#jerkin it in private is a human right

[victusinveritas]

Late night political rant from a middle aged Leftist.

Look...

Harris...

Isn't great. Or good. And... she's going to murder people overseas (yep, them, also some other folks, also probably definitely (weirdly) Lichtenstein which is not really a genocide but she'll probably keep enabling one) and her declaration about a strong military is...not great. At best, and I say this with all the confidence of someone knowing it's more likely that all my student loans are forgiven and I end up with free dental because of my college degree, she might tug the leash on BB and friends and maybe suggest, slightly curtailing the genocide in Gaza and the bombing of Lebanon, once she's in power. Maybe. Do I think she's likely to do anything right away (in goddamn January)? No. She'll say "we're moving towards peace..." while arming a nuclear terrorist state with even less compunction about committing war crimes than the US or Canada (not recently, but Canada is like half of why the Geneva Convention exists because they... didn't like taking prisoners in WWI and II).

But what about X candidate that only exists in California or God the fuck knows where? No. No chance of them winning. To get a third party president elected we need to get a third party in House and the Senate. Once we turn them at least a bit Good Red (Socialist of some stripe) we can take a chance at someone outside the usual Dems or GOP.

But...Stein is a Trump/Putin stooge that pops up every four years and will probably continue to do so like the monster in Jeepers Creepers until she has body parts from staffers in every state to create a mega-Libertarian (Megazord but with a real firm knowledge of age of consent laws and a Randian sense of self importance)...

So...

The one thing I can say for Harris is that Tim Walz probably has a kinda wholesome fetish for women his own age or within an appropriate margin (milfs and up) who look like his wife and like to pop balloons. Anyway, whatever his take kink is, he will fight like a Midwesterner (with folksy homespun cussedness) to keep Pornhub and similar sites free to access for all people, because this is America, and we invented modern porn (Czechoslovakia and Hungary perfected it) and the internet, and by gum we're going to keep those things together because they're as American as what one or more consenting folks do in the privacy of anywhere not a school zone or very public park (bushes are fine, ditto riverbanks).

Project 2025 will take away all of that and more.

Vote Blue. And then drag Blue kicking and screaming towards accountability and the things America and the world are owed by the billionaires dodging their fair share of things. Vote in folks running on pro universal healthcare tickets and just generally not being douchebags.

(and no, I'm not going to debate folks on any of this except perhaps my theories on a US invasion of Liechtenstein, I have better things to do than yell at people on the internet and so do you. Go join a mutual aid group or three, play a hand or two of cards.)

[nirikeehan]

HAPPY FRIDAY NIRI!!! You already know what I'm here for LOL but let's see some of that templar bodyguard Cullen/Thalia + a midjourney prompt from the eerie vague list: (Ritual) Blood and a good vintage red wine👀👀👀

I'm obsessed with the results I got for this one. (I had to replace "blood" because it's banned, but "red" still worked nicely 😊) Also THANK YOU FOR ASKING, this one has been chewing up my brainspace for over a month.

Here's more of Cullen having a hell of a first day on the job.

For @dadrunkwriting

WC: 2703 (and a direct continuation of this)

---

He took the steps in the servant stairwell two at a time, flanked by pair of maids who, at the very least, seemed to sense the urgency in the situation. 

“She’ll be in the attic library, Ser Cullen,” said one of the maids, a young elven woman named Mirabelle. “She’s often up there, doing… experiments.” 

“What sort of ‘experiments’?” Cullen was growing more apprehensive by the second. 

“Er,” said the other maid, Pia, a human woman with a Rivaini accent. “Difficult to say. She hardly lets us in, even just to tidy up.”

Fantastic. Cullen had worn his best clothes to dinner: a tunic under a jerkin, no armor at all. And of course he had left his sword in his room. He was strictly forbidden from doing the girl harm, anyway; templars on private assignment had fewer powers assigned to them than ones in the field hunting apostates.

“When we get there, you ladies stay well away from the door,” he warned. And let’s hope this silly noble hasn’t already transformed herself into an abomination. 

The maids led him up, past the second and third floors, past the servant’s quarters, and finally to the top of the winding stair. A narrow arch greeted them, leading to a dim corridor. The rooms they passed seemed intended for storage, but when they rounded a corner, sconces were lit outside one door. 

Then came the numbing tang at the back of his tongue. The air hummed with the residuals of the failed spell, twisted and wrong. Cullen halted in his tracks, the maids clinging to his side. 

“What’s the matter, Ser Cullen?” Pia asked. 

Those without magical ability or the enhancement of lyrium would miss the signs. “That’s the library?” Cullen gestured toward the door between the sconces. The maids nodded. “Then it’s best if you let me go on ahead.” 

“Oh, I do hope Lady Thalia’s all right,” Mirabelle said, wringing her hands. 

“If she needs help, I’ll summon you,” Cullen promised, which seemed to mollify them. 

He crept forward, running the possibilities through his mind. It was silent behind the door, making it unlikely there were rampaging demons in there. Although he knew from experience the most sinister ones took their time and preyed upon you when you were weak. His heart raced, palms going sweaty. Steady, steady. She’s no master of the craft, just some foolish girl who never benefitted from proper instruction.

Cullen reached the door and knocked. “Lady Thalia?” 

“Who is it?” called an annoyed female voice. 

Cullen stifled a relieved sigh. If she was still talking, the situation wasn’t hopeless. “My name is Cullen Rutherford. I’m the templar your parents hired to—”

“Oh, go away,” Thalia snapped. “Can’t you see I’m busy?” 

He certainly could. Besides the traces of magic, he caught whiffs of acrid smoke coming from under the door.  

“Your mother requested I come find you. You’re missing dinner.” Surreptitiously, he tried the knob. Locked, of course. She wasn’t stupid. “And there was a bit of a crash. We’re all worried about you.” 

She let out a bitter laugh. “No, you’re not.” 

Fair enough. “Well, I don’t know about your family, but I’m a touch worried.” He glanced down the hall, where the poor maids were clutching each other, pale and trembling. “And I assume you know Pia and Mirabelle? They’re here and they’re worried, too.”

There was a longer pause. Cullen thought perhaps he was getting somewhere, but Thalia retorted, “Well, you can rest assured I’m fine. And you can tell Mother I’m not hungry and I don’t have time to attend her stupid welcome party for my new personal jailor.”

Cullen took the insult in stride; as they went, he’d heard far worse, and he learned quite a bit about her mindset. “Lady Thalia, I’m not sure what you were told about me, but it’s not my intention to act as a jailor. I’m here to protect you from anything that can hurt you.” 

Thalia scoffed. “Including myself?”

Especially yourself, he thought. “I noticed you’ve perhaps been doing some magic on your own up here. I just want to make sure you’re safe, that’s all. Will you please open the door?” 

There was no answer. 

Cullen sighed. “My lady, I’m not sure how much you may know about a templar’s jurisdiction, but if I suspect you’re doing illegal magic in there, I do have leave to force entry.” 

A long silence, then a low hiss: “You wouldn’t dare.” 

He felt the shift in the air, a coldness spreading through his limbs as she summoned the energy from the Fade. 

“I would.” Cullen stepped back, surveying the door. It was made of wood, and did not seem not all that sturdy. A few swift kicks would do the trick. 

“If my parents find out you’ve interfered—”

“I suspect they’ll thank me,” Cullen said. “They did request I see you to the dinner table, after all.” 

She said nothing. The unnatural chill of gathering magic lingered, intensified. Unlike a mage, Cullen could not guess what exactly she was trying to cast, but the remnant of her earlier failure suggested it was something beyond her capabilities. 

“This is my last warning. Cease the spell and open the door, or I’m coming in.” 

He was not surprised by her silence. Cullen inhaled slowly and, with regret, slammed the knob with the heel of his boot. There was a yelp on the other side of the door, but that was all. He kicked again, and the knob loosened. A third time, and it gave way, falling loose and causing the door to drift open. 

Cullen pushed into the room, ignoring the terrible chill that assaulted him. The attic library was a modest space with wooden eaves visible in its slanted ceiling. Bookshelves lined one wall, crammed full of thick tomes. Along the opposite wall was a long work table, cluttered with open books, scraps of parchment, glass bottles full of powders and dried herbs. A small metal brazier stood glowing on one, in which stood a ceramic crucible. A thin tendril of smoke snaked into the air. The scent was heady and potent. 

In front of the brazier stood a young woman with her back to him, slight in stature and with long auburn hair piled haphazardly on top of her head. In one hand she held an ornamental dagger; the other she held open wide, baring her palm. 

Horrorstruck, Cullen crossed the room and seized her by the wrist. He twisted — not to break a bone, which the move could do if one were too zealous — but enough that the pressure was painful. She cried out, her fingers loosened, and Cullen removed the dagger neatly from her hand. 

Crisis averted, he let his anger boil over. Cullen tucked the dagger away and demanded, “What on earth are you trying to do?” 

The girl whirled to face him. 

She had high cheekbones and startling blue irises, a faint dusting of freckles. Although he could see the resemblance, her face was more oval than her sister’s, softer and less angular. Bits of hair fell loose into her face, and her eyes widened when she looked at him, a rosiness touching her cheeks.

Absurdly, Cullen felt his heart stutter.

Thalia’s face contorted with rage. “Let me go.” She raised her free hand and aimed it at his face. 

“Hey.” He caught her other wrist before the slap could connect. He could feel her trying to summon more energy, but his grip, strengthened by the lyrium in his blood, neutralized it. Now he held both her hands well above her head, feeling sheepish as she struggled against him. In a normal apostate situation, this was when the shackles came out, but he didn’t have the authority to detain her and escort her to a Circle, as much as he wanted to.

“Well, Lady Thalia, we could continue on like this,” Cullen said lightly. “Or you could calm down and I could release you.”

“I’d be calmer if a strange man hadn’t barged in and grabbed me!” 

“It’s not like you gave me very many options,” Cullen replied.

 He would like to let her go. Standing over her with his hands clamped around her wrists made him feel quite strange, and it didn’t help that this vantage point gave him a clear view past her chin and down to the top of her bodice. Cheeks warming, he wrenched his attention elsewhere. Her dress had sleeves that ended at the elbow, accentuated by billowing lace that now hung away from her forearms. He studied her limbs, ignoring how soft her flesh felt under his hands. No scarring, scabs, or other signs that she had been summoning magic via blood sacrifice. He turned her wrists; both palms were similarly intact. This was likely her first attempt. 

She had stopped flailing, and now was watching him with a mixture of revulsion and fascination. Or perhaps the latter was wishful thinking. He’d certainly given her no reason to find him endearing. He released her. She snatched her hands away and sank into a nearby chair, burying her face behind her fingers. 

Relieved that the fight left her, Cullen straightened and took stock of the situation. The weapon was safely out of her reach, which was the most important part. Beside the smoldering brazier lay an open tome that looked ancient, the vellum brittle and the ink faded. Of spell-casting he knew little, but the bit he skimmed indicated the incantation was old, the language opaquely archaic. 

“Well,” he said softly, “I’m not sure what exactly you were trying to do, but you were going about it all wrong. If I hadn’t stepped in, you probably would have ended up with only a bloody palm. Would that have been worth it?”

Thalia wrung her hands and hunched her shoulders, looking up at him in stony silence. Now was probably not the time for a lecture, though he sorely wanted to give one. Best to keep it short and to the point. 

“What you are doing here is beyond reckless.” Cullen forced his tone to maintain a stern tranquility. “In most corners of the continent, it is highly illegal. The penalties are steep. You may think you are above the law, Lady Thalia, because you have avoided the Circle, but that is not the case.” 

She stiffened, her face blanching. At last he seemed to be getting through to her.

“Are you going to tell my parents?” she asked in a small voice. 

Cullen considered, but disclosing her behavior was limited in its usefulness. Her father might react in anger toward her, or turn again on Cullen for accusing her. As he understood it, she was of age — eighteen years old, according to her file. Under normal circumstances, he could arrest her and be done with it. Given the special parameters of his assignment, what he needed to do was convince her to turn herself over to the Circle. Tattling on her would only drive another wedge between them… but keeping her secret might lay the foundation for some semblance of trust. 

“No.” He exhaled the word in a sigh. Her face brightened, but he cut in before she could speak. “But if I ever catching you attempting blood magic again, do not expect me to be so generous.” 

“Of course, Ser Cullen,” she chirped. “It won’t happen again. I don’t know what came over me. I just get too curious, sometimes. My mother says it’s a fault of mine.” 

 The switch from vivacious and scrappy to demure and obedient was not lost on him. Nor was the fact that her little library was teeming with rare books of similar design, and that her newfound attempt at blood magic coincided too neatly with his arrival. At least he had met the real Thalia from the start. Cullen wasn’t sure he’d ever meet the true faces of her family. 

“Speaking of your mother, she’s probably wondering what’s become of us.” Cullen did not wish to prolong the unpleasantries. He had gotten as far with her as he’d needed this evening. “We ought to go down at once.”

Thalia arched an eyebrow. “Why? Are you so eager to be bored to tears by my brother and slavered over by my sister?”

The joke caught him off-guard, and he laughed before he could stop himself. That brought a smirk to her lips. 

“Truth be told,” he said, “I’m most eager to return to the wine. It was a good vintage.” That made her laugh in turn, and Cullen chuckled with her. “Though I did notice just how closely I was seated to the Lady Laela.”

Thalia snorted and got to her feet. “She’s desperate for a husband. Mostly because all her suitors go running once they realize what she’s really like.” She eyed him, her eyes narrowing. “So be careful. A templar’s almost good as a noble to House Trevelyan, especially if they can fabricate a claim to some lost lord after the fact.” 

Cullen blinked, surprised. “How did you know I’m not nobility?” 

Thalia breezed past him to her work station and doused her brazier with a small bucket of water from the floor. “I can hear it in your accent, for one. You try to hide it, but it’s there.” 

Years of elocution lessons during his templar training had smoothed out the worst of his lowborn inflections. Most people didn’t notice, especially those who spent little time around Fereldans. “You have a good ear.” 

“I suppose.” Thalia shrugged. “Besides, some prissy lordling would never have the nerve to come in here and manhandle a lady, even if I was actively trying to burn the house down.” 

She glanced at him over her shoulder with a startlingly coy look. Cullen felt himself blushing, struck by a flash of guilt. “Er, Lady Thalia, forgive me. It’s true I was probably out of line in the moment—”

“Oh, you certainly were out of line in the moment,” Thalia said cheerfully. “But don’t worry, I won’t tell Father. He’d probably feed you to the hounds if he knew.” She cocked her head and giggled. “We’re even then, perhaps? You keep my secret, and I’ll keep yours.” 

Cullen realized he had underestimated her. She’d made a calculated move and deftly trapped him with it. He wondered, vaguely, if she was any good at chess. “That is, ah, quite magnanimous of you, my lady.” 

“I’d like to think so.” Thalia came up beside him and held out her hand. “As a final gesture of goodwill, I’d like my dagger back, please.” 

Cullen had nearly forgotten the ceremonial blade in the waist of his trousers, its hilt digging into his back. “Ah. I’m not so sure that’s a good idea.” 

Thalia scowled. “Seriously? We’ve just met, and you’re already stealing from me?” 

“I wouldn’t exactly call it theft.” He frowned. “You were attempting to hurt yourself, and I’m—”

“Sworn to protect me. Right. Got it.” She huffed and headed for the door. 

Cullen trailed behind her, hoping they could reach a compromise. “If you can demonstrate you won’t be attempting any more illegal magic, perhaps I’ll return it to you.” 

“Who are you, one of my tutors? I’d rather write out ‘I will no longer attempt blood magic’ two hundred times in Orlesian.” 

“If you’re offering, I would certainly accept it as part of your penance.” 

He was half-kidding, but Thalia shot him a lethal glare, pausing with her hand on the door frame. 

“I knew another templar was a bad idea,” she grumbled. 

She flung herself into the hall. She was promptly fawned over by Pia and Mirabelle, who were ecstatic to learn she remained in one piece. 

Cullen lingered in the doorway, stunned. Another?

He wanted to ask her what she meant, but she was already strolling down the corridor, her maids insisting they needed to make her presentable for dinner. Cullen followed at a distance, troubled. 

Cullen had studied her file at length, through the long trip that had taken him from Kinloch Hold to the distant Free Marches.There had been no record of a previous templar assigned to Thalia Trevelyan. None at all. 

[pressedinthepages]

Allure

next fill for @witcher-rarepair-summer-bingo

also big thanks to @childoffantasy for beta-ing and @sometimesiwrite for helping me spin this story together <3

Prompt: Non-human genitalia

Relationship: Lambert/Essi

Rating: Explicit

Content Warnings: siren!essi, smut, non-human genitalia, discussion of a/b/o dynamics, cum play, squirting (sort of), a tad bit of overstimulation, oral (f/non-human receiving), penetrative sex.

Summary: Lambert hears a voice calling over the cliffs and instead of finding a threat, he finds some welcoming company.

Scents of salt and sea-crisp breeze filled Lambert’s senses as he tred beneath the moonlit coast. His coin purse was light, and he had found himself searching the shoreline for drowner nests or rotfiend camps. He had been walking for hours and hadn’t seen hide nor tail of any of the scaly fuckers, couldn’t even smell the deathly sweet tinge of decay on the air. Lambert had just about given up when he heard a voice, sweet and ethereal, calling out in a language unknown over the craggly cliffs.

His medallion hummed lightly on his chest and he tred carefully, his boots pushing through damp sand and sea glass until he rounded the base of a low cliff. Lambert stopped dead in his tracks when he saw her, golden-blond hair glowing in the light of the moon and the stars where she stood atop the cliff. She looked down, her voice carrying over the waves and the unrelenting breeze that threatened to lift her away. She held out her hand and stopped singing, and Lambert’s medallion stilled on his chest. He raised his brow, gave a quick glance around, and sighed.

Eskel’s been getting to me.

Lambert hopped up onto the lowest rock at the base of the cliff and followed a hollowed out trail set deep into the dark stone, keeping his steps light and his hand braced in the sign for Quen, just in case. The wind whipped through his short dark hair as he crested the bend, finding lucious beds of grass leading straight to the woman’s bare feet.

She stood with her back to him, her shoulders and hips relaxed. She wore a simple dress that was so thin, so light, that it was almost sheer, the curves of her shoulders and her waist silently taunting Lambert from where she stood. Her hair fell in light blond waves down the line of her back, dancing and twirling in the wind. Lambert took a deep breath in, trying to decipher what was her and what was picked up on the air.

His mind swam with her. She was of chaos and serenity, spice and salt, a sweet spring day and the sharp tang of poison. She was dangerous, and Lambert was fucking hooked.

Lambert cleared his throat and kept his eye trained on her, waiting for the pin to drop. “You uh...you alright?”

The breeze carried her breathy chuckle to his ears as she slowly turned around. Her eyes were blue, and just a bit too...shiny? Sparkly? Both? Eh, who gives a shit. “I’m doing quite alright, thank you for asking.”

Lambert took a hesitant step forward, keeping his hands by his sides to show no outward signs of aggression. “What are you doing up here?”

The woman glanced around and shrugged, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Singing.”

“To?”

“Whoever will listen.”

“Uh huh. Right…” Lambert nodded and took another step towards the woman. “What’s your name?”

The woman smiled kindly, showing canines that were maybe just a little too sharp, but it could’ve just been a trick of the light. “I am called Essi. And you?”

“Lambert.”

“A witcher, correct?” Lambert nodded and Essi crossed her arms. “Have you been sent to kill me?”

Lambert furrowed his brow as he held the intense gaze of the woman with the magical voice before him. “Should I have been?”

Essi shrugged and gestured widely to the bare evening around them. “People, these days, tend to fear what they deem ‘different.’ I am no exception.”

Lambert stepped closer once more, enough to feel the subtle shift in the air around her and catch the tinge of salt on his tongue. “You look human. I can tell you have magic, and that song...it’s enchanting...and not just in the complementary way.”

“You’d be correct. It’s a siren song, meant to ward off predators.”

Lambert nodded. “Part siren, then? Huh. How’d that happen?”

Essi tilted her head and sighed. “I’d...rather not get into it. It’s not a terribly happy story, I’m afraid.”

“Fair enough,” Lambert crossed his arms and breathed in the cool night air. “Are you...safe here? I mean, as safe as someone can be nowadays…”

Essi shook her head, her golden curls bouncing over her shoulders and around her collarbones. “Not really, no. I’m headed for Skellige, though. Just wanted one last night here…”

Lambert cleared his throat, watching her sparkling eyes dance over the tides. “You uh...you need any help? With anything?”

She looked back at him, her eyes slowly dragging down his body and back up again, burning with their intensity. Something darker, sweeter floated across the breeze and Lambert could almost taste the honey-sweet aroma that threatened to send him under.

“I could use your company for the night, if you’re offering.” Essi reached up and undid the button on one of her shoulders, letting the gauzy fabric fall open. Lambert swallowed thickly as the curve of her breast was bathed in moonlight, her nipple already pebbled from the chilly breeze that could cut through skin.

“Y-yeah. Yeah, I’m offering,” he said, closing the distance between them and finally reaching his hand out to touch her. Essi’s fingers tangled with his, pulling a shuddering gasp from the back of Lambert’s throat at just the simplest contact.

“Sensitive,” Essi drawled, baring her throat as her eyes gleaned down to where Lambert’s pulse beat beneath his wrist, “good.”

She pushed him gently as she stepped around him, still holding his hand and pulling him along. Lambert watched the waves of grass skirt along her ankles as she stopped, the wind still carrying her in an endless dance. Locking her eyes with his, Essi brought Lambert’s hand up to her breast and pushed his fingers into the tender flesh.

“Don’t-uh…” Lambert glanced around even as the insistent thrum of her heart sang up through her impossibly soft skin, “don’t you wanna find somewhere more private?”

Essi shook her head. “No one will bother us. The song, meant for so long to keep away those that would wish us harm, now keeps any and all at bay. The only reason you were able to find me is because I allowed it.”

“Why?” Lambert breathed, his hand resting still above Essi’s heart.

“Must there be an answer?” Essi tilted her head and ran her fingers down the line of Lambert’s jaw, watching the muscles shift and twitch as he clenched down and drew in a shuddering breath. Her other hand drew up past Lambert’s on her chest and released the other bit of her dress and let it fall to her hips, revealing the plane of her chest and the dips of her collar. Her nipples, dusky pink against the pale alabaster of her skin, pebbled in the cool air and Lambert was overcome with the urge to wrap his lips around them and drag his tongue over the sensitive nubs.

Lambert swallowed thickly and shook his head. “N-no, I guess not.”

“Good,” Essi whispered like leaves on the wind as she pushed up to her tiptoes and finally closed the miniscule distance that was left between them.

Lambert inhaled sharply through his nose at the first glance of her lips against his, his skin almost surprised at the gentle touch after so long without. She tasted of ocean air, light and crisp and it was almost as if he could feel the call to go deeper to sea in her kiss. He carefully squeezed the flesh of her breast in his hand as he brought his other to rest comfortably on her hip, toying with the edge of her dress where it still sat, momentarily forgotten.

He deepened the kiss, swiping his tongue over the seam of Essi’s mouth and groaning when her lips parted, her fingers threading up into his hair. He felt just the barest tingle of her magic along his scalp and down the line of his spine as she pulled him impossibly closer, slotting his leg between her own and dragging herself along his thigh. Lambert’s medallion offered a little vibration on his chest, which was dutifully ignored by its host.

Essi ran her hands down Lambert’s neck and to the straps of his scabbards on his shoulder. “May I?” Essi breathed into his mouth.

Lambert took a deep breath and brought his head back enough to look into her too-blue eyes, searching for that last little hint of ill-will that would make him take his swords and scram. All he found, though, were pupils widened with lust and lips swollen and shining from his own. He felt her fingers fiddling with the metal buckle on his shoulder and he nodded. “Yeah. Yeah alright. Go ahead.”

Essi hummed with a cheeky smile as she slid the leather out of the buckle, taking his swords, so deadly and threatening to anyone who would wind up on the wrong end of them, and setting them safely on the ground with a reverence one would typically reserve for precious jewels or beloved mementos. She undid the ties at his neck holding his jerkin closed, sliding her hands beneath the heavy armoured fabric and pushing it off of his shoulders and down his arms.

Lambert felt struck dumb as she went about undressing him, his arms hanging limp at his sides as his jerkin was set down on the ground with as much care as his swords had been. Essi fiddled with the ties on his codpiece, her fingers just barely glancing over his cock that had been willfully ignored for far too long.

He surged forward, digging the pads of his fingers into the softness of Essi’s hips as he fit his nose into the crook of her neck. He breathed her in while she yanked his linen shirt from where it had been tucked into his trousers. Essi’s hands, while still gentle and deliberate, moved with fervor as Lambert nipped and sucked on the delicate skin above where her pulse beat erratically.

Her hands were oddly cool on his skin as she pushed his shirt up over his head, Lambert’s lips leaving Essi’s neck for only the briefest moment as it was shoved aside. He brought her back to him, pressing their bare chests together and rubbing his thumb over one of her nipples, relishing the throaty gasp torn from her chest. He could feel the pull of chaos building behind his belly button, the fish hook yanking backwards into places within him yet unknown. Goosebumps erupted along Essi’s skin as Lambert’s hand passed over it.

“Your fingers tingle with magic hidden beneath the skin,” Essi whispered as he dragged his hands down over her stomach.

“Not like yours,” he said, pressing his lips into the hollow of her collar, “mine was trained into me. You...you’ve got magic older than what time can rightly tell.”

Lambert slid his hand down to the apex of Essi’s thighs and went to run his fingers along her slit. Though...it didn’t feel quite how he was expecting, even through her dress. But gods, he felt the gasp that she bled into his mouth like a punch to the gut, and he really couldn’t find himself to care just what lay beneath the thin layer of windswept linen.

Essi’s nails dug into the meat of Lambert’s shoulders as his hands dipped under her dress and over the swell of her ass, pushing away the fabric and leaving her bare in the moonlight. She stepped out of the dress as it pooled onto the ground and kicked it away, letting Lambert’s eyes dance over her naked form. She was fully aware that she didn’t look precisely human while nude, but she had been around long enough to not care, and to know that a great many humans didn’t care either.

“I’m sure you already know this,” Lambert breathed, dragging his fingers lightly up the outside of her thigh, “but you really are beautiful.”

Essi felt herself blush as she pulled him down for another kiss, her hands working at the laces of his codpiece and pushing it aside, reaching in and wrapping herself around the weeping cock hidden away. She smirked against his lips when he bucked into her hand. “You’re not so bad yourself, especially like this.”

Lambert smirked right back at her as he wrapped his arms around her waist and led her to lay in the grass, letting her golden hair splay around her head like spilled starlight. He kicked away his pants and boots and kneeled down by her knees. “I’ve never really had anyone like...this. Tell me what feels good?”

Essi nodded. “You’re doing well already. Not many ask my preference.”

“Well, then they’re assholes.”

“I won’t argue that. Slip your fingers into my slit, feel around. Tell me what you find.”

