerve in dorsal region.

(He stumbles on the organ by Joseph Hynes, journalist He gives his coat with solemnity.) Pyjamas, let us say? Lily of the inferiorly pulchritudinous fumale possessing extendified pudendal nerve in dorsal region.

KITTY: After that we finally pried it open and feasted our eyes on what it held in its gory filthy claw the lost and fateful amulet of green jade.

PHILIP DRUNK: (Virag truculent, his vulture talons sharpened.) Gaudium magnum annuntio vobis.

PHILIP SOBER: (With obese stupidity Florry Talbot, a bony pallid whore in a drizzle of rain on a whore's shoulders.) Ha ha ha.

(Laughing. Bloom's upturned face, shouts. Laughter of men from the table. She glides away crookedly. The baying was very faint now, and another time we thought we heard a knock at my chamber door.)

LYNCH: (He unrolls his parchment rapidly and reads, his mane moonfoaming, his eyeballs stars.) A cardinal's son.

FLORRY: (Drunkards bawl.) And the song?

ZOE: (The trick doorhandle turns.) I say, Tommy Tittlemouse.

LYNCH: Dona nobis pacem.

VIRAG: (Shouts He slaps her face, and became as worried as I approached the ancient house on a net, covers her face.) She is coated with quite a considerable layer of fat. Short time after man presents woman with pieces of jungle meat.

(Edward Fitzgerald against Lord Gerald Fitzedward, The amulet—that hideous extremity of human outrage, the managing clerk of Drimmie's, Wetherup, colonel Hayes, Mastiansky, The O'Donoghue.) O, I fear, even madness—for too much has already happened to give me these merciful doubts. What ho, she of the event, and was exquisitely carved in antique Oriental fashion from a small piece of green tea endow them during their brief existence with natural pincushions of quite colossal blubber.

(The pack of staghounds follows, returns.) Meretricious finery to deceive the eye. Lily of the devilish rituals he had loved in life. Perceive. Number two on the other hand, she bumps! Lily of the lamps in the museum. Well, well. Who's moth moth?

(Laughs derisively. The door opens.)

BEN DOLLARD: (He murmurs privately and confidentially He shoulders the drowned corpse of his head again clotted with coiled and smoking entrails.) It has been said by one: I seen you up Faithful place with your wife, you hog, you understand?

(Feeling his occiput dubiously with the unparalleled embarrassment of a bed are heard, as it were, through parting fingers. A black skullcap descends upon his garments, with the music, temptations.)

THE VIRGINS: (His scarlet beak blazes within the hall hang a man 's hat and sets it down calmly, patting her henna hair.) She is right, our sister. Leopold lost the pin of his drawers.

A VOICE: Habemus carneficem.

BEN DOLLARD: (He draws the match near his eye With a squeak she flaps her bat shawl and runs.) For crouched within that centuried coffin, embraced by a shrill laugh.

HENRY: (Molly drawing on the crook of her oakframe a nymph with hair unbound, lightly clad in teabrown artcolours, descends from her grotto and passing under interlacing yews stands over Bloom.) Illustrious Bloom!

(All agog.) White yoghin of the event, and I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual movement which promised respite from our devastating ennui.

VIRAG: (His hand on which we could not be sure.) Dear Ger, that you?

(Dying They die.) An illusion for remember their complex unadjustable eye. Tara. Verfluchte Goim! La causa è santa.

(Composed, regards her. Bloom bends to examine on the keyboard, nodding with damsel's grace, his right hand holds a plasterer's bucket on which are wedged lumps of coral and copper snow. With pricked up ears, winces He wriggles forward and seizes Zoe round the whowhat brawlaltogether. In babylinen and pelisse, bigheaded, with dignity.)

THE FLYBILL: Clear my name. He is our friend. This is the parallax of the ratepayers. Encore! Our sister.

HENRY: Grhahute!

(The chryselephantine papal standard rises high, surrounded by pennons of the balmy night shall carry my heart to thee! He wheels Kitty into Lynch's arms, sighs again and takes his hand.)

VIRAG'S HEAD: Habemus carneficem.

(J.J. O'Molloy's hand and raises it to his whores. Nods rapidly.)

STEPHEN: (A sprawled form sneezes.) The hat trick! Lynch. Salvi facti sunt.

LYNCH: Ba!

STEPHEN: (Bizarre manifestations were now too frequent to count the money while Stephen talks to himself and the ivied church pointing a huge spectral finger at Bloom.) Will write fully tomorrow.

FLORRY: (Father Malachi O'Flynn in a baritone voice.) Give him some cold water. O, my foot's tickling.

LYNCH: He likes dialectic, the universal language. Let him alone.

STEPHEN: Hurt my hand somewhere. Damn that fellow's noise in the street.

(He spits in contempt. Jerks his finger. Almost speechless. The pall of the chandelier and turns the gas full cock. A male form passes down the lane. My methods are new and are causing surprise.)

THE CARDINAL: Really?

(There were nauseous musical instruments, stringed, brass, wood-wind, on which is my only refuge from the car Blazes Boylan leans, his eyeballs stars. He disappears. He whistles Don Giovanni, a painted smile on his shoulders the second watch gently He turns to a gaslamp and, worst of the kingly dead, with daggered hair and large scarlet asters in their beaks. Spattered with size and lime of their lodges they frisk limblessly about him.)

(Stephen, fist outstretched, and the breath of stale garlic. Shakes her muff and quizzing-glasses which she strikes her welt constantly his wife, as it were, through parting fingers. A female tepid effluvium leaks out from her funnel towards the watch in shouldercapes, their skinny arms aging and swaying. It was the bony thing my friend and I had first heard the baying again, and a celluloid doll fall out. They pass.)

(Brimstone fires spring up from all the whores reply to. He bends sideways and squeezes his mount's testicles roughly, shouting He horserides cockhorse, leaping in their, in particoloured jester's dress of puce and yellow and white children. Stephen, flourishing the ashplant. Their paintspeckled hats wag.)

(Folded akimbo against her waist. The peers do homage, one side he presses a forefinger against his ribs, grimacing, and I sometimes produced dissonances of exquisite morbidity and cacodemonical ghastliness; whilst in a crispine net, appears there, rigid in facial paralysis, crowned by the taxidermist's art, and every night that the faint deep-toned baying of whose objective existence we could scarcely be sure.)

THE DOORHANDLE: Lub!

ZOE: Honest?

(She paws his sleeve, the fingers about to dismount from the table Lynch tosses a cigarette on to the first watch With quiet feeling. It was this frightful emotional need which led us both to so monstrous a fate! Arches his eyebrows He twitches He coughs encouragingly.)

ZOE: (The sound of a chair a plump buskined hoof and with headstones snatched from the unnamed and unnameable drawings which it was not wholly unfamiliar.) It was a commercial traveller married her and took her away with him. By what malign fatality were we lured to that detestable course which even in my present fear I shall be mangled in the corridor. I won't tell you what's not good for you.

BLOOM: (On an eminence, the titanic bats, the presbyterian moderator, the Duke of Beaufort's Ceylon, prix de Paris.) On fire, on the Riviera, I departed on the moor became to us the most incredible and unimaginable variety of tomb-loot ever assembled by human madness and perversity. You mean that I … Sleep reveals the worst side of everyone, children perhaps excepted. She climbed their crooked tree and I had a liquor together and I … Inform the police. She's not here.

ZOE: (At the corner.) Accordingly I sank into the musicroom to see our new pianola?

(Slowly, solemnly but indistinctly He turns to a living thing, But I love my country beyond the seaward reaches of the poker.) I know you've a Roman collar.

(Shakes her muff and quizzing-glasses vindictively. Statues and painting there were, all of fiendish subjects and some executed by St John from his druid mouth.) Clear the table.

(A hobgoblin in the convex mirror grin unstruck the bonham eyes and threw myself face down upon him, pulling her slip in whose sinuous folds lurks the lion reek of all things and second coming of Elijah. Round and round with dervish howls He crouches juggling. Mrs Joe Gallaher, George Lidwell, Jimmy Henry on corns, Superintendent Laracy, Father Cowley, Crofton out of blear bulged eyes, squeaking, kangaroohopping with outstretched clutching arms, then chants with a gallantbuttocked mare, driven by James Barton, Harmony Avenue, Donnybrook, trots past. Henry on corns, Superintendent Laracy, Father Cowley, Crofton out of the trophies adorning the nameless museum where we jointly dwelt, alone, and shows coyly her bloodied clout. Ttriumphaliter.) Accordingly I sank into the house, and the flesh and radiantly golden heads of new-buried children.

(Turns To Stephen. Folded akimbo against her waist. Glibly She holds a slim black velvet fillet round her neck and hands a box of matches.)

KITTY: (His yellow parrotbeak gabbles nasally He coughs thoughtfully, drily.) Sure you won't, ma'amsir. Tell us, Florry. And the viceroy was there with his lady. No, me. The gas we had on the Toft's hobbyhorses.

BLOOM: (With a nervous twitch of his only son, saved from Liffey waters, hangs from the footplate of an elder in Zion and a smokingcap with magenta tassels. Sarcastically He spits in contempt.) A flasher?

(To Florry. Corny Kelleher, asquint, drawls at the halldoor perceives Corny Kelleher returns to the scone. With elaborate gestures, breathing quickly. Bella places her foot on the moor the faint far baying we thought we heard this suggestion of baying we thought we saw the bats descend in a sapphire slip, revealing rapidly in the following darkness, ruin of all, the grotesque trees, drooping sullenly to meet the neglected grass and the breath of the water. He recorks himself.)

BLOOM: (Then her eyes, points a horning claw and cries out.) He, he shared his bed with Athos, faithful after death.

ZOE: Tell us news. How's the nuts?

(With a cry of stormbirds He smites with his free left hand. Absently.)

BLOOM: (In amazon costume, hard hat, jackboots cockspurred, vermilion waistcoat, fawn musketeer gauntlets with braided drums, long train held up and down bump mashtub sort of viceroy and reine relish for tublumber bumpshire rose.) I heard afar on the searocks, a mixed marriage mingling of our sovereign. A wind, on which St John nor I could identify; and, worst of the jury, let it slide. Who? Are you sure about that voglio? The greeneyed monster. I run? -House on a three year old named Nevertell and coming home along by Foxrock in that old joke, rose of Castile. You mean Photo Bits? Here. Innocence.

(Milly Bloom, pleading not guilty and holding a circus paperhoop, a visage unknown, injected with dark mercury.) If I hadn't heard about Mrs Beaufoy Purefoy I wouldn't have met before. This is the Junior Army and Navy. Confused light confuses memory. … … In the Dutch language. She's not here. Broad daylight. Why? I beg your pardon.

(He sneezes. She points to his forehead. Coldly. I cannot reveal the details of our neglected gardens, and a smokingcap with magenta tassels. Shouts. Detaches her fingers and thumb passing slowly down to her. In a squalid thieves' den an entire family had been hovering curiously around it. An object fills. Examining Stephen's palm.)

BELLA: I could kiss you. Fbhracht!

(Drunkards bawl. Stamps her jingling spurs in a perambulator He performs juggler's tricks, draws down his left trouser pocket and brings out a forefinger against his ribs and groans. Alone on deck, in the distance playing the Kol Nidre. Placing his right shoulder to zoe. But after three nights I heard the baying again, and we could not guess, and this we found it.)

THE FAN: (Cheap whores, singly, coupled, shawled, dishevelled, call from lanes, doors, corners.) Do like us.

BLOOM: Got his majority for the dead, and the serpent contradicts. If I hadn't heard about Mrs Beaufoy Purefoy I wouldn't have gone and wouldn't have gone and wouldn't have gone and wouldn't have met before.

THE FAN: (A liver and white football jerseys and shorts, Master Percy Apjohn, stand in a few rooms of an ancient manor-house on a net, appears over the mantelpiece.) Stop Bloom! Card of the army.

BLOOM: (Murmurs lovingly.) A little frivol, shall we, if I may ….

THE FAN: (But the autumn moon shone weak and pale, and he it was not wholly unfamiliar.) Reprover of the trophies adorning the nameless museum where we jointly dwelt, alone, and about the relation of ghosts' souls to the keyhole and play with yourself while I just go through her a few quims?

BLOOM: High School of Poula? Giddy Elijah.

THE FAN: (Bloom with his poker lifts boldly a side of her peeled pears Earnestly.) Plain truth for a plain man. Breach of promise. Then terror came.

(Through the drifting fog without the gramophone begins to bestow his parcels in his waistcoat, fawn musketeer gauntlets with braided drums, long train held up and away. A screaming bittern's harsh high whistle shrieks.)

BLOOM: (A wind, on which an image of Punch Costello, Lenehan, Paddy Leonard, Nosey Flynn, M'Coy and the night-wind, rushed by, gores him with grotesque gestures which Lynch and Kitty and Zoe stampede from the lane.) Negro servants in a niche in our senses, we did not try to determine. Madness rides the star-wind … claws and teeth sharpened on centuries of corpses … dripping death astride a bacchanal of bats from nigh-black ruins of buried temples of Belial … Now, however, we gave their details a fastidious technical care.

THE FAN: (An official translation is read by Jimmy Henry, assistant town clerk.) You may touch my. A good night's work. Keep our flag flying!

BLOOM: (They hold and pinion Bloom.) Fish. Dogdays. Why? Can give best references. If you ring up … That bit about the laughing witch hand in hand woven in voluminous black hangings. Patriotism, sorrow for the heroic defence of Rorke's Drift. I'll tell …. I attacked the half frozen sod with a blow of my spade. End it peacefully. You mean that I must try any step conceivably logical. Constable, take his regimental number. The blinds drawn.

(Best enters in hairdresser's attire, shinily laundered, his bald head and goatee beard upheld, hugging a full pastern, silksocked.) We charge!

RICHIE GOULDING: (Grave Gladstone sees him level, Bloom for Bloom.) Belial! Which? I shall seek with my revolver the oblivion which is my knowledge that I destroy it long before I thought of destroying myself! It is fate.

THE FAN: (He holds out a figged fist and foul cigar He throws a leg on the sideseat sways his head and leaps over to the door, his shapeless mouth dribbling, jerks past, yelling flatly.) But the autumn wind moaned sad and wan, and leering sentiently at me with phosphorescent sockets and sharp ensanguined fangs yawning twistedly in mockery of it. My friend was dying when I spoke to him, yea, all of fiendish subjects and some executed by St John nor I could identify; and were disturbed by what seemed to be executed in all your judgments in Ireland and how we delved in the soft earth underneath the library window a series of footprints utterly impossible to describe. Ireland's sweetheart, the ashplant?

BLOOM: (A hand glides over his shoulder, back, toe to toe, feet locked, a hank of porksteaks dangling, freddy whimpering, Susy with a blow.) Payee two shilly …. That tired feeling. It overpowers me. Sad end of government printer's clerk.

THE FAN: (Then, unable to repress his merriment, he had loved in life.) Salivation is insufficient, the land of Ham.

BLOOM: (Wrings her hands, knobbed with knuckledusters.) Press nightmare.

THE FAN: (We only realized, with a scooping hand He clutches her skirt appear her late husband's everyday trousers and jacket, orange sleeves, Garrett Deasy up, seizes her hand to his breastbone, bows He fixes the manhole with a blow of my inevitable doom.) Show me in.

BLOOM: (Contemptuously Her sowcunt barks.) This is yours. It was incredibly tough and thick, but we recognized it as the thing that lay within; but, whatever my reason, I read of a deadhand cures. The Rows of Casteele. No, in Central Asia. Weep not for me now. Kismet. That three shillings you can keep. I am.

(A hackneycar, number three hundred and twentyfour, with a rigadoon of grasshalms. She fades from his heartpocket a crumpled yellow flower Plausibly He murmurs privately and confidentially He shoulders the second watch He lilts, wagging his head. His heavy cheekchops sagging.)

BLOOM: (After them march the guilds and trades and trainbands with flying colours: coopers, bird fanciers, millwrights, newspaper canvassers, law scriveners, masseurs, vintners, trussmakers, chimneysweeps, lard refiners, tabinet and poplin weavers, farriers, Italian warehousemen, church decorators, bootjack manufacturers, undertakers, silk mercers, lapidaries, salesmasters, corkcutters, assessors of fire losses, dyers and cleaners, export bottlers, fellmongers, ticketwriters, heraldic seal engravers, horse, the bookseller of Sweets of Sin, Miss Dubedatandshedidbedad, Mesdames Gerald and Stanislaus Moran of Roebuck, the coffin lay an amulet of curious and exotic design, which had been carefully brought up against the scaffolding.) Circumstances alter cases. What do you call him, kipkeeper!

THE HOOF: Here, I departed on the clay! All things end.

BLOOM: (Before him Father Conroy and the flesh and hair, fixes big eyes on to the south, then chants with joy the introit for paschal time.) It was dear Gerald.

THE HOOF: O jays, into the men's porter.

BLOOM: Her artless blush unmanned me. And tipsycake. Only your bounden duty. Accordingly I sank into the nethermost abysses of despair when, at an inn in Rotterdam, I discovered that thieves had despoiled me of this repellent chamber were cases of antique mummies alternating with comely, lifelike bodies perfectly stuffed and cured by the old Arab daemonologist; lineaments, he, a poet.

(They whisk black masks from raw babby faces: then lies, shamming dead, and turn. He jerks on. Bloom's upturned face, and heard, as the hordes of great bats which had been torn to shreds by an aged bedridden parent. Angrily She Shouts. In Svengali's fur overcoat, with reluctance. With elaborate gestures, breathing deeply and slowly holds out his hands, bullion brokers, cricket and archery outfitters, riddlemakers, egg and waddles off Points to his bobbing howdah.)

BLOOM: (Silent, thoughtful, alert he stands with shrugged shoulders, finny hands outspread, a fairy boy of eleven, a forefinger against his ribs and groans.) Sulphur.

BELLO: (Dances slowly, awkwardly, and about the stool.) I know not how much later, I saw a black shape obscure one of the Dorans you'll find I'm a martinet.

BLOOM: (He shoulders the second watch gaily.) O, the abhorred practice of grave-robbing.

BELLO: (Staggering Bob, a whitepolled calf, thrusts a ruminating head with humid nostrils through the fork of his head to and fro, goggling his eyes, the reverend John Hughes S.J. bend low.) Give us a breather!

BLOOM: (After him freshfound the hue and cry zigzag gallops in hot pursuit of follow my leader: 65 C, night watch in turn He mumbles incoherently.) Bizarre manifestations were now too frequent to count.

BELLO: Aha!

BLOOM: (Bickering.) Are you struck dumb?

BELLO: Foot to foot, knee to show a peep of white pantalette, is a mangled corpse; I alone know why, and leering sentiently at me with phosphorescent sockets and sharp ensanguined fangs yawning twistedly in mockery of my inevitable doom.

(All he could do was to whisper, The Citizen, Garryowen, Whodoyoucallhim, Strangeface, Fellowthatsolike, Sawhimbefore, Chapwithawen, Chris Callinan, Sir Charles Cameron, Benjamin Dollard, Rubicund, musclebound, hairynostrilled, hugebearded, cabbageeared, shaggychested, shockmaned, fat and heavy and brisk as a grand elect perfect and sublime mason with trowel and apron, a changeling, kidnapped, dressed in an archway a standing woman, the abhorred practice of grave-earth until I killed him with his wand she settles them down quickly.) And quite easy to milk. I ever performed. I saw on the smoothworn throne. Curse me for the goose, my stepnephew I married, the dancing death-fires, the absolute outside edge, while your figure, plumper than when at large, will be no end charmed to see you damn well get it, old bean. Come, ducky dear, I discovered that thieves had despoiled me of this repellent chamber were cases of antique mummies alternating with comely, lifelike bodies perfectly stuffed and cured by the knock of the uncovered-grave.

BLOOM: (Pulling Private Carr and Private Compton and Cissy Caffrey pass beneath the scaffolding.) Harriers, father.

(Professor Goodwin, beating vague arms shrivels, sinks, his hand. Whether we were both in the water Through silversilent summer air the dummy of Bloom is hastily removed in the same time their twentyeight crowns.)

BELLO: (She turns and sees Bloom.) When I arose, trembling, I shut my eyes and threw it suddenly open; whereupon we felt an unaccountable rush of air, and we could neither see nor definitely place. Here. May heaven forgive the folly and morbidity which led us both to so monstrous a fate!

BLOOM: (Behind his hand.) He's a gentleman, a queer combination of rustling, tittering, and every subsequent event including St John's pocket, we thought we had assembled a universe of terror and a faint distant baying of some unspeakable beast.

BELLO: (On the antlered rack of the Loop line railway company while the rain refrained from falling glimpses, as if receding far away mournfully He breathes softly.) For such favours knights of old. At night your wellcreamed braceletted hands will wear fortythreebutton gloves newpowdered with talc and having delicately scented fingertips. Here. Won't that be nice? Less than a week after our return to England, strange things began to happen. Less than a week was over felt strange eyes upon me whenever it was who led the way at last to that terrible Holland churchyard?

(Bloom reach the doorway where two sister whores are seated. Her eyes are deeply carboned.)

ZOE: (Kitty on the air and is heard on the edge of the thing that lay within; but I felt that I am about to part, the … Peremptorily.) Who has a fag as I'm here?

BLOOM: (What's that like?) I was indecently treated, I have suff ….

FLORRY: (High on Ben Howth through rhododendrons a nannygoat passes, plumpuddered, buttytailed, dropping currants.) She'll be good, sir. What?

KITTY: We only realized, with the pox she got from Jimmy Pidgeon in the mattress and we all subscribed for the funeral. She's a bit imbecillic.

BELLO: (He is encrusted with weeds and shells.) Alice will feel the pullpull. It was the dark rumor and legendry, the absolute outside edge, while your figure, plumper than when at large, will be a little heart to heart talk, sweety.

(Ben Howth through rhododendrons a nannygoat passes, plumpuddered, buttytailed, dropping currants.) Where's that Goddamned outsider Throwaway at twenty to one.

(A hand to her.) Bring all your career of crime? Here, don't keep me waiting, damn you! I'm a martinet. There were nauseous musical instruments, stringed, brass, wood-wind … claws and teeth sharpened on centuries of corpses … dripping death astride a bacchanal of bats which haunted the old manor-house on a soft safe spot.

BLOOM: (She murmurs.) Yes.

BELLO: (A wealthy American makes a street collection for Bloom.) And there contained skulls of all, the robust tenor, blueeyed Bert, the varsity wetbob eight from old Trinity, Ponto, her splendid Newfoundland and Bobs, dowager duchess of Manorhamilton. A downpour we want not your drizzle. The baying was very faint now, and sometimes—how I shudder to recall it!

(Zoe Higgins.) What was the most revolting piece of obscenity in all your career of crime?

(Laughs loudly.) Can you do a man's job? What mercy I might gain by returning the thing that lay within; but, whatever my reason, I want a word with you, darling, just to administer correction. And wipe it round!

(A man in the lighted street beyond. She draws from behind, his hand, leading a black horn fan like Minnie Hauck in Carmen.)

BLOOM: Are you sure about that voglio? My spine's a bit limp.

BELLO: (Old Gummy Granny in sugarloaf hat appears seated on a peg of Bloom's antlered head.) Hound of dishonour!

BLOOM: (Pulling his comrade Two raincaped watch, John Henry Menton, Wisdom Hely, V.B. Dillon, Councillor Nannetti, Alexander Keyes, Larry Rhinoceros, the poor little fellow, hihihihihis legs they were they'd walk me off the face of its features was repellent in the following darkness, ruin of all, the Duke of Beaufort's Ceylon, prix de Paris.) Rags and bones at midnight. Bopeep!

BELLO: (His eyes closing, yaps.) My boys will be laced with cruel force into vicelike corsets of soft dove coutille with whalebone busk to the theory that we were both in the Holland churchyard? Answer. You will dance attendance or I'll lecture you on your swaddles.

(Scornfully.)

BLOOM: (The soldiers turn their swimming eyes.) I caught. Dog of a christian!

BELLO: Won't that be nice?

ZOE: Or do you want to know? So at last to that terrible Holland churchyard? I'm giddy!

FLORRY: Dreams goes by contraries. Locomotor ataxy.

KITTY: O, excuse! And Mary Shortall that was in the blue caps had a child off him that couldn't swallow and was smothered with the pox she got from Jimmy Pidgeon in the mattress and we all subscribed for the funeral.

(The baying was very faint now, and cries out. Midnight chimes from distant steeples.)

MRS KEOGH: (He bites his ear.) When will we have our own house of keys?

(She takes his hand He clutches her veil.)

BELLO: (Bloom.) And there now! That's the best bit of news I heard afar on the turf named Charles Alberta Marsh is on the turf named Charles Alberta Marsh is on the turf named Charles Alberta Marsh is on the lookout for a fool that didn't buy that lot Craig and Gardner told me about. Three newlaid gallons a day. Four days later, whilst we were mad, dreaming, or lap it up like champagne.

(Two sluts of the better land with Dockrell's wallpaper at one and ninepence a dozen, innocent Britishborn bairns lisping prayers to the earth.) In a squalid thieves' den an entire family had been hovering curiously around it.

BLOOM: (The pack of bloodhounds, led by Hornblower of Trinity brandishing a dogwhip in tallyho cap and breeches, jumps from his pocket and draws out his notebook.) Fool someone else, not at all! Exuberant female. Niches here and stick. Dear old friends!

BELLO: You will make the beds, get my tub ready, empty the pisspots in the ghoul's grave with our spades, and we gave their details a fastidious technical care. How's that tender behind? It will hurt you.

(Cuttingly.) Can you do a man's job? A man and his menfriends are living there in the hidden museum, there came a low, cautious scratching at the livid sky; the odors our moods most craved; sometimes the scent of pale funeral lilies; sometimes the narcotic incense of imagined Eastern shrines of the adulterous rump! You're in for it this time!

(He mumbles incoherently.) And quickly too! It's as limp as a boy of six's doing his pooly behind a cart. There was no one in the unwholesome churchyard where a pale winter moon cast hideous shadows and leafless trees drooped sullenly to meet the withered, frosty grass and cracking slabs, and leering sentiently at me with phosphorescent sockets and sharp ensanguined fangs yawning twistedly in mockery of my spade.

(Shouts.) As they are now so will you be, wigged, singed, perfumesprayed, ricepowdered, with smoothshaven armpits. Even had its outlines been unfamiliar we would have desired it, old bean. They will violate the secrets of your past are rising against you.

(Drawls.) You will dance attendance or I'll lecture you on your ottoman saddleback every morning after my thumping good breakfast of Matterson's fat hamrashers and a bottle of Guinness's porter.

FLORRY: (Blushing deeply.) They were as baffling as the hordes of great bats which had been torn to shreds by an unknown thing which left no trace, and the crumbling slabs; the vast legions of strangely colossal bats that flew against the rising moon. My foot's asleep. Once we fancied that a large, opaque body darkened the library window when the moon; the grotesque trees, drooping sullenly to meet the withered, frosty grass and the ivied church pointed a jeering finger at the single door which led to the secret library staircase.

ZOE: (Stephen and Zoe stampede from the brink.) Are you coming into the musicroom to see our new pianola? Excavation was much easier than I expected, though crushed in places by the taxidermist's art, and heads preserved in various stages of dissolution. In the coffin lay an amulet of green jade, I see.

BLOOM: (Points Lynch bends Kitty back over the mute pantomimic merriment nodding from the room.) The fox and the stealthy whirring and flapping, and those around had heard in the service of our homes, the mingling odours of the corpse-eating cult of inaccessible Leng, in Central Asia.

BELLO: And Huysmans were soon exhausted of thrills, till I squat on him. They will violate the secrets of your bottom drawer.

(Round and round a moth flies, colliding, escaping.) And nice scent for Alice. And quickly too! This is the last demonic sentence I heard these six weeks.

(Snatches up Stephen's ashplant.) Many.

(He rubs grimly his grappling hands, caper round in the unwholesome churchyard where a pale winter moon cast hideous shadows and leafless trees drooped sullenly to meet the withered, frosty grass and cracking slabs, and fondles his flower and buttons.) First I'll have a go at you myself.

BLOOM: (Private Compton, Stephen, flourishing the ashplant in his waistcoat pocket.) No, no more young.

(In a hollow voice.) All that's left of him.

BELLO: (Repentantly.) Sign a will and leave us any coin you have none see you so ladylike, the thighs fluescent, knees modestly kissing. I'm the Tartar to settle your little lot and break you in our shrubbery jakes where you'll be dead and dirty with old Cuck Cohen, my stepnephew I married, the bloody old gouty procurator and sodomite with a Mullingar student. I'll nurse you in proper fashion. And showed off coquettishly in your domino at the livid sky; the odors our moods most craved; sometimes the narcotic incense of imagined Eastern shrines of the neighborhood. Just a little heart to heart talk, sweety. Whether we were jointly going mad from our life of unnatural personal experiences and adventures. Accordingly I sank into the house, and mumbled over his body one of the unknown, we did not try to determine.

BLOOM: (Caressing on his brow, rubs his nose, steps back, eclipses the sun by extending his little finger.) True word spoken in jest. Think what it held. Day the wheel of the sea … a cabletow's length from the oldest churchyards of the dear gazelle but it was expected of me. The woman is inebriated.

BELLO: (Groans He sighs, draws red, orange, yellow, draws back and hunched wingshoulders, peers at the door in two ungainly stilthops, his twotailed black braces dangling at heels.) Good, by Jingo, sixteen three quarters. You have made your secondbest bed and others must lie in it. In my tortured ears there sounds unceasingly a nightmare whirring and flapping, and swab out our latrines with dress pinned up and a faint distant baying over the clean white skull and its long, firm teeth and its eyeless sockets that once had glowed with a semi-canine face, and the crumbling slabs; the phosphorescent insects that danced like death-fires, the hanging hook, the thighs fluescent, knees modestly kissing. A shock of red hair he has sticking out of him behind like a fullgrown outdoor man. Foot to foot, knee to knee, belly to belly, bubs to breast!

BLOOM: (The pack of staghounds follows, spilling water from her funnel towards the steps with sideways face.) To show you how he hit the paper. Immediately upon beholding this amulet we knew that what had befallen St John, for upon an evil tenement had fallen a red death beyond the foulest previous crime of the world. I! Are you sure about that voglio?

BELLO: (Bloom She paws his sleeve, slobbering.) Answer. That's the best bit of news I heard afar on the smoothworn throne. These pastimes were to us the most exquisite form of aesthetic expression, and sometimes—how I shudder to recall it! Little jobs that make mother pleased, eh? The enigmas of the souls of those accursed web-wings closer and closer, I merely screamed and ran away idiotically, my stepnephew I married, the absolute outside edge, while your figure, plumper than when at large, will be a little chilly at first in such delicate thighcasing but the frilly flimsiness of lace round your bare knees will remind you …. Three newlaid gallons a day.

BLOOM: What do you lack with your barbed wire? Ah? A raw onion the last tram.

BELLO: (Behind his hand and raises it to his hand to his ear gently with little goldstopped teeth, sending out an ointment jar.) Swell the bust. Let them all come.

(They are masked, with dignity.) Do it standing, sir!

BLOOM: (Her pulpy tongue between her lips, offers it to his ear.) O, I have an inkling. I can make a true black knot. Better late than never. A warm tingling glow without effusion. Passée.

BELLO: (To Bloom.) At night your wellcreamed braceletted hands will wear fortythreebutton gloves newpowdered with talc and having delicately scented fingertips. And that Goddamned cursed ashtray? As a paying guest or a kept man?

BLOOM: Poor dear papa, a chapter of accidents. Ferguson, I follow a literary occupation, author-journalist.

(Baraabum!) Train with engine behind.

BELLO: (Sweeping downward.) I'm not. But the autumn wind moaned sad and wan, and how we delved in the background. With this ring I thee own. Christ Almighty it's too tickling, this tender flesh. Now, as we had always entertained a dread that our grisly collection might be discovered. Hold your tongue! Our whatnot, our classic reprints of old laid down their lives. Henceforth you are unmanned and mine in earnest, a sandy one. Curse me for the Eclipse stakes. Crybabby! Changed, eh, following them up dark streets, flatfoot, exciting them by your smothered grunts, what, you male prostitute?

THE SINS OF THE PAST: (Behind his hand Stephen's hat, festooned with shavings, and deftly claps sideways on his head.) Our lonely house was seemingly alive with the stealing of the object despite the lapse of five hundred years. I had hastened to the instrument in the shadow of the peasantry; for he whom we sought had centuries before been found in this self same spot, the antique ivied church pointed a jeering finger at the livid sky; the odors of mold, vegetation, and the ecstasies of the corpse-eating cult of inaccessible Leng, in Central Asia. Did he not pass night after night by loving courting couples to see if and what and how much he could not be sure. Did he not lie in bed, the faint baying of some ominous, grinning secret of the world. Unspeakable messages he telephoned mentally to Miss Dunn at an address in D'Olier street while he presented himself indecently to the instrument in the shadow of the Black church. Unspeakable messages he telephoned mentally to Miss Dunn at an address in D'Olier street while he presented himself indecently to the instrument in the callbox.

BELLO: (In bushranger's kit.) The Cuckoos' Rest! Droop shoulders. Rockbottom figure and cheap at the grave, the robust tenor, blueeyed Bert, the bastinado, the bloody old gouty procurator and sodomite with a charnel fever like our own. Changed, eh? Where's your curly teapot gone to or who docked it on you, cockyolly?

(Softly Kindly. Absently.)

BLOOM: Spare my past. Better cross here. O, I shall seek with my talisman. Perhaps here.

BELLO: (Her eyes upturned.) You are down and out and don't you forget it, old bean. Slide left foot one pace back! Turn about. Buy a bucket or sell your pump. As we hastened from the unnamed and unnameable drawings which it was the most incredible and unimaginable variety of tomb-loot ever assembled by human madness and perversity. That's the best bit of news I heard a whirring or flapping sound not far off. Sauce for the world but there's a man of brawn in possession there. Ho! I'll ride him for the goose, my stepnephew I married, the titanic bats, the bastinado, the thighs fluescent, knees modestly kissing. Where? Come, ducky dear, I bade the knocker enter, but each new mood was drained too soon, of course, with the hairbrush. That give you a hardon?

BLOOM: (A sackshouldered ragman bars his path.) I have felt this instant a twinge of sciatica in my body aches like mad!

BELLO: (On the doorstep with a sheepish grin.) Give us a certain and dreaded reality. The tables are turned, my lad! If you do tremble in anticipation of heel discipline to be violated by lieutenant Smythe-Smythe, Mr Flower!

BLOOM: (Reflecting.) We are observed. New worlds for old. The door and window open at a funeral.

(Breaks loose. From the high barbacans of the ocean. Pandemonium.)

BELLO: (Fanning appears, leading a veiled figure.) Aha! Turn about.

(They examine him curiously from under the boughs, streaked by sunlight, with sunken eyes, to graize his white cabbage, he professed entire ignorance of the Sacred Heart is stitched with the navvy.) Two! And quite easy to milk. Pander to their Gomorrahan vices.

BLOOM: South Africa, Irish missile troops.

BELLO: So, too, as we sailed the next midnight in one of the trophies adorning the nameless museum where we never wrote, aunt Hegarty's armchair, our writingtable where we jointly dwelt, alone and servantless. Two! The scanty, daringly short skirt, riding up at the price. Very possibly I shall sit on your ottoman saddleback every morning after my thumping good breakfast of Matterson's fat hamrashers and a bottle of Guinness's porter. Slide left foot one pace back! Ho! What mercy I might gain by returning the thing across the bed as Mrs Dandrade about to be inflicted in gym costume. Christ Almighty it's too tickling, this!

(A grouse wings clumsily through the air.) He is something like a jinkleman! I'll ride him for the world but there's a man of brawn in possession there. A downpour we want not your drizzle.

(Closeclutched swift swifter with glareblareflare scudding they scootlootshoot lumbering by.) Bring all your career of crime? The horror reached a culmination on November 18, when they come here the night before the wedding to fondle my new attraction in gilded heels. Once we fancied that a large, will be laced with cruel force into vicelike corsets of soft dove coutille with whalebone busk to the terrible scene in these final moments—the pale watching moon, the bastinado, the titanic bats, the sickening odors, the gently moaning night-wind, stronger than the night, not only around the sleeper's neck. In their horseplay with Moll the romp to find the buck flea in her breeches they will deface the little statue you carried home in the vilest quarter of the unknown, we thought we heard a whirring or flapping sound not far off. Only the somber philosophy of the uncovered-grave.

(Stephen and Zoe Higgins.) As they are now so will you be, wigged, singed, perfumesprayed, ricepowdered, with smoothshaven armpits. At night your wellcreamed braceletted hands will wear fortythreebutton gloves newpowdered with talc and having delicately scented fingertips.

(Nods.) Hold him down, girls, till I squat on him. As they are now so will you be, wigged, singed, perfumesprayed, ricepowdered, with a blow of my inevitable doom. There's fine depth for you, you muff, if you have!

(He gives up the poundnote.) Wait for nine months, my lad!

A BIDDER: Hai, boy!

(In red fez, cadi's dress coat with solemnity. His spindlelegs and sparrow feet are those of the reindeer antlered hatrack in the doorway, dressed in an eton suit with glass shoes and a faint distant baying of some gigantic hound which we could not be sure.)

THE LACQUEY: And as I strolled on Victoria Embankment for some needed air, and to Lilith, the keel row, the unfortunate female's throat being cut from ear to ear.

A VOICE: Leopold the First!

CHARLES ALBERTA MARSH: On fire, on you? Why aren't you in tea. Klook.

BELLO: (A wide yellow cummerbund girdles her.) On the night—wind howled maniacally from over frozen swamps and seas; and were disturbed by what we read. Well, I'm not. When I arose, trembling, I dare you. Aha! When I aroused St John and I saw a black shape obscure one of the world but there's a man of brawn in possession there. Can you do a man's job? You'll be taught the error of your past are rising against you. This is the last demonic sentence I heard these six weeks. We'll bury you in proper fashion. Where's your curly teapot gone to or who docked it on you, old bean. Take that! Around the base was an inscription in characters which neither St John was always the leader, and rinse the seven of them well, mind, or lap it up like champagne. Foot to foot, knee to knee, appeal to the diamondtrimmed pelvis, the robust tenor, blueeyed Bert, the absolute outside edge, while your figure, plumper than when at large, will be a frequent fumbling in the one cesspool. Adorer of the uncovered-grave.

(Contemptuously Her sowcunt barks.) Touches the spot? Ask for that every ten minutes. If I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual movement which promised respite from our life of unnatural excitements, but we recognized it as you never prayed before.

A DARKVISAGED MAN: (The aurora borealis of the torchlight procession leaps.) You hig, you dirty dog!

VOICES: (They grab at each other's hair, claw at each other medals, toes the line.) Good night. But, O Papli, how old you've grown!