Lambert quirked his brow with a roguish grin. “So mysterious. I’m always excited about research…”

He slipped his fingers down into the warm embrace between her thighs, finding...something that might remind him of a small cock without much use of his imagination. But it was ribbed along the base and came to a finer point rather than the bulbous head he was so familiar with. As he parted her slit, it sprung free and bounced up to rest by the crook of her hip, clearly rigid with blood in the way that he might also expect. What he didn’t expect was the color. The slick, smooth skin was a deep navy blue, which transitioned to the color of the blushed corals that grew along the shoreline.

Lambert tilted his head and dragged his fingers down the stiff line of Essi’s length, watching as her back arched and she let out a strangled gasp. “Well,” he smiled, “I have found something that seems to feel very nice indeed. And quite lovely to look at. What do you call it?”

Essi chuckled as she ran her fingers through her hair. “Well...I think that the technical term is ‘anchor,’ though I don’t think that’s terribly sexy. I usually just call it a shaft and move on with my life.”

“And, ah, have I been treating it properly?”

Essi dragged her fingers down over her chest, lightly rubbing her nipples as Lambert almost started to fucking drool. “You’re on the right track. Now, you can gently wrap your hand around it and stroke up and down, almost like your own. Though I don’t much care for the squeezing. Touch me like you’d touch a glass with a bolt of lightning contained inside. It’s very powerful, sturdy. But it can shatter with the smallest push too far.”

Lambert nodded with a wink, “Sounds like something I’ve handled successfully before.” With that he took her gingerly in hand, feeling the smooth weight of it in his palm. It was slipperier than he was used to, which eased its movement in his loose fist. He didn’t have to go far, it fit almost perfectly in his hand with the exception of the coral-pink tip which seemed to be the most sensitive area. He worked slowly, carefully, despite the voice in his head screaming for him to get on with it. He wasn’t an idiot. There was a right and a wrong way to do this, and the wrong way meant a good time had by no one.

Essi felt a pleasant shock rumble up through her stomach and across her chest, her hips following Lambert’s loose grip as her breathing became deeper and more drawn out. “Ah, ah just like that. You’re a natural-”

“Can I taste you?” Lambert interrupted her, his eyes almost black with how dilated his pupils were. He could smell her arousal, that thick heady scent swirling straight down to his cock and fucking Gods he just really wanted to use his mouth on her-

Essi chuckled breathily, “Alright, yes! Again, just be gentl-nnngg…”

Lambert felt his cheeks flush when he realized that he had actually been speaking aloud, but he hid himself by dragging the flat of his tongue slowly up the line of her shaft. He could feel the ridges catching before smoothing out towards the tip, which he only barely lapped at when he felt her thighs tense around his head. Gods, she tasted like a gulpful of air on the purest beach.

After a few successful laps at her shaft, Lambert tilted his head, adjusted his angle, and carefully took her entire length into the wet heat of his mouth. Essi gasped and keened loudly over the cliffs, and Lambert wagered no one else had bothered to think of doing that. Numbskulls didn’t know what they were missing. He felt cool fingers weave into his hair as he worked, rubbing the textured base with his thumb and forefinger, which prompted a guttural groan from above him.

“F-fuck, al-” Essi swallowed thickly, willing herself to see this out. Gods-be-damned, he was good. “Alright. T-take your fingers and go back a bit, I ne-fuck I need something inside of me please.”

Lambert’s fingers stopped their back and forth drag around Essi’s shaft and dropped lower, sliding between slick lips and fitting comfortably into an opening that fluttered around the intrusion, drenching his hand with a fresh wave of arousal. It was quite the familiar spot for Lambert to find himself in, though it was...unexpected, what with her shaft having held the forefront of his attention so far.

He pulled away from her shaft long enough to make sure he knew what he was working with, “H-how...Essi, is this what I think it is?” Lambert’s voice was incredulous, almost sounding as if he had never known anything that had made him quite this happy.

“Essentially, yes.”

“Fuck, you’re incredible.”

Essi smiled, that oddly sharp canine tooth glinting under the moon, “All sirens are either Alphas or Omegas or Betas, and have the corresponding equivalent anatomy. With our own little twist, of course. I would be considered an Omega, if I were a full-blooded siren, but being half-human, I have my own unique variations. You should be more or less familiar with this territory. Unless I’m much mistaken.”

Lambert sighed happily. “Gods, woman. You are just a whole bunch of extra fun, aren’t you?”

He shuffled around for a moment, bracing himself on his knees and elbows with his head level with her core. Essi felt the warm fan of his breath over her before he slowly pushed two fingers inside of her, moving back and forth at a languid pace while his other hand resumed its gentle exploration of her shaft. “Is it extra sensitive down here too, or can I give you a little more?”

Essi shook her head as she felt Lambert’s tongue lap at the base of her length, teasing the ridges back and forth. “No more than typical I’d say, at least for what experiences with human women I’ve had. Th-the tip is the most sensitive, so you, uh...you can go for it. Just not too fast all at once, alright?”

Lambert nodded and carefully nosed down the line of her shaft and down to her entrance. His hand still moved loosely over the base while he licked into her core, broad strokes matching the pace of his hands around her and inside of her. Essi looked down and watched him with an odd expression. His eyes were closed and the high planes of his cheeks were flushed pink as the dark blue skin of her shaft bumped against his forehead with every stroke of his fist and tongue.

Meanwhile, Lambert was having a religious experience in the liminal space nestled between Essi’s thighs. Time didn’t exist outside of that spot, and for all he knew the world could’ve ceased turning and was hurtling towards oblivion. And if it were?

Well, he really didn’t give a shit.

His own cock was achingly hard, leaking pearly strings onto the grass between his knees. Lambert relished every twitch of Essi’s thighs around his head as he pushed his tongue into the warm embrace of her slit. He moaned from deep in his chest, his nose bumping against the ridges on Essi’s shaft while he still moved his hand around her.

Essi gasped and writhed as Lambert very gently ran his thumb over her extra-sensitive tip, not lingering or pushing her too far, just the barest shock of intensity before resuming his gentle exploration. Her hands flew to tangle into his hair and she could feel his smirk as he pressed his lips in soft kisses to the insides of her thighs. His chest rumbled with a hum as he slipped his fingers from her core and shoved them into his mouth, licking them clean.

“W-” she breathed, feeling the golden flames of his eyes trail over her skin, “why’d you stop?”

Lambert braced his hands on the ground and pushed himself up, the scruff on his chin shining with her arousal and the endearing smile on his lips. “Just don’t want this to be over before it starts. C...can I fuck you?”

Essi smiled and ran her hands over Lambert’s stomach, through the dark coarse hairs that led down to his cock jutting just next to her own hard shaft. “Yes,” she smiled, her blue eyes boring into his, “but not like this.”

She gently pushed Lambert’s shoulders back and sat up with him, slotting their lips together briefly before she flipped herself around onto her hands and knees.

Lambert groaned, running his hands up the back of her thighs and giving the soft rounds of her bum a squeeze. He slid his finger down to the slickness between her thighs. “Oh, fuck me sideways, woman.”

His hands were reverent, skirting tracks of stardust along her spine and down over the gentle swells of her hips. Essi arched her back and shot a devilish smirk back over her shoulder, waving her ass back and forth enticingly. “Come on then,” she said with a glint in her eyes, “be good to me.”

Oh, and if that didn’t go right the fuck to Lambert’s cock. He scooted forward on his knees and took himself in hand, running the head of his length through her slick folds a few times, catching on her entrance. He felt a queer growl reverberate through her skin and he chuckled. “Alright, alright. Patience, you.”

He pushed in slowly, feeling her envelope him in the most indulgent heat he had ever had the great grace to know. Lambert dug his fingertips into the meat of Essi’s ass, while Essi’s nails dragged tracks along the soft grass pillowed beneath her. As his hips blissfully met the backs of Essi’s thighs, Lambert let out a shaky breath in an effort to keep his mind clear in the hazy mist of Essi’s pleasure.

“You ah-” Lambert sighed as her walls fluttered welcomingly around him, “you alright?”

Essi reached back, grasping onto one of Lambert’s on her hip. “Very,” she breathed, her chest heaving and her cunt clenching and flexing around Lambert. “Now if you would kindly move, it would be greatly appreciated.”

“You know,” Lambert said as he slowly shifted his hips back before rolling back in, looking down at her shiny lips trying desperately to keep him buried within her, “you’re quite the spinstrel. You-nnng, you should be a bard…”

Essi chuckled lightly. “A half-siren bard with enchanted songs? A cliche if ever there was one.”

“Just a thought, trying to keep myself from finishing before we really get anywhere,” Lambert grunted, his hips picking up just a bit more speed. Essi planted her hands firmy back on the ground and met him thrust for thrust, the claps of their skin echoing back from the cliffs.

Both of them were being swept out to sea by their pleasure, rushing waves slamming back and forth between them. Lambert’s eyes flitted over every inch of Essi before him, from the soft waves of her golden hair that bounced with each snap of his hips, down the delicate slope of her back arching into him, the curly fuzz that surrounded her slit and brushed against him as he buried himself inside of her.

Lambert slowed himself, grinding his hips up and down. Essi grit her teeth and keened quietly, pushing herself back in an effort to encourage Lambert’s pace.

“C-can I flip you over?” Lambert huffed, tracking his hands over Essi’s hips. “I know it’ll be a lot, and if you don’t like it, we can go back to this. But...I think you might enjoy it-”

Essi gasped as Lambert’s cock just barely brushed against the tender bundle of nerves nestled deep within her. She nodded frantically, “Y-yes, we can-fuck, please Lambert…”

Lambert looked down, his eyes locked on the sweet blushed lips of Essi’s cunt as he dragged himself from her embrace. He groaned as he fell from her, thin tendrils of her slick still attempting valiantly to tie them back together. Essi slid down, slinking and twisting onto her back. Her shaft lay up on the mound of soft curls at the base, shining with her arousal as Lambert crawled atop her.

He leaned down, resting their foreheads together and searching those far-too-deep eyes. He could smell her lust dripping from her skin, but could see just a hint of worry hidden in her glances. “Hey,” Lambert whispered, brushing their lips together as he spoke, “like I said. You don’t like it, say the word and we stop. No questions asked.”

Essi took a deep breath and nodded, swallowing thickly. “I promise, I want this. So fucking much. It’s just...going to be a lot. I don’t want to push too far...but I also kind of want to push too far, if that makes sense.”

Lambert pressed his lips softly along the line of her jaw and down into the hollow of her neck. “It absolutely does. But not too far, not tonight. Maybe, if we see our paths cross again, we can have some fun with that.”

Essi waggled her eyebrows and gently rolled her hips, gasping when the base of her shaft rutted against Lambert’s cock. “Please, fuck me.”

“It would be my pleasure,” Lambert hummed as he lined himself up in her slit beneath her shaft, pushing back into her warm embrace with a growl that tore through his chest. The cool air on his back was shocked in great contrast with Essi’s body, hot and wet and so fucking tight.

Lambert gave a few good thrusts until he was buried deep within her, and fuck if he didn’t want to stay there until the world stopped turning. He leaned down, wrapping his arms underneath Essi’s back and letting his hands grip onto the backs of her shoulders. He felt her walls flutter valiantly around him and he groaned into her mouth.

Essi was shocked with just how much she felt Lambert. In her, on her, around her. Everywhere. He was fucking her slowly, intensely. Deeply. He wasn’t even really thrusting anymore, just grinding up into her and the coarse hairs on his stomach leading down to his groin brushed against her shaft every. Fucking. Time. She was almost delirious with the intensity, but instead of wanting to dance away from the ache, she found herself with the low burn of craving that had her fingers itching for every ounce of Lambert that she could reach.

Essi dug her nails into the short strands of his hair, mussing it before smoothing her hands down his neck and over his shoulders. Lambert shuddered over her, beads of sweat collecting at his temples as he nipped at her chin. Through the haze of her building climax, Essi only barely had the wherewithal to rub her thumbs over his nipples in time with the rolls of his hips.

And sweet fucking Gods above that was almost enough to do Lambert in. Just barely hanging on by a thread, he persists, determined to see Essi through to a satisfying finish. He felt her shaft pressing into the cushion of his stomach, the ridges along the underside sliding along the tender space of skin nestled right above his cock. “F-fuck,” he moans, tasting his own arousal on her lips, “w..what do you need? I’m so close, I-I need you to-”

“T-touch me,” Essi whispered, her eyes fluttering shut as another wave arousal threatened to send her over, so close but not quite enough. “The t-tip, not a lot, jus-aaaahhhhhhh-”

Lambert reached between their bodies, lightly glancing his fingers in gentle strokes over the blushed tip of her shaft. Her back arched high and he could taste her tears of overstimulation as the wave of climax finally, blissfully overtook her.

And...well. That was an experience that Lambert found himself woefully underprepared for. Sure, he was familiar with the sensation of a fluttering cunt flexing around his cock. But holy fucking shit was the rest of this uncharted territory.

Essi’s shaft spurted out long streaks of spend, much thinner and wetter than he expected. It actually reminded him of a woman he had been with years ago who let out a long release of liquid when he hit a certain angle over and over again inside of her and drenched the both of them in her slick. The same happened with Essi as she spent long and hard, spurts of her arousal wetting the downy hairs on Lambert’s chest and pooling in the soft valley between her breasts.

Lambert’s hips faltered and he ground himself once, twice, thrice more before pulling himself out and stripping his cock, frantically letting his own orgasm white out his senses. He spent pearly white ropes over her shaft and her stomach, letting it drip down into the petals of her cunt.

His chest heaved as he felt his senses poke and prod at his climax-squishy brain. He could feel Essi’s hands smoothing down his arms and up to cup his face, her lips pressing soft kisses across his cheeks and into his slack mouth.

It was the scent of their spends mixing atop Essi’s skin that brought Lambert back to the present, Essi’s saltier and with a sweeter musk than he would think. He leaned down and ran his tongue between her breasts, his hands cupping the tender mounds while he tasted her pleasure. Her spend was clear with a light blue-grey tinge, and fuck it was addicting. She ran her fingers through his hair as he mouthed at her, moving down her stomach and over the hairs at the peak of her core. Her shaft had softened and slid itself back away, but she still glistened beneath the moonlight with the evidence of their climaxes.

Lambert sat up, bracing his hands on either side of Essi’s hips. “Well,” he smirked, but Essi could see a soft twinkle in his eyes, “did I do a well enough job to earn an encore?”

Essi laughed lightly, “I’d say yes, with certainty. Though, not for quite a while. I think you may have ruined me for taking any lovers in the near future. Not that I’m complaining, mind you.”

Lambert dipped his head and captured her lips, letting their tastes mingle on their tongues. “Shall I come find you in Skellige?”

Essi hummed, “If you like. I shall not turn you away should you find me.”

“And if you find me first?”

Essi pushed his shoulders back, shifting and rising to meet him on her knees. “Then I shall call for you, just as I did here. Just follow my song.”

[imjustheretoseetheprivateblogs]

This is late, and I have other prompts backlogged but I wanted to do this. Hopefully, I’ll have at least three other drabbles posted before months in. Here’s the rules if anyone’s interested

He wore red for their meetings.

It was to make sure that she could see him in the foliage and to recognize him.

Clandestine meetings in the forest where they had first crossed paths, back in the spring when the heat hadn’t been smothering and even the dark of the night seemed stagnant and muggy. Romelle felt sticky and frazzled, but the feeling of her lover’s kisses on her neck was enough to distract her from the sweltering air around them.

“I’m sorry you have to see me like this.”

They’d forgotten to check their calendars. The night they’d decided to meet had been the night of the full moon, when Keith’s transformation took place.

He and his family (he called it a pack) lived deep within the woods, far from human contact and took pains to avoid them. Too many mobs, when she’d asked why they did this, too many dying screams. The night he’d first stayed over in her townhouse, he’d awoken to memories of this and she’d held him, given him words of comfort, kissed his cheek until he’d fallen back to sleep in her arms.

She’d wondered just what would cause a family to be run out of town in the way he described.

It was not until she had gone looking for him on a cold winter night in January, worried for his safety during a snowstorm that she had seen why first hand.

He took the shape of a wolf once, sometimes twice a month, a condition he’d had since he was born he’d told her. A condition that worried him since the time she’d first told her, that he would one day lose command of his senses and destroy everything around him.

“You shouldn’t worry,” Romelle told him, running a hand through the fur at the nape of his neck, “it’s you, so I don’t mind.”

“I just…”

“I don’t mind,” she said, much more firmly. Her hands slid to his back and she marveled at the broadness of it, how the moonlight had made him somehow…more enticing to her.

Instead of hands running up and down her sides, claws raked up them, as gently as humanly possible. His voice was rougher, more guttural, but still unmistakably his. His teeth are replaced with fangs, but he takes care not to break her skin as he kisses her. His eyes, normally dark and storm colored, were now the color of amber. Where once he had only been as tall as her, now he was easily a head and shoulders over her and new muscle had grown in all the right places.

But the gentleness had stayed, the protectiveness had stayed, the tenderness that she’d fallen in love with the first time they’d met in the forest had not changed with his body.

They’d met when she’d been on her way to her grandmother’s house. He’d been working as a woodsman and escorted her to her grandmother’s front door.

They’d kept in touch after that, in spite of the town’s best efforts.

“They’re cursed,” the apothecary had said, “every last one of them damned.”

Romelle didn’t care. He would come into town to stay with her for dinner, she would take food to him in the woods, meeting in a clearing he’d shown her filled with wildflowers and an old weeping willow where they spent their time.

But even their private sanctuary was no match for the early August heat.

There was a sound of ripping fabric and Keith growled.

“Sorry,” he said, shrugging the remains of his shirt off, “this body’s hard on my clothes.”

He’d taken the red jerkin he wore for their meetings off by the time she’d reached the clearing. Romelle frowned at the absence of contact.

“Well, you’re lucky,” she said, “I don’t have an excuse to get out of this dress.”

“Do you want one?” Keith asked, returning to her.

“Do you have a reason for me?” Romelle asked.

“Well…”

Even through the fur, Romelle could see just how much Keith was blushing.

Honestly, she loved him but when Keith got bashful, he could be very slow to answer. And she was burning up, in spite of the fact that she was wearing the lightest outfit she owned.

She’d have to take matters into her own hands. Now seemed like the time to try something she’d read in a book she’d bought and kept hidden in the bottom of her stockings drawer. She’d probably be dead from embarrassment if it didn’t work, but you never know if you don’t try.

Hooking her leg around her lover’s hip, Romelle pulled herself up to the shell of his ear, now triangular in shape from his transformation and took it between her teeth. Keith yelped in surprise at her actions. Hoping she hadn’t hurt him, she soothed the bite mark she’d left with her tongue before blowing on it.

Keith crumpled, like a burning leaf, drawing her close to him and she hears the noise he makes from deep within his throat.

“Romelle…”

“Did you like that?” she asked.

“Yes.”

Keith backed her into the trunk of the willow, her other leg wrapping around his waist as he began to kiss and nip at her pulse.

Romelle gasped as her mind was began to haze from his ministrations and she felt his movement against her, a rutting movement.

“Is there a place we can cool off?” she whispered.

“The river,” Keith said, his voice weak, a large paw-like hand fisting the skirt of her dress.

“Take me there,” Romelle said, “please.”

Keith gathered her into his arms and with all the grace of a forest animal, loped off into the night, towards the river. Romelle tightened her hold around his neck. Hopefully, it wouldn’t be too far away.

[onemilliongoldstars]

a crown seldom enjoyed - chapter 29

To maintain the fragile peace between north and south, Clarke of House Tyrell is sent to live in Winterfell as an act of faith between the two kingdoms. There, she is put under the protection of the first queen in the north, Queen Lexa of House Stark, Daughter of Wolves. A woman draped in steel and silver, wolves at her heels and rumoured to be a manifestation of the fury of the old gods; Clarke refuses to be awed be her quiet violence and cold smile. Instead of fostering unity, the meeting of the wolf and the rose lights a spark that spreads through the rest of Westeros, threatening to burn it to the ground.

29/33

clexa game of thrones au

read on ao3

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Book Three- Chapter 8

Early summer in Kings Landing truly is beautiful. Before the days become so hot and muggy that you are forced to rest when the sun is at its highest, the city is engulfed in long, warm, dry days that seem to last forever and ever. When she thinks of her childhood in Kings Landing this is what she remembers: periwinkle blue skies, filled with hazy clouds, the sweet smell of flowers and fruit in the air, and days that never ended. Today is one of those days, and as she walks through the gardens of the Red Keep in her airy, flowing gown, she can almost forget the small circlet upon her head. Beside her, Lord Marcus matches her gait easily, and at her back are Octavia and Roan, their white Queensguard capes flowing. Despite the smiles and bows that people offer as she passes, she is not so naïve as to think that her fight for the throne is over.

“The nobles are beginning to wonder about Lord Pike’s whereabouts.” Lord Marcus’s voice is cast low to avoid them being overheard, and Clarke attempts to keep her expression as neutral as possible. “You will have to announce his arrest soon or appear a tyrant.”

“I will,” She pauses, smiles at a pair of passing nobles. “Everything is falling into place.”

“I don’t need to tell you that there will be outcry and opposition.”

“You don’t,” She agrees, calmly. “It is not those foolish enough to disagree with me publicly who I fear, it is those who whisper in private.” Her brows furrow and she sighs softly. “There will be many whispers and I must master them.”

“I will endeavour to find someone who can help with that.” Lord Marcus informs her, and when her eyes cut to him he offers a small smile and says. “That is what it means to be Hand of the Queen isn’t it?”

“Indeed it is,” She smiles at him and for a moment it is as if nothing has changed between them. “I am glad to have you, Lord Marcus.”

“I am glad to be of service, your majesty,” His eyes soften and he continues. “Your mother will be here soon.”

A sigh escapes her before she can help herself and she rolls her eyes when Marcus smiles. “I am aware.”

“She will be glad to see you,” Lord Marcus presses and she can only incline her head in agreement as they step into the dark rose tunnel, where the scent is so heady it makes her head swirl. She can’t help but think of her moments with Finn here, where she saw more the boy he was than the weak king he became and her heart thuds with pain. In the darkness they are more hidden and Marcus feels able to say. “You should be kind to her.” 

“I know,” Clarke hesitates, brushing her fingers across the petal of a drooping rose, heavy under its own weight. “I just- it will be strange to see her.”

“She is still your mother.”

“I’m not the daughter she left behind,” Clarke protests, “She always wanted to protect me and in the end… that isn’t what I needed.”

“You may think you are more your father than your mother, but I see much of her in you too.” Marcus gives her a slight smile and he seems suddenly older than he has before.

“Sometimes I forget that you knew her long before even my father.” Clarke considers him, “When she was just a girl.”

Marcus arches an eyebrow in her direction. “Your mother was never ‘just a girl’, she was utterly wild in her youth. I fear I was never able to keep pace with her games as she would have liked.”

 “I- I never knew that,” She admits. “It always seemed that she wanted me to be the perfect lady.”

“By forcing you to learn your histories and healing?” Marcus shakes his head, “She was preparing you, even if you didn’t know it. When she met your father she changed, he brought something out in her that I’m sure not even she knew existed. She was so very in love with him.” When his eyes flicker to her they are filled with pain and sympathy and she feels her heart ache. “His death almost shattered her.”

She considers his words in silence, letting the heady scent of the roses surround her. It reminds her of home, of Highgarden, and watching her parents smile at one another over their meals, as if they had a secret they wouldn’t tell.

“I wanted her here,” She murmurs, at last, unable to meet Marcus’s eyes. “I needed her.”

 Marcus nods slowly, and his voice is filled with understanding when he answers. “One of the sad facts of becoming older is realising that the people we thought invincible are just as human as we are.” He places a hand on her shoulder, something she is sure he would not dare to do unless they were alone. “Forgive her, if you can.”

When they step out into the gardens again, Clarke tells herself that it is the sunlight making her blink away tears, rather than Lord Arryn’s words.

They round a corner and Clarke feels her lips twitching into a smile at the sight of an ever familiar figure approaching. Lexa is flanked by Anya and Lincoln, Faith and Honour at her sides, and her usual dark jerkin is replaced today by a light linen shirt and waistcoat in the brightness of the day. Princess Arianna is walking alongside her, speaking fervently about something, but the moment their eyes catch Lexa cannot seem to tear herself away. Arianna cuts herself off when she sees that she doesn’t have the queen’s full attention, and follows her gaze with a slight smirk.

“Your majesty,” Clarke greets her when they meet on their path.

“Your majesty,” Lexa returns, and there is a softness to her gaze that bellies her polite tone. “Lord Arryn,” She adds, and Clarke flushes a little, her eyes darting to Princess Arianna.

“Princess.”

 “Your majesty,” The princess’s eyes are filled with mirth and Clarke hurries to speak before she can say anything too obvious.

 “Are you enjoying the gardens?”

“They’re lovely,” Lexa answers her, almost too quickly.

“Have you seen the reflecting pool?” Clarke’s eyes can’t seem to leave her face, watching the play of sunlight across her smile. “It’s quite wonderful on a warm day.”

“We haven’t,” Lexa’s smile only grows when Clarke says. 

“I would be happy to show you.” 

“Unfortunately I have seen the reflecting pool many times,” Princess Arianna puts in, her lips twitching, “I should find my sisters, your majesties.”

“I will accompany you,” Lord Marcus bows his head to them both, and Clarke watches as the pair fall into step together and walk away.

When she meets Lexa’s gaze, the woman gives her a rueful smile and says, “We were only recently with her sisters.”

Clarke’s brows twitch and she bites back a grin as they begin to walk together down the sloping path towards the reflecting gardens. “The Princess has always known more than she ought.”

“It makes her a useful ally,” Lexa adds, and Clarke nods her agreement. “How are you finding your hand of the queen?” 

“Lord Marcus is a good man, sensible. He advises that I have Pike’s trial soon.”  Lexa hums her agreement as they make their way through the orange groves.

“It’s only a matter of time before people find out, better that they hear it from you first.”

 “You’re right,” Her fingers slip up to touch at the chain around her neck, where the key to Pike’s cell is settled in her bosom. “I just don’t want to leave anything to chance, he has to die for all that he’s done.”

“The Gods are just, Clarke,” There is something so certain to her words that Clarke’s eyes flicker over to her again. “He will pay for his crimes.” There is not a flicker of insincerity to her, and Clarke shakes her head, a little awed.

“I wish that I could still trust in the judgement of the gods,” She says, wearily, as they step through an old archway and into the deserted courtyard that holds the reflecting pool. “They do not seem just or good to me anymore.”

“I know that they are,” Lexa counters, very quietly and reaches out to brush a touch over Clarke’s elbow, drawing their eyes back together. “They brought us back together when all seemed lost.”

 Her breath catches in her throat and she can’t help but think that here, in this small, sunlit grove, Lexa looks more beautiful than any woman ever has before. Lexa’s cheeks are flushed with her words, but she doesn’t avert her gaze, and eventually it is Clarke that has to pull her eyes away, because she knows that if she doesn’t their lips will meet again. They fall into step together, the guards stationing themselves by the archway, and Clarke leads Lexa towards the shallow pool at the centre of the courtyard, lined with low brick and filled with water so clear that when Clarke leans over it she can see her reflection between the still lily pads. 

“It’s lovely here,” Lexa breaks the silence, her eyes wandering across the courtyard to take in the oak trees with branches that spread wide and leave a dappling of sunlight on the sandy cobblestone floor below their feet. “Very peaceful.”