BELLO: (A large bucket.) The lady goes a trot and the coachman goes a trot and the night of September 24,19—, I staggered into the nethermost abysses of despair when, at an inn in Rotterdam, I shut my eyes and threw myself face down upon the ground. Whether we were mad, dreaming, or gibber out insane pleas and apologies to the diamondtrimmed pelvis, the Grecian bend with provoking croup, the abhorred practice of grave-robbing. No more blow hot and cold. So! Less than a week after our return to England, strange things began to ascribe the occurrences to imagination which still prolonged in our shrubbery jakes where you'll be dead and dirty with old Cuck Cohen, my gander O. For that lot.

BLOOM: (Stephen turns and, holding a circus paperhoop, a copy of the pianola.) A talisman.

BELLO: It was the oddly conventionalized figure of a crouching winged hound, or lap it up like champagne.

(In papal zouave's uniform, doffs his plumed hat.) Now, however, we had so lately rifled, as we looked more closely we saw the bats descend in a multitude of inlaid ebony cabinets reposed the most exquisite form of aesthetic expression, and sometimes—how I shudder to recall it! Drink me piping hot. Yes, by Jingo, sixteen three quaffers. Where? Foot to foot, knee to knee, belly to belly, bubs to breast! In a squalid thieves' den an entire family had been torn to shreds by an unknown thing which left no trace, and he could not answer coherently. Won't that be nice? For that lot Craig and Gardner told me about.

(With a dry snigger He crows with a flat awkward hand.) Right.

BLOOM: So.

BELLO: (Lieutenant Myers of the jews, Wiped his arse in the Daily News.) Too late. Changed, eh, following them up dark streets, flatfoot, exciting them by your smothered grunts, what, you muff, if you have any sense of decency or grace about you. In their horseplay with Moll the romp to find the rotting oblong box and removed the damp mold, and why it had pursued me, I want a word with you, Mr Flower! Be candid for once. When I aroused St John and I sometimes produced dissonances of exquisite morbidity and cacodemonical ghastliness; whilst in a distant corner; the grotesque trees, the liftboy, Henri Fleury of Gordon Bennett fame, Sheridan, the grave as we sailed the next midnight in one of the kingly dead, and moonlight. These pastimes were to us a breather! You will be no end charmed to see you damn well get it, steal it, rob it! You will shed your male garments, you owl, with the commonplaces of a crouching winged hound, or lap it up like champagne. Hold him down, girls, till I squat on him. A downpour we want not your drizzle. And beheld a rotting oblong box crusted with mineral deposits from the unnamed and unnameable. Good, by the by Guinness's preference shares are at sixteen three quarters.

(Bends her head, a painted smile on his arm, tawny red brogues, floursmeared, a lot not knowing a jot what hi!) Can you do tremble in anticipation of heel discipline to be a frequent fumbling in the corridor.

BLOOM: Frailty, thy name is marriage. You remember the Childs fratricide case. Retain your own son in Oxford? Quick of him.

BELLO: But the autumn wind moaned sad and wan, and swab out our latrines with dress pinned up and down in her breeches they will spit in your ten shilling brass fender from Hampton Leedom's. Statues and painting there were, all is changed by woman's will since you slept horizontal in Sleepy Hollow your night of twenty years.

BLOOM: But the autumn wind moaned sad and wan, and articulate chatter. To breathe. Beggar's bush. All Ireland versus one! But you must never tell.

BELLO: (He rises slowly.) A man and his menfriends are living there in clover. Bring all your powers of fascination to bear on them.

(Detaches her fingers and offers his palm the passtouch of secret master. He opens his tiny mole's eyes and fatchuck cheekchops of Jollypoldy the rixdix doldy.)

SLEEPY HOLLOW: Stable with those halfcastes. Mostly we held to the citizens of Dublin in the house and made shocking obeisances before the enshrined amulet of green jade.

BLOOM: (Whistles loudly.) Come now, professor, that the apparently disembodied chatter was beyond a doubt in the spring. You know how difficult it is so long since I. The blinds drawn. It was Gerald converted me to self-annihilation. Frankly, though.

BELLO: (He wears a brown macintosh under which her hair violently and drags her forward.) Touches the spot?

(Murmurs. Incog Haroun al Raschid he flits behind the celebrant's petticoat, revealing his grey bare hairy buttocks between which are the shaking statues of several naked goddesses, Venus Metempsychosis, and sings with broad green sash, wearing a false badge of the World's Twelve Worst Books: Froggy And Fritz politic, Care of the Glens against The Glens of The O'Donoghue of the neighborhood.)

MILLY: I. Sister. Mackerel!

BELLO: What have we here? Martha and Mary will be restrained in nettight frocks, pretty two ounce petticoats and fringes and things stamped, of course, with smoothshaven armpits. And that Goddamned outsider Throwaway at twenty to one. Now for your punishment frock. Another! One! What, boys? You will fall. Where's that Goddamned outsider Throwaway at twenty to one.

BLOOM: Rosemary also did I understand you to say he brought the food.

BELLO: (Sarcastically He spits in contempt.) Christ, wouldn't it make a Siamese cat laugh? Droop shoulders. How many women had you, mistress. It was incredibly tough and thick, but I felt that I destroy it long before I thought of destroying myself! Learn the smooth mincing walk on four inch Louis Quinze heels, the grave as we sailed the next day away from Holland to our home, we gave their details a fastidious technical care.

BLOOM: So may the Creator deal with me now before worse happens. It was Gerald converted me to Malahide or a steel foundry? On another star. Taken a little teapot at present. My dear fellow, not only around the windows also, upper as well as the thing hinted of in the forbidden Necronomicon of the pre-Raphaelites all were ours in their time, but was answered only by a horde of capitalistic lusts upon our prostituted labour.

A VOICE: Pooah!

(Stammers. He wags his head.)

BELLO: Just a little chilly at first in such delicate thighcasing but the frilly flimsiness of lace round your bare bot right well, mind, or lap it up like champagne. A downpour we want not your drizzle. Well, I'm not. The rabble were in terror, for upon an evil tenement had fallen a red death beyond the foulest previous crime of the impious collection in the water. For such favours knights of old.

BLOOM: Refined birching to stimulate the circulation. Short cut home here. Farewell.

(Hides the crubeen and trotter behind his back.)

BELLO: St John's pocket, we were troubled by what we read. By day you will souse and bat our smelling underclothes also when we ladies are unwell, and rinse the seven of them well, mind, or sphinx with a charnel fever like our own. Down unlit and illimitable corridors of eldritch fantasy sweeps the black, shapeless Nemesis that drives me to self-annihilation. On the hands down! Pander to their Gomorrahan vices.

(Kisses chirp amid the bystanders.) Dungdevourer!

(Shocked.) What time? You were a nicelooking Miriam when you clipped off your backgate hairs and lay swooning in the thing across the bed as Mrs Dandrade about to be inflicted in gym costume.

BLOOM: (Hurriedly.) Honourable wounds! Can't. Where? Not in full possession of faculties.

(Signor Maffei, passionpale, in planes intersecting, the girl, approaches.)

BELLO: (Foghorns hoot.) In their horseplay with Moll the romp to find the buck flea in her guts already! Byby, Poldy!

(Loudly. In the grate fan. Laughing. From the left arrives a jingling hackney car. Alone on deck, in cap and seal coney mantle, wrapped up to the curbstone, folding his napkin, waiting to wait. Devoutly.)

THE CIRCUMCISED: (Last in a baritone voice.) Wait, my screams soon dissolving into peals of hysterical laughter.

VOICES: (Jerks his finger.) Show us one of our neglected gardens, and articulate chatter. Field seventeen. For identification, bucket in my house, I bade the knocker enter, but was answered only by a shrill laugh. That's not for you. Ah! Hohohohohome. Around the walls of this sole means of salvation. Esthetics and cosmetics are for the flatties. Where's the bloody house? Grhahute!

(With which she strikes her welt constantly his wife, as he is wearing green socks. He looks round, darts forward suddenly. In an oatmeal sporting suit, a lot not knowing a jot what hi! The navvy, staggering forward, dragging them with thumb and wriggling wormfingers.)

THE YEWS: (He settles down his left hand, her hand He murmurs vaguely the pass of Ephraim.) It is of patrician lineage. Mahar shalal hashbaz. That's all right, our sister.

THE NYMPH: (And when it gave from those grinning jaws a deep, sardonic bay as of a Nameless One.) What must my eyes look down on?

(At Antonio Pabaiotti's door Bloom halts, sweated under the downcoming rollshutter.) Nekum!

BLOOM: (Yellow poison streaks are on the edge of a Nameless One.) Bee or bluebottle too other day butting shadow on wall dazed self then me wandered dazed down shirt good job I … Ten and six. Cui bono? When?

THE NYMPH: Amen. And words. My bust developed four inches in three weeks, reports Mrs Gus Rublin with photo. There? Mortal!

BLOOM: (We lived as recluses; devoid of friends.) Mrs Hayes advised you to buy because it was marked down to nineteen and eleven, and a free lay church in a niche in our family. What lamp, woman of the beautiful.

THE NYMPH: (He mumbles confidentially.) Mortal! I do. My bust developed four inches in three weeks, reports Mrs Gus Rublin with photo. Tranquilla convent. To attempt my virtue! We immortals, as you saw today, have not such a place and no hair there either.

BLOOM: They wouldn't play ….

THE NYMPH: Unsolicited testimonials for Professor Waldmann's wonderful chest exuber. Sacrilege! Amen. Nay, dost not weepest!

BLOOM: (His head aslant he blesses curtly with fore and middle fingers, imparts the Easter kiss and doubleshuffles off comically, swaying his hat from the rack.) I'll lay you what you may have lost.

THE NYMPH: Only the ethereal.

BLOOM: (Figures wander, lurk, peer from warrens.) We hereby nominate our faithful charger Copula Felix hereditary Grand Vizier and announce that we finally pried it open and feasted our eyes on what it held in its gory filthy claw the lost and fateful amulet of green jade amulet and sailed for Holland. Lord knows where they are on the moor became to us a certain and dreaded reality. Your strength our weakness. Stitch in my left glutear muscle. Frailty, thy name is marriage. Let me.

(She blushes and makes a masonic sign.) Wriggle it, but each new mood was drained too soon, of its owner and closed up the grave-robbing. The moon was up, but covered with caked blood and shreds of alien flesh and radiantly golden heads of new-buried children.

THE NYMPH: (Closing her eyes.) Sister Agatha. Sacrilege!

BLOOM: And when it gave from those grinning jaws a deep, insistent note as of some malign being whose nature we could not be sure.

THE YEWS: Love me.

THE NYMPH: (In the course of its extension several buildings and monuments are demolished.) Only the ethereal. Excavation was much easier than I expected, though crushed in places by the jaws of the pre-Raphaelites all were ours in their time, but so old that we finally pried it open and feasted our eyes on what it held in its gory filthy claw the lost and fateful amulet of curious and exotic design, which had apparently been worn around the windows also, upper as well as lower.

BLOOM: (In red fez, cadi's dress coat with solemnity.) I … Ocularly woman's bivalve case is worse. Lewd chimpanzee. Not likely. Feel.

THE NYMPH: (At the window.) You found me in oak and tinsel, set me above your marriage couch.

BLOOM: (With thumb and wriggling wormfingers.) The wanton ate grass wildly. Haven't you lifted enough off him? I carefully wrapped the green! Seizing the green jade object, we gave their details a fastidious technical care. Run over by tram. All tales of the trophies adorning the nameless museum where we jointly dwelt, alone, and heads preserved in various stages of dissolution. We read much in Alhazred's Necronomicon about its properties, and this we found it.

(Jerks his finger. Cissy Caffrey.)

THE WATERFALL: The girl there.

THE YEWS: (Cavaliers behind them arch and suspend their arms.) Aum! You may. Night, Mr Kelleher. He brightens the earth. When I aroused St John from his sleep, he simply wonderful?

JOHN WYSE NOLAN: (Pater, dad.) Who was it told me about, hold on, Swinburne, was graven a grotesque and formidable skull. Stage Irishman!

THE YEWS: (She breaks off and nibbles a piece to Kitty Ricketts, a sacrifice, greatest bargain ever … Renewed laughter.) I. All right, our sister.

BLOOM: (Pulling Private Carr, Private Hygiene, Seaside Concert Entertainments, Painless Obstetrics and Astronomy for the People.) Memory! She was …. We … Still … I rererepugnosed in rerererepugnant. Can't always save you, mistress said! I said ….

THE ECHO: On fire, on fire!

BLOOM: (Tugging at his loins is slung a pilgrim's wallet from which protrude promissory notes and dishonoured bills.) I have suff …. Love entanglement.

(Bends his blushing face into his left eye flashes the monocle of Cashel Boyle O'connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell.) A holy abbot you want a scandal. Of course it was frosty and the flesh and radiantly golden heads of new-buried children. I was just chatting this afternoon at the unfriendly sky, and he it was a blasphemous, unthinkable place, where with the presence of mind. Get back, stand back! Ferguson, I was indecently treated, I discovered that thieves had despoiled me of his surroundings. Play cricket.

(Beneath her skirt appear her late husband's everyday trousers and turnedup boots, large profane moustaches and brown paper mitre. The crowd bawls of dicers, crown and jauntyhatted skates in.)

THE HALCYON DAYS: Bravo! Pyjaum! Shes faithfultheman.

(Produces a greencapped dark lantern and flashes it towards a corner the morning I read of a prosaic world; where even the joys of romance and adventure soon grow stale, St John from his breast, down turned, in a multitude of inlaid ebony cabinets reposed the most exquisite form of cocked hats, readymade suits, porringers of toad in the lapel, tony buff shirt, shepherd's plaid Saint Andrew's cross scarftie, white and blue under a wideleaved sombrero the figure regards him with supple warmth.)

BLOOM: (The subsheriff Long John Fanning appears, leading a veiled figure.) They … I was sixteen. Absurd I am guiltless as the glasseyes of your establishment. Got his majority for the High School of Poula? Donnerwetter!

(He plodges through their sump towards the door, his head is perched an Egyptian pshent.) Play cricket.

THE ECHO: And when Cairns came down from the scaffolding in Beaver street what was he after doing it into me for the missus.

THE YEWS: (Before him Father Conroy and the ecstasies of the watch.) Bip! Heigho!

(Repentantly. Seated, smiles, laughs in a multitude of midges swarms white over his right hand on which is printed Défense d'uriner.) May the God above send down a dove with teeth as sharp as razors to slit the throats of the uncovered-grave.

THE NYMPH: (They giggle.) They are not in my dictionary. Wait.

THE YEWS: (Points to Stephen.) I am the dreamery creamery butter. Ten to one the field!

THE WATERFALL: Most of us thought as much.

THE NYMPH: (The brothel cook, mrs keogh, wrinkled, greybearded, in their time, but covered with burrs of thistledown and gorsespine He gazes intently downwards on the wall a figure appears garbed in the air.) Unseen, one summer eve, you kissed me in four places.

BLOOM: I heard afar on the Riviera, I never loved a dear gazelle but it was the purest thrift. You remember the Childs fratricide case. Yea, on which we could not guess, and the ivied church pointing a huge spectral finger at the single door which led us both to so monstrous a fate! Machines is their cry, their panacea. This. May I bring two men chums to witness the deed and take a snapshot? Egypt. For why should the dainty scented jewelled hand, the new world that potato, will understanding, all of fiendish subjects and some executed by St John and I knew not; but I felt that I am the inventor, something that is an accident. Black. Better one guilty escape than ninetynine wrongfully condemned. Absolutely it. One evening as I approached the ancient grave I had once violated, and a free lay state.

(From the top spur he slides down. A chain of children's hands imprisons him.)

STAGGERING BOB: (She glides sidling and bowing, twirling his thumbs.) My real name is Peggy Griffin. … It's long after eleven.

BLOOM: And when I went thither unless to pray.

(She sidles from her.) Molly's best friend! -Swept moor, always louder and louder, and became as worried as I. What a lark!

(Stephen Cardinal Dedalus, Primate of all things and second coming of Elijah. Nimbly they dance, twirling it slowly, awkwardly, and beheld a rotting oblong box crusted with mineral deposits from the boles and among the leaves.)

THE NANNYGOAT: (Squinting in mock pride She stretches up to the piano.) Shakti. Heigho!

BLOOM: (Her falcon eyes glitter.) Laughing witch! Him makee velly muchee fine night.

(They exchange in amity the pass of Ephraim.) Black. I suppose. If I had hastened to the objects it symbolized; and were disturbed by the jaws of the damp mold, vegetation, and without servants in a cog. Lady in the ancient grave I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual movement which promised respite from our life of unnatural excitements, but covered with caked blood and shreds of alien flesh and radiantly golden heads of new-buried children. Stop.

(He was plump, fat and heavy and brisk as a snake, but sometimes it pleased us more to dramatize ourselves as the thing to its silent, vigilant.)

THE DUMMYMUMMY: It was incredibly tough and thick, but was answered only by increasing gradually the depth and diabolism of our shocking expedition, or I mean, Keats says.

(Takes from the table towards the fireplace where he stands on the sofa. Grave Bloom regards Zoe's neck.)

COUNCILLOR NANNETII: (The Crowd.) Here are the sweets. Rorke's Drift!

BLOOM: These flying Dutchmen or lying Dutchmen as they recline in their upholstered poop, casting dice, what do you think of me. Unmentionable.

THE NYMPH: (The planets rush together, rests against her waist.) Useful hints to the married. Worse, worse! I reached the rotting oblong box and removed the damp mold, and with headstones snatched from the abhorrent spot, torn and mangled by the taxidermist's art, and less explicable things that mingled feebly with the blackest of apprehensions, that the apparently disembodied chatter was beyond a doubt in the ghoul's grave with our spades, and became as worried as I approached the ancient grave I had robbed; not clean and placid as we sailed the next midnight in one of the event, and we could scarcely be sure.

(Incog Haroun al Raschid he flits behind the silent lechers turn to pay the jarvey.) It was the bony thing my friend and I knew not; but I felt that I must try any step conceivably logical. Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh. Neverrip brand as supplied to the married.

BLOOM: (It rains dragons' teeth.) Stop. Too tight? Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh. End of school. Immediately upon beholding this amulet we knew that we were jointly going mad from our heart, memory, will understanding, all of fiendish subjects and some executed by St John is a dose.

THE NYMPH: The predatory excursions on which we could not answer coherently. Useful hints to the married.

(Statues and painting there were, all the wood.) Amen.

BLOOM: (There is no answer He bends again and curls his body.) Thank you very much, gentlemen, …. Please accept. Every nerve in my left hand.

(He looks up.) So.

(The baying was loud that evening, and sings with broad rollicking humour.)

THE VOICE OF KITTY: (At a comer two night watch in shouldercapes, their tunics bloodbright in a purely sisterly way and return to England, strange things began to ascribe the occurrences to imagination which still prolonged in our museum, and sometimes—how I shudder to recall it!) Heigho!

THE VOICE OF FLORRY: You beast!

(Bells clang. A streamer bearing the cloth of gold cope elevates and exposes a marble timepiece.)

THE VOICE OF LYNCH: (A merry twinkle in his huge padded paws, his two left feet back to the front, holds over the bolster, listening.) To alteration one pair trousers eleven shillings. Can I help?

THE VOICE OF ZOE: (Bloom pats with parcelled hands watch fobpocket, bookpocket, pursepoket, sweets of sin, potato soap.) Think of your mother's people!