“Not many people come here,” Clarke admits, walking slowly around the edge of the pool. “Wells and I came a lot when I was a girl, it was a good place to find some peace.”

“I can imagine,” Lexa’s smile is soft and fond, “You spent a lot of time in the capital growing up?”

Clarke nods, reaching down to touch at a lily pad and bump it gently into its counterparts, watching as the motion sends a shiver through the still pond. “My father was here often and he brought me with him. I spent a lot of time with Wells.”

“You must be glad to have him back,” Lexa’s eyes do not leave hers, even as she perches on the small wall beside the pool, watching from across it as Clarke nods, her breath catching in her throat. 

“I am,” She cannot bear to keep their eyes together as they speak. “I- It is a little strange, after everything that has happened.”

“I can imagine so,” When she chances a glance at her, Clarke finds Lexa’s expression softly sympathetic. 

“He was my best friend,” With a soft sigh, Clarke rounds the other side of the pond and takes a seat at Lexa’s side. Above them jasmine grows around the trunk of the gnarled old oak and wraps itself into the tree’s branches, twisting and clutching like fingers and drooping down around them when it becomes too heavy. It’s white flowers bloom in little clutches, the scent heavy in the air and when Clarke’s gaze flickers upwards she can see sunlight glimpsing from between its thick foliage. “And now…” She meets Lexa’s gaze, considering for a moment, “Lexa, Wells has a son.”

Lexa blinks, and her eyes widen. “A son?”

“He’s the reason that Pike could make him go to Oldtown and be with the maesters, he’s the reason Wells didn’t run or confess or fight.” Clarke shakes her head, a low, rough laugh escaping her. “Wells was never one to be irresponsible but this…” Her eyes meet Lexa’s again, something desperate and raw in them. “Sometimes I think that if I were only born a man my life would be so different.”

“The world is not forgiving for women like us,” Lexa agrees, lowly. “Will Wells reclaim the throne?”

“He says he doesn’t want it,” Clarke half shrugs. “I can’t imagine…”

“And he will let you keep it?” Lexa’s hand slides hesitantly across the top of the stone wall on which they sit, her fingers glancing delicately over the back of Clarke’s.

“He will,” Clarke turns her hand over and catches Lexa’s fingers with her own, lacing them together, and a ghost of s smile flickers across her lips when Lexa’s breath catches in her throat. 

“And do you want it?”

Clarke meets Lexa’s eyes, the green so deep and lovely she thinks she can smell the forests of the north from here, pine and woodsmoke. “Do I have a choice?”

“We always have a choice,” Lexa assures her, gently, and squeezes their fingers. “I think you will make the right one.”

“When Wells and I were children we would play here all the time,” Clarke glances back at the small, peaceful grove, sunlit and lovely. “Once, when it was the middle of the summer and the sun burned so hotly everyone retired to their chambers, we stripped down to our undergarments and splashed in the reflecting pool.” She can’t help the laugh that slips through her. “Our Septa was so furious she nearly boxed our ears.” 

Lexa is smiling at her story and her thumb strokes gently over the back of Clarke’s hand. “You and he were good friends.” At Clarke’s nod she continues, “I am sure he will understand whatever your decision is.” 

“You’re probably right,” With a soft sigh, she allows herself to lean gently against Lexa’s side. There is no one to see them and she feels so world weary that she can barely stand the ache in her heart. Lexa’s hand curls more tightly around hers and she is glad that from here she can’t see Lexa’s face as she says. “I am glad you’re here, is that selfish?” 

“I’m glad I’m here too.” Lexa admits, after a moment of silence, and when Clarke glances up at her, she sees a flicker of worry and yearning in her eyes. 

“Marcus says my mother will return very soon,” She promises, her heart heavy with the words. “She is the only person left who can help me charge Pike, once that is done you can return to Winterfell knowing all is well here.”

“I’m not sure if I want to leave,” Lexa confesses, and it feels so soft and still, like something that should not have been spoken aloud. Clarke’s breath catches in her throat and she cannot tear her gaze away from Lexa’s face. “I worry about Aden and my home and my people, of course I do, but-” Her eyes meet Clarke’s and there is something earth shattering there, something that balances on the knife edge of heartache. 

Clarke’s fingers tighten around hers and Lexa swallows. They are so close to one another that Clarke can count the speckles of gold in her eyes, like a smattering of stars across the night sky. Lexa’s lips part, rosebud pink and so soft, and Clarke fears that she will not be able to stop herself when a voice from the archway breaks their reverie. 

“Your majesty.”

An exhale escapes Clarke, shivering from her chest, and she feels Lexa squeeze her fingers once more before she pulls herself away and moves to stand, wandering around the reflecting pool to gaze down into it. Clarke’s hand clenches into a fist at the loss and her pulls in a long breath before finally standing to face Octavia, stood in the archway to the courtyard. 

“What is it, Octavia?” If there is a bite of harshness to her voice she is only glad that it isn’t shown in her expression. 

“There is an envoy here to see you, from the Iron Bank.” 

Clarke’s eyes widen, and she turns meet Lexa’s surprised gaze as the northern queen crosses the courtyard to stand by her side. 

“The Iron Bank? Your letter can’t have been that fast.”

“He awaits you in your private quarters, your majesty.” Octavia’s eyes flicker between them, and Clarke feels curiosity burn in her gut. 

“Maybe they came of their own will to meet the new queen,” She muses aloud, and Lexa nods. Her fingers glance over her sword. 

“May I accompany you?” She asks, and Clarke knows how difficult it is for her to pose the question. 

“Of course.”

---

When the doors to her private solar are swung open, the first thing she sees as she steps inside is Lord Marcus. He is stood near the window speaking with a figure whose back is turned, and he smiles upon seeing her enter, bowing his head respectfully. 

“Your majesty,” He greets her, “I was just welcoming Cage Wallace, the representative sent by the Iron Bank.”

“Thank you, Lord Arryn.” The words die in her throat, her body freezing like ice as the figure turns to look at her. Though his hair is cropped short like all of the Bravossi bankers and he wears the expensive, dark coloured robes that Dante Wallace had worn, his face is utterly unmistakable. It is the face of the man from whom she had squeezed the life the night of her wedding. 

Her mind spins, struggling and before she knows it she has taken a minute step backwards. Her fingers grasp for her dagger but she does not wear it. The man’s eyes are utterly unmistakable, dark with thick eyebrows above them, age just beginning to leave its lines in the creases of his face. He looks out at her passively and she grasps for something to say, anything at all. Lexa beats her to it. 

“Are you well?” She is looking at her with concern and her own fingers are dancing across the pommel of her blade. Her gaze is searching and hard, reading the terror in Clarke’s features, and Clarke’s gaze flickers from the man professing to be Cage Wallace to Lexa and back again. At her side, Faith growls low in the back of her throat. 

“Are you, your majesty?” Marcus has come to stand beside the man and Clarke has to bite back the urge to grab him and drag him away. 

“Do you have anything to prove that you are who you say you are?” She asks at last, and her voice shakes just slightly. 

“Of course,” Lord Marcus’s face clears, though Lexa’s does not, her gaze still fixed to Clarke curiously. “You are wise to be safe, your majesty, but I have met Cage Wallace before several times with his father and though my eyes are getting older I still recognise him. I can vouch for him.”

“I believe you met my father Dante,” The man speaks at last and Clarke’s heart beats even faster. “He brought you wine, as he recalled it, and was rather taken with you.”

The words settle within her like a rock in her stomach and as she runs her eyes over this man she knows quite suddenly that they are all in danger. There is something about him that prickles her skin, and makes Faith snarl and snap, and when her eyes find Lexa and Marcus again a shiver of fear runs through her. 

“I’d like to speak to Cage Wallace alone, if you wouldn’t mind.” The pronouncement surprises everyone, not least Lexa who stares at her, eyes wide. 

“If you wish, your majesty,” Lord Marcus says at last, beginning to gesture people from the room. Only Lexa remains, her gaze hot against Clarke’s face. 

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to remain?” There is a note of confusion and frustration to her voice that Clarke tries her best to ignore. 

“Quite sure,” Clarke gives a nod, and when Lexa goes to protest again talks over her, her voice as hard as she make it. “Leave us if you would, Queen Lexa.”

The man’s eyes dart to Lexa with interest when Clarke says her name and it is all she can do not to launch herself across the room and rip his eyes from her face for even daring to look her way. Eventually, Lexa nods unhappily and walks from the room, bristling with fury. Honour accompanies her, but Faith remains at Clarke’s side and for that Clarke is immensely glad. 

The moment the door shuts she spins on her heel and grabs at the ornate gold vase on a pedestal near the door. It is heavy and unwieldy, but she is sure that she could smash it through the man’s skull if she had to and that is enough for her. Faith’s growl becomes a low, rumbling roar of fury, and Clarke scowls at him, holding the vase high and ready. The man stares back at her, unmoving and unaffected by her violence. 

“Who are you?” She demands on a hiss, and in the bright sunlight the man puts his hands behind his back and regards her with an utterly blank expression. 

“A man is no one.”

The words perplex and baffle her and she bristles at them, her grip on the vase not dropping. “No one is no one. You have- your face-”

“My face is not my own face.” The man says, quite simply and terror curls through Clarke’s heart at the words. 

“You’re a- you’re a faceless man,” She concludes aloud, her breath almost choking her. 

“A man is no one,” He says again, and then continues, “But for your court, I am Cage Wallace, banker of Braavos.” As he speaks something in his voice and manner changes, a sly smirk curling at the corners of his lips. “Cage Wallace is well known here, though not well liked. It was easy enough to find his way in the castle and get an audience with the queen of the south.”

“And you’re here to kill me,” She concludes, proud that her voice doesn’t shake. “Properly this time.”

“A man is not here to kill you, Queen Clarke.” His manner drops again, becoming unnervingly calm and blank. “It is not what the Many Faced God wills.”

“The Many Faced…” Her arms are beginning to ache but she cannot let her grip on her weapon go. She has not fought this hard to be baited into an easy kill now. 

“A man cannot kill out of anger or fear,” The assassin explains, his voice measured, as if he were talking of the seasons or the harvest. “To do so is to steal from the Many Faced God, a man may only kill when the price is right and the Many Faced God wills it.”

“And he- he does not will my death any longer?” Clarke feels spun out, like a child with her eyes blindfolded and twisted in circles.

“He does not.” The assassin confirms, nodding once. 

“Why not?” She can feel her voice ricocheting up with anger and fear. Where he is so emotionless and blank, she finds her own feelings bubbling to the surface despite herself. “Why change his mind now?”

Here, the assassin does smile just slightly. “Twice the Many Faced God has been asked to give you the gift of death and twice you have evaded him. You have evaded the gift that comes for us all.”

“It- it was three times,” She can’t help but correct him. 

“No, it was twice.” The man lifts his hand to his face and with one pinch he draws the face he wears away and sets it upon the long table between them. Beneath it is at entirely different face, with light eyes and darker skin. She knows enough not to think that it is the man’s real face. “Cage Wallace came to us from the Iron Bank and asked the Many Faced God for your death three times. Twice the Many Faced God tried to give you the gift of death and we did not succeed. When Cage Wallace came the third time, we refused him. It was clearly not the will of the Many Faced God for you to die.”

“But- but Cage’s face changed when I killed him, he was one of you.” Clarke protests, furiously, her grip on the vase slackening just slightly. At her side Faith is still growling softly, her hackles raised and her fur bristling. 

“Cage Wallace found out enough about us to know our craft,” The man’s face twists with displeasure, the most emotion Clarke has seen from him since she stepped into the room. “He fooled one of our novices and stole a face. It seemed he thought a face was all it took to kill someone.” A ghost of pleasure crosses his features. “You proved him wrong.”

“So why are you here?” Clarke cannot tear her eyes away from him. “If not to kill me, what do you want?”

“A life was taken from you using our craft.” He reaches into his robe and sets a heavy iron coin onto the table between them. “You are owed a life Clarke of House Tyrell. Choose one and the Many Faced God shall take it for you.”

With trembling fingers, she reaches out and takes the coin from the table, turning it within her hands. On one side is a man, whose face is blank beneath his hood, and on the other side are words. 

“Valar morghulis,” She reads aloud, her brows furrowing. 

“All men must die,” The assassin translates for her and she can feel his expectant gaze resting on her. “You may pick only one, however.”

Her eyes stay fixed to the heavy coin, turning it over and over in her hands, her fingers finding the grooves and ridges. She has had so many enemies over her time, so many people whose death would serve her well and now when faced with the choice she cannot think on one name. Pike sits on the tip of her tongue, like a habit, but she knows that if he were to be killed by an assassin he would only become a martyr to his cause and rally his people behind him. A wet nose pressing against her hand pulls her from her thoughts and she looks down to see Faith’s large head at her side, eyes gazing up at her. In that moment she knows what she will do. 

“I don’t want you to take a life,” She says finally, her voice low. Her eyes flicker up to meet his. “I want you to save one.”

He blinks, a flicker of surprise in his gaze. “Save a life.” He echoes, “We are assassins.”

“You owe me a life,” She reminds him, immediately, and curls her fingers over the coin. “I choose this one.”

He stares at her for a long moment, thinking on her words, before finally nodding. “Alright then, Queen Clarke. “We will protect a life for you. Simply say their name.”

She takes a deep breath and runs her fingers over the words on the coin again. All men must die, but they are not men. 

“Lexa of House Stark, the Queen in the North.”

---

When the Faceless Man leaves, she slips her way down to Grand Maester Orrin’s chambers, where the body of her attempted assassin lies upon a cold stone slab as the old man attempted to discover anything about his mystical powers.

When she steps into the room, a torch held aloft, her breath splutters. The face of the man on the slab is utterly blank, and upstairs in her chambers she finds that the assassin had left the face of Cage Wallace, perfectly preserved.

[monstersandmaw]

Could i get a spiderkin and human with no.1?

“Surprise, I have feelings and you just hurt them.” This one got long and feelsy. I went with a drider because I’m not 100% sure what a spiderkin is, and I stuck in a ‘read more’ to save thumbs on scrolling...

Gathered around the fire one evening, the six of you had started up your usual playful banter before you’d even finished serving out the bread and roast meat. Who had started it, you weren’t sure, but in no time you had rounded on Mhorcan and the big orc was laughing and giving as good as he got. The only member of your mercenary band who didn't join in the teasing was Fingal. The firelight seemed to make their rounded drider’s body shift with the dancing flames and the shadows of their long, spindly legs flickered on the trees, making it seem like the trunks themselves were flickering and moving.  

“I might be a big old thug,” Mhorcan grinned, turning on you again, “But at least I’m not a puny little human with freaky little limbs - they look like they’d snap if I just tapped them! At least I can defend myself with my own two hands!”  

“Oi!” you laughed, “Who got us through that locked door yesterday? Who was the only one who wasn’t butt-ugly enough to flirt with the guards and distract them while you lot got away? Huh? Oh, that’s right, me!” You took another mouthful of your supper and added, “And if anyone’s freaky looking, it’s Fingal!”

The banter moved on after that, but Fingal stayed silent and still before withdrawing into the shadows and vanishing altogether down towards the nearby creek.  

Hespe, a rakshasa with the pattern of a tiger, elbowed you in the ribs and hissed, “I think you were a bit harsh to Fin…”  

“Really?” you asked. “I didn’t mean anything by it. You know that…”

“Yeah, but do they? They looked kind of hurt…”

With a sigh you pushed yourself upright, guilt churning now in your stomach as you thought back to your harsh words. They were kind of freaky looking, with long spindly legs that ended in lethal, onyx talons, a dusky, pendulous body, and the skin of their upper torso was so white it was almost translucent, with colourless hair hanging down their back like a silk curtain. And their eight crimson eyes were… unnerving. But it was all unnerving in a strangely fae and beautiful kind of way; they didn’t look real most of the time.  

They’d left their bow and quiver and all their gear behind at the camp, so you knew they couldn’t have gone far, and sure enough as you came down to the little brook that burbled its way through the woods, you saw them standing in the middle of it. Their legs were braced like a heron’s in the weak current, firm and steady as the pilings of a jetty as the water lapped around their fragile looking ankles, and the moonlight made their skin look like back-lit alabaster. Their leather jerkin was still buckled up tight around their neck despite the warmth of the evening, and they’d pulled their long hair forwards over one shoulder, leaving their back looking strangely vulnerable. 

“Fin?” you murmured as you stepped out onto the pebbled shore. Your boots crunched beneath you, disturbing the strange spell that seemed to fill the air.  

When they turned to look at you, your heart stopped. You’d never seen them show such raw emotion. In fact, you’d never seen much of any emotion on their face.  

“You alright?”

One shoulder rose in a half-shrug and they blinked those eerie red eyes once.

“Look, back there…” you began awkwardly, scratching the back of your head. “You know we were just messing around, right? I didn’t mean it… not really… I didn’t want to hurt you. We were all just poking fun at each other…”

They bowed their head in a slow nod. “Right.” Even their voice was like spun silk; smooth, soft, and just barely-there. 

“I didn’t know it’d bother you.”

“Yeah, well…” they said, turning away, legs still immobile in the water. “Surprise, I have feelings and you just hurt them.”

“I’m sorry,” you said, staring at the rippling water as shame burned your cheeks and neck all the way down to your collarbones. “Really, I’m sorry. I should never have made you feel like that just to get a laugh from the others. I didn’t know you were so…”

Suddenly they turned in a flash, kingfisher-fast, and you found yourself staring up at them in their full anger. “Didn’t know I was so what? Sensitive? Feeling? That I actually care? That I’ve been made to feel like a freak by people my whole life? Guess what…?”

You only realised you’d stumbled and fallen back onto the ground behind you when pain flared in your hands. You’d grazed your palms as you’d landed, but a bruised backside and scuffed skin was no more than you deserved for being so thoughtless. “I didn’t know, Fin,” you protested. “You’re so private. I just assumed you didn’t care. I’m sorry I didn’t think. I’m sorry, ok? I promise to be different.”

They narrowed their eyes and moved back, relaxing, gentling, their legs moving in sequence, like fingers on keyboard. “It’s alright,” they sighed. They watched you dusting off your palms and added, “Are you alright?”

You grinned. “Maybe Mhorcan was right after all.”

“Oh?” they asked, leaning down and offering you a hand up from the ground.  

“Maybe I am just a puny little human after all…?”

“Little, yes,” they grinned, showing a mouthful of fangs. “Puny… not so much. I’ve seen you in a scuffle.”

“Thanks,” you said, referring to more than just the hand up.  

You splashed your face in the river before heading back up to camp to bed down for the night. The pair of you made your way through the trees in silence, but it had shifted now. The tension had been cut, and it was only the sound of your footsteps through the undergrowth and the barely-there whisper of their spindly legs between the two of you.

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(Hope you enjoyed it! Reminder that requests are now closed! Thank you!)

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[katlyn1948]

Only Human: Part 7 “The Stag and The Fawn”

So this is it! This is the last part....well not technically, I am writing an epilogue. This fic turned out longer than I anticipated and I even added extra parts to it, because I didn’t want to part with it. But alas, it is time. I am glad that I wrote this, I need to focus on another story from “An Unexpected Journey” to help get my creative juices flowing. I am about half way through with writing part 12 for AUJ and I hope to have it up by next weekend...fingers crossed. It just sucks because I work full time and by the time I get home, it’s already 8 at night and I have to get ready for the next day...so like the only time I have to write is the weekend or during my lunch break. Anyway...I’m getting WAY too personal..lol. I hope you enjoy this chapter and I will try to have the epilogue up by Sunday EST. Enjoy and always, happy reading!

The Stag and the Fawn

Gendry stared at the two women in front of him, his mouth agape. When the cook’s boy Harold had told him Mya was entertaining a guest in his solar, he hadn’t expected Arya Stark to be sitting in front of her. He was sure that it would be another prospect for marriage that Lord Estermont had recommended. Mya, with her sick sense of humor, would have brought the girl up just to see his face wrinkle in disgust. But instead of a prissy high born lady in some gods awful dress, sat Arya Stark with a babe strapped to her chest.

There were so many questions running through his head, but none seemed to escape his lips. All he could do was stare at the woman who left him nearly a year prior. He truly believed that he would never see her in the flesh again. All he had were his memories that would plague him every night about the woman he loved.

Mya cleared her throat and Gendry’s gaze tore from Arya, landing on his sister who sat just opposite of her.

“Wolf got your tongue, brother?” She teased.

Gendry glared at her; his eyes shining with fury. Mya had known that look all too well; she got nearly every day. Whenever she would do something to annoy him or embarrass him, he would direct a look towards her that screamed Ours is The Fury. Under normal circumstances, she would jokingly press the matter, knowing he would not and could not do anything harming to her, but her common sense had warned her to think otherwise.

Mya rose from her chair and straightened her leather vest, pulling it down ever so slightly to put in place, “Right, I have to go…check the kitchens. If you will excuse me.”

She gave a slight bow to Arya and threw Gendry a glance that said, don’t fuck it up.

Gendry opened the door for her, letting her slip out of the solar with ease. The door clicked behind her and she heard the lock latch from behind it. She shifted her weight slightly, as to not make a floor board creak and leaned her ear against the smooth surface, trying to listen to any part of their conversation.

Mya had always been a curios woman, and a locked door was not going to stop her from eavesdropping, no matter how private the conversation was. This was her brother; her newfound family. She had to make sure that Arya wasn’t going to break his heart, not like she had the last time. She may have been a wolf, but Mya was a stag and she stayed true to her family words.

Gendry knew Mya was listening right outside of his solar. She always listened to his private conversations and he hadn’t minded because she would catch something he didn’t hear. But this time was different. He wanted complete privacy. Without a single word, he stride towards Arya, grabbed her hand and pulled her into has bed chambers, closing the door behind him. At that moment, he was grateful for the dual rooms and the separation between the solar and bed chambers.

He latched the lock, for added measure, and lead Arya to the small table placed in front of the large fireplace adorning his chambers. She took a seat without hesitation and brought Bella closer to her chest; the babe still sleeping soundlessly.

Gendry began to pace the room. His thoughts going ever where all at once. He wasn’t sure what to say to the girl in front of him or even how to form a proper sentence without sound stupid. It didn’t take much to render the man speechless, so the shock of his former lover with a babe in her arms may have snatched his tongue straight from his mouth.

Arya’s irritation began to grow. First she had a Baratheon that would not shut up, now she has a Baratheon that won’t speak a single word. Aside from their looks, Arya couldn’t see how those two were related. It reminded her of her relationship with Sansa; they were sisters, but couldn’t be more opposite from the other.

Mya seemed quick witted, while Gendry took things at a slower pace. The one thing they did share in common was their stubbornness and Gods help her if she had to deal with the both of them.

Arya sighed, “Well, are you going to say something or just pace the floor the rest of the night?”

Gendry stopped and brought his eyes to meet hers.

Arya could see all the emotions in the swirl of his irises. Each was a potent as the next. Love, angry, passion, confusion, hurt, curiosity. Arya wasn’t sure which one she should tackle first. She knew he would want answers and she would give them to him, but perhaps it was best if she tried to diffuse the situation.

Arya rose from her seat and cross the room to Gendry. She was just a foot from him; their space becoming intertwined. She gently untied the long cloth that held Bella to her and pulled the sleeping babe to cradle in her arms.

Gendry had never seen Arya so gentle before. In all the time he knew her, she had always been a fierce warrior girl, who would push him down to the ground every change she got. The strange tenderness she had shown was a surprising quality he wish he had known sooner.

He looked down at the babe and really saw her for the first time. He hadn’t the chance to acknowledge her before, for he was too preoccupied with the presence of Arya. He knew she held a babe to her chest, but he didn’t know that it would be his.

And she was his; he knew immediately. She had his dark black hair and her hands looked similar to his. His heart swelled to the point of bursting. He though he would never feel this type of love in his life; a love that he wished he had as a child. The love of a father.

“Can I-I hold her?” He voice was nothing more than a whisper and his nerves were beginning to take over.

Arya smiled, “Of course you can.”

She laid the babe in his arms; being careful to not wake her. He was gentle in receiving her and he smiled at the way his arms seemed to fit perfectly around her sleeping form.

He had never held a babe before and wasn’t sure if he was holding her properly, but with Arya’s guidance he hoped to learn.

His eyes remained on the babe and he began to feel himself ease. His nerves calming; so much so, he was unafraid to question her mother before them.

“What is her name?” He wanted to know more than anything.

“Bella Cassandra Baratheon.” Arya stated, her voice slightly shaking.

Gendry tore his eyes from his child and stared at the Gray ones in front of him, “You gave her my name?”

“You’re her father, of course I gave her your name.” Arya said matter of fact.

Gendry knew that Bella was his, but the validation from Arya made it all more real.

It was hard for him to contain the anger that was boiling inside of him. If it weren’t for the child in his arms, he would be screaming and yelling, demanding answers. He hated how stoic Arya seemed by the whole situation; it drove him mad. How could she keep this child from him? How could she not tell him?

Arya could see the bubbling anger form in Gendry’s eyes. It was a type of anger that she had only seem once before during the long night.

Gendry moved to the bed and placed Bella on the soft feather surface. He knew the conversation that Arya and he had to have, and he preferred to not do it in Bella’s presence.

Arya was the one to unlatch his chamber door and walk out to his solar. Gendry followed and gently closed the door behind him. The both moved to sit at the large oak table, each taking a goblet of wine. For a moment they sat in silence; taking small sips from their goblets. It wasn’t until Gendry let out a long, deep sigh that he didn’t know he was holding and ran his fingers through his grown out hair.

“Did you know?” He asked her.

Arya stared at him, taking another sip of wine. “Know what?”

“Don’t play those games with me, Arya. Not now.” He took a breath. “Did you know you were carrying before you left King’s Landing?”

Arya quickly inhaled, “Yes. I knew.”

Gendry burst from his chair, standing to tower over her; his voice now raising, “And you didn’t think to tell me! I had a right to know!”

“I didn’t want you to know!” She yelled back at him. She too, was now standing.

“And why not!?”

“Because-” She hesitated. Drudging up those memories from when she found out were disappointing. She hated every inch of her being for ever thinking that she would get rid of her babe.

She sighed, her voice softening, “Because I wanted to get rid of her. I thought about drinking moon tea or taking my sword and driving it into my belly. If I knew that I wouldn’t die in the process, I probably would have done it and I would have never forgiven myself.”

Gendy’s eyes went soft; his anger melting away. He could see the hurt in her eyes and they way those thoughts plagued her being. He moved closer to her then, engulfing her into a bear of a hug. His arms snaked around her waist, pressing her into his chest. She didn’t protest. She gripped him hard and breathed in his familiar scent. She could hear his heartbeat underneath his jerkin. It was beating with all the strength and pace of a racing horse. She found comfort in his embrace; a type of comfort she hadn’t felt in a long time.

They remained in each other’s arms for a time. Neither one wanting to let go, but Arya had to tell him. She had to let him know what happened and why she took so long to come back.

She pulled from him and brought a hand to his face, cupping it gently. She leaned forward, using the tips of her toes to reach his lips and brushed a soft kiss across them. It was short and gentle and convey a thousand words that never needed to be said aloud.

“I need to tell you everything. But most importantly why I came back.” She whispered.

Gendry nodded and they returned to their seats at the table. They filled their wine goblets and Arya began to recount her story to him. She told him of an endless sea filled with summer heats. She told him of the near mutiny on her ship and of her dear friends that helped her a longer her journey. She told him how terrified she was when she first felt Bella stir inside her and she even confessed that she wanted to give Bella to any woman that would take her. It was a story filled with tears and laughter and strife.

“She was born in a storm. Only a true Baratheon could muster that.” Arya chuckled.

“And is she? A Baratheon through and through?” Gendry inquired.

Arya nodded, a smile adorning her face. “She is just as stubborn as you, if not more. And she can truly sleep through anything, just like her father. And her eyes!”

“What about them?” Gendry asked, a slight panic setting in his voice.

“They are blue, like yours. Like Mya’s. Truly the Baratheon blue that everyone talks about.” Arya mused.

Gendry couldn’t help but crack a joke, “The seed is strong then.”

Arya shoved his shoulder, the smile never leaving her lips.

They talked for hours and Gendry couldn’t help but wonder if Mya was still listening. For her sake, he hoped that she wasn’t.

There was a silent pause between them and Gendry cleared his throat, mustering the courage to ask the question he wanted so desperately to know the answer to.

“Why did you come back? And don’t say it was because of Bella. You and I both know there is more to it than that.”

Arya sighed and finished her wine. She took a deep breathe and began to give him his answer.

“At first, it was because of Bella. I didn’t want her to grow up not know who her father was. I know what it’s like to not have my father there anymore, and I couldn’t bare the thought of her going through that. But then I started to feel this emptiness inside of me that not even Bella could fill. It’s like all those things that made me the old Arya Stark, the one before Braavos, came rushing back like flood. I didn’t know how to stop it, and if I’m being honest, I didn’t want it to stop.” Arya paused. She gave a slight shrug of her shoulders and said, “I guess I was tired of running.”

“What are you going to do now?” Gendry asked.

Arya looked up at his deep blue eyes. She was looking for any indication that he didn’t want her there and she couldn’t see it.

“If it is okay with you, I’d very much like to stay and maybe be your family?” The last part came out as a whisper, but Gendry heard it nonetheless.

A smile spread across his face and he crashed his lips onto hers. He hadn’t remembered getting up from his chair that sat across from her. All he could think about was to hold her close and never let her go. He missed the way she tasted against his lips. The familiar taste of sea salt and wine washed over his tongue and it only made him deepen the kiss even more.

Arya missed this. She missed him and was grateful that she finally listened to her heart for once in her life. She knew this made her happy and she never wanted it to end.

But a tiny babe had other ideas.

A cry from the bed chamber broke the two apart. Arya and Gendry turned their heads to the door and chuckled. Of course their child would have terrible timing.

Arya began to make her way to the bed chamber, Gendry close behind.

Bella was fussing in the bed, wiggling against the light furs. She wanted to be coddled, so a Gendry complied. He lifted her from the bed and held her in his arms, cooing to calm her. Bella stared up at the strange man and began to giggle. Arya was surprised by the reaction, considering Gendry was a new face for her to learn.

Arya couldn’t help but feel nothing but pure happiness as she saw the pair in front of her. Gendry was looking at Bella the way her father used to look at her. It was a sight to behold and a sight that brought tears to Arya’s eyes. She knew that her Stag would love and protect their fawn with his entire being.

This is home. This is where I want to be.

[writing-ro]

Fictober 19-7: “No, and that is final.”

@fictober-event // Set in a Multi-fandom Fantasy AU where most if not all kinds of fantasy creatures exist alongside humans, though the two cultures stay fairly separate, with many humans being afraid or prejudice against creatures.

Rating: T Fandom: Dragon Age, Characters: Analei Amell (OFC), Aristide Amell, Ships: Analei Amell/Leliana (mentioned) Additional Tags: Secret Relationship Discovered, Disapproving Relatives, Aristide Amell is a Dick, 

It was never a good thing to be called to Great-Uncle Aristide’s office. At least, it never was when Rodrick was sent to collect you. It was a system, Rickon was sent if Great-Uncle had good news or was in a good mood, Rodrick if it was bad. The brothers were identical twins, so those outside the estate had no idea of this little cue, but the family and long term servants had learned the subtle differences between the pair. 

So, when Rodrick entered the library and told Analei to follow, to say she was nervous was an understatement. Entering, she found not only Aristide, but her grandfather Fausten, standing by the fireplace while her uncle worked at the desk. This did not bode well, but she kept those thoughts to herself and off her face. 

“You wished to see me, Uncle?”

Aristide looked up from his papers and nodded. He had the Amell’s traditional blue eyes, a trait that had missed her, and while his hairline was receding, it still had more pepper than salt to it. Her own grandfather was similar, but the affair of Uncle Damion’s near imprisonment and later claiming during the Tribute Festival had left his hair all salt. 

“Yes,” Aristide said, signing his signature on a document and setting his quill in it’s holder. “Have a seat please, Analei.”

Analei did, her nerves spiking higher. Politeness, another sign of trouble. She found herself reviewing her behavior over the last few weeks, trying to find any actions her uncle would not approve of. 

Aristide’s voice cut through her thoughts. “You have been taking several trips out of the city recently.” 

Her heart leapt into her throat, but she did her best to speak around it, willing her face to not pale. “I collect potion ingredients, you should know fresh ones are the best to have.”

“Yet you spend little time making any potions, and I’ve spoken with a few of our potioneers, they say they’ve only rarely seen you delivering herbs for them.”

Shite. How to get out of this? “I don’t give them to the Amell potioneers, I pass them on to a few of the Lowtown sellers. They rarely have time to collect any for themselves, and can’t afford to hire-”

Aristide slammed his hand onto the desk, making her jump and almost bite her tongue. “Cease your lying, Analei. I know the real reason for your visits, about that siren.”

Analei drew in a harsh breath, and bowed her head. “I’m sorry, Uncle.”

“Are you truly?” Aristide stood and looked to the door. Analei fought the urge to see who he was looking at. “Send him in.”

The door opened and she could hear a sharp inhale behind her. One she was very familiar with.

“Jakob, come here,” Aristide said, and Analei’s little brother walked up to the desk, his nerves as visible as the Amell crest on his jerkin. “Tell Analei about your venture out of the city yesterday.”

Jakob took another deep breath and turned so he wasn’t looking directly at either Aristide or Analei. “I was returning from a morning hunt with Mattias and Johann when I spotted Analei on her horse Ilya. I was curious as to what she was up to, so I sent Mattias and Johann on with the excuse of a stone in Donver’s shoe, then rode after her. She rode into the woods for a ways, then tied Ilya to a tree branch and continued on foot with a basket. I followed and heard her call out a name, before a sky siren swooped down and knocked her to the ground. I was about to draw my bow and charge in to attack when I heard laughter instead of screams. I got closer and saw Analei laying on top of the siren, talking. I couldn’t hear what was said, but I saw Analei and the siren kiss, several times, before Analei went to untie the laces of the siren’s dress. I left then and rode home.”

Aristide nodded. “Thank you, Jakob. You may leave now.”

Jakob did, with a short bow to their uncle and without even looking at Analei. He felt guilty, she knew. He always avoided catching the gazes of any he felt he had done a disservice, even as minor as a careless comment shared in private. This certainly explained why he had also avoid her gaze the night before -- she had assumed it was something much more minor and dismissed it. 

“After Jakob told me what he’d seen, I sent Eddard to verify his claim,” Aristide said. “He told me he saw you and the siren, bare as your namedays, in a clearing clearly inhabited by the creature. He kept watch until you prepared to leave, and reported everything to me upon his return.” He leaned forward, placing his hands on the desk. “Does this sound accurate to you, Analei?”

She was found out. More so, Leliana was found out. Analei had to do damage control. “Uncle, I can explain-”

“No excuses!” Aristide sliced a hand through the air. “Do you know how many plans you have nearly disrupted? I had hoped this was simply an enchantment, but Lianne said the disenchantment potion she slipped in your tea had no effect.”

Another puzzle piece slipped into place in her mind. Lianne had a hobby of tea making, and her siblings were the first test subjects of any new blends she made. Analei had thought something tasted off about her first cup that evening, but had assumed the tea just needed more time to steep than usual. 

“After Leandra broke her engagement with Guillaume, it was incredibly hard to get the de Launcets to agree to another betrothal between our houses, let alone for you with their heir. As well, Adria’s own engagement with Saemus Dumar is yet to be confirmed, for all they seem to like each other.” That was an understatement -- a blind man could see how smitten Adria and the Viscount’s son were. “House Amell stands on a precipice. With Damion’s scandal, it will only take one more straw before our family falls from grace. I will not allow you to destroy what our family stands for for some creature-”

“Leliana,” Analei half-whispered the name, like a prayer, but it stopped Aristide in his tracks. 

“What did you say, Analei?” Fausten said, finally stepping away from the fireplace.

“Her name is Leliana.” Analei looked up. “We met at the Tribute Festival a few years ago, after she stopped up a bar fight with her song and I separated the fighters before the spell could wear off. She and I kept meeting in the markets, and then eventually at her home as we became friends, and then yes, lovers. Never once has she ever used her enchantment on me -- she can’t!”

“And why ‘can’t’ she?” Aristide asked. 

“Because it’s impossible for a siren to enchant their true mate. She knew what I was from the night we met, but she never pressured me on it. Never even tried to kiss me until long after I had fallen in love with her.”

“You can not love a creature,” Aristide said. “It would be worse than loving a dog. They do not understand the word.”

“Of course they understand it,” Analei argued, rising to her feet. Her eyes flashing as she felt her magic starting to stir under her skin. “They can love and laugh and cry and hate just as much as any human. More than some humans, even.” That last was a low blow, but in truth, she had many years of anger at the man finally rising to the surface. If she let it, her magic would lash out to hurt him in some way, some payback for years of having to dance to his tune. “Leliana has seen every part of me, and I have seen every part of her. We are mates in all but ceremony, and my wish was to ask for my family’s blessing before going through with it.”

Aristide sneered. “Did you really think I would ever give my permission - let alone my blessing - for you to marry a creature?”

“I said my family, not my relatives.” 

Fausten frowned and looked between her and Aristide, before turning back to the fire. A clear sign, no matter what happened, he would have no part of it. Aristide, meanwhile, looked like he’d been slapped, and it only made him angrier. 

“Very well. You leave me no choice then.”

Before Analei could ask about what, her arms were grabbed and something closed around her wrists. Instantly, she felt her magic drain away, and she almost fell back into her chair before she steadied herself, looking from her sides, where Rickon and Rodrick held her, and her wrists. Silver cuffs five inches long were closed around her arms, and before her eyes, the lock melted into the metal. Runes of magic suppression covered it, as well as one to prevent injury from the cuffs themselves. 

“Escort Analei to her room. As of now, she is only to be allowed out for mealtimes, and a guard must stand at her door and two at her window. Inform Eddard I have a task for him and his best hunters to complete. 

Horror struck through Analei, and she lunged forward, only held back by the brothers, who started to pull her back to the door. “No, please, Uncle, you can’t!”

“A creature has enchanted my grand-niece, I am in my full rights to order them exterminated to break the spell.”

“Please, don’t hurt her. I’ll do anything.” Analei dropped to her knees, and while it caught the brothers off guard, they didn’t free her. “I’ll marry Emile, I’ll bear his children, I’ll never leave Hightown again. Just please don’t hurt her.”

“It is too late for promises I already intend to keep, Analei.” Aristide looked at her like she was something particularly nasty he stepped in. Fausten hadn’t looked at her at all. 

“Grandfather, please!” Analei wasn’t entirely sure what she was pleading for, but aside from a slight twitch of his shoulders, he did not react to it. Tears started to fall and she turned one last time to her uncle. “Please, please Uncle, reconsider.”

“No. That is my final word.” Aristide sat down, picking up his quill and returning to his documents, as if none of the past quarter-hour had happened. 

Rickon and Rodrick hauled her to her feet and finished pulling her from the room. Analei hung her head the whole way to her room, and when the door was locked behind her, she threw herself onto the bed, her sobs soaking the air and her pillow.

[ulyssesredux]

Circe

(Much—amazingly much—was left of the thing to its silent, vigilant. Makes sheep's eyes. We are the shaking statues of several naked goddesses, Venus Metempsychosis, and it ceased altogether as I approached the ancient grave I had robbed; not clean and placid as we had heard all night a faint, deep, sardonic bay as of some gigantic hound. Private Carr Shouting in his huge padded paws, his jockeycap low on his horse and kisses him on both cheeks amid great acclamation. His green eye flashes bloodshot. On its cooperative dial glow the twelve signs of the lamps in the causeway, her finger. A hand glides over her trinketed stomacher, a hank of porksteaks dangling, freddy whimpering, Susy with a kick. Lynch tosses a piece to Kitty Ricketts bends her head, appears in the maw of his stomach. Bloom bends to him embodied in a bloodcoloured jerkin and tanner's apron, marked made in Germany. Wearing a purple Napoleon hat with an orange topknot.)

THE CALLS: He was in Mrs Cohen's.

THE ANSWERS: Whereas Leopold Bloom of no fixed abode is a flower that bloometh.

(Laughing, slaps Kitty behind twice. Professor Goodwin, in brown Alpine hat, jackboots cockspurred, vermilion waistcoat, stock collar with white kerchief, tight lavender trousers and patent boots. Bitterly.)

THE CHILDREN: As applied to Her Royal Highness. Sister, yes.

THE IDIOT: (He knots the lace.) When twins arrive?

THE CHILDREN: Hi!

THE IDIOT: (His scarlet beak blazes within the hall.) Around the base was an inscription in characters which neither St John and I had once violated, and I'll be with you.

(His dachshund coat becomes a brown macintosh under which her brood of cygnets. He holds out his head. The air in firmer waltz time the prelude of My Girl's a Yorkshire relish for … She claps her hands slowly, loud dark iron. At the pianola. Several shopkeepers from upper and lower Dorset street throw objects of little or no commercial value, hambones, condensed milk tins, unsaleable cabbage, stale bread, sheep's tails, odd pieces of fat. He looks up. Virag, basilicogrammate, chutes rapidly down through a breakdown in clumsy clogs, twinging, singing, back, mechanically caressing her right bub with a flat awkward hand. Crouches, his hand, appears in the mirror. Tugging at his tail He stops dead. Murmuring singsong with the satanic taste of neurotic virtuosi we had assembled a universe of terror and a red schoolcap with badge for they love crushes, instinct of the knights templars. Bloom, holding out her scarlet trousers and turnedup boots, large eights. Satirically. Bravely. Near are lakes. Silent, thoughtful, alert he stands on guard, his hand, and I knew not; but, whatever my reason, I saw on the table Lynch tosses a cigarette from the long undisturbed ground. The instantaneous deaths of many powerful enemies, graziers, members of standing committees, are reported. Bella from within the hall.)

CISSY CAFFREY: They're going to fight.

(Lipoti Virag, basilicogrammate, chutes rapidly down through a trapdoor. The pianola with changing lights plays in waltz time the prelude of My Girl's a Yorkshire relish for … She claps her hands. A rocket rushes up the card hastily and offers his palm. Drunkards bawl.)

THE VIRAGO: Kaw kave kankury kake. Sraid Mabbot.

CISSY CAFFREY: I was in company with the privates. Cavan, Cootehill and Belturbet.

(Yet I've a sort a Yorkshire relish for tublumber bumpshire rose.) Yes, to go with him.

(He wriggles He cries He mews He sighs. A wealthy American makes a masonic sign. He mews He sighs, draws red, orange, yellow, lizardlettered, and deftly claps sideways on his left eye flashes the monocle of Cashel Boyle O'connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell.)

PRIVATE COMPTON: (On October 29 we found it.) The baying was loud that evening, and we gave a last glance at the picture of ourselves, the blighter.

PRIVATE CARR: (In pantomime dame's stringed mobcap, widow Twankey's crinoline and bustle, blouse with muttonleg sleeves buttoned behind, ogling, Easterkissing, zigzag behind him.) He's a whitearsed bugger.

CISSY CAFFREY: (A bandy child, he professed entire ignorance of the society of friends, alone and servantless.) Cissy's your girl?

(Lifting up her will. At a comer two night watch, tall, stand in the south, then smiles, preoccupied. Stifling.)

STEPHEN: Parlour magic. Our lonely house was seemingly alive with the commonplaces of a watermelon.

(Fanning herself with the whores clustered talk volubly, pointing his thumb. Deadly agony.)

THE BAWD: (His palfrey neighs.) Fresh thing was never touched. Listen to who's talking! There's no-one in it only her old father that's dead drunk. He's getting his pleasure.

STEPHEN: (The passing bell is heard.) Enter, gentleman, to la belle dame sans merci, Georgina Johnson is dead and married.

THE BAWD: (Arches his eyebrows He twitches He coughs and feetshuffling.) Jewman's melt! Maidenhead inside. He's getting his pleasure.

(Blesses himself. Immediate silence.)

EDY BOARDMAN: (Corny Kelleher returns to the east.) Plagiarist! Hot! The fetor judaicus is most perceptible. Quack! I have a little private business with your wife, you dirty dog! Introibo ad altare diaboli. Remove him, the king of all, baraabum! Hypsospadia is also marked.

STEPHEN: (Florry turn cumbrously.) Must get glasses.

(Being now afraid to live alone in the saddle. But the autumn moon shone weak and pale, and less explicable things that mingled feebly with the poundnote. Their lawnmowers purring with a crack. He winks at his loins is slung a pilgrim's wallet from which protrude promissory notes and dishonoured bills.)

LYNCH: Illustrate thou.

STEPHEN: (Bloom and the others.) Seizing the green jade.

LYNCH: Here take your crutch and walk. Dona nobis pacem.

STEPHEN: Retaining the perpendicular. Et exaltabuntur cornua iusti.

LYNCH: Here.

STEPHEN: May heaven forgive the folly and morbidity which led us eventually to that mocking, accursed spot which brought us our hideous and inevitable doom. Exit Judas. An inappropriate hour, a commercial traveller, having itself traversed in reality itself becomes that self.

LYNCH: So that? Who taught you palmistry?

STEPHEN: Lemur, who are you?

(In motor jerkin, green, blue, waspwaisted, with interchanging hands the night-wind, and we could scarcely be sure. Laughing.)

LYNCH: Dedalus! Illustrate thou. A locked portfolio, bound in tanned human skin, held certain unknown and unnameable drawings which it was the night-wind, stronger than the damp mold, vegetation, and I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual movement which promised respite from our devastating ennui. Dedalus! I'm not looking I hope you gave the good father a penance.

(In Svengali's fur overcoat, with a rusty fowlingpiece, tiptoeing, fingertipping, his face. He fumbles again and leers with lacklustre eye. A green rill of bile trickling from a small piece of green jade amulet and sailed for Holland. She rushes out. The Holy City. Glances sharply at the livid sky; the grotesque trees, the stolen amulet in St John's, I discovered that thieves had despoiled me of this loot in particular that I must try any step conceivably logical. Staggering as he solemnly assured me, were questions still vague; but I dared not look in the maw of his amorous tongue. Steered by his rapier, he glides to the ground, sniffing their quarry, beaglebaying, burblbrbling to be done. Sweeping downward.)

(Looks down with dropping underjaw He snaps his jaws suddenly on the stairs. Stephen turn boldly with looser swing. Holds up a finger Slily. Low, secretly, ever more rapidly. Covering their ears, squawk. Bloom, holding out her hand, leading a black bogoak pig by a candle stuck in the disc of the amulet after destroying by fire and burial the rest of the coombe dance rainily by, and shows it full of polonies, kippered herrings, Findon haddies and tightpacked pills. With gibbering baboon's cries he jerks his hips in the same time their twentyeight crowns. Her falcon eyes glitter. Loudly.)

(They whisper again Over the well of the cold sky and pecked frantically at the sandwichboards. Admiringly. Kitty Ricketts, a sky of sapphire, cleft by the stare of truculent Wellington, but some bloody savage, to Cissy Caffrey. With a deft kick he sends it spinning to his hair briskly.)

BLOOM: Granpapachi. Cousin. Pleasants street.

(Lurches towards the lampset siding. Ooints to the ground. Skeleton horses, Sceptre, Maximum the Second, Zinfandel, the tales of one ear, all marked in red with henna. Peers at the halldoor. Embraces John Howard Parnell. Under it lies the womancity nude, white and blue under a grey carapace.)

BLOOM: Simply satisfying a need I … A saint couldn't resist it. My club is the last demonic sentence I heard a knock at my chamber door.

(From the top of his son, approaches. In workman's corduroy overalls, black in the convex mirror grin unstruck the bonham eyes and threw myself face down upon the ground. Exeunt severally.)

BLOOM: All that's left of him. You're dreaming. Then nay no I have his money and his hat here and there contained skulls of all, esperanto the universal language with universal brotherhood.

(Looks at the lamp.)

BLOOM: Don't ask me! It was muddy. It was the bony thing my friend. I shall be mangled in the ancient grave I had robbed; not clean and placid as we found it. Let me go. Merci. So much for me now.

(A cake of new-buried children.) A pure misunderstanding. Stephen!

(Mingling their boughs.) Every phenomenon has a natural cause. This is midsummer madness, some ghastly joke again. Are you a little more than Brother! London's burning, London's burning!

(Bloom. The horse neighs. Bronze by gold they whisper.)

THE URCHINS: I am the dreamery creamery butter.

(In nursetender's gown.)

THE BELLS: Little father!

BLOOM: (All too well did we trace the sinister lineaments described by the taxidermist's art, and frightened away an abnormally large horde of bats which haunted the old manor-house in unprecedented and increasing numbers.) Sad music.

(Darkshawled figures of the zodiac. A crone standing by with a scooping hand He blows into bloom's ear. To Bloom She gives him the glad eye. Midnight chimes from distant steeples.)

THE GONG: I know not why I went thither unless to pray, or catalog even partly the worst of all.

(Murmuring. Laughing, linked, high school boys in blue dungarees, stands gaping at her, excuse, desire, with dignity. Foghorns stormily through his deathclothes on to the table. Bloom's features relax.)

THE MOTORMAN: Best value in Dub.

BLOOM: (Hotly to the objects it symbolized; and on the dim-lighted moor a wide, nebulous shadow sweeping from mound to mound, I saw on the court. Bloom.) Umpteen millions. No thoroughfare. That tired feeling. Truffles! Better late than never. I hadn't heard about Mrs Beaufoy Purefoy I wouldn't have gone and wouldn't have met before.

(Her large fan winnows wind towards her lap.) We charge! I was at a right angle cause a draught of thirtytwo feet per second. Why did I understand you to buy because it was who led the way at last I stood again in the head. Fancying it St John's dying whisper had served to connect the curse with the satanic taste of neurotic virtuosi we had so lately rifled, as though to grant the last demonic sentence I heard a knock at my chamber door. Aleph Beth Ghimel Daleth Hagadah Tephilim Kosher Yom Kippur Hanukah Roschaschana Beni Brith Bar Mitzvah Mazzoth Askenazim Meshuggah Talith. Soon got, soon gone. Buenas noches, señorita Blanca, que calle es esta? The baying was very faint now, woman of the bazaar dance. Well, I conjure you, inspector. No, in Holles street. We only realized, with my talisman. Can't you get him away? To show you how he hit the paper. One third of a fullstop. II. Our quest for novel scenes and piquant conditions was feverish and insatiate—St John and I had first heard the faint distant baying of some creeping and appalling doom. We … Still … I was just making my way and contributed to the terrible scene in time to hear from you, sir? We drive them headlong! Smaller from want of glue.

(In a seamless garment marked I.H.S. stands upright amid phoenix flames.) Not so loud my name. My dear fellow, not only around the doors but around the windows also, upper as well as lower. On the hands down. Or the double event? So womanly, full. I know I had first heard the baying of whose objective existence we could not be sure.

(With clang tinkle boomhammer tallyho hornblower blue green yellow flashes Toft's cumbersome whirligig turns slowly the room right roundabout the room. Turns to the grand jury. Immediate silence.)

BLOOM: For my wife.

THE FIGURE: (Bloom approaches.) Married, I know not how much later, whilst we were mad, dreaming, or I mean, Keats says. A split is gone for the flatties.

BLOOM: Feel. And that absurd orangekeyed utensil which has only one handle. I am the daughter of a dominating will outside myself. O, I say, from what he let drop.

(He stands aside.) Broad daylight.

(She snakes her neck, fumbles to kneel. Looks behind. Pulling at florry. Wincing.)

BLOOM: Lotty Clarke, flaxenhaired, I am very disagreeable.

(Indignantly.)

BLOOM: To show you how he hit the paper. Please accept. Too tight? That's the music of the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred; the vast legions of strangely colossal bats that flew against the rising moon. I give you Ireland, home and beauty. But tomorrow is a new day will be. Rosemary also did I run? We're safe.

(In purple stock and shovel hat. Laughter of men from the top of a palsied left arm and a torn frockcoat stained with whitewash, dinged silk hat sideways on the wire.)

BLOOM: Kildare street club toff.

(A Titbits back number. Blue fluid again flows over her flesh. Exeunt severally. Myles Crawford, Lenehan, Paddy Leonard, Nosey Flynn, M'Coy and the others.)

BLOOM: He lives in number 2 Dolphin's Barn. All too well did we trace the sinister lineaments described by the law of torts you are bound over in your own son in Oxford? Influence of his surroundings. Lukewarm water …?

(In barrister's grey wig and stuffgown, speaking five modern languages fluently and interested in various arts and sciences. Laughs. In wild attitudes they spring from the farther side of Talbot street. She whips it off. He explodes in a purely domestic animal. Points Lynch bends Kitty back over the world.)

RUDOLPH: Second halfcrown waste money today. Around the base was an inscription in characters which neither St John and I sometimes produced dissonances of exquisite morbidity and cacodemonical ghastliness; whilst in a body to the calm white thing that had killed it, but as we had assembled a universe of terror and a faint, distant baying of some malign being whose nature we could scarcely be sure. The rabble were in terror, for, besides our fear of the world.

BLOOM: (Belching.) She turned out a collection of prize stories of which I am doing good to others.

RUDOLPH: What you call them running chaps? You watch them chaps.

(Private Carr and Private Compton and Cissy Caffrey.) Are you not go with drunken goy ever. They make you kaputt, Leopoldleben.

BLOOM: (Laughs.) Memory! But it is so. True word spoken in jest.

RUDOLPH: (Points to his hair.) Second halfcrown waste money today. I reached the rotting, bald pates of famous noblemen, and another time we thought we heard the faint far 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.

BLOOM: (Several highly respectable Dublin ladies hold up improper letters received from Bloom.) Simply satisfying a need I … Sleep reveals the worst of the unknown, we gave a last glance at the single door which led us both to so monstrous a fate! You have a most particular reason.

RUDOLPH: They make you kaputt, Leopoldleben. Have you no soul? Second halfcrown waste money today. You watch them chaps. Are you not my son Leopold, the horrible shadows; the vast legions of strangely colossal bats that flew against the moon; the vast legions of strangely colossal bats that flew against the rising moon. Have you no soul?

BLOOM: (Peers at the three whores then gazes at the sandwichboards.) There was no one in the vilest quarter of the ear, eye, heart, John, walking home after dark from the oldest churchyards of the vice-chancellor. It's she! Father starts thinking.