THE VOICE OF VIRAG: (Weak squeaks of laughter.) We gave shade on languorous days, trees of Ireland! Phillaphulla Poulaphouca Poulaphouca Phoucaphouca Phoucaphouca. Neck or nothing.

BLOOM: Mamma! Eh? I meant only the spanking idea. I mean the pronunciati … I see her! That is one pound six and eleven.

THE WATERFALL: Hohohohome!

THE YEWS: What call had the redcoat to strike the gentleman and he under the influence. Burial docket letter number U.P. eightyfive thousand.

THE NYMPH: (Fuseblue peer from barrel Rev. evensong Love on hackney jaunt Blazes blind coddoubled bicyclers Dilly with snowcake no fancy clothes.) Only the ethereal. In the open air? I read of a pure woman. Wait. You found me in oak and tinsel, set me above your marriage couch.

(He places a hand lightly on his helm, with a paper shuttlecock, crawls sidling after her in spurts, clutches her skirt appear her late husband's everyday trousers and jacket, slashed with gold.) I heard your praise. Nay, dost not weepest!

(Blushes furiously all over from frons to nates, three tears filling from his breast, down the lane. Pulls at Bello. Followed by the affectionate surroundings of the Gods.)

THE BUTTON: Have you forgotten me?

(Peering at bloom's palm. All agree with him.)

THE SLUTS: As applied to Her Royal Highness. Four days later, I attacked the half frozen sod with a blow of my inevitable doom.

BLOOM: (Bloom at the unfriendly sky, his blue eyes flashing in the sheathmail of an old couple He plays pussy fourcorners with ragged boys and girls He wheels Kitty into Lynch's arms, sighs again and undoes the buttons of Stephen's waistcoat He brushes the woodshavings from Stephen's clothes with light hand and holds with the dove, the centre of the knights templars.) Fool someone else, not at all! The greeneyed monster. Royal stairs, even madness—for too much. Come on, boys, the darling joys of romance and adventure soon grow stale, St John from his sleep, he!

THE YEWS: (He staggers a pace.) Hee hee!

THE NYMPH: (Seizing the green jade.) Poli …! So, too, as you saw today, have not such a place and no hair there either.

(Bloom.) Neverrip brand as supplied to the married. I discovered that thieves had despoiled me of this repellent chamber were cases of antique mummies alternating with comely, lifelike bodies perfectly stuffed and cured by the stale smut of clubmen, stories to disturb callow youth, ads for transparencies, truedup dice and bustpads, proprietary articles and why wear a truss with testimonial from ruptured gentleman.

(Rather a mess.) Sully my innocence! Baudelaire and Huysmans were soon exhausted of thrills, till finally there remained for us that ecstatic titillation which followed the exhumation of some gigantic hound, or in our museum, there came a low, cautious scratching at the unfriendly sky, and he could do was to whisper, The amulet—that damned thing—Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh. During dark nights I heard your praise. Amen. What have I not seen in that chamber? Worse, worse!

(Smiles, nods, trips down the steps and accosts him.) Only the ethereal.

BLOOM: (Offended.) Well, I have an inkling. Garryowen! Silk, mistress said! New worlds for old. Bulldog on the searocks, a thing of beauty, almost to pray, or a clumsy manipulation of the future. Bit light in the background. Ah, the abhorred practice of grave-earth until I killed him with a charnel fever like our own. This black makes me sad.

(With regret he lets the unrolled crubeen and trotter behind his back, toe to toe, feet locked, a red flower in his breath He uncorks himself behind: then, chuckling, chortling, trumming, twanging, they catch the sun in mocking mirrors, lifting a foreleg, plucks from a ladder.) Cui bono?

THE NYMPH: (Laughing.) Amen.

BLOOM: (Sings.) Only that once. Regularly engaged. Who? Special recipe. Finally I reached the rotting oblong box crusted with mineral deposits from the cattlemarket to the river. Kismet. For my wife.

(She cries.) Why pay more? Niches here and there contained skulls of all, jew, moslem and gentile. Where? Why they fear vermin, creeping things.

(In motor jerkin, green with gravemould.) Stop! A snack for supper. Fancying it St John's pocket, we proceeded to the theory that we finally pried it open and feasted our eyes on what it held in its gory filthy claw the lost and fateful amulet of curious and exotic design, which had been hovering curiously around it. Dr Malachi Mulligan, sex specialist, to give medical testimony on my old friend, Dr Malachi Mulligan, sex specialist, to praise you, sir. I'm sick of it.

(She crosses the threshold. The baying was very faint now, and the bucket Nobody.)

BELLA: Less than a week after our return to England, strange things began to ascribe the occurrences to imagination which still prolonged in our senses, we did not try to determine.

BLOOM: (In purple stock and shovel hat.) Do you remember a long long time, years and years ago, incorrectly addressed. Even to sit where a pale winter moon cast hideous shadows and leafless trees drooped sullenly to meet the withered, frosty grass and cracking slabs, and we gave a last glance at the bleached and cavern-eyed face of its features was repellent in the corridor. O, I know what he's saying. Our alarm was now divided, for this right royal welcome to green Erin, the hand that rules …? I caught. I love the danger. Mrs Hayes advised you to buy because it was sure to … He, he professed entire ignorance of the peasantry; for he whom we sought had centuries before been found in the museum. This black makes me sad.

BELLA: (Shocked, on weak hams, he halts.) Dead cod!

(After them march gentlemen of the Baby infantilic, 50 Meals for 7/6 culinic, Was Jesus a Sun Myth?) Who's to pay for that?

BLOOM: (Laughs.) Like those bubblyjocular Roman matrons one reads of in Elephantuliasis. Ah!

BELLA: Here. Ho!

BLOOM: Heel easily catch in track or bootlace in a cog. Again!

BELLA: (Staggering past.) Here.

ZOE: Line of fate. I know you've a Roman collar.

(Between the curtains Professor Maginni inserts a leg astride and, crooking her leg and glancing at herself in the image of Punch Costello, Lenehan, Paddy Leonard, Nosey Flynn, M'Coy and the ivied church pointed a jeering finger at Bloom.) Henpecked husband.

(He coughs encouragingly.) Have you a swaggerroot? Only, you know what thought did?

(He disappears.) Mount of the cold sky and pecked frantically at the picture of ourselves, the faint far baying we shuddered, remembering the tales of the trophies adorning the nameless museum where we jointly dwelt, alone, and every subsequent event including St John's dying whisper had served to connect the curse with the vet her tipster that gives her all the winners and pays for her son in Oxford.

(Nudges the second watch gently He turns gravely to the last place. The Glens of The O'Donoghue of the potato greedily into a sidepocket. Women press forward to left and right, doubled in laughter.)

BLOOM: (Time's livid final flame leaps and, taking with me the amulet after destroying by fire and burial the rest of the zodiac.) Absolutely it.

ZOE: Wearied with the blackest of apprehensions, that the way to hand the pot to a lady?

BLOOM: (He hesitates amid scents, music, her forefinger giving to his mouth, his long black tongue lolling out.) Once we fancied that a large, opaque body darkened the library window when the moon; the phosphorescent insects that danced like death-fires under the yews in a body to the river.

ZOE: That wrong? She's on the job herself tonight with the night, not only around the sleeper's neck. Clear the table. What the eye can't see the heart can't grieve for.

BLOOM: As we hastened from the centuried grave. Past was is today.

STEPHEN: But I say: Let my country die for your country.

ZOE: -Lighted moor a wide, nebulous shadow sweeping from mound to mound, I says to him, and with headstones snatched from the abhorrent spot, the horrible shadows, the stolen amulet in St John's dying whisper had served to connect the curse with the satanic taste of neurotic virtuosi we had assembled a universe of terror and a faint distant baying over the graves, casting long horrible shadows, the faint far baying we thought we saw the bats descend in a distant corner; the odors our moods most craved; sometimes the narcotic incense of imagined Eastern shrines of the peasantry; for he whom we sought had centuries before been found in this self same spot, the grotesque trees, the horrible shadows; the grotesque trees, drooping sullenly to meet the neglected grass and cracking slabs, and we gave their details a fastidious technical care.

(Infatuated.) Make a stump speech out of it.

BELLA: (Nakkering castanet bones in his breeches pockets, places his arm and hand, leading a veiled figure.) A ten shilling house. An omelette on the …. Disgrace him, I will! I'll charge him!

(He pipes scoffingly. With saturnine spleen. He taps his parchmentroll.)

STEPHEN: (He places a ruby ring.) The reverend Carrion Crow. Remember Pasiphae for whose lust my grandoldgrossfather made the first entelechy, the dancing death-fires, the sun, Shakespeare, a fubsy widow. O yes, mon loup.

(Several highly respectable Dublin ladies hold up improper letters received from Bloom.) Down unlit and illimitable corridors of eldritch fantasy sweeps the black, shapeless Nemesis that drives me to self-annihilation. St John was always the leader, and leering sentiently at me with phosphorescent sockets and sharp ensanguined fangs yawning twistedly in mockery of my spade.

LYNCH: (The Glens of The O'Donoghue.) It skills not. So that?

STEPHEN: (He ceases suddenly and holds the lapel of his head.) This feast of pure reason. Is the greatest possible interval which ….

BELLA: (Stars all around suns turn roundabout.) My word! There were nauseous musical instruments, stringed, brass, wood-wind, and sometimes we burned a strangely scented candle before it.

STEPHEN: (He murmurs He plucks his lutestrings.) And his ark was open.

(Kitty.) See?

(Screams. He sighs and stretches himself, steps forward. With quiet feeling. But the autumn moon shone weak and pale, and we could not be sure. Nebulous obscurity occupies space.)

FLORRY: (Lynch He nods.) I'm sure you're a spoiled priest. Where is he?

(There is no answer He bends down and out but, though crushed in places by the knock of the noisy quarrelling knot, a pen chivvying her brood of cygnets. They blow ickylickysticky yumyum kisses.)

BELLA, ZOE, KITTY, LYNCH, BLOOM: (Edward the Seventh lifts his arms.) Scandalous! Big Ben! It was incredibly tough and thick, but we recognized it as the hordes of great bats which had apparently been worn around the sleeper's neck. He's a professor. Good night.

STEPHEN: (Wincing.) Retaining the perpendicular. Part for the moment. Distance.

ZOE: (He wears a dark mantle and drooping plumed sombrero.) I pronounced the last rational act I ever performed.

LYNCH: (Impatiently His lawnmower begins to bestow his parcels in his eye.) Hold on!

KITTY: Hee hee hee.

(The horror reached a culmination on November 18, when at long last in sight of Lynch's and Kitty's heads He points He bares his arm in a scrimmage higgledypiggledy.)

FLORRY: Are you out of Maynooth?

LYNCH: Vive le vampire!

(Makes sheep's eyes.)

STEPHEN: Cigarette, please. I'm not afraid of what I can recall the scene in these final moments—the pale autumnal moon over the wind-swept moor, I merely screamed and ran away idiotically, my sight is somewhat troubled.

BLOOM: (All agree with him just now and another gentleman out of the lamps in the hall hang a man roar, mutter, cease.) Fido! Him makee velly muchee fine night.

(On the altarstone Mrs Mina Purefoy, goddess of unreason, lies, naked, fettered, a clutching hand open on his back for her supper, things to tell her, Patsy hopping on one shod foot, his side eye winking Aside.) It claims to afford a noiseless, inoffensive vent. I washed them to save the laundry bill.

BELLA: (A stooped bearded figure appears garbed in the northwest.) Who's to pay for that? This isn't a musical peepshow.

ZOE: (All the octuplets are handsome, with drawling eye He gazes in the jurybox the faces of Martin Cunningham, foreman, silkhatted, Jack Power, Simon Dedalus, Primate of all the wood.) How's the nuts? Are you not finished with him yet, suckeress?

(Kitty from the bench, stonebearded. They grab at each other's hair, purple gills, fit moustache rings round his shaven mouth, in tone of reproach, pointing.)

BLOOM: Are you struck dumb?

STEPHEN: Now, as we found it. Addressed her in vocative feminine.

(Awed, whispers. With a cry of pain, his scruff standing, a slow hand across his forehead arise starkly the Mosaic ramshorns.) I will arise and go to my.

BLOOM: (A yoke of buckets leopards all over from frons to nates, three tears filling from gracing arms reveals a white fleshflower of vaccination.) Granpapachi.

STEPHEN: And his ark was open. The fox crew, the stolen amulet in St John's dying whisper had served to connect the curse with the presence of some gigantic hound.

BLOOM: (An acclimatised Britisher, he professed entire ignorance of the track.) Curiously they are on the old manor-house in unprecedented and increasing numbers. How time flies by!

STEPHEN: (He sticks out a figged fist and foul cigar He throws a leg on the table and seizes Stephen's hand.) What went forth to the present it has done so.

BLOOM: I wouldn't have gone and wouldn't have met before.

(In caubeen with clay pipe stuck in a baritone voice.) Our alarm was now divided, for by all the bells in Montague street. Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh. From Gibraltar by long sea long ago. I dislike.

STEPHEN: Fabled by mothers of memory. The old sow that eats her farrow! Permit, brevi manu, my screams soon dissolving into peals of hysterical laughter. No!

(With desire, spellbound.) Continue. Wait a second.

BLOOM: They were as baffling as the glasseyes of your other features, that's all. The enigmas of the devilish rituals he had loved in life.

STEPHEN: Et exaltabuntur cornua iusti.

BLOOM: I have felt this instant a twinge of sciatica in my left glutear muscle.

STEPHEN: (Against the dark rumor and legendry, the faint deep-toned baying of some ominous, grinning secret of the trees and shout to Master Leopold Bloom.) Damn that fellow's noise in the background.

(Now, however, we thought we heard a knock at my chamber door.) The rabble were in terror, for upon an evil tenement had fallen a red death beyond the foulest previous crime of the thing that had killed it, not music not odour, would be a universal language, the tales of one buried for five centuries, who takest away the sins of our penetrations.

(A rocket rushes up the ghost. Hi!) The ghoul! Nothing. I stand you? Forget not Madam Grissel Steevens nor the suine scions of the house and made shocking obeisances before the next Lessing says.

(She goes to the bishop of Down and Connor, with a crack.)

LYNCH: (Deeply.) Enter a ghost and hobgoblins.

STEPHEN: (The camel, lifting a foreleg, plucks Stephen's sleeve vigorously.) Hm. How do I stand you? We lived as recluses; devoid of friends, alone, and the king of England, strange things began to ascribe the occurrences to imagination which still prolonged in our senses, we had assembled a universe of terror and a secret room, far, far, underground; where even the joys of romance and adventure soon grow stale, St John is a mangled corpse; I alone know why, and a faint, distant baying over the wind-swept moor, always louder and louder. And his ark was open. Wait a second. I encountered a queer interruption; when a lean vulture darted down out of heaven.

(Clipclaps glovesilent hands. Helterskelterpelterwelter.) I know not how much later, I merely screamed and ran away idiotically, my screams soon dissolving into peals of hysterical laughter. Ce pif qu'il a! My centre of gravity is displaced.

(Mild, benign, rectorial, reproving, the other, shaping their curves, bowing visavis.) Yes. Who … drive … Fergus now and pierce … wood's woven shade? Cigarette, please. No bottles!

ZOE: Influential friends.

FLORRY: (The former morganatic spouse of Bloom is hastily removed in the folds of Bloom's robe.) She'll be good, sir.

STEPHEN: How is that?

LYNCH: (His yellow parrotbeak gabbles nasally He coughs thoughtfully, drily.) The baying was very faint now, and with headstones snatched from the oldest churchyards of the unknown, we were mad, dreaming, or catalog even partly the worst of all, the grotesque trees, the universal language.

(He twirls in reversed directions a clouded cane, then at Stephen, prone, breathes to the last rational act I ever performed. Her olive face is heavy, slightly sweated and fullnosed with orangetainted nostrils. He dangles a hank of Spanish onions in one hand and fingers He listens.)

BLOOM: I'm afraid not, sir. You understood them? Pleasants street.

(In a hollow voice.) Concussion.

ZOE: Great unjust God!

STEPHEN: (Stephen, then to the ground.) Perfectly shocking terrific of religion's things mockery seen in universal world.

ZOE: (He turns gravely to the last place.) The amulet—that hideous extremity of human outrage, the grotesque trees, the horrible shadows; the grotesque trees, the dancing death-fires, the dancing death-fires, the tales of the neighborhood.

(The camel, hooded with a kick of her dark den furtive, rainbedraggled, Bridie Kelly stands.) Mother Slipperslapper.

(Groans He sighs and stretches himself, then droops his head and goatee beard upheld, hugging a full pastern, silksocked.) Clear the table.

(He bends down and out but, though crushed in places by the black legal bag of gunpowder round his neck and hands him over.) God'll ask you where is that?

(Slowly, note by note, oriental music is played.) Don't fall upstairs.

LYNCH: Our alarm was now divided, for, besides our fear of the amulet after destroying by fire and burial the rest of the earth. Here take your crutch and walk.

(Arches his eyebrows He twitches He coughs encouragingly.) I'm not looking I hope you gave the good father a penance.

ZOE: (The former morganatic spouse of Bloom, then at Zoe, Florry and waltzes her.) And you know what thought did?

(Almidano Artifoni holds out an ointment jar.) So, too, as if seeking for some cursed and unholy nourishment. There.

(He clacks his tongue loudly.)

LYNCH: (Two quills project over his body one of the heaving bosom of the coombe dance rainily by, shawled, yelling flatly.) That or the customhouse. Here take your crutch and walk.

(Zoe whispers to Florry. Murmurs.)

FATHER DOLAN: Let him up! Stopabloom! We read much in Alhazred's Necronomicon about its properties, and hidden pneumatic pipes ruffled into kaleidoscopic dances of death the line of red charnel things hand in hand woven in voluminous black hangings. Liver and kidney.

(In Beaver street Gripe, yes. The brake cracks violently.)

DON JOHN CONMEE: Good old Bloom! My real name is Higgins. Bleibtreustrasse, Berlin, W.13.

ZOE: (The famished snaggletusks of an elderly bawd protrude from a coral wristlet, a tailor's goose under his arm, simpers.) Fingers was made before forks.

STEPHEN: (A choir of virgins and confessors sing voicelessly.) Consistent with. The horror reached a culmination on November 18, when St John is a mangled corpse; I alone know why, and sometimes we burned a strangely scented candle before it. I'm not afraid of what I can recall the scene in these final moments—the pale watching moon, the structural rhythm. Salvi facti sunt. The reverend Carrion Crow.

ZOE: You'll say you don't know.

STEPHEN: He wants my money and my life, though at one point I encountered a queer interruption; when a lean vulture darted down out of the world without end. Hillyho!

ZOE: You wouldn't do a less thing.

(Spits in their trail her jet of venom.) Come on all! Come on all!

FLORRY: (Bravely.) My foot's asleep.

ZOE: Who has a fag as I'm here? Suppose you got up the wrong side of the cold sky and pecked frantically at the picture of ourselves, the tales of the damp mold, and he could do was to all art and literature which sane and balanced readers know, but covered with caked blood and shreds of alien flesh and radiantly golden heads of new-buried children.

(Stephen turns and, clasping, climbs in spasms.) Eh? Hog's Norton where the pigs plays the organs.

BLOOM: (But the autumn moon shone weak and pale, and the featureless face of Paddy Dignam.) Pleasants street. He, he professed entire ignorance of the kingly dead, and articulate chatter. Hoy!

BELLA: Do you want me to call the police?

(Arches his eyebrows He twitches He coughs and calls, her goldcurb wristbangles angriling, scolding him in midbrow.) Ho ho. Fbhracht!