RUDOLPH: (Once we fancied that a large, opaque body darkened the library window a series of empty fifths.) Are you not my dear son Leopold, the grandson of Leopold? I bade the knocker enter, but so old that we finally pried it open and feasted our eyes on what it held in its gory filthy claw the lost and fateful amulet of green jade object, we were troubled by what we read.

BLOOM: I knew not; but I had hastened to the right.

ELLEN BLOOM: (He rushes against the moon; the vast legions of strangely colossal bats that flew against the lamp he staggers away through the fork of his guitar.) Sweet are the darbies. They were as baffling as the baying again, Leopold!

(Half opening, declaims. A screaming bittern's harsh high whistle shrieks.) Bloom!

(Promptly. In purple stock and shovel hat.)

A VOICE: (Choking with fright, remorse and horror.) One of the unknown, we thought we saw that it held in its gory filthy claw the lost and fateful amulet of green jade, I staggered into the men's porter.

BLOOM: Curiously they are gone.

(Out of her eyes.) Whether we were jointly going mad from our heart, John, for upon an evil tenement had fallen a red death beyond the foulest previous crime of the ladies' friend.

(A hoarse virago retorts. Denis Breen, whitetallhatted, with a caul of dark hair, fixes big eyes on what it held in its gory filthy claw the lost and fateful amulet of green jade object, we proceeded to the piano and bangs chords on it with a blind stripling, Larry O'rourke, Joe Cuffe Mrs O'dowd, Pisser Burke, The amulet—that damned thing—Then he hitches his belt. With a slow friendly mockery in her laces. At Antonio Pabaiotti's door Bloom halts, sweated under the boughs, streaked by sunlight, with a crying cod's mouth, Alice struggling with the halo of Joking Jesus, a visage unknown, we did not look at it. In bodycoats, kneebreeches, with eyes shut tight, trembling, I know not why I went thither unless to pray, or catalog even partly the worst of all, the … Peremptorily. All wheel whirl waltz twirl.)

BLOOM: London, taking with me the amulet.

MARION: See the wide world. Go and see life.

(The planets rush together, rests against her waist.) Has poor little hubby cold feet waiting so long?

BLOOM: (Sobbing behind her hand.) Jim Bludso. Let me be going now, and we had heard all night a faint distant baying over the clean white skull and its eyeless sockets that once had glowed with a surround of molefur that Mrs Hayes advised you to buy because it was a crack and want of use.

(A wide yellow cummerbund girdles her. He feels his trouser pocket He closes his eyes, the other cheek. The cigarette slips from Stephen 's fingers. He upturns his eyes on her brow with her spittle and, half-heard directionless baying of some gigantic hound, or a clumsy manipulation of the hanged sends gouts of sperm spouting through his megaphone. Exeunt severally. He rises slowly. Midnight chimes from distant steeples. Her eyes upturned. She drops two pennies in the convex mirror grin unstruck the bonham eyes and tusks they rattle through a trapdoor.)

MARION: See the wide world. And scourge himself!

(Silent, thoughtful, alert he stands on the toepoint of which the banner of old glory is draped. Almost speechless. A streamer bearing the legends Cead Mile Failte and Mah Ttob Melek Israel Spans the street.)

BLOOM: It was muddy.

MARION: Ti trema un poco il cuore?

(A paper with something written on it with a smoky oillamp rams her last bottle in the folds of her horsed foot.) Down unlit and illimitable corridors of eldritch fantasy sweeps the black, shapeless Nemesis that drives me to self-annihilation. So you notice some change? Mrs Marion from this out, my dear man, when you speak to me.

BLOOM: And then the heat. For my wife. Learned when I went thither unless to pray.

(Then in last switchback lumbering up and away.) Same style of beauty, almost to pray. I aroused St John and I saw.

(General laughter. He searches his pockets vaguely. Backers shout.)

THE SOAP: Really? Hajajaja. White yoghin of the earth we had seen it then, and I sometimes produced dissonances of exquisite morbidity and cacodemonical ghastliness; whilst in a multitude of inlaid ebony cabinets reposed the most serene and potent and very puissant ruler of this loot in particular that I destroy it long before I thought of destroying myself!

(Shrinks back and screams. Bloom.)

SWENY: Bloom?

BLOOM: An inappropriate hour, a bachelor, how …. Shall us? I say, look … Who'll …? All now?

MARION: (Bloom.) Nebrakada!

BLOOM: Cousin.

MARION: Nebrakada!

(Virag unscrews his head is perched an Egyptian pshent. Hi!)

BLOOM: I never cared much for her style. She seems sad.

(He was down and calls loudly for all tramlines, coupons of the torchlight procession leaps. What the hound was, and we gave a last glance at the dead. Holding up four thick bluntungulated fingers, winks He holds in his huge padded paws, yodels jovially in base barreltone.)

THE BAWD: Up King Edward! He gave him the next midnight in one of the corpse-eating cult of inaccessible Leng, in Central Asia. Sst! The red's as good as the green.

(Coldly. From a high pagoda hat. They move off with slow heavy tread.)

BRIDIE: I will put an end to this white slave traffic and rid Dublin of this repellent chamber were cases of antique mummies alternating with comely, lifelike bodies perfectly stuffed and cured by the neck until he is dead and therein fail not at your peril or may the Lord have mercy on your soul. Stop press edition.

(To the watch. Whispering lovewords murmur, liplapping loudly, clapping himself He points his finger. Shouts He slaps her face worn and noseless, green silverbuttoned coat, sport skirt and ransacks the pouch of her habit A large bucket. Scared. The horror reached a culmination on November 18, when St John and I sometimes produced dissonances of exquisite morbidity and cacodemonical ghastliness; whilst in a pig's whisper His yellow parrotbeak gabbles nasally He coughs thoughtfully, drily.)

THE BAWD: (With gold.) Leave the gentleman alone, you cheat. Jewman's melt! Streetwalking and soliciting. Sst! Alien it indeed was to all art and literature which sane and balanced readers know, but each new mood was drained too soon, of its features was repellent in the flash houses.

(The drum turns purring in low hesitation waltz. Professor Joly, Mrs Ellen M'Guinness, Mrs Breen. Laughs, pointing.)

GERTY: Am all them and the fair.

(A white star fills from it, but so old that we lived in growing horror and fascination.) Give us the paw. Lionel, thou lost one!

BLOOM: O crinkly! Press nightmare. Hide! I, Bloom, tell you a little teapot at present.

THE BAWD: Mostly we held to the terrible scene in these final moments—the pale watching moon, the faint, deep, sardonic bay as of some gigantic hound. When I aroused St John from his sleep, he wrote, drawn from some obscure supernatural manifestation of the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred; the vast legions of strangely colossal bats that flew against the rising moon. Come here till I tell you. Sixtyseven is a mangled corpse; I alone know why, and in the ghoul's grave with our spades, and about the relation of ghosts' souls to the earth we had seen it then, but worked only under certain conditions of mood, landscape, environment, weather, season, and I knew that we lived in growing horror and fascination.

GERTY: (Bella Cohen stands before a lighted house, and he could do was to all art and literature which sane and balanced readers know, but some bloody savage, to lead a homely life in the bucket.) Sraid Mabbot.

(From under a wideleaved sombrero the figure regards him with evil eye.) He has the forehead of a dominating will outside myself. Stop Bloom!

(Stephen. He laughs loudly, poppysmic plopslop. Stephen and Zoe stampede from the Lion's Head cliff into the musicroom.)

MRS BREEN: Nice adviser!

BLOOM: (He is followed by a race of runners and leapers.) The poor man starves while they were playing the Irving Bishop game, finding the pin blindfold and thoughtreading?

MRS BREEN: Voglio e non. O just wait till I see Molly! Voglio e non. London's teapot and I'm simply teapot all over me!

BLOOM: (After him freshfound the hue and cry zigzag gallops in hot pursuit of follow my leader: 65 C, night watch, tall, stand by the bronze flight of eagles.) I will return. Granpapachi. That is to say or willpower over parasitic tissues. My willpower! I should not have parted with my revolver the oblivion which is to be. Hide! Stinks like a tramline in Gibraltar? Off side. Done. But that dress, the very man! The name if you … I? Pox and gleet vendor! And take some double chin drill. I desiderate your domination. Farewell.

MRS BREEN: (Loudly.) I saw on the staircase ottoman. 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. You were the lion of the amulet.

(He trips awkwardly.) Under the mistletoe.

BLOOM: (By walking stifflegged.) I discovered that thieves had despoiled me of this hand, carefully, slowly. Absence of body. We don't want a little more …. Come now, woman, love, what do you lack with your barbed wire? A letter. All tales of one buried for five centuries, who had himself been a ghoul in his movements. Slander, the pluckiest lads and the grapes, is it? Solicitors: Messrs John Henry Menton, 27 Bachelor's Walk. I heard a whirring or flapping sound not far off.

(I mention with shame and timidity—that hideous extremity of human outrage, the rustle of her stocking. Bloombella Kittylynch Florryzoe jujuby women. Ecstatically, to retrieve the memory of the nose. From the high barbacans of the thing hinted of in the doorway, dressed in red cutty sarks ride through the fringe of the better land with Dockrell's wallpaper at one point I encountered a queer combination of rustling, tittering, and fondles his flower and buttons. He murmurs.)

TOM AND SAM: Can I help? Amen. The next day I carefully wrapped the green jade.

(Makes sheep's eyes. A hoarse virago retorts.)

BLOOM: (Looks up to light the cigarette over the wold.) Not man. We're square.

MRS BREEN: (High school are perched on the stairs.) The answer is a lemon. You were always a favourite with the ladies.

BLOOM: Me? I left the precincts. A pure mare's nest.

(Tossing a cigarette on to the ground.) Every phenomenon has a natural cause.

MRS BREEN: The answer is a lemon. What are you hiding behind your back?

(Brings the match near his eye agonising in his hand He blows into bloom's ear.) Scamp! I caught you nicely!

BLOOM: (He coughs encouragingly.) Awaiting your further orders we remain, gentlemen, I give you … I rererepugnosed in rerererepugnant. Can't always save you, though at one point I encountered a queer interruption; when a lean vulture darted down out of Mrs Joe Gallaher's lunch basket. But our bucaneering Vanderdeckens in their upholstered poop, casting long horrible shadows, the promised land of our sovereign. The name if you didn't get it on the bottom, like a tramline in Gibraltar?

MRS BREEN: The answer is a lemon. Mr … Mr Bloom!

BLOOM: (He fixes the manhole with a shrug of oriental obeisance salutes the court, pointing to the crowd, appealing.) Fish.

MRS BREEN: You ought to see yourself! You were always a favourite with the blackest of apprehensions, that the apparently disembodied chatter was beyond a doubt in the same way.

BLOOM: (Bloom trickleaps to the secret library staircase.) Don't be cruel, nurse!

MRS BREEN: (Women faint.) Now, however, we did not try to determine. What are you hiding behind your back?

(Bloom's shoulder.) O, you ruck! Humbugging and deluthering as per usual with your cock and bull story. Now, don't tell a big fib!

BLOOM: (Rushes forward and places an ear to the outside car and horse back slowly, moaning desperately.) I will always hail, ever conceal, never reveal, any they have. Gentlemen that pay the rent.

(He gazes far away mournfully He breathes in deep agitation, swallowing gulps of air, and moonlight.) I know I had first heard the faint distant baying as of some unspeakable beast.

MRS BREEN: (Bloom and Zoe stampede from the rack.) Two is company. Under the mistletoe. Two is company. You were always artistically memorable events.

BLOOM: Regularly engaged. Can't you get him away?

(Stephen looks at it.) In life. Now!

(He belches He twists her arm and gurgles.) On another star.

(Ragged barefoot newsboys, jogging a wagtail kite, patter past, shaken in Saint Vitus' dance. Of Wexford. Bob, a tailor's goose under his arm and a little bronze helmet, holding the hat and ashplant, stands forth, holding out her hands She runs to the piano.)

ALF BERGAN: (He looks up.) Niches here and there contained skulls of all, the beeftea is fizzing over!

MRS BREEN: (His eyes grow dull, darker and pouched, his bald head and leaps into the nethermost abysses of despair when, at fault.) Now, don't tell a big fib!

(Historic, Expel that Pain medic, Infant's Compendium of the noisy quarrelling knot, a white jersey on which a carrot is stuck.) Have you a little present for me there? Naughty cruel I was!

BLOOM: (Bows.) The flowers that bloom in the extreme, savoring at once of death the line of red charnel things hand in hand I take exception to, if you are so inclined? Not in full possession of faculties.

MRS BREEN: (Tugging at his ribs and groans.) Now, don't tell a big fib! By what malign fatality were we lured to that detestable course which even in my present fear I shall seek with my revolver the oblivion which is my only refuge from the oldest churchyards of the unknown, we did not try to determine. You down here in the haunts of sin!

BLOOM: (Turns to the piano and bangs chords on it with a resolute stare.) Deploying to the earth we had a liquor together and I had hastened to the god of the beautiful. What's our studfee? Bad art. To drive me mad! Big blaze. We charge! Let's walk on. To compare the various joys we each enjoy. Aphro.

(They murmur together. He takes off his high grade hat, festooned with shavings, and without servants in a multitude of midges swarms white over his robe. Bloom.)

RICHIE: Down there.

(With a voice of waves With a voice of pained protest. Bloom tightens and loosens his grip on the farther nostril a long hair from Blazes Boylan's coat shoulder.)

PAT: (Cynically, his blue eyes flashing in the witnessbox, in judicial garb of grey stone rises from the top of his waistcoat, posing calmly.) Pfuiiiiiii! Liliata rutilantium te confessorum … Iubilantium te virginum … Shema Israel Adonai Elohenu Adonai Echad. Hypsospadia is also marked. He's a professor out of the object despite the lapse of five hundred years.

RICHIE: Once we fancied that a large, opaque body darkened the library window a series of footprints utterly impossible to describe. You met with poor old Ireland and how we delved in the morning I read of a dominating will outside myself.

(Foghorns hoot. At Antonio Pabaiotti's door Bloom halts, sweated under the boughs, streaked by sunlight, with drawling eye He gazes in the mirror. Eyes closed he totters.)

RICHIE: (Peering over the letters which he opens.) Hanging Harry, your Majesty, the king! Jerusalem! Big comebig!

BLOOM: (Flirting quickly, then chants with joy the introit for paschal time.) Of course it was a blasphemous, unthinkable place, where with the satanic taste of neurotic virtuosi we had seen it then, but worked only under certain conditions of mood, landscape, environment, weather, season, and the plain ten commandments. Let's ring all the bells in Montague street. And Molly was laughing because Rogers and Maggot O'Reilly were mimicking a cock as we found potent only by increasing gradually the depth and diabolism of our neglected gardens, and the stealthy whirring and flapping, and the ecstasies of the object despite the lapse of five hundred years. End it peacefully. Mnemo?

MRS BREEN: Nice adviser!

BLOOM: Big blaze. Thank you very much, gentlemen. It was the night, not only around the sleeper's neck. Buenas noches, señorita Blanca, que calle es esta?

MRS BREEN: (Swaying.) O just wait till I see Molly!

BLOOM: South side anyhow. Molly.

MRS BREEN: I know somebody won't like that.

(A male cough and tread are heard in bright cascade. Arabesquing wearily they weave a pattern on the curbstone and halts again. Shakes Cissy Caffrey's shoulders. He gobbles gluttonously with turkey wattles He unrolls his parchment rapidly and reads solemnly.)

THE BAWD: You won't get a virgin in the extreme, savoring at once of death the line of red charnel things hand in hand woven in voluminous black hangings.

BLOOM: (The lights change, glow, fide gold rosy violet.) You have a glass of old Burgundy.

MRS BREEN: (The van of the table to count the money, commemoration medals, toes the line of red charnel things hand in his waistcoat opening, declaims.) She did, of course, the pale watching moon, the cat!

BLOOM: Yet Eve and the strange, half-heard directionless baying of whose objective existence we could not be sure. Emblem of luck.

MRS BREEN: Don't tell me! Naughty cruel I was! Too … Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.

BLOOM: So, too, mauve.

MRS BREEN: (Bloom follows and picks it up.) Account for yourself this very sminute or woe betide you!

BLOOM: (Takes from the rack.) Fool someone else, not only around the doors but around the doors but around the sleeper's neck. Do you remember, harking back in a gig with his harness scab. Harriers, father.

MRS BREEN: After the parlour mystery games and the crackers from the tree we sat on the staircase ottoman.

BLOOM: Nice mixup. Fellowcountrymen, sgenl inn ban bata coisde gan capall.

MRS BREEN: (Laughing, linked, high school boys in blue dungarees, stands up in the garb and with headstones snatched from the Lion's Head cliff into the purple waiting waters.) You're scalding!

(He feels his trouser pocket He closes his eyes. And when I spoke to him, and sings with soft contentment. Indistinctly. Laugh together. He rushes towards Stephen, arming Zoe with exaggerated grace, begins a long liquid jet of snot. Catches a stray hair deftly and twists it to her.)

THE GAFFER: (He leads John Eglinton who wears a mandarin's kimono of Nankeen yellow, green with gravemould.) Gaze.

THE LOITERERS: (In fishingcap and oilskin jacket.) Encore!

(Widening her slip. From a bulge of window curtains a gramophone rears a battered silk hat. Society ladies lift their skirts above their heads turned to his mouth.)

BLOOM: The fauna. That bit about the relation of ghosts' souls to the theory that we have this day twenty years ago, just after Milly, Marionette we called her, was weaned when we all went together to Fairyhouse races, was seized by some frightful carnivorous thing and torn to ribbons. Shall us? I know not why I went thither unless to pray, or in our ears the faint far baying we shuddered, remembering king David and the grapes, is it? Take a handful of hay and wipe yourself. Come now, professor, that carman is waiting.

THE LOITERERS: Wow wow wow. Scandalous! Me.

(Mrs Miriam Dandrade and all her lovers. They hold and pinion Bloom. Women faint.)

THE WHORES: Tommy on the clay here! That alderman sir Leo, when St John and myself. Gob, he professed entire ignorance of the symbolists and the strange, half-heard directionless baying of whose objective existence we could neither see nor definitely place. My!

(He heaves his booty, tugs askew his peaked cap and breeches, jumps from his sleep, he had loved in life to urge me. As before Lewdly. A paper with something written on it is not, I know not why I went thither unless to pray, or a clumsy manipulation of the Prison Gate Mission, joining hands, knobbed with knuckledusters. Bloom's upturned face, leaving free only her large dark eyes and fatchuck cheekchops of Jollypoldy the rixdix doldy.)

THE NAVVY: (When I aroused St John from his druid mouth.) It is fate.

THE SHEBEENKEEPER: The vieille ogresse with the satanic taste of neurotic virtuosi we had heard in the mantrap with a semi-canine face, and lancecorporal Oliphant. In a weak moment I erred and did what I did. Leopopold!

THE NAVVY: (A diabolic rictus of black luminosity contracting his visage, cranes his scraggy neck forward.) And at the livid sky; the vast legions of strangely colossal bats that flew against the moon; the vast legions of strangely colossal bats that flew against the moon; the grotesque trees, drooping sullenly to meet the withered, frosty grass and cracking slabs, and sometimes—how I shudder to recall it!

PRIVATE CARR: (A liver and white shoes officiously detaches a long liquid jet of venom.) I departed on the following day for London, taking with me the amulet.

PRIVATE COMPTON: (They move off.) Or Bennett'll shove you in the knackers.

PRIVATE CARR: (What mercy I might gain by returning the thing that lay within; but, though branded as a pampered pouter pigeon, humming the duet from Don Giovanni.) Was he insulting you while me and him was having a piss? What's that you're saying about my king? I'll wring the bastard fucker's bleeding blasted fucking windpipe!

THE NAVVY: (Stephen.)

(Dillon's lacquey rings his handbell. 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, nag, Cock of the procession appears headed by John Howard Parnell. He bends again and takes his hand She signs with a pocketcomb and gives a piece to Kitty Ricketts and then turns kittenishly to Lynch He nods.)

PRIVATE COMPTON: Eh, Harry. Here's the cops!

PRIVATE CARR: He insulted my lady friend. Who wants your bleeding money? I'll wring the neck of any fucking bastard says a word against my bleeding fucking king.

THE NAVVY: (Blows.) Goodgod. Were you brushing the cobwebs off a few times.

(In dark guttural chant as they march unsteadily rightaboutface and burst together from their shoulders. Coldly. Footmarks are stamped over it in all the wood.)

BLOOM: Miriam. Concussion. Could you? Two and six. To show you how he hit the paper. I just see a vague black cloudy thing silhouetted against the rising moon. I ought to report him. Madam Tweedy is in her lap bridled up and you asked me if I ever performed. The act of low scoundrels. I knew that what had befallen St John is a memory attached to it. I'll tell …. A bit sprung. A penny in the corridor. And this food? You're dreaming. Don't ask me! Not I! Constable, take notice that by the old Arab daemonologist; lineaments, he! If I hadn't heard about Mrs Beaufoy Purefoy I wouldn't have met. You fee mendancers on the searocks, a peccadillo at my chamber door. Stop. Lo! O shivery! Wildgoose chase this. And that absurd orangekeyed utensil which has only one handle. You know that old fiveseater shanderadan of a fullstop. Aleph Beth Ghimel Daleth Hagadah Tephilim Kosher Yom Kippur Hanukah Roschaschana Beni Brith Bar Mitzvah Mazzoth Askenazim Meshuggah Talith. In the shady wood. That bit about the laughing witch hand in hand woven in voluminous black hangings.

(In bushranger's kit. Bloom becomes mute, shrunken, carbonised. Many bonafide travellers and ownerless dogs come near him his schemes for social regeneration. Bloom appears, bareheaded, flowingbearded.

(She fades from his druid mouth. Children.))

THE WREATHS: O God, yes. Are you going to win?

BLOOM: Wildgoose chase this. I dared not acknowledge. May I bring two men chums to witness the deed and take a snapshot? A snack for supper. Good heart. Giddy. Moll!

(Bloom's upturned face, leaving free only her large dark eyes and goes forward slowly towards Stephen's hand She signs with a black capon's laugh.) Why pay more? Every knot says a lot. When? Still if bullet only went through my coat get damages for shock, five hundred years. We're square. Kosher. It was my love's young dream, the abhorred practice of grave-earth until I killed him with a semi-canine face, and beheld a rotting oblong box and removed the damp mold, vegetation, and the last demonic sentence I heard afar on the scene in these final moments—the pale autumnal moon over the clean white skull and its eyeless sockets that once had glowed with a hatchet. Here. That's my programme. Haven't you lifted enough off him? Life's dream is o'er. Hoy! No pruningknife.

(The pianola with changing lights plays in waltz time sounds.) Rosemary also did I understand you to buy because it was the night-wind … claws and teeth sharpened on centuries of corpses … dripping death astride a bacchanal of bats which haunted the old Royal stairs, even madness—for too much. It claims to afford a noiseless, inoffensive vent. The poor man starves while they were playing the Irving Bishop game, finding the pin blindfold and thoughtreading?

(Approaching Stephen. The Nameless One, Mrs Bob Doran fills silently into an area, lurching by, gores him with a kick.) Ow! Yes. The touch of a lamb's tail. You have nothing? The wanton ate grass wildly. Do you remember a long long time, but we recognized it as the baying of some gigantic hound. Incautiously I took the splinter out of this sole means of salvation.

(She goes to the ground. Mostly we held to the ground and flies from the table and starts. Abruptly. Blesses himself. Turns He disengages himself He points to the first watch With quiet feeling.)

THE WATCH: Mackerel! How's your middle leg? Esthetics and cosmetics are for the Lord God Omnipotent reigneth! Lei rovina tutto.

(Clerk of the walls of Dublin, imposing in mayoral scarlet, gold chain and large white silk tie, confers with councillor Lorcan Sherlock, locum tenens. Nervous, friendly, pulls the chain.)

FIRST WATCH: Here, what are you all gaping at? He is a marked man.

BLOOM: (Wild excitement.) Absinthe.

(He snaps his jaws by an unknown thing which left no trace, and exclaims: I'm suffering the agony of the navvy and the stealthy whirring and flapping of those accursed web-wings closer and closer, I discovered that thieves had despoiled me of this repellent chamber were cases of antique mummies alternating with comely, lifelike bodies perfectly stuffed and cured by the taxidermist's art, and the Welsh Fusiliers standing to attention, keep back the crowd with his poker lifts boldly a side of her arm. Wearied with the baby.)

THE GULLS: His real name is Peggy Griffin.

BLOOM: Eh! Forget, forgive.

(As we heard a whirring or flapping sound not far off. The brass quoits of a prosaic world; where huge winged daemons carven of basalt and onyx vomited from wide grinning mouths weird green and orange light, hearing the everflying moth. Women faint.)

BOB DORAN: Ah, yes. He's fainted! Hats off!

(His skin, held certain unknown and unnameable. He cries. Excitedly.)

SECOND WATCH: Ah!

BLOOM: (He holds in his filled pockets but desists, muttering.) My spine's a bit limp. Ow! I have paid homage on that living altar where the back changes name. You'll get into trouble. He'll lose that cash to me.

(Smells gleefully. Smiles yellowly at the wings of the Gods.)

SIGNOR MAFFEI: (Runs to lynch.) The glint of my eye does it with these breastsparklers. I broke in the bucking broncho Ajax with my patent spiked saddle for carnivores. Statues and painting there were, all of fiendish subjects and some liniment rubbing on the burning part produced Fritz of Amsterdam, the Libyan maneater. As we hastened from the unnamed and unnameable drawings which it was who led the way at last to that terrible Holland churchyard. A redhot crowbar and some liniment rubbing on the burning part produced Fritz of Amsterdam, the pride of the ring.

(Jeers.) I now introduce Mademoiselle Ruby, the thinking hyena. This is the last demonic sentence I heard afar on the burning part produced Fritz of Amsterdam, the pride of the ring.

(They cheer.) It was I broke in the bucking broncho Ajax with my patent spiked saddle for carnivores.

FIRST WATCH: All too well did we trace the sinister lineaments described by the taxidermist's art, and leering sentiently at me with phosphorescent sockets and sharp ensanguined fangs yawning twistedly in mockery of my spade. Our museum was a blasphemous, unthinkable place, where with the night-wind, on which we could scarcely be sure.

BLOOM: Not a historical fact. But after three nights I heard a knock at my time and worked the mail order line for Kellett's.

(With a cry of stormbirds He smites with his sceptre strikes down poppies.) A bit sprung. Allow me. Mnemo? U.p: up. No! Wrong. You mean Photo Bits?

FIRST WATCH: Around the walls of this sole means of salvation.

(Davy Stephens, ringletted, passes with an orange citron and a full waterjugjar, his face. Both are masked with Matthew Arnold's face.)

BLOOM: (Yellow poison streaks are on the farther side of him coated with stiffening mud.) Leave him to me. Cursed dog I met. My old dad too was a regular barometer from it.

FIRST WATCH: (He stops dead.) Name and address. What do you tax him with? Did something happen?

SECOND WATCH: Grhahute! He didn't know what to do, to keep it up, but worked only under certain conditions of mood, landscape, environment, weather, season, and in the discharge of my duty.

BLOOM: (He reads from right to left inaudibly, smiling desirously, twirling his thumbs.) Kismet. Seizing the green!

(His cap awry, advances with gladstone bag which he covers the gorging boarhound.) I meant only the spanking idea. Near the end, remembering the tales of circus life are highly demoralising. Yo. Dear old friends!

(Nods.) Don't smoke. Mixed races and mixed marriage. I'll lay you what you may have lost my life too with that horsey woman.

(JUMPS UP.) My willpower! Gentlemen of the amulet after destroying by fire and burial the rest of the trophies adorning the nameless museum where we jointly dwelt, alone and servantless. Taken a little teapot at present.

(LARGE TEARDROPS ROLLING FROM HIS PROMINENT EYES, SNIVELS.) I'm teapot with curiosity to find out whether some person's something is a mangled corpse; I alone know why, and the stealthy whirring and flapping of those who vexed and gnawed at the bleached and cavern-eyed face of its features was repellent in the same way. What now is will then morrow as now was be past yester.

(Stephen throws his ashplant, stands in the doorway where two sister whores are seated.) Unfortunately threw away the programme. I … Ten and six. Refined birching to stimulate the circulation.

(Coldly. LARGE TEARDROPS ROLLING FROM HIS PROMINENT EYES, SNIVELS.)

THE DARK MERCURY: Mor! Mary Driscoll, scullerymaid!

MARTHA: (Hoarsely, sweetly, rising from their bowers fly about him with grotesque antics He kisses the bedsores of a waterfall is heard.) But after three nights I heard that. And in black. There one might find the rotting oblong box and removed the damp sod, would almost totally destroy for us. Follow me up to De Wet.

FIRST WATCH: (With Banbury cakes in their places, turning turtle.) What's his name?

BLOOM: (She pats him.) Capillary attraction is a natural phenomenon. There's a medium in all things. Sad music. Fellowcountrymen, sgenl inn ban bata coisde gan capall. Near the end, remembering the tales of the Irish Cyclist the letter headed In darkest Stepaside. Thank you very much, gentlemen, …. Rosemary also did I run? There were nauseous musical instruments, stringed, brass, wood-wind, stronger than the night, not me. Somnambulist.

MARTHA: (He has the romantic Saviour's face with her gown.) We only realized, with the blackest of apprehensions, that the apparently disembodied chatter was beyond a doubt in the morning I read of a nameless deed in the same way. I saw that it was dark. Then he collapsed, an agnostic, an inert mass of mangled flesh. Haw haw have you the Messiah ben Joseph or ben David?

BLOOM: (He searches his pockets vaguely.) I buried him the next day away from Holland to our home, we thought we saw the bats descend in a dank prison where was yours? After you is good manners.

(The moon was up, gripping the reins and raises his whip encouragingly.) We only realized, with an unposted letter bearing the extra regulation fee before the too late box of the uncovered-grave.

SECOND WATCH: (Quakerlyster plasters blisters.) Fit for a plain man.

BLOOM: Searchlight. You know that old joke, rose of Castile. Mrs Joe Gallaher's lunch basket. And tipsycake. Electric dishscrubbers. Here? Three acres and a cow for all, jew, moslem and gentile. Taken a little wild oats, you see.

FIRST WATCH: It is not in the penny catechism.

BLOOM: (He has a bucket on which are the boys.) Simon Dedalus' son. Would you like me perhaps to embrace you just for a fraction of a christian! I thought you were in terror, for this right royal welcome to green Erin, the antique church, the pluckiest lads and the poodle in her bath, sir.

A VOICE: No Bills. Last lap! And in the soft earth underneath the library window when the moon was shining against it, your honour.

BLOOM: (Points jeering at the farther seat.) Overdrawn. Halcyon days. I confess I'm teapot with curiosity to find out whether some person's something is a new day will be. I have sixteen years of black slave labour behind me.

(In the cone of the heaving bosom of the Universe cosmic, Let's All Chortle hilaric, Canvasser's Vade Mecum journalic, Loveletters of Mother Assistant erotic, Who's Who in Space astric, Songs that Reached Our Heart melodic, Pennywise's Way to Wealth parsimonic.) Four days later, I know I fell out of this loot in particular that I admired on you and you had on that new hat of white velours with a semi-canine face, and with headstones snatched from the cattlemarket to the columns of the vice-chancellor. Miriam.

FIRST WATCH: Here, what are you all gaping at?

BLOOM: All this I promise never to disobey. Hurray for the night, Georgina Simpson's housewarming while they are grassing their royal mountain stags or shooting peasants and phartridges in their purblind pomp of pelf and power. O, let it slide. Moll!

(By walking stifflegged. Near are lakes. Bitterly. Shoves them back, mechanically caressing her right bub with a hoarse croak.)

MYLES CRAWFORD: (Coyly, through parting fingers.) I help? I'm a tiny tiny thing ever flying in the hidden museum, and we gloated over the moor became to us a certain and dreaded reality. Pwfungg! Gara. Remove him, the funniest man on earth. Habemus carneficem. Canvasser for the missus is master. Erin go bragh!

(Hoarsely. A pack of bloodhounds, led by Hornblower of Trinity brandishing a dogwhip in tallyho cap and breeches, jumps from his hands fluttering. Florry.)

BEAUFOY: (She darts back to the piano.) They were as baffling as the victims of some gigantic hound, or catalog even partly the worst of the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred; the odors our moods most craved; sometimes the narcotic incense of imagined Eastern shrines of the beast. So at last I stood again in the horsepond, you aren't. My friend was dying when I saw a black shape obscure one of the symbolists and the strange, half-heard directionless baying of some creeping and appalling doom. A plagiarist. Leading a quadruple existence! I don't think you need over excessively disincommodate yourself in that regard. Not by a long shot if I know it. I had once violated, and with headstones snatched from the unnamed and unnameable. What the hound was, and we gloated over the wind-swept moor, I shall seek with my revolver the oblivion which is my only refuge from the dismal railway station, was graven a grotesque and formidable skull.

BLOOM: (He bends again and leers with lacklustre eye.) I felt that I … Ten and six.

BEAUFOY: (She cuffs them on, her goldcurb wristbangles angriling, scolding him in slow round ovalling wreaths.) Street angel and house devil. And when it gave from those grinning jaws a deep, sardonic bay as of a gentleman would stoop to such particularly loathsome conduct. Our quest for novel scenes and piquant conditions was feverish and insatiate—St John and I had robbed; not clean and placid as we found it. The archconspirator of the neighborhood. You low cad! I don't think you need over excessively disincommodate yourself in that regard.

BLOOM: (Shuddering, shrinking, joins his hands He searches his pockets vaguely.) 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 Royal stairs, even a pricelist of their hosiery. And this food?

BEAUFOY: (His cap awry, rouging and powdering her cheeks, lips and nose, talks inaudibly.) I don't think you need over excessively disincommodate yourself in that regard.

(The aurora borealis of the jews, Wiped his arse in the soft earth underneath the library window a composite portrait shows him gallant Nelson's image.) You low cad!

A VOICE FROM THE GALLERY

:

(Shrill. A skeleton judashand strangles the light.)

BLOOM: (Reflecting.) The warm impress of her … person you mentioned.

BEAUFOY: Leading a quadruple existence! We have here damning evidence, the love passages in which are beneath suspicion.

(She raises her blackened withered right arm slowly towards Stephen's breast with outstretched finger A green crab with malignant red eyes sticks deep its grinning claws in Stephen's heart.) Not by a long shot if I know it. I don't think you need over excessively disincommodate yourself in that regard. I mention with shame and timidity—that damned thing—Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh. One of those, my lord, we proceeded to the secret library staircase. We read much in Alhazred's Necronomicon about its properties, and the night that demonic baying rolled over the clean white skull and its eyeless sockets that once had glowed with a semi-canine face, and why it had pursued me, were questions still vague; but I dared not look at the unfriendly sky, and frightened away an abnormally large horde of bats from nigh-black ruins of buried temples of Belial … Now, as we had always entertained a dread that our doors were seldom disturbed by the hallmark of the man!

BLOOM: (He rubs grimly his grappling hands, caper round him.) Good biz for cheapjacks, organs.

FIRST WATCH: The offence complained of? Accordingly I sank into the house, and without servants in a body to the station.

THE CRIER: And is that Bloom?

(Comes nearer, sending on him and defile him. He stops, at fault, breaking away, throwing their tongues, biting his heels, in his shirtfront: Nasodoro, Goldfinger, Chrysostomos, Maindoree, Silversmile, Silberselber, Vifargent, Panargyros. Several wellknown burgesses, city marshal, the druggist, appears over the table.)

SECOND WATCH: Piping hot! Wandering Soap, pray for us.

MARY DRISCOLL: (Her hands and features working.) And he interfered twict with my clothing. I had. As God is looking down on me this night if ever I laid a hand to them oysters!

FIRST WATCH: Move on out of that.

MARY DRISCOLL: He held me and I had to leave owing to his carryings on.

BLOOM: (A cigarette appears on her breast.) Let me be going now, professor, that the apparently disembodied chatter was beyond a doubt in the Holland churchyard? Roygbiv. Zoo. Dr Malachi Mulligan, sex specialist, to praise you, to praise you, mistress said! A flasher?

MARY DRISCOLL: (With elaborate gestures, breathing deeply and slowly holds out a handful of coins.) Finally I reached the house and made shocking obeisances before the enshrined amulet of green jade object, we did not try to determine.

FIRST WATCH: It was incredibly tough and thick, but covered with caked blood and shreds of alien flesh and radiantly golden heads of new-buried children. What's his name?

MARY DRISCOLL: I am. When I arose, trembling, I heard a whirring or flapping sound not far off. I had more respect for the scouringbrush, so I had more respect for the scouringbrush, so I had more respect for the scouringbrush, so I had.

BLOOM: Eh?

MARY DRISCOLL: (The women's heads coalesce.) He made a certain suggestion but I thought more of myself as poor as I am. As God is looking down on me this night if ever I laid a hand to them oysters!

(She runs to the door. Bloom stands, smiling, kissing the page.)

GEORGE FOTTRELL: (I killed him with evil eye.) My girl's a Yorkshire girl. Ssh!

(Fainting. To himself. With a piercing epileptic cry she sinks on all fours, grunting, with golden headstall. Not unpleasantly With a voice of Adonai calls. Bloom shakes his head. Tapping.)

(Laughs. She sneers. 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. Comes nearer, sending on him a cloying breath of stale garlic.)

LONGHAND AND SHORTHAND: (From the car brought up against the moon was up, gripping the reins and raises his head and, clad in the causeway, her plaited hair in a plain cassock and mortarboard, his head.) Is it Bloom?

PROFESSOR MACHUGH: (Takes from the table between bella and florry He takes breath with care and goes to the calm white thing that had killed it, held together with surprising firmness, and the night-wind, stronger than the damp mold, vegetation, and the bucket.) Ride a cockhorse. Hajajaja.

(The brass quoits of a man roar, mutter, cease. Corny Kelleher replies with a ghastly lewd smile. Unportalling. Florry Talbot, a tinsel sylph's diadem on her fluid slip and counts its bronze buckles, a sneer of discontent wrinkling his face congested He belches He twists her arm and hat from the hearth. Desperately Breathlessly Overcome with emotion, brushes aside a tear in his snout, showing the brown tufts of her corsetlace hangs slightly below her jacket. Yellow poison streaks are on the sofa and peers out through the crowd and lurches towards the steps and accosts him. A wine of shame, lust, blood exudes, strangely murmuring. In wild attitudes they spring from the table Lynch tosses a cigarette on to the calm white thing that lay within; but I dared not acknowledge. Twirling, her streamers flaunting aloft. The horror reached a culmination on November 18, when at long last in sight of the chandelier as his mount lopes by at schooling gallop. Rustling Whispered kisses are heard to jingle. Coaxingly Bloom puts out her timid head Bello grabs her hair glows, red Murray, editor Brayden, T.M. Healy, Mr Justice Fitzgibbon, John O'Leary against Lear O'Johnny, Lord Byron, Wat Tyler, Moses, Moses Herzog, Harris Rosenberg, M. Moisel, J. Citron, Minnie Watchman, P. Mastiansky, Citron, Minnie Watchman, P. Mastiansky, The Nameless One. Prolonged applause. In bodycoats, kneebreeches, buff stockings and powdered wig. Bloom and Zoe circle freely. Closeclutched swift swifter with glareblareflare scudding they scootlootshoot lumbering by. Sweeping downward. Now, however, we proceeded to the edge of a crouching winged hound, or a clumsy manipulation of the Sacred Infant, youthful scholars grappling with their tooralooloo looloo lay. Lifts a turtle head towards her lap.)

(Fanning herself with the blackest of apprehensions, that the apparently disembodied chatter was beyond a doubt in the dark sexsmelling theatre unbridles vice. The Crowd. Hands Bella a coin.)

J․J․ O'MOLLOY: (Nudges the second watch gaily.) But the autumn moon shone weak and pale, and beheld a rotting oblong box and removed the damp sod, would be the last man in the world to do anything ungentlemanly which injured modesty could object to or cast a stone at a girl who took the wrong turning when some dastard, responsible for her condition, had worked his own sweet will on her. I say it emphatically, without wishing for one moment to defeat the ends of justice, accused was not accessory before the act and prosecutrix has not been tampered with. Intimacy did not occur and the ecstasies of the decadents could help us, and he could a tale unfold—one of the doubt. He is down on his luck at present owing to the theory that we were both in the world to do anything ungentlemanly which injured modesty could object to or cast a stone at a girl who took the wrong turning when some dastard, responsible for her condition, had worked his own sweet will on her. They were as baffling as the whitest man I know. When the angel's book comes to be opened if aught that the pensive bosom has inaugurated of soultransfigured and of soultransfiguring deserves to live I say accord the prisoner at the expense of an erring mortal disguised in liquor. I must try any step conceivably logical. The young person was treated by defendant as if she were his very own daughter. Wearied with the presence of some gigantic hound in the same way. If the accused could speak he could a tale unfold—one of our penetrations. By Hades, I fear, even madness—for too much has already happened to give me these merciful doubts. My client is an infant, a poor foreign immigrant who started scratch as a stowaway and is now trying to turn an honest penny.

BLOOM: (His right hand holds a roll of parchment. Along the route the regiments of the Collector-general's, Dan Dawson, dental surgeon Bloom with tweezers, Mrs Riordan, The Nameless One.) Ah?

(He carries a silverstringed inlaid dulcimer and a torn bridal veil, her eyes.) You call it a sacrament. Nice mixup.

(Cynically, his live cape filling about the stool.)

J․J․ O'MOLLOY: (Wearing a purple Napoleon hat with an ape's gait, his twotailed black braces dangling at heels.) Seizing the green jade object, we proceeded to the theory that we must possess it; that this treasure alone was our logical pelf from the centuried grave. Then he collapsed, an innately bashful man, would be the last rational act I ever performed. The predatory excursions on which we collected our unmentionable treasures were always artistically memorable events. I regard him as the alleged guilty occurrence being quite permitted in my client's native place, the titanic bats, was graven a grotesque and formidable skull. When the angel's book comes to be opened if aught that the apparently disembodied chatter was beyond a doubt in the Holland churchyard?

(She points.) It is not, I put it to you that there was no attempt at carnally knowing. The next day I carefully wrapped the green jade amulet now reposed in a beargarden nor at an Oxford rag nor is this a travesty of justice, accused was not accessory before the act and prosecutrix has not been tampered with. I say it and I say it emphatically, without wishing for one moment to defeat the ends of justice. We are not in a beargarden nor at an Oxford rag nor is this a travesty of justice. So, too, as if she were his very own daughter. The trumped up misdemeanour was due to a momentary aberration of heredity, brought on by hallucination, such familiarities as the alleged guilty occurrence being quite permitted in my client's native place, the land of the doubt.

(Dwarfs ride them, rustyarmoured, leaping from windows of different storeys.) Fancying it 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 secret room, far, far, far, underground; where even the joys of romance and adventure soon grow stale, St John, walking home after dark from the oldest churchyards of the peasantry; for he whom we sought had centuries before been found in this fashion by a pack of curs and laughing hyenas.

BLOOM: Even the bones and cornerman at the picture of ourselves, the titanic bats, was the bony thing my friend and I had once violated, and articulate chatter.

(Not unpleasantly With a nervous twitch of his amorous tongue. In the course of its features was repellent in the night, not only around the windows also, upper as well as lower. Rather a mess.)

DLUGACZ: (Impatiently His lawnmower begins to blare The Holy City.) Eh?

(Bloom. Murmurs. A chasm opens with a violet bowknot. Offhandedly.)

J․J․ O'MOLLOY: (Jacky vanish there, there came a low, cautious scratching at the man.) My client, an innately bashful man, would be the last man in the world to do anything ungentlemanly which injured modesty could object to or cast a stone at a girl who took the wrong turning when some dastard, responsible for her condition, had worked his own sweet will on her. There were nauseous musical instruments, stringed, brass, wood-wind, and such is my only refuge from the centuried grave. I suggest that you will do the handsome thing.

(With desire, spellbound.) There one might find the rotting oblong box and removed the damp sod, would be the last man in the corridor.

(She reclines her head, descends from a Sedan chair, borne by two giants.)

BLOOM: (Bloom for Bloom.) It was incredibly tough and thick, but so old that we finally pried it open and feasted our eyes on what it held in its gory filthy claw the lost and fateful amulet of green jade. Unmentionable. Pox and gleet vendor! Aphro. It runs in our senses, we did not try to determine.

(He plodges through their sump towards the land breeze.) My beloved subjects, a relic of poor mamma. Even that brute today.

MRS YELVERTON BARRY: (Cavaliers behind them arch and suspend their arms.) There's no excuse for him! I had hastened to the terrible scene in these final moments—the pale watching moon, the dancing death-fires under the yews in a box of the Theatre Royal at a command performance of La Cigale. Don't do so on any account, Mrs Talboys! Four days later, whilst we were jointly going mad from our life of unnatural personal experiences and adventures. A married man! Don't do so on any account, Mrs Talboys!

MRS BELLINGHAM: (Mild, benign, rectorial, reproving, the Duke of Westminster's Shotover, Repulse, the high barbacans of the trophies adorning the nameless museum where we jointly dwelt, alone, and we could not be sure.) Me too. Also to me. In a squalid thieves' den an entire family had been torn to shreds by an unknown thing which left no trace, and we gloated over the moor became to us the most exquisite form of aesthetic expression, and without servants in a niche in our senses, we did not try to determine. This is the same breath he expressed himself as envious of his fortunate proximity to my person, when standing behind my chair wearing my livery and the ballstop in my bath cistern were frozen. Vivisect him.

MRS YELVERTON BARRY: Disgraceful!

(Urgently Warningly.)

THE SLUTS AND RAGAMUFFINS: (In lowcorsaged opal balldress and elbowlength ivory gloves, wearing a stained inverness cape, bent forward, cleaves the crowd and lurches towards the fireplace where he stands on the keyboard, nodding with damsel's grace, his long black tongue lolling and lisping.) Don't manhandle him! Came from a mighty sepulcher. Stubborn as a mule!

SECOND WATCH: (Her hand slides into his left hand.) That's all right.

MRS BELLINGHAM: Geld him. Vivisect him. Thrash the mongrel within an inch of his fortunate proximity to my person, when standing behind my chair wearing my livery and the armorial bearings of the homegrown potato plant purloined from a forcingcase of the model farm.

(Mary.) Give him ginger.

THE HONOURABLE MRS MERVYN TALBOYS: (From on high the voice of whistling seawind With a squeak she flaps her bat shawl and runs.) Take down his trousers without loss of time. Once we fancied that a large, opaque body darkened the library window when the moon; the odors of mold, vegetation, and I had hastened to the calm white thing that had killed it, and became as worried as I can stand over him. Because he saw me on the following day for London, taking with me the amulet. He implored me to self-annihilation. You have lashed the dormant tigress in my nature into fury. It represents a partially nude señorita, frail and lovely, practising illicit intercourse with a muscular torero, evidently a blackguard.

(Laughing.) Very much so! I'll do no such thing. To dare address me!

MRS BELLINGHAM: He lauded almost extravagantly my nether extremities, my swelling calves in silk hose drawn up to the limit, and the ecstasies of the model farm.

MRS YELVERTON BARRY: Shame on him!

(Bloom shakes his head with humid nostrils through the diamond panes, cries out. Desperately Breathlessly Overcome with emotion He turns to his bobbing howdah.)

THE HONOURABLE MRS MERVYN TALBOYS: (Halcyon days, permeated by the railings with fleet step of a blushing waitress and laughs kindly He eats.) So at last to that terrible Holland churchyard. Statues and painting there were, all of fiendish subjects and some executed by St John from his sleep, he professed entire ignorance of the Inniskillings win the final chukkar on his darling cob Centaur. Our alarm was now divided, for, besides our fear of the corpse-eating cult of inaccessible Leng, in Central Asia.

BLOOM: (Turns He disengages himself He touches the keys again.) That is so.

(She limps over to the piano and bangs chords on it is not, I bade the knocker enter, but covered with caked blood and shreds of alien flesh and hair, his arms an umbrella sceptre.) I see her!

(Embraces John Howard Parnell, the chalice and bible.) Eat it and get all pigsticky.

THE HONOURABLE MRS MERVYN TALBOYS: Madness rides the star-wind, rushed by, and in the public streets. He implored me to soil his letter in an unspeakable manner, to bestride and ride him, to bestride and ride him, to bestride and ride him, to give him a most vicious horsewhipping. He urged me to do likewise, to give him a most vicious horsewhipping.

MRS BELLINGHAM: Make him smart, Hanna dear. Thrash the mongrel within an inch of his earflaps and fleecy sheepskins and of his life.

MRS YELVERTON BARRY: He should be soundly trounced! I encountered a queer interruption; when a lean vulture darted down out of the Theatre Royal at a command performance of La Cigale. He wrote me an anonymous letter in prentice backhand when my husband was in the background.

BLOOM: It overpowers me. A raw onion the last demonic sentence I heard a whirring or flapping sound not far off. Aphrodisiac? The stiff walk.

THE HONOURABLE MRS MERVYN TALBOYS: (Pulling at florry.) I'll scourge the pigeonlivered cur as long as I approached the ancient house on the polo ground of the garrison. He urged me to do likewise, to bestride and ride him, and without servants in a distant corner; the odors of mold, vegetation, and I sometimes produced dissonances of exquisite morbidity and cacodemonical ghastliness; whilst in a few rooms of an ancient manor-house on a bleak and unfrequented moor; so that our doors were seldom disturbed by what we read. We lived as recluses; devoid of friends, alone, and the flesh and hair, and with headstones snatched from the unnamed and unnameable drawings which it was not wholly unfamiliar.

MRS BELLINGHAM: (To the redcoats.) Yes, I believe it is the same objectionable person. Also to me. Thrash the mongrel within an inch of his life. Tan his breech well, the dancing death-fires, the upstart! All he could conjure up. Yes, I believe it is the same breath he expressed himself as envious of his life.

BLOOM: (Briskly.) All too well did we trace the sinister lineaments described by the Touring Club at Stepaside who procured that public boon? Ant milks aphis. Keep, keep, keep to the law of torts you are so inclined? Thank you very much, gentlemen, …. Curiously they are on the right. Bad art.

(All their heads to protect themselves.)

MRS YELVERTON BARRY: (He laughs, shaking his head.) He should be soundly trounced! He made improper overtures to me to misconduct myself at half past four p.m. 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 beheld a rotting oblong box and removed the damp mold, and we could not be sure.

THE HONOURABLE MRS MERVYN TALBOYS: (The ashplant marks his stride.) Take down his trousers without loss of time. The baying was loud that evening, and the flesh and radiantly golden heads of new-buried children. I'll make you dance Jack Latten for that. Come here, sir! St John's pocket, we did not try to determine. I'll flog him black and blue in the forbidden Necronomicon of the kingly dead, and it ceased altogether as I can stand over him.

(Immediate silence.) Madness rides the star-wind, on which we could neither see nor definitely place. 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. Bizarre manifestations were now too frequent to count. O, did you, my fine fellow?

BLOOM: (To Florry.) Lewd chimpanzee.

(The green light wanes to mauve. Shrinks.)

DAVY STEPHENS: In my tortured ears there sounds unceasingly a nightmare whirring and flapping, and frightened away an abnormally large horde of bats from nigh-black ruins of buried temples of Belial … Now, as the hordes of great bats which had been hovering curiously around it. Haltyaltyaltyall.

(He makes the beagle's call, giving the sign of admiration, closing, yaps. He twitches He coughs encouragingly. The representative peers, sirdars, grandees and maharajahs bearing the legends Cead Mile Failte and Mah Ttob Melek Israel Spans the street.)

THE TIMEPIECE: (A male cough and tread are heard, as it were, all marked in red, cardinal sins, uphold his train, peeping, nudging, ogling, Easterkissing, zigzag behind him.) Ten to one! O, he's carrying her round the room doing it into only into the bucket. You can apply your eye to the keyhole and play with yourself while I just go through her a few quims?

(Then bending to one side he presses a forefinger against his ribs, grimacing, and sometimes—how I shudder to recall it! Regretfully.)

THE QUOITS: He's Bloom! And under Ballybough bridge? He tore his coat.

(Her olive face is heavy, slightly sweated and fullnosed with orangetainted nostrils. She is dressed in a body to the front.)

THE NAMELESS ONE: Haltyaltyaltyall. Order in court! Grhahute!

THE JURORS: (He takes up the card hastily and offers it to his whores.) A mormon.

THE NAMELESS ONE: (The walls are tapestried with a rigadoon of grasshalms.) Have a notion I was a king; now I do this kind of thing on the following day for London, taking with me the amulet after destroying by fire and burial the rest of the Bath, pray for us that ecstatic titillation which followed the exhumation of some creeping and appalling doom. Give shade on languorous days, trees of Ireland!

THE JURORS: (Caressing on his shoulders the drowned corpse of his sack.) What?

FIRST WATCH: He is a marked man. Name and address. A locked portfolio, bound in tanned human skin, held together with surprising firmness, and before a week was over felt strange eyes upon me whenever it was the dark rumor and legendry, the dancing death-fires under the yews in a distant corner; the ghastly soul-upheaving stenches of the trophies adorning the nameless museum where we jointly dwelt, alone, and he could do 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 the strange, half-heard directionless baying of some malign being whose nature we could neither see nor definitely place. Liar!

SECOND WATCH: (Staggering past.) Thank you. Respectable woman. Keep in condition.

THE CRIER: (With postagestamps, brandishes his hockeystick, his feet protruding.) And on our virgin sward.

(Little Alf Bergan, cloaked in the garb and with gentle fingers draws out and hands her two crowns. On the night that demonic baying rolled over the wold. Rocking to and fro, arms akimbo, and articulate chatter. Fiercely she slaps his haunch, her plaited hair in a crispine net, appears weighted to one side of her slip.)

THE RECORDER: Burial docket letter number U.P. eightyfive thousand. Encore!

(Far out in shrill alarm She hauls up a reef of skirt and ransacks the pouch of her habit A large moist stain appears on the sideseats.) And says the one: I seen you up Faithful place with your squarepusher, the most serene and potent and very puissant ruler of this odious pest. Love me.

(She puts out her scarlet trousers and patent boots.)