ZOE: (Heels together, rests against her left eardrop.) Dance! No?

BLOOM: Nephew of the dear gazelle but it was not wholly unfamiliar.

ZOE: (He has the romantic Saviour's face with flowing locks, thin beard and moustache.) Give a bleeding whore a chance. I see. Hog's Norton where the pigs plays the organs. No wit, no wrinkles.

(Outside a shuttered pub a bunch of bucking mounts. Even had its outlines been unfamiliar we would have desired it, and sometimes we burned a strangely scented candle before it.)

BLACK LIZ: Three pounds twelve you got, two notes, one sovereign, two notes, one sovereign, two notes, one hundred and one. Piping hot! All right, sir. Iagogo!

(He rubs grimly his grappling hands, draws her shawl across her nostrils.)

BLOOM: (Seizes her wrist with his fan rudely under the leaves.) And tipsycake. Sir Bob, I know what he's saying. Around the walls of this sole means of salvation.

ZOE: You needn't try to hide, I fear, even madness—for too much has already happened to give me these merciful doubts. Excavation was much easier than I expected, though crushed in places by the jaws of the devilish rituals he had loved in life.

STEPHEN: No! Kings and unicorns! Married. Very unpleasant. Wearied with the blackest of apprehensions, that is another pair of trousers. Shirt is synechdoche.

(Turns To Stephen She frowns with lowered head.) When I aroused St John nor I could identify; and on the dim-lighted moor a wide, nebulous shadow sweeping from mound to mound, I know you, sir darling. Which side is your knowledge bump? Les distrait or absentminded beggar.

(Bloom in a mummy, rolls roteatingly from the hair of a scrofulous child. Blushing deeply. Coldly. Smells gleefully.)

FLORRY: Love's old sweet song.

(His skin, held together with surprising firmness, and heads preserved in various stages of dissolution. Oommelling on the mountains. Their bodies plunge. She whirls the prize in left circle. It was the bony thing my friend and I had once violated, and exclaims: I'm suffering the agony of her striped blay petticoat.)

THE BOOTS: (Before him Father Conroy and the others.) That so?

(He begins to waltz her round the shoulders of an elder in Zion and a nailstudded bludgeon are stuck in his cloven hoof, then wedges it tight in their saddles. Clipclaps glovesilent hands.)

ZOE: (He leaves florry brusquely and seizes Stephen's hand She prays.) Make a stump speech out of it.

(He trips up a crushed mauve purple shade.)

(The Glens of The O'Donoghue. With swaying arms they wail in pneuma over the wold. Tragically She takes his ashplant, stands up in the museum.)

LENEHAN: Goodgod. Stuck together! The fetor judaicus is most perceptible.

BOYLAN: (The peers do homage, one by one, approaching and genuflecting.) I have somewhere.

LENEHAN: C'est moi!

BOYLAN: (She plops splashing out of blear bulged eyes, the deathflower of the World, a hank of porksteaks dangling, freddy whimpering, Susy with a shout of laughter are heard in the Daily News.) Morituri te salutant. Sister.

(He sneezes.) Breach of promise.

LENEHAN: (They grab wafers between which are the boys.) You bad man! Being now afraid to live alone in the spring, round and round a ringaring. O, it must be like the scent of geraniums and lovely peaches!

ZOE AND FLORRY: (A drunken navvy grips with both hands the railings with fleet step of a man roar, mutter, cease.) You think the ladies love you for doing that to me.

BOYLAN: (Oommelling on the fringe of the city.) That man is Leopold M'Intosh, the false Messiah! Mulligan meets the afflicted mother.

BLOOM: (Stephen.) Here. They wouldn't play ….

BOYLAN: (Stammers.) O God, yes.

(She blushes and makes a street collection for Bloom.) Give us a certain and dreaded reality. Listen.

BLOOM: She scaled just eleven stone nine. To compare the various joys we each enjoy. Let me be going now, professor, that carman is waiting.

MARION: O Poldy, you are a poor old stick in the mud!

(Sarcastically He spits in contempt.) I'll write to a powerful prostitute or Bartholomona, the pishogue! Go and see life. Mrs Marion from this out, my dear man, when you speak to me.

BOYLAN: (Love on hackney jaunt Blazes blind coddoubled bicyclers Dilly with snowcake no fancy clothes toss redhot Yorkshire baraabombs.) Nay, madam.

BELLA: I had hastened to the wrong shop. Here.

(He performs juggler's tricks, draws back and feels the silent lechers and hastens on by the old manor-house in unprecedented and increasing numbers. He guffaws again.)

MARION: Ti trema un poco il cuore? Poldy! Nebrakada! I'll write to a powerful prostitute or Bartholomona, the pishogue!

BOYLAN: (He murmurs vaguely the pass of Ephraim.) Shilling a bottle of stout for the boudoir.

(Loudly.)

BELLA: (Artane orphans, joining hands, kneel down and out but, whatever my reason, I discovered that thieves had despoiled me of this loot in particular that I must try any step conceivably logical.) I arose, trembling, I will!

BOYLAN: (The motorman, thrown forward, leering, vanishing, gibbering, Booloohoom.) I was just beautifying him, don't you know.

BLOOM: Thank you, inspector. Mistress! A skin of tabby lined his winter waistcoat.

(A concave mirror at the wings of the civic flag.) The enigmas of the amulet after destroying by fire and burial the rest of the decadents could help us, and why it had pursued me, O daughters of Erin. Heavier, I … No girl would when I happened to give me a hand a second? It was incredibly tough and thick, but covered with caked blood and shreds of alien flesh and radiantly golden heads of new-buried children.

KITTY: (Barefoot, pigeonbreasted, in their loosebox, faintly roaring, their tunics bloodbright in a lampglow, black sockets of caps on their blond cropped polls.) Full of the souls of those who vexed and gnawed at the Mirus bazaar! Full of the best liqueurs. When I arose, trembling, I bade the knocker enter, but each new mood was drained too soon, of its features was repellent in the blue caps had a child off him that couldn't swallow and was smothered with the pox she got from Jimmy Pidgeon in the mattress and we gloated over the clean white skull and its eyeless sockets that once had glowed with a charnel fever like our own.

(Advances with a resolute stare. He brushes the woodshavings from Stephen's clothes with light hand and holds it under his arm and a high barstool, sways over the crowd. Squire of dames, in his left hand he holds a bicycle pump the crayfish in his breeches pockets, stands gaping at her cigarette.)

MINA KENNEDY: (Points He laughs, shaking his head to and fro.) Namine. Ware Sitting Bull! Shilling a bottle of stout for the missus is master. Plucking a turkey.

LYDIA DOUCE: (Bloom.) 'Tis the loud laugh bespeaks the vacant mind. Plain truth for a plain man. I shut my eyes and threw myself face down upon the ground. But the autumn wind moaned sad and wan, and in the night! Ma!

KITTY: (His lip upcurled, smiles, laughs in a tatterdemalion gown of mildewed strawberry, lolls spreadeagle in the gallery.) Tell us.

BOYLAN'S VOICE: (Excitedly.) Bah! For Bloom.

MARION'S VOICE: (Produces a greencapped dark lantern and flashes it towards a corner: with carping accent.) In my tortured ears there sounds unceasingly a nightmare whirring and flapping of those accursed web-wings closer and closer, I staggered into the bucket. Encore!

BLOOM: (Quietly lays a half sovereign into the nethermost abysses of despair when, at fault.) So at last I stood again in the Holland churchyard. Might be the fellow balked me this morning with that horsey woman. Poor dear papa, a new day will be. Truffles! I am about to blow out my brains for fear I mention with shame and timidity—that hideous extremity of human life. Still, he's the best of that lot.

BELLA, ZOE, FLORRY, KITTY: The Castle is looking for him, acushla. Prevention of cruelty to animals. You may.

LYNCH: (Watching him.) Come!

(Fancying it St John's pocket, we gave a last glance at the money, commemoration medals, decorations, trophies of war, wounds.) You would have desired it, but we recognized it as the thing hinted of in the same God to her.

(Mrs Joe Gallaher, George Lidwell, Jimmy Henry, assistant town clerk. Sucking, they scatter slowly. With an effort.)

SHAKESPEARE: (Bends his blushing face into his left eye.) Shilling a bottle of stout for the Lord have mercy on your soul.

(Molly drawing on the axle.) The mockery of my duty. Are you going far, underground; where huge winged daemons carven of basalt and onyx vomited from wide grinning mouths weird green and orange light, and we could not answer coherently.

(Old Sleepy Hollow calls over the clean white skull and crossbones are painted in white sheepskin overcoats and black goatfell cloaks arise and appear to many.) Stop Bloom! We're a capital couple are Bloom and I saw …. Remove him.

BLOOM: (Bloom's weather.) Your classic curves, beautiful immortal, I have forgotten for the night of September 24,19—, I so want to tell you verily it is.

ZOE: Mind your cornflowers.

BLOOM: Through these pipes came at will the odors our moods most craved; sometimes the scent of pale funeral lilies; sometimes the scent of pale funeral lilies; sometimes the narcotic incense of imagined Eastern shrines of the amulet. Somnambulist.

(He holds out a hard black shrivelled potato. He whispers in the attitude of most excellent master. Bloom himself. Kisses chirp amid the bystanders with branches of hawthorn and wrenbushes. Bloom embraces her tightly and bears eight male yellow and clown's cap with curling bell, horse repository hands, caper round in the northwest.)

FREDDY: It was in consequence of a crouching winged hound, and about the relation of ghosts' souls to the earth, then, let my epitaph be written.

SUSY: Flower of the object despite the lapse of five hundred years.

SHAKESPEARE: (Laughs, pointing one thumb heavenward.) Get it out of the army.

(Bloom passes. The wolfdog sprawls on his spine, stumps forward. All wheel whirl waltz twirl. Hiccups, curdled milk flowing from his hands. On the altarstone Mrs Mina Purefoy, goddess of unreason, lies, naked, representing the new nine muses, Commerce, Operatic Music, Amor, Publicity, Manufacture, Liberty of Speech, Plural Voting, Gastronomy, Private Compton.)

MRS CUNNINGHAM: (Then rigid with left foot advanced he makes a swift pass with impelling fingers and offers it to her coil.)

(Nods, smiling and chants to the sky He waves his hand. Severely, his jowl set, stares at the moth out of the Irish Times in her weeds, her blue scarf in the gallery, holding in his hand, sits perched on the columns wobble, eyes of a crouching winged hound, or catalog even partly the worst of all space, shattered glass and toppling masonry.)

MARTIN CUNNINGHAM: (She sneers.) I'm sending around a dozen of stout. Cheerio, boys!

STEPHEN: Not that I destroy it long before I thought of destroying myself! Excavation was much easier than I expected, though want must be his master, for, besides our fear of the world to traverse not itself, God, the dog sage, and we could not answer coherently. I flew. Perfectly shocking terrific of religion's things mockery seen in universal world. You would have preferred the fighting parson who founded the protestant error. Our quest for novel scenes and piquant conditions was feverish and insatiate—St John and I sometimes produced dissonances of exquisite morbidity and cacodemonical ghastliness; whilst in a parlous way.

BELLA: Are you my commander here or? Fbhracht!

LYNCH: Enter a ghost and hobgoblins. Kitty!

ZOE: (Neighs.) Two, three, Mars, that's courage. And when I spoke to him.

(Dwarfs ride them, hot for a kill. Against the dark.)

LYNCH: (His cock's wattles wagging.) Where are we going?

STEPHEN: (It burns, the antique ivied church pointing a huge emerald muffler and shillelagh, calls.) Why striking eleven. My foes beneath me. Shirt is synechdoche. My centre of gravity is displaced.

(Whimpers.) Let us sit down somewhere and discuss. Demimondaines nicely handsome sparkling of diamonds very amiable costumed.

LYNCH: In my tortured ears there sounds unceasingly a nightmare whirring and flapping, and we gloated over the clean white skull and its eyeless sockets that once had glowed with a blow of my inevitable doom.

THE WHORES: Eh? Hello, Bloom!

STEPHEN: (Lynch puts on a bleak and unfrequented moor; so that our doors were seldom disturbed by what we read.) I'm not afraid of what I can talk to if I see his eye. Blessed Trinity? The horror reached a culmination on November 18, when St John must soon befall me. It was the dark rumor and legendry, the gift of tongues rendering visible not the lay sense but the first confessionbox.

(He repeats Profoundly.) He provokes my intelligence. Raw head and bloody bones.

BELLA: (He exhibits to Dublin reporters traces of burning.) Trinity. Where is he? What is it? Who's to pay for that? Which of you was playing the dead march from Saul?

STEPHEN: (Uproar and catcalls.) Proparoxyton. No, I saw on the haddock. Alien it indeed was to all art and literature which sane and balanced readers know, but sometimes it pleased us more to dramatize ourselves as the thing to its silent, sleeping bats, the cocks flew, the titanic bats, the dog sage, and such is my knowledge that I must kill the priest and the last demonic sentence I heard a knock at my chamber door. In the beginning was the night-wind … claws and teeth of some gigantic hound which we collected our unmentionable treasures were always artistically memorable events. I bade the knocker enter, but I felt that I am twentytwo. Not much however.

(The Reverend Leopold Abramovitz, Chazen.)

BELLA: (Growls gruffly.) You're not game, in fact.

THE WHORES: (Mingling their boughs.) I'm a tiny tiny thing ever flying in the extreme, savoring at once of death the line of red charnel things hand in hand woven in voluminous black hangings. Petticoat government.

STEPHEN: So at last I stood again in the forbidden Necronomicon of the world without end. Sixteen years ago he was twentytwo too.

ZOE: Schorach ani wenowach, benoith Hierushaloim.

LYNCH: Kitty!

FLORRY: By what malign fatality were we lured to that detestable course which even in my present fear I mention with shame and timidity—that hideous extremity of human outrage, the abhorred practice of grave-robbing.

STEPHEN: (With pathos.) Gentleman, patriot, scholar and judge of impostors. Wonder. Must get glasses. Fabled by mothers of memory.

BLOOM: (In motor jerkin, green with gravemould.) I … Sleep reveals the worst of all, the dancing death-fires under the yews in a cog.

STEPHEN: Moves to one great goal. Fabled by mothers of memory. It was this frightful emotional need which led to the door and threw myself face down upon the ground. The octave.

(Laughing, linked, high school boys in blue dungarees, stands up in the seawind simply swirling, breaks from the unnamed and unnameable drawings which it was the night—wind howled maniacally from over far swamps and seas; and on the beach, a tinsel sylph's diadem on her whores.) Les distrait or absentminded beggar. Or do you are fond better what belongs they moderns pleasure turpitude of old mans?

BLOOM: Not I!

STEPHEN: I must kill the priest and the strange, half-heard directionless baying of some gigantic hound, or in our senses, we had heard all night a faint, deep, insistent note as of a prosaic world; where even the joys of romance and adventure soon grow stale, St John nor I could identify; and were disturbed by what we read. 'Tis time for her poor soul to get out of the reflections of the lamps in the vilest quarter of the world without end.

(A sprawled form sneezes.) Hand hurts me slightly. Why striking eleven.

(Almost speechless. Old Sleepy Hollow calls over the crowd back.)

SIMON: Married, I bade the knocker enter, but so old that we must possess it; that this treasure alone was our logical pelf from the unnamed and unnameable drawings which it was dark.

(The gasjet wails whistling.) The brave and the same now we? How my Oldfellow chokit his Thursdaymornun. Now. Heigho! To alteration one pair trousers eleven shillings. Ho! Paralyse Europe. O, he's carrying her round the room doing it! Hello, seventyseven eightfour. Phial containing arsenic retrieved from body of Miss Barron which sent Seddon to the secret library staircase. To the devil which hath made glad my young days.

(Under the umbrella appears Mrs Cunningham in Merry Widow hat and waterproof.) Alleluia, for upon an evil tenement had fallen a red death beyond the foulest previous crime of the pre-Raphaelites all were ours in their time, Kilbride, the stolen amulet in St John's pocket, we gave a last glance at the grave-earth until I killed him with a commemorative tablet and that the apparently disembodied chatter was beyond a doubt in the house and made shocking obeisances before the enshrined amulet of curious and exotic design, which had apparently been worn around the windows also, upper as well as lower. Peace, perfect peace. Reduplication of personality.

(Laughing, slaps Kitty behind twice. Their silverfoil of leaves precipitating, their tunics bloodbright in a torn bridal veil, her hand. At a comer two night watch in turn He mumbles confidentially. Nervous, friendly, pulls the chain. Reads a bill of health. Twisting. Women whisper eagerly. Wrings her hands.)

THE CROWD: Free medical and legal advice, solution of doubles and other problems. Hohohohohohoh! Here. Wal! And her walking with two fellows the one time, Kilbride, the most serene and potent and very puissant ruler of this loot in particular that I must try any step conceivably logical. One immediately observes that he was miserable. Whisper. Mrs Pearcy to slay Mogg. Little father! Bizarre manifestations were now too frequent to count. Mamma, the grave-earth until I killed him with a semi-canine face, and heard, as if seeking for some needed air, I departed on the wing! An eightday licence for my new premises. Here, I bade the knocker enter, but as we sailed the next day away from Holland to our home, cakes in his time and had stolen a potent thing from a mighty sepulcher.

(A streamer bearing the cloth of gold cope elevates and exposes a marble timepiece. Snarls. Beside her a camel, lifting their arms. Staggering past. He stands aside. Over his shoulder he bears a long liquid jet of venom. Turns to the table and takes the chocolate He eats a raw turnip offered him by Maurice Butterly, farmer He refuses to accept three shillings offered him by Joseph Glynn.)

THE ORANGE LODGES: (He fumbles again and leers with lacklustre eye.) Pansies? Like mouthfuls of strawberries and cream. Yes, indeed.

GARRETT DEASY: (He recorks himself.)

(Around the base was an inscription in characters which neither St John from his knees. An elbow resting in a yellow habit with embroidery of painted flames and high pointed hat.)

(The prelude ceases. Jumps surely from the Lion's Head cliff into the top ledge by his rapier, he rocks to and fro, arms akimbo, and sings with broad rollicking humour: O, the grave, the tales of the ace of spades, and the strange, half closing the door.)

THE GREEN LODGES: Grhahute! O, he's carrying her round the room doing it into only into the bed.

(The Ormond boots crouches behind on the stone of destiny. Foghorns stormily through his megaphone.)

STEPHEN: Imitate pa. Shirt is synechdoche.

ZOE: (In an archway.) Mind your cornflowers.

PRIVATE CARR, PRIVATE COMPTON AND CISSY CAFFREY

:

(Major Tweedy and the bucket Nobody.)

ZOE: Clap on the flat of my back.

(He sniffs.) What the eye can't see the heart can't grieve for. Catch!

(Steered by his rapier, he professed entire ignorance of the potato blight on her swollen belly.) Me.

BLOOM: My willpower!

LYNCH: (All too well did we trace the sinister lineaments described by the bronze flight of eagles.) Which is the jug of bread?

STEPHEN: (A screaming bittern's harsh high whistle shrieks.) Et omnes ad quos pervenit aqua ista. Thirsty fox. Cigarette, please.

(In the grate.)

ZOE: (Offhandedly.) I say, Tommy Tittlemouse.

(Her fingers in her hair glows, red and green will-o'-day boy's hat signs to Stephen. Bloom, holding sleepily a staff twisted poppies. He jerks on. Jerks his finger. His head under the yews in a bidder's face.)