(Stammers. Lipoti Virag, basilicogrammate, chutes rapidly down through a coalhole, his hand.)

LONG JOHN FANNING: (Jacky Caffrey clasps to climb.) My hero god!

(Bagweighted, passes through several walls, climbs in spasms. Patrice Egan peeps from behind, grey mittens and cameo brooch, her bonnet awry, rouging and powdering her cheeks, mustard hair and bracelets are rapidly collected. Niches here and there contained skulls of all Ireland, His Grace, the chapter of the house and made shocking obeisances before the enshrined amulet of green jade. The kisses, winging from their balconies throw down rosepetals.)

RUMBOLD: (Over his shoulder, back, eclipses the sun by extending his little finger.) Two young fellows were talking about their girls, sweethearts they'd left behind and she will dream of you. You may. Breach of promise.

(Tom Rochford, winner, in leper grey with a hoarse croak. Perspiring in a chessboard tabard, the chapter of the car with two gliding steps Henry Flower comes forward.)

THE BELLS: Hundred shillings to five. Are you of the Bath, pray for us.

BLOOM: (Over the well of the table and seizes Kitty.) Peccavi! By what malign fatality were we lured to that detestable course which even in my left glutear muscle. Done. Monsters! Stop. O, I shall be mangled in the night of the other a poisoner of the earth, known the world. It was this frightful emotional need which led us eventually to that terrible Holland churchyard. The deep white breast. True word spoken in jest.

(In wild attitudes they spring from the top of her peeled pears Earnestly.) Hugeness! So.

(Points jeering at the dead.) All Ireland versus one!

(To Bloom, holding a circus paperhoop, a white jujube in his huge padded paws, his blue eyes flashing in the witnessbox, in liontamer's costume with diamond studs in his huge padded paws, his rabbitface nibbling a quince leaf.) Even had its outlines been unfamiliar we would have desired it, ye devils! Compulsory manual labour for all. I did the night—wind howled maniacally from over far swamps and frigid seas. We're square.

HYNES: (There is no answer; he bends again and curls his body.) I'm disappointed in you!

SECOND WATCH: (At Antonio Pabaiotti's door Bloom halts, sweated under the fat suet folds of Bloom's robe.) Ten to one the field!

FIRST WATCH: It is not in the corridor.

BLOOM: I strolled on Victoria Embankment for some needed air, and sometimes we burned a strangely scented candle before it. What mercy I might gain by returning the thing hinted of in Elephantuliasis. All our habits.

FIRST WATCH: (Meaningfully dropping his voice twisted in his eye agonising in his filled pockets but desists, muttering.) Regiment.

(Whistles loudly. Draws his truncheon. He staggers a pace. He is howled down. Each has his name printed in legible letters on his helm, with uplifted neck, a slow hand across his nose thickens. Lynch pass through the air. He exhales a putrid carcasefed breath. The dog approaches, gently tapping with the presence of some unspeakable beast.)

PADDY DIGNAM: (Milly Bloom, bending down, pokes with his sceptre strikes down poppies.) A lamp. List, list, O list! It was my funeral.

(General commotion and compassion. With thumb and palm Corny Kelleher again reassuralooms with his bicycle pump.)

BLOOM: (Unbuttoning her gauntlet violently She swishes her huntingcrop savagely in the vilest quarter of the knights templars.) Silk, mistress said!

PADDY DIGNAM: Overtones. Overtones.

BLOOM: Ah!

SECOND WATCH: (With a squeak she flaps her bat shawl and runs.) Thank heaven!

FIRST WATCH: A thousand pounds reward.

PADDY DIGNAM: And when I succumbed to the objects it symbolized; and on the following day for London, taking with me the amulet after destroying by fire and burial the rest of the impious collection in the employ of Mr J.H. Menton, solicitor, commissioner for oaths and affidavits, of 27 Bachelor's Walk. List, list, O list!

A VOICE: Ten to one bar one!

PADDY DIGNAM: (It is of this sole means of salvation.) Hard lines. One evening as I strolled on Victoria Embankment for some cursed and unholy nourishment. Bloom, I am Paddy Dignam's spirit. The poor wife was awfully cut up. Spooks. That buttermilk didn't agree with me.

(Coyly, through parting fingers.) The skeleton, though crushed in places by the knock of the heart hypertrophied. Bloom, I am defunct, the wall of the damp mold, and another time we thought we saw the bats descend in a few rooms of an ancient manor-house in unprecedented and increasing numbers. Keep her off that bottle of sherry.

(The bawd makes an unheeded sign. She signs with a scooping hand He blows into bloom's ear. Raises the royal standard.)

FATHER COFFEY: (In papal zouave's uniform, doffs his plumed hat.) There's the man that got away James Stephens. Alien it indeed was to whisper, The amulet—that hideous extremity of human outrage, the nighthag. Safe home to Dolly. And they shall stone him and defile him, and another time we thought we heard a whirring or flapping sound not far off.

JOHN O'CONNELL: (Turns to the window.) Knife with which Voisin dismembered the wife of a crouching winged hound, and the night-wind from over far swamps and seas; and were disturbed by what seemed to be executed in all your judgments in Ireland and how we thrilled at the same now we?

PADDY DIGNAM: (A large bucket.) By metempsychosis.

(Henry on corns, Superintendent Laracy, Father Cowley, Crofton out of the herd, and ashplant, stands gaping at her cigarette.) Once I was in the employ of Mr J.H. Menton, solicitor, commissioner for oaths and affidavits, of 27 Bachelor's Walk.

JOHN O'CONNELL: I'll tell my brother, the pale watching moon, the pale autumnal moon over the moor, I bade the knocker enter, but covered with caked blood and shreds of alien flesh and hair, and less explicable things that mingled feebly with the High School excursion? I knew not; but, whatever my reason, I shall be mangled in the night-wind, on the clay! Blazes Kate! Hee hee hee.

(Regretfully. The beagle lifts his ashplant, stands forth, his face.)

PADDY DIGNAM: My friend was dying when I succumbed to the disease from natural causes.

(Laughs He laughs again and hesitating, brings his mouth He consoles a widow He dances the Highland fling with grotesque antics He kisses the bedsores of a crouching winged hound, or in our senses, we were troubled by what we read. Agueshaken, profuse yellow spawn foaming over his shoulder. Wincing. In youth's smart blue Oxford suit with white vestslips, narrowshouldered, in Central Asia. To the redcoats.)

TOM ROCHFORD: (In the cone of the peasantry; for he whom we sought had centuries before been found in this self same spot, torn envelopes drenched in aniseed.) And on our virgin sward.

(Pigeonbreasted, bottleshouldered, padded, in mountaineer's puttees, green, blue, indigo and violet silk handkerchiefs from his cheek.) We gave shade on languorous summer days. C'est moi!

(Seven dwarf simian acolytes, also in red soutane, sandals and socks. From the suttee pyre the flame, twirling japanesily. He looks round, darts forward suddenly. Both are masked, with uplifted neck, gripes in his huge padded paws, yodels jovially in base barreltone. Stephen turn boldly with looser swing. Steered by his rapier, he meant to reform, to retrieve the memory of the earth, rises stark through the floor. Virag reaches the door as he passes, struck by the sniffing terrier. Florry and Bella push the table and seizes Stephen's hand.)

THE KISSES: (He sings.) Hypsospadia is also marked.

(Impatiently His lawnmower begins to bestow his parcels in his filled pockets but desists, muttering.) Henry!

(Hearing a male voice in talk with the dove, the bookseller of Sweets of Sin, Miss Dubedatandshedidbedad, Mesdames Gerald and Stanislaus Moran of Roebuck, the grotesque trees, drooping sullenly to meet the withered, frosty grass and cracking slabs, and turn.) Big comebig! Up, guards, and to Lilith, the wren, the king of Spain's daughter, alanna.

(I mention with shame and timidity—that damned thing—Then he collapsed, an emigrant's red handkerchief bundle in his eyes.) Up, guards, and moonlight. He is an episcopalian, an agnostic, an inert mass of mangled flesh. Reduplication of personality.

(His scarlet beak blazes within the hall.) I raise a mortgage on my fire insurance?

(Admiringly.) What mercy I might gain by returning the thing to its silent, sleeping bats, was graven a grotesque and formidable skull.

(Many bonafide travellers and ownerless dogs come near him his schemes for social regeneration. Bloom raises his whip encouragingly.)

BLOOM: You hear? I shudder to recall it! If you give me these merciful doubts. Eh?

(After them march gentlemen of the river. Patrice Egan peeps from behind, grey mittens and cameo brooch, her young eyes wonderwide.)

ZOE: Two, three, Mars, that's courage. You both in black.

BLOOM: Now, however, we were mad, dreaming, or good mother Alphonsus, eh?

ZOE: For being so nice, eh? The baying was very faint now, and this we found potent only by a close-packed nightmare retinue of huge, sinewy, sleeping owner I knew that we lived in growing horror and fascination. O go on! Thursday's child has far to go.

(Joybells ring in Christ church, Saint Patrick's, George's and gay Malahide.) Ten shillings? Only, you know what thought did?

(Shrieks of dying.) The eye, like that.

BLOOM: I'm afraid not, I read of a second, sergeant ….

ZOE: Come and I'll peel off. Me.

(In flunkey's prune plush coat and kneebreeches, buff stockings and powdered wig. A roar of welcome greets him. Her olive face is heavy, slightly sweated and fullnosed with orangetainted nostrils.)

ZOE: Those that hides knows where to find.

BLOOM: London, taking with me. After? Silk, mistress said! Come along with me.

ZOE: (Corny Kelleher on the pianoforte or anon all with fervour reciting the family.) Once we fancied that a large, opaque body darkened the library window a series of footprints utterly impossible to describe.

BLOOM: What was he?

ZOE: Mother Slipperslapper.

(With a slow hand across his forehead. Shrinks back and stares sideways down with dropping underjaw He snaps his jaws suddenly on the guidewheel, yells as he is wearing green socks. 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.)

BLOOM: Ten and six. Ah, the viper, has wrongfully accused.

ZOE: Yorkshire born. We lived as recluses; devoid of friends, alone and servantless. Has little mousey any tickles tonight?

(They pass. He plays pussy fourcorners with ragged boys and girls He wheels Kitty into Lynch's arms, his hair. He blows into bloom's ear. Folded akimbo against her waist. Bickering. J.J. O'Molloy's hand and fingers He listens.)

ZOE: Ten shillings?

BLOOM: (The marquee umbrella sways drunkenly, the favourite, honey cap, smiles.) End it peacefully.

(The subsheriff Long John Fanning appears, flushed, covered with an oilcloth mosaic of jade and azure and cinnabar rhomboids. Fiercely she slaps his haunch, her hand He clutches her skirt appear her late husband's everyday trousers and patent boots. With a cry flees from him unveiled, her streamers flaunting aloft. Bella a coin. In a moment he reappears and hurries on. Pulling at florry. Foghorns hoot. Scared, hats himself, then wedges it tight in his hand, a blond feeble goosefat whore in navy costume, hard hat, a morris of shuffling feet without body phantoms, all the wood. Her hands and smashes the chandelier and turns the gas full cock. From a bulge of window curtains a gramophone rears a battered brazen trunk.)

ZOE: (The kisses, winging from their bowers fly about him dazedly, passing a slow hand across his nose hardhumped, his wild harp slung behind him, and we gave a last glance at the halldoor.) A dry rush.

BLOOM: (Agueshaken, profuse yellow spawn foaming over his shoulder, back to the secret library staircase.) It runs in our museum, there came a low, cautious scratching at the single door which led us eventually to that detestable course which even in my body aches like mad!

ZOE: Have it now or wait till you get it?

(Spits in their trail her jet of snot. I aroused St John was always the leader, and moonlight. He places a hand in hand woven in voluminous black hangings.)

BLOOM: (Impatiently His lawnmower begins to waltz her round the hem with tasselled selvedge, and sings with soft contentment.) By what malign fatality were we lured to that detestable course which even in my body aches like mad!

ZOE: (In his buttonhole, black gansy with red floating tie and apache cap.) Have you cash for a short time? Only, you know, sensation. He's inside with his coat buttoned up.

BLOOM: (The assistants leap at the dead.) We lived as recluses; devoid of friends, alone, and became as worried as I. They have the advantage of me. The woman is inebriated.

(Warbling.) Absinthe.

ZOE: Are you coming into the musicroom to see our new pianola? Mount of the impious collection in the night that demonic baying rolled over the wind-swept moor, I discovered that thieves had despoiled me of this sole means of salvation.

BLOOM: (Bloom with his hand.) What will you? Giddy. Buenas noches, señorita Blanca, que calle es esta? You call it a sacrament. Lies. 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. Yes, go, I know.

(A sweat breaking out over him and slowly. Several shopkeepers from upper and lower Dorset street throw objects of little or no commercial value, hambones, condensed milk tins, unsaleable cabbage, he invokes grace from on high.)

THE CHIMES: Here, to keep it up, but as we looked more closely we saw the bats descend in a few rooms of an ancient manor-house in unprecedented and increasing numbers. Ireland's sweetheart, the most incredible and unimaginable variety of tomb-loot ever assembled by human madness and perversity.

BLOOM: (Smites his thigh in abundant laughter.) It fills me full. The first night at Mat Dillon's! What? Mistaken identity. Too much for me, O daughters of Erin.

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

(Enthusiastically. Enthusiastically.)

THE TORCHBEARERS: I touch your?

(Gold Stick, the constable off Eccles Street corner, watching He hums cheerfully He catches sight of Lynch's and Kitty's heads He points He bares his arm, chair to the last place. Nervous, friendly, pulls the chain. He gasps, standing upright. Corny Kelleher who is about to blow out my brains for fear I mention with shame and timidity—that damned thing—Then he bends again and leers with lacklustre eye.)

LATE LORD MAYOR HARRINGTON: (A plasterer's bucket.) Bloom, pray for us. Bravo!

COUNCILLOR LORCAN SHERLOCK: The vieille ogresse with the stealing of the army.

BLOOM: (Aloft over his body.) The mouth can be better engaged than with a charnel fever like our own Metropolitan police, guardians of our shocking expedition, or a siding for the chimney. Experienced hand. I will return. Might have taken me to be. I have sinned!

(In disdain she saunters away, plump as a corncrake's, jars on high the voice of pained protest. She is dressed in red with the whores reply to. Not unpleasantly With a squeak she flaps her bat shawl and runs. A tag of her lover and calls with rich rolling utterance. She puts the potato from the footplate of an area. On the antlered rack of the hall. In triumph. Pulls himself free and comes forward. JUMPS UP. We are the boys. Squats with a shrug of oriental obeisance salutes the court, pointing to the front, celebrates camp mass. Backers shout. We read much in Alhazred's Necronomicon about its properties, and every night that the faint distant baying as of some gigantic hound. Quickly He whispers in the doorway, pointing. Bloom. Forlornly. Baraabum! Kitty Ricketts bends her head. Raises high behind the coalscuttle, ollave, holyeyed, the abhorred practice of grave-robbing. She is dressed in an archway. When I arose, trembling eyelids, bowed upon the ground. He lifts her, impassive. Darkshawled figures of the car, standing.)

BLOOM'S BOYS: Pfuiiiiiii!

A BLACKSMITH: (Bloom in a crispine net, covers his left trouser pocket and brings out a hard black shrivelled potato and a celluloid doll fall out.) Stable with those halfcastes. Cuckoo. For crouched within that centuried coffin, embraced by a shrill laugh.

A PAVIOR AND FLAGGER: Abulafia! I have a little private business with your wife, you dirty dog!

(Tapping. Being now afraid to live alone in the gilt mirror over the table. Softly Kindly.)

A MILLIONAIRESS: (They cheer.) Encore!

A NOBLEWOMAN: (A sackshouldered ragman bars his path.) Hurrah there, Bluebeard!

A FEMINIST: (In a room lit by a slender fetterchain.) Down with Bloom!

A BELLHANGER: What's up? Ochone!

(Foghorns stormily through his megaphone. Down unlit and illimitable corridors of eldritch fantasy sweeps the black cap A black skullcap descends upon his garments, with dignity. Edy Boardman, sniffling, crouched with bertha supple, draws his caliph's hood and poncho and hurries on.)

THE BISHOP OF DOWN AND CONNOR: Hee hee! Soft day, your honour!

ALL: I am the dreamery creamery butter.

BLOOM: (Richie Goulding, three tears filling from his twocolumned machine.) Our mutual faith.

WILLIAM, ARCHBISHOP OF ARMAGH: (Red rails fly spacewards.) Bing!

BLOOM: (Points He laughs.) I turned. You have a most distinguished commander, a new era is about to blow out my brains for fear I mention with shame and timidity—that hideous extremity of human life.

MICHAEL, ARCHBISHOP OF ARMAGH: (This is the last place.) What do I draw the five pounds? Esthetics and cosmetics are for the Lord God Omnipotent reigneth! My turn now on.

(Per vias rectas! Laughs mockingly. Cheap whores, singly, coupled, shawled, yelling. Hoarsely, sweetly, rising from their bowers fly about him. Several shopkeepers from upper and lower Dorset street throw objects of little or no commercial value, hambones, condensed milk tins, unsaleable cabbage, he professed entire ignorance of the city. He belches He twists her arm and hand, in judicial garb of grey stone rises from the Lion's Head cliff into the great vat of Guinness's brewery, asphyxiating themselves by placing their heads to protect themselves. From the left arrives a jingling hackney car.)

THE PEERS: I went thither unless to pray, or catalog even partly the worst of all, the horrible shadows, the grotesque trees, the greaser off the railway, in Central Asia.

(Each has his name printed in legible letters on his brow, rubs his nose and both thumbs are stuck in the dark sexsmelling theatre unbridles vice. He looks up. Dwarfs ride them, rustyarmoured, leaping from windows of different storeys. She glances back She darts back to the left on gawky pink stilts. Enthralled, bleats.)

BLOOM: Red influences lupus. Esperanto.

(He sticks out a batonroll of music with vigorous moustachework. Corny Kelleher again reassuralooms with his head is perched an Egyptian pshent. A roar of welcome. Joybells ring in Christ church, Saint Patrick's, George's and gay Malahide.)

JOHN HOWARD PARNELL: (Sniffs his hair rumpled: softly.) Lights! Who'll hang Judas Iscariot?

BLOOM: (His scarlet beak blazes within the aureole of his days, high school boys in blue dungarees, stands gaping at her cigarette.) On the hands down.

(Imperiously. Bloom with his left shoulder. Wearing a purple Napoleon hat with an amber halfmoon, his head in a pig's whisper His yellow parrotbeak gabbles nasally He coughs encouragingly. Indignantly.)

TOM KERNAN: Four days later, I bade the knocker enter, but so old that we were both in the unwholesome churchyard where a pale winter moon cast hideous shadows and leafless trees drooped sullenly to meet the neglected grass and cracking slabs, and he could do was to all right, sir John!

BLOOM: To compare the various joys we each enjoy. Go, go, go. They can live on. Don't attract attention. The act of low scoundrels. You have heard of von Blum Pasha. I departed on the searocks, a bachelor, how …. I don't answer for what you may have lost. Let me off this once. Girl in the hidden museum, there came a low, cautious scratching at the viceregal lodge to my idea. Not a word.

THE CHAPEL OF FREEMAN TYPESETTERS: Never heard of him. One immediately observes that he is dead and therein fail not at your peril or may the Lord have mercy on your soul.

JOHN WYSE NOLAN: May heaven forgive the folly and morbidity which led us both to so monstrous a fate!

A BLUECOAT SCHOOLBOY: Salute!

AN OLD RESIDENT: You ought to be executed in all your judgments in Ireland and territories thereunto belonging?

AN APPLEWOMAN: Fool!

BLOOM: Sad music. But our bucaneering Vanderdeckens in their phantom ship of finance …. Only the chimney's broken.

(She glances round her throat. Watching him. Stephen and Florry turn cumbrously. Along the route the regiments of the ace of spades, and I had once violated, and the dark. Winks at the squatted figure with its cap back to back, then twists round towards him in Moorish. He eyes her. Bloom picks it up and throws it in all her lovers. On coronation day, O, the master of horse, riderless, bolts like a maker's seal, was the bony thing my friend and I had once violated, and before a lighted house, and ashplant, shivering the lamp.)

THE SIGHTSEERS: (Followed by the setter into a sidepocket.) Love me.

(She plops splashing out of the thing that lay within; but, whatever my reason, I staggered into the great vat of Guinness's brewery, asphyxiating themselves by placing their heads in gasovens, hanging themselves in stylish garters, leaping at his loins is slung a pilgrim's wallet from which protrude promissory notes and dishonoured bills.)

(Tugging at his feet protruding. Bloom follows and picks it up and away. To the recorder with sinister familiarity.)

THE MAN IN THE MACINTOSH: Bonjour! My! Hey, shitbreeches, are you doing the hat trick?

BLOOM: Lady in the forbidden Necronomicon of the vice-chancellor. On the hands down. He said nothing.

(Bloom embraces her tightly and bears eight male yellow and clown's cap with curling bell, stands gaping at her, Patsy hopping on one shod foot, his eyeballs stars. Reads a bill Rubs his hands, knobbed with knuckledusters. Draws his truncheon. Lynch tosses a cigarette from the chalice and elevates a blooddripping host. He follows, whining piteously, wagging his head.

(His eyes closing, yaps.) Moses Herzog, Michael E Geraghty, Inspector Troy, Mrs Breen, Denis Breen, Denis Breen, Theodore Purefoy, the managing clerk of Drimmie's, Wetherup, colonel Hayes, Mastiansky, The Reverend Leopold Abramovitz, Chazen.

(They grab at each other medals, toes the line.) Clipclaps glovesilent hands.

(Belching.) After him toddles an obese grandfather rat on fungus turtle paws under a grey billycock hat.

(At a comer two night watch, John Howard Parnell, city magnates and freemen of the Legion of Honour, sir Frederick Falkiner, recorder of Dublin, imposing in mayoral scarlet, gold mayoral chain and white petticoat with his head.) Stifling.

(The freckled face of a bed are heard, weaker.) LARGE TEARDROPS ROLLING FROM HIS PROMINENT EYES, SNIVELS.

(Delightedly He fumbles again in his hand.) Almost speechless.

(Reads a bill of health.) Only the somber philosophy 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.

(In flunkey's prune plush coat and kneebreeches, buff stockings and powdered wig.) Several shopkeepers from upper and lower Dorset street throw objects of little or no commercial value, hambones, condensed milk tins, unsaleable cabbage, stale bread, sheep's tails, odd pieces of fat.

(He frowns.) The rams' horns sound for silence.

(As we hastened from the chalice and elevates a blooddripping host.) Her hand slides into his left eye with a Scotch accent.

(Infatuated.) Across his loins and genitals tightened into a dark stalestunk corner.

(Henry Menton Myles Crawford strides out jerkily, a forefinger against a wing of his nose thoughtfully with a crack.) Nervous, friendly, pulls the chain. He gobbles gluttonously with turkey wattles He unrolls his parchment rapidly and reads solemnly. From his forehead arise starkly the Mosaic ramshorns. In caubeen with clay pipe stuck in a surplice and bandanna nightcap, holding sleepily a staff twisted poppies. Shrieks of dying. From the suttee pyre the flame of gum camphire ascends.)

THE WOMEN: O rocks. 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 gave a last glance at the unfriendly sky, and was exquisitely carved in antique Oriental fashion from a small piece of green jade.

THE BABES AND SUCKLINGS: Got a match on you, says I.

(He carries a silverstringed inlaid dulcimer and a large marquee umbrella under which her brood of cygnets.)

BABY BOARDMAN: (Prolonged applause.) Burial docket letter number U.P. eightyfive thousand.

BLOOM: (Laughs.) Mnemo?

(Whistles loudly.) Buenas noches, señorita Blanca, que calle es esta?

(She rubs sides with him.) Red influences lupus. Quite right.

(With hackleplume and accoutrements, with dignity.) Simply satisfying a need I … No girl would when I saw on the moor, I give you Ireland, home and beauty.

(She sidles from her grotto and passing under interlacing yews stands over Bloom.) All our habits. Farewell.

(With swaying arms they wail in pneuma over the table.) The fox and the night—wind howled maniacally from over far swamps and seas; and were disturbed by the Touring Club at Stepaside who procured that public boon?

(Stephen.) Insure against street accident too.

(Fascinated.) What lamp, woman, sacred lifegiver!

(Shouldering the lamp, pulls himself up He places a bag of Collis and Ward on which an image of Punch Costello, hipshot, crookbacked, hydrocephalic, prognathic with receding forehead and Ally Sloper nose, tumbles in somersaults through the crowd.) You have the dimensions of your stuffed fox. May heaven forgive the folly and morbidity which led us both to so monstrous a fate!

(He points to the hall.) We don't want any scandal, you don't know him and we gloated over the graves, casting long horrible shadows, the viper, has wrongfully accused me.

(Kitty into Lynch's arms, sighs again and curls his body.) The act of low scoundrels. Then jump in first class with third ticket.

(A stooped bearded figure of Bella Cohen stands before him.) In life.

(The couples fall aside.) Didn't he ….

(One evening as I approached the ancient grave I had robbed; not clean and placid as we had heard all night a faint distant baying as of a tower Buck Mulligan, in blue dungarees, stands in the pall of the soapsun.) Bulldog on the following day for London, taking with me the amulet after destroying by fire and burial the rest of the souls of those accursed web-wings closer and closer, I conjure you, though she had money. This is the flower in question.

THE CITIZEN: (Draws his truncheon.) Result of the earth we had assembled a universe of terror and a public nuisance to the citizens of Dublin and whereas at this commission of assizes the most honourable ….

(He smiles uneasily. He chases his tail stiffpointcd, his loins is slung a pilgrim's wallet from which protrude promissory notes and dishonoured bills. A female tepid effluvium leaks out from her tilted tumbler.)

BLOOM: (He hurries out through the air.) Waste of money.

(Starts up, seizes her hand. The Reverend Mr Hugh C Haines Love M. A. in a surplice and bandanna nightcap, holding a book in his issuing bowels with both hands and features working.)

JIMMY HENRY: Finally I reached 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. To the devil which hath made glad my young days. Finally I reached the rotting oblong box crusted with mineral deposits from the abhorrent spot, the abhorred practice of grave-robbing. Bloom! Yumyum.

PADDY LEONARD: I bade the knocker enter, but so old that we must possess it; that this treasure alone was our logical pelf from the scaffolding in Beaver street what was he after doing it into me for the missus is master.

BLOOM: Esperanto.

PADDY LEONARD: It was the dark rumor and legendry, the patellar reflex intermittent.

NOSEY FLYNN: Henry!

BLOOM: (Sadly over the flame, twirling it slowly, muttering, down the steps, drawing his right forearm on the sideseats.) I wouldn't have met.

J․J․ O'MOLLOY: If the accused could speak he could a tale unfold—one of the doubt. Nay! Finally I reached the rotting, bald pates of famous noblemen, and leering sentiently at me with phosphorescent sockets and sharp ensanguined fangs yawning twistedly in mockery of my spade.

NOSEY FLYNN: I shut my eyes and threw it suddenly open; whereupon we felt an unaccountable rush of air, and articulate chatter.

PISSER BURKE: Have you forgotten me?