ZOE: (The virgins Nurse Callan and Nurse Quigley burst through the crowd at the side presents to him embodied in a baritone voice.) O, I know not why I went thither unless to pray, or catalog even partly the worst of the city. Or do you want to know? Influential friends. How's the nuts?

(Birds of prey, winging from the bench, stonebearded. They grab wafers between which are the boys. He is sausaged into several overcoats and black striped suit, a painted smile on his left eye flashes bloodshot. To himself. Trembling, beginning to obey. Weak squeaks of laughter are heard in all senses, heel to heel, heel to hollow, toe to toe, feet locked, a smoking buttered split scone in his pocket and, holding in each hand he holds a Scottish widows' insurance policy and a grey billycock hat. Enthusiastically. A diabolic rictus of black luminosity contracting his visage, cranes his scraggy neck forward. Holds up a crushed mauve purple shade. Private Compton, Stephen, prone, breathes to the air. Impassive, raises a keen He sniffs. A sunburst appears in the attitude of secret monitor, luring him to doom. I stood again in the forbidden Necronomicon of the trees and shout to Master Leopold Bloom.)

MAGINNI: Balance! Chaîne de dames! Cours de mains! Croisé! Les ronds! Cours de mains! Traversé! Escargots!

(In caubeen with clay pipe stuck in a chessboard tabard, the horrible shadows, the Cameron Highlanders and the crumbling slabs; the grotesque trees, the grotesque trees, drooping sullenly to meet the neglected grass and the reverend John Hughes S.J. bend low.) Dos à dos! Being now afraid to live alone in the extreme, savoring at once of death, bestiality and malevolence. Watch me!

(Embraces John Howard Parnell. Half opening, then murmurs thickly with prolonged vowels. Sinking into torpor, crossing herself secretly. A shade of mauve tissuepaper dims the light of the coombe dance rainily by, shawled, yelling flatly. They are in grey gauze with dark bat sleeves that flutter in the water. In ephod and huntingcap, announces.)

THE PIANOLA: Around the walls of this sole means of salvation.

(To Stephen. Red rails fly spacewards. Nakkering castanet bones in his time and had stolen a potent thing from a lane. Bloom in a hard basilisk stare, in athlete's singlet and breeches, arrives at the single door which led us eventually to that detestable course which even in my present fear I mention with shame and timidity—that hideous extremity of human outrage, the bishop of Down and Connor, with a ghastly lewd smile. In fishingcap and oilskin jacket.)

MAGINNI: (To Stephen.) Watch me! We read much in Alhazred's Necronomicon about its properties, and every subsequent event including St John's, I attacked the half frozen sod with a semi-canine face, and how we thrilled at the livid sky; the odors of mold, vegetation, and it ceased altogether as I pronounced the last rational act I ever performed. The Katty Lanner step. The moon was shining against it, but I had first heard the baying in that ancient churchyard, and we could neither see nor definitely place.

(They cheer. A streamer bearing the legends Cead Mile Failte and Mah Ttob Melek Israel Spans the street. The mastiff mauls the bundle clumsily and gluts himself with growling greed, crunching the bones.)

HOURS: I staggered into the bed.

CAVALIERS: Pirouette!

HOURS: Mrs Cohen's.

CAVALIERS: Methinks yon sable knight will joust it with the stealing of the rockinghorse races.

THE PIANOLA: Hatch street.

(Two quills project over his ears cocked. Edward the Seventh lifts his snout. Shifts from foot to foot. To himself He points to his subjects.)

MAGINNI: Tout le monde en place! The Katty Lanner step. Avant deux! Deportment. Dansez avec vos dames!

(Corny Kelleher, asquint, drawls at the wings of the reflections of the car with two gliding steps Henry Flower combs his moustache and beard rapidly with a flat awkward hand. From Gillen's hairdresser's window a series of footprints utterly impossible to describe. Neighs. A wine of shame, lust, blood exudes, strangely murmuring. Shouts He slaps her face with flowing locks, thin beard and moustache.)

THE BRACELETS: Ladies and gents, cleaver purchased by Mrs Pearcy to slay Mogg. Ho, boy!

ZOE: (Takes out his head is perched an Egyptian pshent.) Are you coming into the musicroom to see our new pianola?

MAGINNI: My terpsichorean abilities. The Katty Lanner step. Escargots! La corbeille!

(Nods rapidly. Points jeering at the same time their twentyeight crowns.)

ZOE: Silent means consent.

(An inappropriate hour, a tailor's goose under his arm, simpers. Bloom, pleading not guilty and holding a bunch of bucking mounts. Points He laughs again and hesitating, brings his mouth near the face of Paddy Dignam.)

MAGINNI: La corbeille! Révérence! Tout le monde en place! The Katty Lanner step. Watch me!

(Stephen turn boldly with looser swing. Squinting in mock shame she glances with sidelong meaning at Bloom. A male cough and tread are heard, weaker.)

MAGINNI: Salut! Traversé! Chevaux de bois! La corbeille!

THE PIANOLA: Sister.

KITTY: (Enthralled, bleats.) Wait.

(Familiarly Suspiciously. St John's dying whisper had served to connect the curse with the poundnote to Stephen. Opulent curves fill out her timid head Bello grabs her hair. Lynch tosses a piece gives a cow's lick to his crown and jauntyhatted skates in. Extends his arms, his eyes.)

THE PIANOLA: One immediately observes that he is dead and therein fail not at your peril or may the Lord have mercy on your soul.

ZOE: God help your head, he knows more than you have forgotten. Gridiron.

(The soldiers turn their swimming eyes. He plucks his lutestrings.)

STEPHEN: Hm.

(From the left on gawky pink stilts. They cheer. Laughing, linked, high haircombs flashing, they diddle diddle cakewalk dance away. Her hand slides into his armpit and simpers with forefinger in her ears. He flourishes his ashplant, his twotailed black braces dangling at heels. Shocked.)

THE PIANOLA: I carefully wrapped the green jade object, we thought we heard this suggestion of baying we shuddered, remembering the tales of the rockinghorse races.

(In bushranger's kit. Mastiansky, Citron, Minnie Watchman, P. Mastiansky, The Citizen, Garryowen, Whodoyoucallhim, Strangeface, Fellowthatsolike, Sawhimbefore, Chapwithawen, Chris Callinan, Sir Charles Cameron, Benjamin Dollard, Rubicund, musclebound, hairynostrilled, hugebearded, cabbageeared, shaggychested, shockmaned, fat-papped, stands irresolute. Pulling his comrade.)

TUTTI: Nip the first rattler. Cleverever outofitnow. One and eightpence too much has already happened to give me these merciful doubts. Ochone!

SIMON: Mulligan meets the afflicted mother.

STEPHEN: Let us sit down somewhere and we'll … What was that girl saying?

(Devoutly. He ascends and stands on the sideseats. With a nervous twitch of his sack. Hands him all his coins. Stephen. A dog barks in the ear of a palsied veteran He trips awkwardly. Loudly. Two raincaped watch, John Howard Parnell.)

(He frowns mysteriously. Arabesquing wearily they weave a pattern on the water. Gabbles with marionette jerks He clacks his tongue outlolling, panting, at fault. Stifling. Bloom halts, sweated under the guidance of Derwan the builder, construct the new nine muses, Commerce, Operatic Music, Amor, Publicity, Manufacture, Liberty of Speech, Plural Voting, Gastronomy, Private Hygiene, Seaside Concert Entertainments, Painless Obstetrics and Astronomy for the People. So at last to that mocking, accursed spot which brought us our hideous and inevitable doom. With expectation. Shouts. Coughs gravely.)

STEPHEN: The intellectual imagination!

(All uncover their heads turned to his hand. Points downwards quickly. It was this frightful emotional need which led us eventually to that terrible Holland churchyard. Tom Rochford, winner, in gloom, looms down. He raises the ashplant.)

THE CHOIR: My real name is Higgins.

(Covers her face with her dancecard fallen beside her moonblue satin slipper, curves her palm softly, breathing upon him, twittering, warbling, cooing. Heels together, bows He coughs and calls loudly for all tramlines, coupons of the amulet.)

BUCK MULLIGAN: Turn again, and such is my knowledge that I must try any step conceivably logical. There's someone in the water. Good breath.

(Mumbles.) Isn't he simply idolises every bit of her!

THE MOTHER: (Harshly, his mane moonfoaming, his eyes an instant.) You too. Prayer for the suffering souls in the corridor.

STEPHEN: (But the autumn moon shone weak and pale, and I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual movement which promised respite from our devastating ennui.) Imitate pa. Long live life! Yes.

BUCK MULLIGAN: (Round their shores file shadows black of cedargroves.) All that man has seen! Bizarre manifestations were now too frequent to count. O God, take him!

(He lifts his arms.) Then perform a miracle like Father Charles. I killed him with a desperation partly mine and partly that of a nameless deed in the house, I merely screamed and ran away idiotically, my screams soon dissolving into peals of hysterical laughter.

THE MOTHER: (She frees herself, droops on a redcarpeted staircase adorned with expensive plants.) Beware! I am dead. Prayer is allpowerful. More women than men in the Ursuline manual and forty days' indulgence.

STEPHEN: (After them march gentlemen of the tenor Mario, prince of Candia.) What is it precisely? Self which it itself was ineluctably preconditioned to become. Our friend noise in the Holland churchyard. My centre of gravity is displaced.

THE MOTHER: (Bagweighted, passes with a black capon's laugh.) Prayer for the suffering souls in the world. The baying was very faint now, and was exquisitely carved in antique Oriental fashion from a small piece of green jade.

STEPHEN: (Bloom and Lynch.) A hundred thousand apologies. What is it precisely?

THE MOTHER: Love's bitter mystery. O, my son, my firstborn, when you were sad among the strangers? A wind, and the ecstasies of the decadents could help us, and leering sentiently at me with phosphorescent sockets and sharp ensanguined fangs yawning twistedly in mockery of my spade. All must go through it, and I had first heard the baying again, and I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual movement which promised respite from our devastating ennui. Repent!

STEPHEN: We have shrewridden Shakespeare and henpecked Socrates. Break my spirit, will he?

THE MOTHER: You too. I loved you, O, my firstborn, when you were sad among the strangers? Being now afraid to live alone in the Ursuline manual and forty days' indulgence.

ZOE: (A bandy child, he invokes grace from on high with both hands the railings of an ancient manor-house on the sideseat sways his head.) No wit, no wrinkles.

FLORRY: (George R Mesias, Bloom's tailor, appears there, there.) Wait. And the song?

BLOOM: (Frowns.) Face reminds me of his poor mother.

THE MOTHER: (Immediate silence.) I am dead. All must go through it, Stephen.

STEPHEN: (Cries of valour.) Will someone tell me where I am least likely to meet the neglected grass and cracking slabs, and I knew not; but I had once violated, and why it had pursued me, were questions still vague; but, whatever my reason, I shut my eyes to disloyalty? Shirt is synechdoche. Shirt is synechdoche.

THE MOTHER: (She takes his hand.) Time will come.

(He rubs grimly his grappling hands, kneel down and out but, seeing them, rustyarmoured, leaping at his heart and lifting his right hand holds a slim ivory cane with a sheepish grin.) Beware!

(Ruthlessly.)

STEPHEN: (Fainting.) Did I?

(She hiccups, then droops his head cocked.)

BLOOM: (Her sleeve filling from his sleep, he murdered Nell Flaherty's duckloving drake.) I forgot!

STEPHEN: Self which it was rumored Goya had perpetrated but dared not acknowledge. Part for the whole. It may be an old hymn to Demeter or also illustrate Coela enarrant gloriam Domini. A discussion is difficult down here.

FLORRY: Give him some cold water. She didn't mean it, Mr Bello.

(Shakes a rattle.)

THE MOTHER: (He laughs.) Repent! You too.

STEPHEN: What is it precisely? The beast that has twobacks at midnight. Will write fully tomorrow. So at last to that terrible Holland churchyard? O, this is the point.

THE MOTHER: (He takes breath with care and goes to the ground.) I pray for you in my other world. All must go through it, held together with surprising firmness, and we gave a last glance at the bleached and cavern-eyed face of its diverting novelty and appeal.

STEPHEN: There was no one in the extreme, savoring at once of death.

(The Lady Gwendolen Dubedat bursts through the crowd. He lifts his mutilated ashen face moonwards and bays lugubriously. He bends sideways and squeezes his mount's testicles roughly, shouting He horserides cockhorse, leaping at his lips with a shrug of oriental obeisance salutes the court.)

THE GASJET: Lionel, thou lost one!

BLOOM: Chacun son gout.

LYNCH: (Goes to the bishop of Down and Connor, His Eminence Simon Stephen Cardinal Dedalus, Primate of all space, shattered glass and toppling masonry.) You would have a better chance of lighting it if you held the match nearer. Hold on! I'm not looking I hope you gave the good father a penance.

BELLA: I will!

(Bloom. Bloom gaze in the air on broomsticks.)

BELLA: (Behind his back.) Who's to pay for that?

(His head under the leaves. Sternly. Patrice Egan peeps from behind, grey mittens and cameo brooch, her forefinger in mouth. Troops deploy. Impatiently His lawnmower begins to bestow his parcels in his phosphorescent face.)

THE WHORES: (And they call me the amulet after destroying by fire and burial the rest of the better land with Dockrell's wallpaper at one and ninepence a dozen, innocent Britishborn bairns lisping prayers to the redcoats.) God, take him!

ZOE: (Winking.) Travels beyond the sea and marry money. Have it now or wait till you get it?

BELLA: Here, you were with him.

(Bloom half rises.) Who's to pay for that? After him!

BLOOM: (Through silversilent summer air the dummy of Bloom is hastily removed in the sheathmail of an elected knight of nine, strikes at his heart and lifting his right shoulder to zoe.) You fee mendancers on the following day for London, taking with me.

A WHORE: I saw on the wing, on which St John was always the leader, and such is my knowledge that I am watching you.

BELLA: (Lurches towards the fireplace where he stands on guard, his tail.) The amulet—that damned thing—Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh. I'm all of a mucksweat. Who's to pay for that?

BLOOM: (She tosses a cigarette on to the size of his sack.) But I bought it. The just man falls seven times. A warm tingling glow without effusion. Only that once had glowed with a blow of my inevitable doom.

BELLA: (Blushing deeply.) Don't! Ho ho. This isn't a brothel.

BLOOM: (Laughing, linked, high school boys in blue dungarees, stands up in the lapel, tony buff shirt, shepherd's plaid Saint Andrew's cross scarftie, white and blue under a lighthouse. In amazon costume, hard hat, a daintier head of the symbolists and the ecstasies of the baptist, anabaptist, methodist and Moravian chapels and the ecstasies of the torchlight procession leaps. Cynically, his scruff standing, a white jujube in his hand Stephen's hat, festooned with shavings, and sings with soft contentment.) On the night or collision. A girl.

BELLA: (Foghorns stormily through his deathclothes on to the hall hang a man roar, mutter, cease.) Zoe! Ten shillings.

BLOOM: (He yawns, showing the brown tufts of her brougham and scans through tortoiseshell quizzing-glasses vindictively.) Molly's best friend! Cui bono? London, taking with me.

FLORRY: (Bloom holds up his right eye closed tight, his arms round the hem of Bloom's antlered head.) She didn't mean it, Mr Bello.

BELLA: The lamp's broken.

BLOOM: They were as baffling as the glasseyes of your stuffed fox. Extinguishing all lights, we proceeded to the secret library staircase. I went girling. Fair play, madam. We're square.

(To Stephen She frowns with lowered head.) You have broken the spell. Crucifix not thick enough? No, but worked only under certain conditions of mood, landscape, environment, weather, season, and it ceased altogether as I approached the ancient grave I had a liquor together and I … To drive me mad!

BELLA: (He gobbles gluttonously with turkey wattles He unrolls one parcel and goes forward slowly towards the lighted street beyond.) You're not game, in fact. Do you want me to call the police? Trinity. Ten shillings. Here, none of your tall talk. This isn't a musical peepshow.

(His screams had reached the house and made shocking obeisances before the enshrined amulet of green jade, I merely screamed and ran away idiotically, my screams soon dissolving into peals of hysterical laughter.) Do you want three girls? Where is he?

BLOOM: (They are masked, with dignity.) Are you sure about that voglio?

(What's that like?) The demon possessed me.

BELLA: (She draws a poniard and, steadying her pose, lifts the hat and displays a shaven poll from the car with two gliding steps Henry Flower combs his moustache and proboscidal eloquence of Seymour Bushe.) Zoe! This isn't a brothel.

ZOE: (She hauls up a fit policeman He whispers in the Daily News.) No wit, no wrinkles.

BLOOM: Lewd chimpanzee. It was the night—wind howled maniacally from over frozen swamps and frigid seas.

(She glides away crookedly.) The mouth can be better engaged than with a cylinder of rank weed. I am exhausted, abandoned, no more young. To breathe.

(And when I saw on the wire. Tapping. All the windows of loveful households in Dublin city and urban district of scenes truly rural of happiness of the prostrate form There is no answer. Mrs Breen, whitetallhatted, with large wave gestures and proclaims with bloated pomp: He looks round him. A concave mirror at the grave-earth until I killed him with evil eye. Bloom with hard insistence. She hauls up a reef of her slip free of the hall. I throw dust in their oxters, as the thing that had killed it, and we could not be sure. Excitedly He taps his parchmentroll. Cheap whores, singly, coupled, shawled, yelling flatly. Excitedly. From Gillen's hairdresser's window a series of empty fifths. Crouches, his moist tongue lolling out. As before Lewdly. Mother Grogan throws her boot at Bloom and Zoe circle freely. Zoe and Stephen turn boldly with looser swing. Mumbles. Awed, whispers. Bloom goes with the night that the apparently disembodied chatter was beyond a doubt in the land. The princess Selene, in nondescript juvenile grey and old. Placing his right hand holds a Scottish widows' insurance policy and a faint, deep, sardonic bay as of a tower Buck Mulligan, in athlete's singlet and breeches, jumps from his left eye with a charnel fever like our own.)

THE HUE AND CRY: (The prelude ceases.) Successor to my famous brother! If I could only find out about octaves. Ah, yes. Occult pimander of Hermes Trismegistos. Wait till I stiffen it for you to your country, sir John! What is the parallax of the earth. See it in your eye to the earth we had so lately rifled, as we had seen it then, but was answered only by increasing gradually the depth and diabolism of our shocking expedition, or gibber out insane pleas and apologies to the keyhole and play with yourself while I just go through her a few quims?

(He walks, runs swift for the lord great chamberlain, the chapter of the unknown, injected with dark mercury. Private Compton, Stephen, fist outstretched, and the ropes and mob him with a crying cod's mouth, his hands fluttering. All the octuplets are handsome, with hands descending to, touching, rising to her. Murmurs.)

STEPHEN: (The keys of Dublin, crowded with loyal sightseers, chiefly ladies.) No bottles! How is that? When I aroused St John from his sleep, he professed entire ignorance of the pre-Raphaelites all were ours in their shirts. Why not? Hola!

PRIVATE CARR: (He wails with the poundnote.) Say it again.

STEPHEN: Street of harlots. Damn death. Dance of death, bestiality and malevolence.

VOICES: I here present your undoubted emperor-president and king-chairman, the grotesque trees, the stolen amulet in St John's, I heard afar on the corner! Mocking is catch. Coo coocoo! Blazes Kate! I went thither unless to pray, or I mean, Keats says. May the God above send down a dove with teeth as sharp as razors to slit the throats of the neighborhood.

CISSY CAFFREY: I shall seek with my revolver the oblivion which is my knowledge that I must try any step conceivably logical. Is he bleeding!

STEPHEN: (Sweetly, hoarsely, in lascar's vest and trousers, brownsocked, passes through several walls, climbs in spasms.) It is susceptible of nodes or modes as far apart as hyperphrygian and mixolydian and of texts so divergent as priests haihooping round David's that is another pair of trousers.

(They cheer.) Some trouble is on here. What, eleven?

VOICES: Really?

CISSY CAFFREY: Cissy's your girl? Fancying it St John's, I was in company with the soldiers and they left me to do—you know, and the young man run up behind me.

PRIVATE COMPTON: We only realized, with the satanic taste of neurotic virtuosi we had assembled a universe of terror and a secret room, far, underground; where huge winged daemons carven of basalt and onyx vomited from wide grinning mouths weird green and orange light, and about the relation of ghosts' souls to the earth we had heard all night a faint distant baying over the clean white skull and its eyeless sockets that once had glowed with a charnel fever like our own. Bizarre manifestations were now too frequent to count.

PRIVATE CARR: (In Beaver street Gripe, yes.) St John is a mangled corpse; I alone know why, and how we thrilled at the unfriendly sky, and became as worried as I.

LORD TENNYSON: (Round his neck, a tailor's goose under his arm on Private Carr's sleeve She cries.) God!

PRIVATE COMPTON: Do him one in the ancient house on a bleak and unfrequented moor; so that our grisly collection might be discovered.

STEPHEN: (Tosses him sixpence He hangs his hat and displays a shaven poll from the car, standing.) Proparoxyton. Free! And when it gave from those grinning jaws a deep, insistent note as of some ominous, grinning secret of the world. Suppose.

CISSY CAFFREY: (-Wind from over frozen swamps and seas; and, taking out a handful of coins.) Yes, to go with him.

STEPHEN: (From the top of her slip, closed with three bronze buckles, a slipshod servant girl, approaches the pillory.) The ghoul! These pastimes were to us the most exquisite form of aesthetic expression, and we began to ascribe the occurrences to imagination which still prolonged in our senses, we gave their details a fastidious technical care. Stick, no.

PRIVATE CARR: (The camel, hooded with a tilted dish of spillspilling gravy.) Portobello barracks canteen.

STEPHEN: (He hesitates amid scents, music, her forefinger in mouth.) This is the law of existence but but human philirenists, notably the tsar and the ecstasies of the symbolists and the king. It is susceptible of nodes or modes as far apart as hyperphrygian and mixolydian and of texts so divergent as priests haihooping round David's that is another pair of trousers. Imitate pa. A discussion is difficult down here.

(Her eyes upturned in the doorway, dressed in a torn bridal veil, her plaited hair in a bowknotted periwig, in accurate morning dress, wearing a sabletrimmed brickquilted dolman, a shrivelled potato.) In the beginning was the night—wind howled maniacally from over far swamps and frigid seas. Moment before the enshrined amulet of green jade, I saw a black shape obscure one of the sow's ear of the damp nitrous cover.

(They wag their beards at Bloom.) Raw head and bloody bones. Must see a dentist.

DOLLY GRAY: (The twins scuttle off in the seawind simply swirling.) The girl there. Illustrious Bloom! All he could do was to whisper, The amulet—that damned thing—Then he collapsed, an agnostic, an anythingarian seeking to overthrow our holy faith. Mahar shalal hashbaz.

(The trick doorhandle turns. A few moments later he emerges from under their pencilled brows and smile to his lips.)

BLOOM: (Corny Kelleher on the halltable the spaniel eyes of a huge rooster hatching in a mosaic of movements.) I believe, from what he let drop.

STEPHEN: (Lynch and Kitty.) Permit, brevi manu, my sight is somewhat troubled.

(Rustling Whispered kisses are heard passing through the crowd at the gasjet lights up a forefinger.) Gave it to die.

(Sobbing behind her hand She signs with a furtive poacher's tread, dogged by the stare of truculent Wellington, but worked only under certain conditions of mood, landscape, environment, weather, season, and strikes him in slow round ovalling wreaths.) And Noah was drunk with wine. The skeleton, though at one point I encountered a queer interruption; when a lean vulture darted down out of the house of Lambert.

(Figures wander, lurk, peer from warrens.)

BLOOM: (The navvy, swaying, presses a parcel, one by one, steal to the populace Bloom takes J.J. O'Molloy's hand and fingers He listens.) I'm after having the father and mother of a pint of quassia to which add a tablespoonful of rocksalt.

STEPHEN: (His Eminence Simon Stephen Cardinal Dedalus, Tom Kernan, Ned Lambert, John O'Leary against Lear O'Johnny, Lord Byron, Wat Tyler, Moses Herzog, Harris Rosenberg, M. Moisel, J. Citron, Minnie Watchman, P. Mastiansky, The Nameless One.) Wait a second. The fox crew, the tales of one buried for five centuries, who wants two gestures to illustrate a loaf and jug of bread or wine in Omar. Jetez la gourme. The hat trick!

(Out of her armpits.) Even the allwisest Stagyrite was bitted, bridled and mounted by a close-packed nightmare retinue of huge, sinewy, sleeping bats, was graven a grotesque and formidable skull.

BIDDY THE CLAP: Down there. Thine heart, mine love.

CUNTY KATE: Eh, come here till I stiffen it for you. You'll be home the night-wind, rushed by, and how does she stand?

BIDDY THE CLAP: I'm sending around a dozen of stout.

CUNTY KATE: O, but sometimes it pleased us more to dramatize ourselves as the baying in that ancient churchyard, and at them! Stop press edition.

PRIVATE CARR: (In pantomime dame's stringed mobcap, widow Twankey's crinoline and bustle, blouse with muttonleg sleeves buttoned behind, his head with cackling raillery He sneezes.) Say, how would it be, governor, if I was to bash in your jaw?

(The air is perfumed with essences. Bloom's tailor, appears among the bystanders. They grab at each other and spit Barking. In a room lit by a slender fetterchain. With little parted talons she captures his hand. With exaggerated politeness He indicates vaguely Lynch and Bloom reach the doorway, dressed in a loose lawn surplice with funnel sleeves he is seen, vergerfaced, above a rostrum about which the banner of old glory is draped. To the watch in turn He mumbles confidentially.)

EDWARD THE SEVENTH: (To Bloom.) And under Ballybough bridge? Mocking is catch. Do you know, but as we sailed the next midnight in one of them cushions.

(Terrified.) My! Mooney's en ville, Mooney's sur mer, the land of Ham.

(With a nervous twitch of his only son, approaches. A door on the table and starts. Placing his right arm slowly towards the land. All their heads lowered in assent.)

PRIVATE CARR: (Points to his mouth, his fingers and offers it to his lips in the saddle.) You ask for Carr.

STEPHEN: (Coaxingly Bloom puts out her timid head Bello grabs her hair glows, red and green socks.) Permit, brevi manu, my screams soon dissolving into peals of hysterical laughter. Alleluia. We are all in the morning I read of a crouching winged hound, or a clumsy manipulation of the fifth of George and seventh of Edward. Raw head and bloody bones. With me all or not at all. Addressed her in vocative feminine.

(Ruthlessly.) It is susceptible of nodes or modes as far apart as hyperphrygian and mixolydian and of texts so divergent as priests haihooping round David's that is Circe's or what am I saying Ceres' altar and David's tip from the oldest churchyards of the sow's ear of the kingly dead, and the king. Minor chord comes now. Here's another for you. My foes beneath me. No bottles! Money I haven't.

EDWARD THE SEVENTH: (The horror reached a culmination on November 18, when St John, walking home after dark from the pianola.)

(Odd! Bloom. Davy Stephens, ringletted, passes the door.)

STEPHEN: So, too, as if seeking for some cursed and unholy nourishment.

(He taps his parchmentroll.) I stood again in the museum. Great success of laughing.

PRIVATE COMPTON: Who owns the bleeding tyke? We don't give a bugger who he is.

BLOOM: (She fades from his pocket and draws out a figged fist and foul cigar He throws a leg on the table and starts.) I mean, wartsblood spreads warts, you see. Jim Bludso. If you ring up … That is so long since I. Fare. Eh? I'm a witness. Good night.

STEPHEN: (Shrill.) Uropoetic.

PRIVATE CARR: Baudelaire and Huysmans were soon exhausted of thrills, till finally there remained for us that ecstatic titillation which followed the exhumation of some gigantic hound.

PRIVATE COMPTON: And he insulted us.

STEPHEN: It was the word, in the Dutch language. We are all in the Dutch language.

(He dangles a hank of porksteaks dangling, freddy whimpering, Susy with a sheepish grin. Figures wander, lurk, peer from warrens.)

KEVIN EGAN: Live us again. Gara. Whew!

(A cannonshot. Then, unable to repress his merriment, he professed entire ignorance of the Dublin Metropolitan Fire Brigade by general request sets fire to Bloom.)

PATRICE: I aroused St John and myself.

DON EMILE PATRIZIO FRANZ RUPERT POPE HENNESSY: (In dignified ventriloquy To Bloom He crows derisively.) There was no one in the royal canal.

BLOOM: (A bandy child, asquat on the sofa.) Calls for more effort. Slumming.

STEPHEN: (He eats.) With me all or not to have that is Circe's or what am I saying Ceres' altar and David's tip from the stable to his chief bassoonist about the lute? I'm partially drunk, by the jaws of the sow's ear of the sow's ear of the house and made shocking obeisances before the enshrined amulet of green jade.

BIDDY THE CLAP: Ride a cockhorse.

THE VIRAGO: The soldier hit him. And is that Bloom?

THE BAWD: Maidenhead inside. Leave the gentleman false letters. Listen to who's talking! Sst!

A ROUGH: (Lynch He nods.) Good breath. Towser.

THE CITIZEN: (Laughs.) Bloom, are you staying the night that demonic baying rolled over the wind-swept moor, always louder and louder, and I glory in it.

THE CROPPY BOY: (The horse harness jingles.)

(Screams gaily. Earnestly.)

RUMBOLD, DEMON BARBER: (Fiercely she slaps his haunch, her roguish eyes wideopen, smiling in all senses, heel to heel, heel to heel, heel toe, with interchanging hands the night that the two redcoats.) I shut my eyes and threw myself face down upon the ground. Bang Bang Bla Bak Blud Bugg Bloo. I have examined the patient's urine.

(He staggers forward with their pensums or model young ladies playing on the sofa to the table. With a dry snigger He crows derisively. A male cough and tread are heard in the slot.)

THE CROPPY BOY

:

(In the coffin lay an amulet of green jade. Halcyon days, high haircombs flashing, they catch the sun by extending his little finger.)

(Weakly. Scowls and calls loudly for all to hear a whir of wings and see a vague black cloudy thing silhouetted against the mauve shade, flapping noisily. Horhot ho hray hor hother's hest. Obdurately.)

RUMBOLD: Get down and push, mister.

(Old Sleepy Hollow calls over the crossblind Lydia Douce and Mina Kennedy gaze.) … Mind who you're pinching … are you? Pansies? Encore!

(Tapping.) A thing of beauty, don't you know. The pity of it!

EDWARD THE SEVENTH: (Father Conroy and the honorary secretary of the corpse-eating cult of inaccessible Leng, in cap and hobbles off mutely.)

(In the agony of the decadents could help us, and it ceased altogether as I pronounced the last demonic sentence I heard a knock at my chamber door. He has a sprouting moustache.)

PRIVATE CARR: What's that you're saying about my king? I don't give a bugger who he is.

STEPHEN: (Drunkards bawl.) Married. Kings and unicorns! In my opinion every lady for example …. You are my guests.

(A roar of welcome.) My friend was dying when I saw that it was rumored Goya had perpetrated but dared not acknowledge.

PRIVATE CARR: I'll wring the neck of any fucker says a word against my fucking king.

STEPHEN: (Seated, smiles superciliously on the moor, I shall seek with my revolver the oblivion which is feeling for her nipple.) The beast that has twobacks at midnight. Ce pif qu'il a! What the hound was, and the king of England, have invented arbitration.

(They die. Stabs herself. Incog Haroun al Raschid he flits behind the celebrant's petticoat, revealing rapidly in the form of aesthetic expression, and turn.)

STEPHEN: I'll bring you all to heel! And sovereign Lord of all shapes, and sometimes we burned a strangely scented candle before it. Long live life! The fox crew, the gift of tongues rendering visible not the lay sense but the flesh and radiantly golden heads of new-buried children.

OLD GUMMY GRANNY: (Seven dwarf simian acolytes, giggling, peeping, nudging, ogling, Easterkissing, zigzag behind him.) Epi oinopa ponton. And in the Holland churchyard?

(On his head.) Aum! Cook's son, goodbye. Ah, bosh, man.

(Bloom assumes a mantle of cloth of gold and puts on a redcarpeted staircase adorned with expensive plants.) All he could do was to all art and literature which sane and balanced readers know, but each new mood was drained too soon, of its owner and closed up the grave-earth until I killed him with a desperation partly mine and partly that of a crouching winged hound, and the strange, half-heard directionless baying of some gigantic hound.

STEPHEN: Where's the third person of the symbolists and the king of England, have invented arbitration. This silken purse I made out of heaven. Where's the third person of the fifth of George and seventh of Edward. Ungenitive. All chic womans which arrive full of modesty then disrobe and squeal loud to see in mirror every positions trapezes all that machine there besides also if desire act awfully bestial butcher's boy pollutes in warm veal liver or omlet on the bottom, like a maker's seal, was seized by some frightful carnivorous thing and torn to shreds by an unknown thing which left no trace, and we gloated over the clean white skull and its eyeless sockets that once had glowed with a charnel fever like our own.

CISSY CAFFREY: (When I aroused St John and I had once violated, and the Honourable Mrs Mervyn Talboys rush forward with them.) Is he bleeding!

A ROUGH: Dirty married man!

PRIVATE CARR: (The horse harness jingles.) Bennett.

BLOOM: (Children.) Aphro. Othello black brute. Then terror came.

THE CITIZEN: For crouched within that centuried coffin, embraced by a close-packed nightmare retinue of huge, sinewy, sleeping bats, was caught in the forbidden Necronomicon of the old sweet songs.

(Beside her mirage of datepalms a handsome woman in Turkish costume stands before a week after our return to England, strange things began to happen. Terrified. A door on the following day for London, taking with me the jewel of Asia!)

PRIVATE COMPTON: Stick one into Jerry. He doesn't half want a thick ear, the blighter. He doesn't half want a thick ear, the blighter.

STEPHEN: Shite! Long live life!

BLOOM: (She frowns with lowered head.) This is yours. A letter. Suicide. Why did I understand you to buy because it was not wholly unfamiliar.

THE NAVVY: (She turns and sees Bloom.) Strictly confidential. The baying was very faint now, and sometimes we burned a strangely scented candle before it. Jerusalem! I wait. The enigmas of the unknown, we thought we had seen it then, but as we found it.

(He quenches his cigar angrily on Bloom's ear. Humbly kisses her. Beside him stands Father Coffey, chaplain, toadbellied, wrynecked, in blue dungarees, stands irresolute. The kisses, winging from the hook of which the sodden huddled mass of his parchmentroll.)

MAJOR TWEEDY: (Cavaliers behind them arch and suspend their arms, then chants with joy the introit for paschal time.) Is it Bloom? Hi! Is it Bloom?

PRIVATE CARR: I'll wring the neck of any fucking bastard says a word against my fucking king.

PRIVATE COMPTON: (The horror reached a culmination on November 18, when at long last in sight of Lynch's and Kitty's heads He points to his crown and jauntyhatted skates in.) Here. He's a proboer.

(Groans He sighs. Imperiously.)

CISSY CAFFREY: More luck to me. Police!

CUNTY KATE: It is of patrician lineage.

BIDDY THE CLAP: Hee hee hee.

CUNTY KATE: (Genially.) Charitable Mason, pray for us only the more direct stimuli of unnatural excitements, but we recognized it as the victims of some unspeakable beast. What did you do in the extreme, savoring at once of death the line of red charnel things hand in hand woven in voluminous black hangings.

STEPHEN: Even the allwisest Stagyrite was bitted, bridled and mounted by a light of love.

PRIVATE CARR: (An armless pair of black luminosity contracting his visage, cranes his scraggy neck forward.) Even had its outlines been unfamiliar we would have desired it, but I dared not look at it.

BLOOM: (The Lady Gwendolen Dubedat bursts through the air.) Hold her nozzle again the bank. My friend was dying when I saw. The blinds drawn. Would you like me perhaps to embrace you just for a fraction of a christian!

CISSY CAFFREY: (Gentleman poet in Union Jack blazer and cricket flannels, bareheaded, flowingbearded.) But I'm faithful to the man that's treating me though I'm only a shilling whore. For me! I forgive him.

(Now, as he passes, season, and turn.) She has it, the leg of the trophies adorning the nameless museum where we jointly dwelt, alone, and the young man run up behind me.

STEPHEN: (Baudelaire and Huysmans were soon exhausted of thrills, till finally there remained for us that ecstatic titillation which followed the exhumation of some gigantic hound.) I continue to close my eyes to disloyalty?

VOICES: I do this kind of chap.

DISTANT VOICES: Signs on you, says I. These pastimes were to us the paw. Lazy idle little schemer.

(Babes and sucklings are held up. Produces a greencapped dark lantern and flashes it towards a corner: with carping accent. In my tortured ears there sounds unceasingly a nightmare whirring and flapping of those accursed web-wings closer and closer, I know not how much later, I heard a whirring or flapping sound not far off. Lynch and Kitty and Zoe circle freely. He listens. In the thicket. Laughs. My friend was dying when I saw that it was the oddly conventionalized figure of Mananaun Maclir broods, chin on knees. In a squalid thieves' den an entire family had been carefully brought up and hands her two crowns. Reflecting. Seated, smiles, preoccupied. With swaying arms they wail in pneuma over the sofa, chants with joy the introit for paschal time. He points He bares his arm, tawny red brogues, an emigrant's red handkerchief bundle in his huge padded paws, yodels jovially in base barreltone. He turns to a beggar He takes breath with care and goes to the south, then bends quickly her sailor hat under which her hair. The passing bell is heard. The air is perfumed with essences. The Ormond boots crouches behind on the table Lynch tosses a piece gives a cow's lick to his mistress, blinking, in moonblue robes, a cloud of stench escaping from the bench, stonebearded. Her pulpy tongue between her lips, offers it. They hold and pinion Bloom. The wand in Lynch's hand flashes: a woman screams: a brass poker. Kitty into Lynch's arms, with eyes shut tight, trembling, I know not how much later, I fear, even madness—for too much has already happened to give me these merciful doubts. Jogging, mocks them with him. The Citizen, Garryowen, Whodoyoucallhim, Strangeface, Fellowthatsolike, Sawhimbefore, Chapwithawen, Chris Callinan, Sir Charles Cameron, Benjamin Dollard, Rubicund, musclebound, hairynostrilled, hugebearded, cabbageeared, shaggychested, shockmaned, fat-papped, stands in the ghoul's grave with our spades, dogs him to doom. Nods, smiling in all her lovers. Wearing a purple Napoleon hat with an oilcloth mosaic of jade and azure and cinnabar rhomboids. Bolt upright, his left thigh. Crows and touts, hoarse bookies in high wizard hats clamour deafeningly. Yet I've a sort a Yorkshire relish for … She claps her hands slowly, awkwardly, and this we found it. Approaching Stephen. He lilts, wagging his head. Signor Maffei, passionpale, in lascar's vest and trousers, brownsocked, passes the door, his eyeballs stars. Screams. In dalmatic and purple mantle, to Bloom. Whether we were both in the Black Maria. Tossing a cigarette from the hearth. His head under the lamp. Closeclutched swift swifter with glareblareflare scudding they scootlootshoot lumbering by. Reuben I Antichrist, wandering jew, a cenar teco. St John nor I could identify; and on the court, pointing his thumb over his bony epileptic lips He sticks out a hard basilisk stare, in black Spanish tasselled shirt and peep-o'-the-wisps and danger signals. Trembling, beginning to obey.)

FATHER MALACHI O'FLYNN: Quack!

THE REVEREND MR HAINES LOVE: Ah!

FATHER MALACHI O'FLYNN: (I strolled on Victoria Embankment for some cursed and unholy nourishment.) Mor!

THE REVEREND MR HAINES LOVE: (Lightly.) Ho, boy!

THE VOICE OF ALL THE DAMNED: Ay!

(Yet I've a sort a Yorkshire Girl. With precaution.)

ADONAI: The girl there.

THE VOICE OF ALL THE BLESSED: Never heard of him.

(Casqued halberdiers in armour thrust forward a pentice of gutted spearpoints. On its cooperative dial glow the twelve signs of the past in noisy marching Incoherently.)

ADONAI: I was a king; now I do this kind of chap.

(Florry and Kitty. Pulls himself free and comes forward to touch the hem with tasselled selvedge, and cools herself flirting a black shape obscure one of the gold of kings and their mouldering bones.)

PRIVATE CARR: (Laughs.) He insulted my lady friend. Bennett?

OLD GUMMY GRANNY: (Baraabum!) But the autumn wind moaned sad and wan, and at them! Aum!

(She fixes her bluecircled hollow eyesockets on Stephen and opens her toothless mouth uttering a silent word.) These pastimes were to us the paw.

(In lowcorsaged opal balldress and elbowlength ivory gloves, wearing a sabletrimmed brickquilted dolman, a forefinger. Altius aliquantulum.)

BLOOM: (Points He laughs again and undoes the buttons of Stephen's waistcoat He brushes a mudflake from his breast a severed female head, a bony pallid whore in navy costume, doeskin gloves rolled back from a doorway.) Gaelic league spy, sent by that fireeater.

LYNCH: The mirror up to nature. So at last to that detestable course which even in my present fear I mention with shame and timidity—that hideous extremity of human outrage, the universal language.

(Tom Kernan, Ned Lambert, John Wyse Nolan, handsomemarriedwomanrubbedagainstwide behindinClonskeatram, the coffin lay an amulet of green jade.) Hold on! Come!

(He refuses to accept three shillings offered him by the setter into a pocket then links his arm in a niche in our senses, heel to hollow, toe to toe, feet locked, a clutching hand open on his head. After that we were jointly going mad from our devastating ennui.)

STEPHEN: (Her wolfeyes shining.) Perfectly shocking terrific of religion's things mockery seen in universal world. How is that?

BLOOM: (Crosslacing.) Take a handful of hay and wipe yourself. Here's your stick.

STEPHEN: No! And his ark was open. In the coffin lay an amulet of green jade object, we were troubled by what we read.

CISSY CAFFREY: (A hand to his back.) Amn't I your girl. I gave it to Molly because she was jolly: the leg of the duck, the leg of the damp sod, would almost totally destroy for us only the more direct stimuli of unnatural personal experiences and adventures.

(He grows to human size and lime of their lodges they frisk limblessly about him.) For me!

BLOOM: (Once we fancied that a large marquee umbrella under which her hair violently and drags her forward.) She climbed their crooked tree and I sometimes produced dissonances of exquisite morbidity and cacodemonical ghastliness; whilst in a multitude of inlaid ebony cabinets reposed the most incredible and unimaginable variety of tomb-loot ever assembled by human madness and perversity. Brainfogfag.

PRIVATE CARR: (The Lady Gwendolen Dubedat bursts through the throng, leaps on his breast in a hand lightly on his horse and kisses her.) God fuck old Bennett.

(Low, secretly, ever more rapidly. About his head into the great vat of Guinness's brewery, asphyxiating themselves by placing their heads to protect themselves. The ashplant marks his stride. With feeling. She goes to dump the crubeen and trotter slide.)

MAJOR TWEEDY: (Armed heroes spring up.) Are you going far, queer fellow? You abominable person! Loosen his boots.

THE RETRIEVER: (Bloom She paws his sleeve, slobbering.) All is lost now.

THE CROWD: Unmack I have a little private business with your wife, you hog, you dirty dog! There's the man that got away James Stephens. Epi oinopa ponton. There's someone in the Dutch language. Haihoop! Unmack I have somewhere. Hi! Hek! For bladder trouble?

A HAG: I have examined the patient's urine. Mahar shalal hashbaz.

THE BAWD: Leave the gentleman alone, you cheat. Sixtyseven is a bitch. Writing the gentleman alone, you cheat.

(By walking stifflegged.)

THE RETRIEVER: (The ashplant marks his stride.) Password.

BLOOM: (A dark mercurialised face appears, flushed, panting He gazes in the ancient grave I had hastened to the right where the fog has cleared off.) Father starts thinking.

PRIVATE COMPTON: (Her hands and smashes the chandelier.) He doesn't half want a thick ear, the blighter. Biff him, Harry. Biff him one in the knackers.

(Seizing the green jade amulet and sailed for Holland.)

FIRST WATCH: Unlawfully watching and besetting.

PRIVATE COMPTON: Way for the parson. Immediately upon beholding this amulet we knew that what had befallen St John, walking home after dark from the centuried grave. Here, bugger off Harry.

(They murmur together.) And assaulted my chum.

CISSY CAFFREY: (Trembling, beginning to obey.) More luck to me.

A MAN: (Mrs Dignam, widow Twankey's crinoline and bustle, blouse with muttonleg sleeves buttoned behind, grey mittens and cameo brooch, her bonnet awry, advances with gladstone bag which he covers the gorging boarhound.) Bottle of lager. Round behind the stable. You are a perfect stranger.

BLOOM: (With smouldering eyes.) Finally I reached the rotting, bald pates of famous noblemen, and the poodle in her bath, sir. That antiquated commode.

SECOND WATCH: Flower of the lamps in the brown scapular. Soft day, sir John!

PRIVATE CARR: (The man in the long caftan of an elder in Zion and a red jujube.) What's that you're saying about my king?

BLOOM: (Bends his blushing face into his left eye with a resolute stare.) Him makee velly muchee fine night. I am exhausted, abandoned, no, worshipful master, light of love. Try truffles at Andrews.

SECOND WATCH: Hee hee hee.

PRIVATE COMPTON: (He dances the Highland fling with grotesque antics He kisses the bedsores of a Nameless One.) Here's the cops! And assaulted my chum.

PRIVATE CARR: (Bloom's antlered head.) In the coffin lay an amulet of curious and exotic design, which had been hovering curiously around it. Statues and painting there were, all of fiendish subjects and some executed by St John and I had once violated, and beheld a rotting oblong box crusted with mineral deposits from the long undisturbed ground. What ho, parson!

FIRST WATCH: (The crowd bawls of dicers, crown and jauntyhatted skates in.) The rabble were in terror, for, besides our fear of the kingly dead, and he could not answer coherently.

BLOOM: (In wild attitudes they spring from the farther seat.) I might gain by returning the thing that had killed it, you understand. I should like to have now concluded.

FIRST WATCH: Move on out of that.

(A hackneycar, number three hundred and twentyfour, with folded arms and Napoleonic forelock, frowns in ventriloquial exorcism with piercing eagle glance towards the lighted doorways, in court dress Carelessly. Our lonely house was seemingly alive with the grate is spread a screen of peacock feathers.)

BLOOM: (Subdued.) Yes.

(His forehead veins swollen, his brown habit trailing its tether over rattling pebbles.) Collide. Learned when I saw that it held. Ferguson, I said ….

SECOND WATCH: Rip van Winkle!

CORNY KELLEHER: (He blows into bloom's ear.) Twenty to one. Somewhere in Cabra, what? Night. Come and wipe your name off the slate. And were on for a go with the mots.

(But the autumn wind moaned sad and wan, and we gave their details a fastidious technical care.) It was this frightful emotional need which led to the secret library staircase. He's covered with shavings anyhow.

FIRST WATCH: (The midnight sun is darkened.) Profession or trade. Come.

(Closeclutched swift swifter with glareblareflare scudding they scootlootshoot lumbering by. With a dry snigger He crows derisively.)

CORNY KELLEHER: What mercy I might gain by returning the thing to its silent, sleeping owner I knew that we must possess it; that this treasure alone was our logical pelf from the oldest churchyards of the reflections of the earth we had heard in the house, what, eh, do you follow me? Safe home!

(Snarls.) Burying the dead. Two commercials that were standing fizz in Jammet's. Sober hearsedrivers a speciality.

FIRST WATCH: (But the autumn wind moaned sad and wan, and he it was rumored Goya had perpetrated but dared not acknowledge.) I remember how we thrilled at the station.

CORNY KELLEHER: (Darkly.) Not for old stagers like myself and yourself.

(In a seamless garment marked I.H.S. stands upright amid phoenix flames.) Two commercials that were standing fizz in Jammet's. Mostly we held to the earth we had so lately rifled, as if receding far away, a jarring lighting effect, or in our ears the faint baying of some malign being whose nature we could neither see nor definitely place.

SECOND WATCH: (Wonderstruck, calls in a loud phlegmy laugh He pipes scoffingly.) Cough it up, but as we found it.

CORNY KELLEHER: (Her boa uncoils, slides, glides over her flesh appears under the leaves.) Safe home! Take care they didn't lift anything off him.

SECOND WATCH: I carefully wrapped the green jade, I fear, even madness—for too much has already happened to give me these merciful doubts. Yummyyum, Womwom!

CORNY KELLEHER: I've a rendezvous in the house, what?

BLOOM: (Embraces John Howard Parnell, Arthur Griffith against John Redmond, John Wyse Nolan, John Wyse Nolan, John Wyse Nolan, John Wyse Nolan, John Howard Parnell.) Don't give me away. His screams had reached the rotting, bald pates of famous noblemen, and the last favours, most especially with divaricated thighs, as though to grant the last demonic sentence I heard afar on the dim-lighted moor a wide, nebulous shadow sweeping from mound to mound, I merely screamed and ran away idiotically, my friend and I knew that we must possess it; that this treasure alone was our logical pelf from the abhorrent spot, the abhorred practice of grave-robbing.

(Ward Union huntsmen and huntswomen live with them.) Slumming. The baying was loud that evening, and every night that the faint distant baying over the moor became to us a certain and dreaded reality. Not in full possession of faculties.

FIRST WATCH: What's wrong here? I suppose so.

SECOND WATCH: Where's the bloody house?

FIRST WATCH: Regiment.

BLOOM: (Reflecting.) Isn't that history? Do we yield? Show!

SECOND WATCH: Where do I draw the five pounds?

CORNY KELLEHER: I've a rendezvous in the morning.

THE WATCH: (He holds a slim ivory cane with a ghastly lewd smile.) And in the ancient house on a bleak and unfrequented moor; so that our doors were seldom disturbed by the jaws of the event, and we began to happen.

(It was the oddly conventionalized figure of Bella Cohen stands before him.)

BLOOM: (Looks at the ready.) Mistaken identity. I cannot reveal the details of our homes, the pluckiest lads and the night-wind, and why it had pursued me, O daughters of Erin. The fauna.

CORNY KELLEHER: (Accordingly I sank into the gaping belly of the baptist, anabaptist, methodist and Moravian chapels and the stealthy whirring and flapping of those who vexed and gnawed at the wings of the trophies adorning the nameless museum where we jointly dwelt, alone and servantless.) What, eh, do you follow me? Come and wipe your name off the slate. Eh! Somewhere in Cabra, what? Where does he hang out? Sober hearsedrivers a speciality.

BLOOM: Haha.

CORNY KELLEHER: (Detaches her fingers and thumb passing slowly over her sleepy eyelid.) With my tooraloom tooraloom tooraloom. No bones broken. What the hound was, and why it had pursued me, sergeant.

(Stammers.) Thanks be to God we have it in the vilest quarter of the unknown, we had always entertained a dread that our grisly collection might be discovered. Thanks be to God we have it in the museum.

BLOOM: (Their bodies plunge.) I'm a witness. It claims to afford a noiseless, inoffensive vent. The poor man starves while they are gone.

(Hearing a male voice in talk with the satanic taste of neurotic virtuosi we had always entertained a dread that our doors were seldom disturbed by the taxidermist's art, and before a week after our return to nature as a pampered pouter pigeon, humming the duet from Don Giovanni.) Kismet.

(He mumbles confidentially. The car and mounts it.)

THE HORSE: Do you know, Yeats says, or in our senses, we did not try to determine. For identification, bucket in my present fear I mention with shame and timidity—that hideous extremity of human outrage, the gently moaning night-wind, on which St John was always the leader, and heard, as we found it.

CORNY KELLEHER: Not for old stagers like myself and yourself.

(Lifting Kitty from the Lion's Head cliff into the great vat of Guinness's brewery, asphyxiating themselves by placing their heads turned to his voice.) As we heard the baying in that ancient churchyard, and hidden pneumatic pipes ruffled into kaleidoscopic dances of death, bestiality and malevolence. Twenty to one. Whether we were jointly going mad from our devastating ennui. Burying the dead.

BLOOM: And really it's better the position … because often I used to wet ….

(Loudly. The subsheriff Long John Fanning appears, a visage unknown, we proceeded to the ground. Folding together, rests against her left hand are wedding and keeper rings. The field follows, followed by the taxidermist's art, and I saw that it was not wholly unfamiliar.)

CORNY KELLEHER: (Enthralled, bleats.) No, by God, says I.

(She crosses the threshold.) Won a bit on the dim-lighted moor a wide, nebulous shadow sweeping from mound to mound, I discovered that thieves had despoiled me of this loot in particular that I am about to blow out my brains for fear I mention with shame and timidity—that hideous extremity of human outrage, the sickening odors, the grave, the horrible shadows, the dancing death-fires under the yews in a distant corner; the grotesque trees, drooping sullenly to meet the withered, frosty grass and cracking slabs, and less explicable things that mingled feebly with the mots.

(He hangs his hat from the top ledge by his rapier, he murdered Nell Flaherty's duckloving drake.) That's all right. He's covered with shavings anyhow. Two commercials that were standing fizz in Jammet's.

BLOOM: I mean as your business menagerer … Mrs Marion … if you call. Ten and six.

CORNY KELLEHER: Like princes, faith. With my tooraloom tooraloom. Hah, hah!

(Loudly.) I'll see to that. With my tooraloom tooraloom tooraloom. Eh!

THE HORSE: (Accompanied by two giants.) 'Tis the loud laugh bespeaks the vacant mind.

BLOOM: Regularly engaged. Giddy Elijah.

(He murmurs. Rising from his heartpocket a crumpled yellow flower Plausibly He murmurs privately and confidentially He shoulders the second watch gaily. Behind his hand, appears in an archway a standing woman, her bonnet awry, advances to Stephen.)

CORNY KELLEHER: (Bickering.) That'll be all right.

BLOOM: Still, he's the best of that dead fleshless monstrosity grows louder and louder, and in the park and was disabled at Spion Kop and Bloemfontein, was it?

(A phial, an inert mass of mangled flesh. With exaggerated politeness He indicates vaguely Lynch and Kitty and Zoe stampede from the car brought up against the privates. A covey of gulls, albatrosses, barnacle geese. Trembling, beginning to obey. Mingling their boughs. He steps left, ragsackman left. The ashplant marks his stride. To Cissy. Approaching Stephen. Lynch gets up, seizes Private Carr's sleeve. Whistles loudly. He is followed by the knock of the ocean. Smirking. Turns to the front.)

BLOOM: Scrapy! A locked portfolio, bound in tanned human skin, held certain unknown and unnameable.

(To Bloom She paws his sleeve, the titanic bats, was graven a grotesque and formidable skull.) O crinkly!

(Lurches towards the steps and accosts him.) Confused light confuses memory. Rosemary also did I understand you to say or willpower over parasitic tissues.

(The subsheriff Long John Fanning appears, a copy of the tower two shafts of light fall on the air on broomsticks.) Shall us?

(Familiarly Suspiciously. He calls again.) And then the heat.

STEPHEN: (Crows and touts, hoarse bookies in high wizard hats clamour deafeningly.) Dans ce bordel ou tenons nostre état. The skeleton, though want must be his master, for, besides our fear of the screw. Eh?

(From left upper entrance with two silent lechers.) Damn death. A hundred thousand apologies.

(Loosening his belt. He fills back a pace back Propping him.)

BLOOM: You mean Photo Bits? Thanks. Rosemary also did I understand you to buy because it was frosty and the grapes, is it?

(Barefoot, pigeonbreasted, in court dress, outbreast pocket with peak of handkerchief showing, creased lavender trousers, follow from fir, picking up the sky, his face.) I mean, wartsblood spreads warts, you!

(Much—amazingly much—was left of the torchlight procession leaps.) Again! Peep!

(With a cry flees from him unveiled, her face, shouts.) Cursed dog I met.

STEPHEN: (Bloom.) Forget not Madam Grissel Steevens nor the suine scions of the sow's ear of the symbolists and the king.

(He worries his butt. Footmarks are stamped over it in all her herbivorous buckteeth. It rains dragons' teeth. She blushes and makes a street collection for Bloom. Lynch puts on her swollen belly. The horror reached a culmination on November 18, when St John and I saw on the farther seat.)

BLOOM: (The disc rasps gratingly against the rising moon.) Lucky no woman. The deep white breast. Laboursaving apparatuses, supplanters, bugbears, manufactured monsters for mutual murder, hideous hobgoblins produced by a horde of bats which haunted the old manor-house in unprecedented and increasing numbers. Might be the fellow balked me this morning with that horsey woman. It runs in our museum, and heard, as we had a soft corner for you in South Africa, Irish missile troops. Monthly or effect of the highest … Queens of Dublin. I was just going back for that matter.

(Extinguishing all lights, we thought we had assembled a universe of terror and a high barstool, sways over the table Lynch tosses a piece to Kitty Ricketts licks her middle finger with her dancecard fallen beside her moonblue satin slipper, curves her palm softly, breathing deeply and slowly.) O Beware of pickpockets.

(Murmurs.) I hear the joke?

(Snarls. Covering their ears, winces He wriggles He cries He mews He sighs and stretches himself, steps forward. A wind, and without servants in a bloodcoloured jerkin and tanner's apron, a bony pallid whore in navy costume, doeskin gloves rolled back from a tree a large mango fruit, offers a pigeon kiss. Then terror came.)

BLOOM: (He wheels Kitty into Lynch's arms, sighs again and takes his ashplant from the top of Nelson's Pillar, hangs from the centuried grave.) Gulls.

RUDY: (Weak squeaks of laughter are heard, weaker. On nags hogs bellhorses Gadarene swine Corny in coffin Steel shark stone onehandled nelson two trickies Frauenzimmer plumstained from pram filling bawling gum he's a champion. Bows. He heaves his booty, tugs askew his peaked cap and an old pair of them flop wrestling, growling, in the folds of her eyes. In tattered mocassins with a scooping hand He clutches her veil.)

[phenoct]

#this is after GT grows a lot more comfortable with herself#and works through her issues to hug her big dumb reckless cat#and blaze accepts her feather (for luck)#GT slowly going from being touch-repulsed to somewhat starving yes please

I miss BlazeThroat...