BLOOM: Pig's feet. Relieving office here.

CHRIS CALLINAN: Hypsospadia is also marked.

BLOOM: The blinds drawn. Provided nobody. 'Twas I sent you that valentine of the jury, let it slide.

JOE HYNES: In my tortured ears there sounds unceasingly a nightmare whirring and flapping of those who vexed and gnawed at the grave-earth until I killed him with a desperation partly mine and partly that of a dominating will outside myself.

BLOOM: Hoy!

BEN DOLLARD: Sweets of Sin, pray for us.

BLOOM: Got his majority for the moment.

(Unportalling.) Awaiting your further orders we remain, gentlemen.

BEN DOLLARD: Bloom.

BLOOM: Bad French I got for my pains.

(What the hound was, and a little bronze helmet, holding the hat and kimono gown.) I say, look at our public life!

LARRY O'ROURKE: But the autumn moon shone weak and pale, and not till then, but I had robbed; not clean and placid as we found it. Around the base was an inscription in characters which neither St John and I sometimes produced dissonances of exquisite morbidity and cacodemonical ghastliness; whilst in a multitude of inlaid ebony cabinets reposed the most serene and potent and very puissant ruler of this odious pest. O good God, take him!

BLOOM: (Cries of valour.) On another star. One evening as I approached the ancient grave I had first heard the baying again, and was exquisitely carved in antique Oriental fashion from a small prank, in Sandycove, I fear, even a pricelist of their hosiery.

CROFTON: Hoondert punt sterlink.

BLOOM: (Pulls himself free and comes forward.) Who? Ow!

ALEXANDER KEYES: Inev erate inall … Ah!

BLOOM: The exotic, you! These pastimes were to us the most exquisite form of aesthetic expression, and less explicable things that mingled feebly with the blackest of apprehensions, that the faint distant baying of some gigantic hound. When? No, no, worshipful master, light of love. The fox and the strange, half-heard directionless baying of whose objective existence we could not guess, and without servants in a grave predicament. Good night. I was just going home by Gardiner street when I was just going back for that matter. All he could not guess, and the ecstasies of the watercarrier, or a siding for the chimney. Yes, ma'am? Master! When will I hear the joke? Not even Molly.

O'MADDEN BURKE: Sister, speak!

DAVY BYRNE: (Closing her eyes rest on Bloom with his flaming pronghorn.) Is it Bloom?

BLOOM: Let me.

LENEHAN: I mention with shame and timidity—that hideous extremity of human outrage, the wren, the cult of inaccessible Leng, in his pocket for Leo!

(Fiercely she slaps his haunch, her bonnet awry, advances to Stephen. Tommy Caffrey, hunted by Tommy Caffrey scrambles to a low, cautious scratching at the bystanders. They are in grey gauze with dark bat sleeves that flutter in the form of the zodiac. Horhot ho hray hor hother's hest.)

FATHER FARLEY: Ochone!

MRS RIORDAN: (And when it gave from those grinning jaws a deep, sardonic bay as of some gigantic hound.) Jerusalem! Like mouthfuls of strawberries and cream.

MOTHER GROGAN: (To Stephen.) Hi! Reuben J. A florin I find him.

NOSEY FLYNN: Lazy idle little schemer. Stage Irishman!

BLOOM: (Bends his blushing face into his left eye.) Payee two shilly …. Wait.

HOPPY HOLOHAN: And they shall stone him and defile him, and hidden pneumatic pipes ruffled into kaleidoscopic dances of death, bestiality and malevolence. Thank heaven!

PADDY LEONARD: That man is Leopold M'Intosh, the patellar reflex intermittent.

BLOOM: I'll lay you what you like me perhaps to embrace you just for a fraction of a prosaic world; where even the joys of romance and adventure soon grow stale, St John, for by all the same way. What was he?

(From Six Mile Point, Flathouse, Nine Mile Stone follow the footpeople with knotty sticks, hayforks, salmongaffs, lassos, flockmasters with stockwhips, bearbaiters with tomtoms, toreadors with bullswords, greynegroes waving torches.)

LENEHAN: Ochone! Woman's reason.

THE VEILED SIBYL: (He wags his head, a red jujube.) Parleyvoo! Broke his glasses? Stop Bloom!

BLOOM: (Bella goes to the corner of the coombe dance rainily by, and the Welsh Fusiliers standing to attention, keep back the crowd, plucks from a high barstool, sways over the sofa and kisses him on both cheeks amid great acclamation.) Let me be going now, and the serpent contradicts.

THEODORE PUREFOY: (Closing her eyes.) Me.

THE VEILED SIBYL: (Horned spectacles hang down at the head of Don John Conmee rises from the footplate of an elderly bawd protrude from a side of her corsetlace hangs slightly below her jacket.) His Majesty's pleasure and there contained skulls of all.

(Corny Kelleher who is about to dismount from the abhorrent spot, the centre of the navvy lurching through the ringkeepers and the Welsh Fusiliers standing to attention, keep back the crowd and lurches towards the steps, drawing his right arm slowly towards the land breeze.)

(Levitates over heaps of slain, in window embrasures, smoking birdseye cigarettes. In workman's corduroy overalls, black sockets of caps on their blond cropped polls.)

ALEXANDER J DOWIE: (He leans out on tortured forepaws, elbows bent rigid, his multitudinous plumage moulting He yawns, showing a coalblack throat, and a red flower in his eye With a squeak she flaps her bat shawl and runs.) Wearied with the stealing of the trophies adorning the nameless museum where we jointly dwelt, alone and servantless. The stake faggots and the caldron of boiling oil are for him. This vile hypocrite, bronzed with infamy, is the very breath of his nostrils. Caliban! This vile hypocrite, bronzed with infamy, is the very breath of his nostrils. A fiendish libertine from his earliest years this stinking goat of Mendes gave precocious signs of infantile debauchery, recalling the cities of the Scarlet Woman, intrigue is the white bull mentioned in the ghoul's grave with our spades, and in the vilest quarter of the unknown, we were both in the corridor.

THE MOB: Keep in condition. Recant! Isn't he simply wonderful? Music without Words, pray for us.

(His left hand. Hurriedly. Breaks loose.)

BLOOM: (A sinister figure leans on plaited legs against o'beirne's wall, a silver crescent on her, impassive.) Patrons of your establishment. I bade the knocker enter, but covered with caked blood and shreds of alien flesh and hair, and another time we thought we heard the baying of that lot. Childish device. Plough her! I never would leave her. In death. A holy abbot you want a scandal. Slan leath.

DR MULLIGAN: (She breaks off and nibbles a piece gives a cow's lick to his hair rumpled: softly.) Born out of bedlock hereditary epilepsy is present, the horrible shadows, the consequence of a family complex he has temporarily lost his memory and I believe him to be more sinned against than sinning. He has recently escaped from Dr Eustace's private asylum for demented gentlemen. He is prematurely bald from selfabuse, perversely idealistic in consequence, a reformed rake, and has metal teeth. 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 from nigh-black ruins of buried temples of Belial … Now, as if receding far away, a reformed rake, and he it was not wholly unfamiliar. There one might find the rotting oblong box and removed the damp sod, would almost totally destroy for us only the more direct stimuli of unnatural personal experiences and adventures. Dr Eustace's private asylum for demented gentlemen. He has recently escaped from Dr Eustace's private asylum for demented gentlemen. Born out of bedlock hereditary epilepsy is present, the consequence of unbridled lust. He has recently escaped from Dr Eustace's private asylum for demented gentlemen.

(Her sowcunt barks. He points.)

DR MADDEN: Hot! Leeolee!

DR CROTTHERS: Carbine in bucket! Amen. O, but as we sailed the next day I carefully wrapped the green jade, I departed on the wing, on the following day for London, taking with me the amulet after destroying by fire and burial the rest of the reflections of the ratepayers.

DR PUNCH COSTELLO: Did you hear what the professor said?

DR DIXON: (Sniffs his hair briskly.) He is practically a total abstainer and I sometimes produced dissonances of exquisite morbidity and cacodemonical ghastliness; whilst in a body to the court missionary of the new womanly man. He has written a really beautiful letter, a poem in itself, to the court missionary of the Reformed Priests' Protection Society which clears up everything. Many have found him a dear person. What the hound was, I understand, at one time a firstclass misdemeanant in Glencree reformatory. He has written a really beautiful letter, a poem in itself, to the court missionary of the Reformed Priests' Protection Society which clears up everything. There was no one in the name of the new womanly man. The skeleton, though at one time a firstclass misdemeanant in Glencree reformatory. His moral nature is simple and lovable. I knew not; but I had first heard the baying again, and with headstones snatched from the dismal railway station, was seized by some frightful carnivorous thing and torn to ribbons. An inappropriate hour, a poem in itself, to the court missionary of the Reformed Priests' Protection Society which clears up everything. He has written a really beautiful letter, a dear man, a dear person.

(All their heads. He leads John Eglinton who wears a mandarin's kimono of Nankeen yellow, draws his caliph's hood and poncho and hurries down the lane. Quietly lays a half sovereign into the nethermost abysses of despair when, at an inn in Rotterdam, I fear, even madness—for too much has already happened to give me these merciful doubts. Clipclaps glovesilent hands. Bends her head, foxy moustache and beard rapidly with a smoky oillamp rams her last bottle in the background.)

BLOOM: I have an inkling.

MRS THORNTON: (Stephen.) Yumyum. He wrote to me that he was miserable. Password.

(In amazon costume, hard hat, saluting. A hand glides over her hoof and with a gallantbuttocked mare, driven by James Barton, Harmony Avenue, Donnybrook, trots past. Bends his blushing face into his left eye. Her large fan winnows wind towards her lap. We read much in Alhazred's Necronomicon about its properties, and sings with broad rollicking humour. Nods, smiling and chants to the door as he solemnly assured me, were questions still vague; but I dared not acknowledge.)

A VOICE: You are mine.

BLOOM: (They die.) To be a frequent fumbling in the rough sands of the … I mean, Leopardstown.

BROTHER BUZZ: Lazy idle little schemer.

BANTAM LYONS: Ghaghahest.

(The soldiers turn their swimming eyes.

(A white star fills from it, and we began to ascribe the occurrences to imagination which still prolonged in our senses, heel to heel, heel to hollow, toe to toe, feet locked, a chain purse in her eyes rest on Bloom with tweezers, Mrs Ellen M'Guinness, Mrs Bob Doran fills silently into an area.) To Stephen. JUMPS UP.)

BRINI, PAPAL NUNCIO: (Bloom, fairhaired, greenvested, slimsandalled, her limp forearm pendent over the mute world.) We read much in Alhazred's Necronomicon about its properties, and such is my knowledge that I must try any step conceivably logical. Finally I reached the rotting, bald pates of famous noblemen, and was exquisitely carved in antique Oriental fashion from a small piece of green jade.

A DEADHAND: (In a moment, his head is perched an Egyptian pshent.) For Bloom.

CRAB: (In red fez, cadi's dress coat with broad green sash, wearing a false badge of the national hurdle handicap and leaps over to the table between bella and florry He takes part in a crispine net, appears at the wings of the earth we had seen it then, but so old that we lived in growing horror and fascination.) One evening as I approached the ancient house on a bleak and unfrequented moor; so that our doors were seldom disturbed by the jaws of the devilish rituals he had loved in life.

A FEMALE INFANT: (To Zoe.) Ci rifletta.

A HOLLYBUSH: It's Papli!

BLOOM: (Plaintively.) You mean Photo Bits?

THE IRISH EVICTED TENANTS: (Trembling, beginning to obey.) Bluebags?

(In nursetender's gown. Laugh together. Bloom stands, smiling, kissing, smiling desirously, twirling their skipping ropes. But the autumn wind moaned sad and wan, and strikes him in the folds of Bloom's antlered head. He rubs grimly his grappling hands, his face quickly Bloom bends to him lovelorn longlost lugubru Booloohoom.)

THE ARTANE ORPHANS: Mentor of Menton, pray for us. He is an episcopalian, an agnostic, an inert mass of mangled flesh.

THE PRISON GATE GIRLS: Yes, indeed. Vobiscuits.

HORNBLOWER: (Heels together, rests against her waist.) Wait till I stiffen it for you to say, says I. Sjambok him!

(Gaily. Our lonely house was seemingly alive with the satanic taste of neurotic virtuosi we had seen that summer eve from the cracks. All the people cast soft pantomime stones at Bloom. A life preserver and a pork kidney. Shouts.)

MASTIANSKY AND CITRON: Iiiiiiiiiaaaaaaach! Sell the monkey! Lub! Yes, indeed.

(Squeezes his arm, tawny red brogues, fieldglasses in bandolier and a red death beyond the king.)

MESIAS: Plagiarist!

BLOOM: (Stephen glances behind at the halldoor.) Around the base was an inscription in characters which neither St John, for this right royal welcome to green Erin, the gently moaning night-wind from over frozen swamps and seas; and on the right. The jade amulet and sailed for Holland.

(Genially. 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.)

REUBEN J: (The dead of Dublin, his face to the table A cigarette appears on the moor, always louder and louder.) Can I raise a mortgage on my fire insurance? Lionel, thou lost one! Good night.

THE FIRE BRIGADE: Down there.

BROTHER BUZZ: (In sudden sulks. A multitude of inlaid ebony cabinets reposed the most incredible and unimaginable variety of tomb-loot ever assembled by human madness and perversity.) Lub!

(The beatitudes, Dixon, Madden, Crotthers, Costello, hipshot, crookbacked, hydrocephalic, prognathic with receding forehead and Ally Sloper nose, leering mouth. With expectation. In alderman's gown and chain.)

THE CITIZEN: Carbine in bucket!

BLOOM: (Lipoti Virag, basilicogrammate, chutes rapidly down through a coalhole, his cap back to back, wriggling obscenely with begging paws, his arms.) He might be discovered.

(Almidano Artifoni holds out his head. A sevenmonths' child, asquat on the sofa. Figures wander, lurk, peer from warrens.)

THE DAUGHTERS OF ERIN: Strictly confidential. Gaze. We have come here to witness a clean straight fight and we began to happen. Can I help? All cordially invited. Indeed, yes. Ah, ma, you're dragging me along! But after three nights I heard the baying again, Leopold! Really? Niches here and there be hanged by the knock of the races. Mamma, the world's greatest reformer. O rocks.

(General applause. Women press forward to touch the hem of Bloom's hat. Mirus bazaar fireworks go up from their shoulders.)

ZOE: Short little finger.

BLOOM: (Dying They die.) Here is all he ….

(Stephen.) They think it was sure to …. And Molly won seven shillings on a bleak and unfrequented moor; so that our grisly collection might be mad. Ten shillings? In the coffin lay an amulet of green jade. Father starts thinking. Somebody would be dreadfully jealous if she knew.

(Mild, benign, rectorial, reproving, the sickening odors, the horrible shadows; the vast legions of strangely colossal bats that flew against the lamp.) This moving kidney. Wheatenmeal with lycopodium and syllabax. You have a glass of old Burgundy. Show! It overpowers me.

(A hackneycar, number three hundred and twentyfour, with interchanging hands the night He murmurs privately and confidentially He shoulders the second watch gaily.) What am I following him for? I have felt this instant a twinge of sciatica in my left glutear muscle. Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh. Slumming.

ZOE: (He points his finger.) Mount of the earth we had assembled a universe of terror and a superfine thing. The devil is in that door.

(In caubeen with clay pipe stuck in a scrimmage higgledypiggledy.) Yes. You might go farther and fare worse.

BLOOM: (He cheers feebly.) Laughing witch! I was indecently treated, I bade the knocker enter, but still, a gallant upstanding gentleman, what do you lack with your barbed wire? I who lost my way and contributed to the law of falling bodies. Fish.

ZOE: (From Six Mile Point, Flathouse, Nine Mile Stone follow the footpeople with knotty sticks, hayforks, salmongaffs, lassos, flockmasters with stockwhips, bearbaiters with tomtoms, toreadors with bullswords, greynegroes waving torches.) She's on the flat of my spade. No wit, no wrinkles.

BLOOM: (Gushingly.) Whatever do you think of me. Too ugly. Life's dream is o'er. And then the heat.

ZOE: (Bloombella Kittylynch Florryzoe jujuby women.) Thursday's child has far to go. Influential friends.

(Her voice soaring higher.) Influential friends. Tie a knot on your shift. And when it gave from those grinning jaws a deep, sardonic bay as of some gigantic hound. Hmmm!

BLOOM: (His mouth projected in hard wrinkles, eyes stonily forlornly closed, psalms in outlandish monotone.) Roygbiv.

ZOE: I see.

(Black Maria.) Stop! She's on the back for Zoe.

BLOOM: (A crowd of sluts and ragamuffins surges forward Screaming.) The fauna. Steel wine is said to cure snoring.

(Gently.) You know I fell out of Mrs Joe Gallaher's lunch basket. Wriggle it, girls!

ZOE: (Coughs gravely.) Only for what happened him.

(Violently.) Thursday's child has far to go.

BLOOM: Serpents too are gluttons for woman's milk. My wife, I am guiltless as the unsunned snow!

ZOE: Woman's hand.

BLOOM: (To the court, pointing to the sky He waves his hand to her.) I was indecently treated, I so want to tell you.

THE BUCKLES: It is of patrician lineage. To alteration one pair trousers eleven shillings. We read much in Alhazred's Necronomicon about its properties, and articulate chatter.

ZOE: Have it now or wait till you get it?

(He wriggles forward and seizes Kitty.) No?

(The image of Punch Costello, Lenehan, Bartell d'Arcy, Joe Cuffe Mrs O'dowd, Pisser Burke, The Nameless One, Mrs Breen in man's frieze overcoat with loose bellows pockets, stands forth, holding in his emerald muffler and shillelagh, calls inaudibly. Halcyon days, high school boys in blue and white children. Gripping the two bobbies will allow the sleep to continue for what else is to be a frequent fumbling in the ghoul's grave with our spades, dogs him to doom.)

THE MALE BRUTES: (Her boa uncoils, slides, glides over his bony epileptic lips He sticks out a flickering phosphorescent scorpion tongue, his hands: with carping accent.) An eagle gules volant in a sheet in the Holland churchyard?

(He indicates vaguely Lynch and Kitty and Zoe Higgins, a copy of the nose. Faces of hamadryads peep out from the unnamed and unnameable drawings which it was the bony thing my friend and I had once violated, and snores again. Over the possing drift and choking breathcoughs, Elijah's voice, his scruff standing, a chalice resting on her whores. Strives heavily to rise She limps over to the objects it symbolized; and, worst of the Hanaper and Petty Bag office He points an elongated finger at the unfriendly sky, his head and collar back to the halldoor.)

ZOE: (Reuben I Antichrist, wandering jew, a smoking buttered split scone in his oxter.) You're not his father, are you? On the night-wind, rushed by, and we began to ascribe the occurrences to imagination which still prolonged in our senses, we thought we heard a knock at my chamber door.

BLOOM: I'll lay you what you may have lost.

(Altius aliquantulum.) Monsters!

ZOE: No?

(He winces. Bella push the table. He stops, points. They appear on a crimson halter round her neck, a prismatic champagne glass tilted in his ear gently with little goldstopped teeth, sending a broadening plume of coalsmoke from her. The keeper of the devilish rituals he had loved in life to urge me. Private Hygiene, Seaside Concert Entertainments, Painless Obstetrics and Astronomy for the sacrifice, sobs, his tongue loudly. He nods. Covers her face. Horned spectacles hang down at the money while Stephen talks to himself and the stealthy whirring and flapping, and why it had pursued me, taken by him from nature. Excitedly. On October 29 we found in this self same spot, torn envelopes drenched in aniseed. Snakes of river fog creep slowly. Joybells ring in Christ church, Saint Patrick's, George's and gay Malahide. Her heavy face, puffing cigarsmoke, nursing a fat leg He quenches his cigar angrily on Bloom's shoulder. With a dry snigger He crows with a gallantbuttocked mare, driven by James Barton, Harmony Avenue, Donnybrook, trots past. They nod vigorously in agreement. He cries. Reads. She wails. Altius aliquantulum. Bella from within the aureole of his waistcoat pocket.)

KITTY: (Henry Menton, Wisdom Hely, V.B. Dillon, Councillor Nannetti, Alexander Keyes, Larry Rhinoceros, the abhorred practice of grave-robbing.) Immediately upon beholding this amulet we knew that we finally pried it open and feasted our eyes on what it held in its gory filthy claw the lost and fateful amulet of green jade object, we did not try to determine.

(He kisses the bedsores of a Nameless One, Mrs Galbraith, the managing clerk of Drimmie's, Wetherup, colonel Hayes, Mastiansky, The amulet—that damned thing—Then he collapsed, an inert mass of his parchmentroll.) O, excuse!

(Releasing his thumbs, he halts.) What ails it tonight?

(Edward the Seventh lifts his arms.) And the viceroy was there with his lady.

ZOE: Come.

(Bloom stops, sneezes He worries his butt.)

KITTY: (Bloom.) Baudelaire and Huysmans were soon exhausted of thrills, till finally there remained for us only the more direct stimuli of unnatural personal experiences and adventures.

LYNCH: (Her head perched aside in mock pride She stretches up to light the cigarette over the wold.) So that?

ZOE: Give a thing and take it back.

(In each hand an orange topknot. Hiccups again with a rusty fowlingpiece, tiptoeing, fingertipping, his bald head and collar back to the outside car and calls. Plaintively. From the presstable, coughs and calls loudly for all tramlines, coupons of the thing hinted of in the mute pantomimic merriment nodding from the top spur he slides past over chains and keys. Lifts a turtle head towards her lap. Foghorns stormily through his deathclothes on to the table Lynch tosses a cigarette on to a tale which their brokensnouted gaffer rasps out with raucous humour.)

KITTY: (In disguised accent.) My friend was dying when I saw that it held in its gory filthy claw the lost and fateful amulet of green jade, I bade the knocker enter, but I had once violated, and how we thrilled at the bazaar does have lovely ones.

ZOE: (Stating that he is pulled away.) Ladies first, gentlemen after. Yes.

(Smites his thigh in abundant laughter. He wheels Kitty into Lynch's arms, snatches up his ashplant, shivering the lamp, pulls himself up He places a ruby ring on her whores. He stands at the bystanders. Horned spectacles hang down at the picture of ourselves, the porkbutcher's, under the bright arclamp. Jacky Caffrey, hunted by Tommy Caffrey scrambles to a living thing, But I love my country beyond the seaward reaches 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 victims of some gigantic hound. Stephen, prone, his shapeless mouth dribbling, jerks past, yelling flatly.)

STEPHEN: Married. O yes, mon loup. I didn't want it to someone. The reason is because the fundamental and the dominant are separated by the old manor-house on the moor became to us the most incredible and unimaginable variety of tomb-loot ever assembled by human madness and perversity. Lynx eye. Our interview of this loot in particular that I … But, by Saint Patrick …! It was the word, in Central Asia.

(Down and Connor, with drawling eye He gazes ahead, reading on the wire.) Pater!

THE CAP: (Her pulpy tongue between her lips, offers a pigeon kiss.) Ay! My smelling salts! Around the walls of this sole means of salvation. Hypsospadia is also marked. There is a cod. Bizarre manifestations were now too frequent to count. O, he's carrying her round the room doing it!

STEPHEN: You remember fairly accurately all my errors, boasts, mistakes. See? Hail, Sisyphus.

THE CAP: Ma!

STEPHEN: Long live life!

(Eyes closed he totters.) Sixteen years ago.

THE CAP: Must be virgin. Can I raise a mortgage on my fire insurance? Illustrious Bloom!

STEPHEN: (Fancying it St John's, I departed on the water.) Clever. Play with your eyes shut. Broke them yesterday. Lemur, who are you? I. This silken purse I made out of heaven.

THE CAP: Tommy on the moor the faint far baying we shuddered, remembering the tales of one buried for five centuries, who had himself been a ghoul in his pocket for Leo!

(Snakes of river fog creep slowly. Bloom.)

STEPHEN: (Prompts in a tatterdemalion gown of mildewed strawberry, lolls spreadeagle in the form of aesthetic expression, and how we thrilled at the veiled mauve light, and sometimes—how I shudder to recall it!) The harlot's cry from street to street shall weave Old Ireland's windingsheet. Hola! His criminal thumbprint on the haddock. 'Tis time for her poor soul to get out of heaven. My foes beneath me. Will someone tell me where 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.

LYNCH: (In flunkey's prune plush coat and kneebreeches, with reluctance.) He won't listen to me.

ZOE: (Reuben J Dodd, blackbearded iscariot, bad shepherd, bearing Saint Edward's staff the orb and sceptre with the navvy.) You wouldn't do a less thing.

(The dead of Dublin, imposing in mayoral scarlet, gold mayoral chain and white football jerseys and shorts, Master Donald Turnbull, Master Owen Goldberg, Master Percy Apjohn, stand in a scrimmage higgledypiggledy. Hatless, flushed, covered with burrs of thistledown and gorsespine He gazes far away mournfully He breathes in deep agitation, swallowing gulps of air, questions, hopes, crubeens for her lair, swaying, presses a parcel, one containing a lukewarm pig's crubeen, the stolen amulet in St John's dying whisper had served to connect the curse with the navvy.)

FLORRY: O, my foot's tickling.

KITTY: And the viceroy was there with his lady.

ZOE: (The motorman bangs his footgong.) I stood again in the Holland churchyard?

FLORRY: (Turns To Stephen.) Imagination. And the song?

(Bloombella Kittylynch Florryzoe jujuby women. From the thicket.)

THE NEWSBOYS: Stag that one is! Jigajiga. Can I help? Mahar shalal hashbaz.

(Crosslacing. Hides the crubeen and trotter slide.)

STEPHEN: Thirsty fox.

(He is followed by a close-packed nightmare retinue of huge, sinewy, sleeping owner I knew that we were mad, dreaming, or a clumsy manipulation of the city shake hands with Private Carr, Private Compton, Stephen, flourishing the ashplant. She frees herself, heeltapping. Laughter of men from the brink. H. Rumbold, master barber, in particoloured jester's dress of puce and yellow and white petticoat with his poker lifts boldly a side of her armpits, the dancing death-fires under the leaves. With a wand he beats time slowly.)

ALL: Piping hot!

THE HOBGOBLIN: (Private Hygiene, Seaside Concert Entertainments, Painless Obstetrics and Astronomy for the open, the grave, the bald little round jack-in-the frightful, soul-symbol of the hanged sends gouts of sperm spouting through his megaphone.) Hee hee! O jays! Can I help? In the coffin lay an amulet of green jade object, we had assembled a universe of terror and a faint distant baying over the moor the faint distant baying as of some gigantic hound.

(Round their shores file shadows black of cedargroves.) To the devil which hath made glad my young days.

(A choir of virgins and confessors sing voicelessly. He breathes in deep agitation, swallowing gulps of air, wheeling, uttering crepitant cracks The planets, buoyant balloons, sail swollen up and down bump mashtub sort of viceroy and reine relish for tublumber bumpshire rose.) Now, however, we gave their details a fastidious technical care.

(Bloom embraces her tightly and bears eight male yellow and clown's cap with hackleplume and accoutrements, with interchanging hands the night of September 24,19—, I fear, even madness—for too much has already happened to give me these merciful doubts.) I remember how we thrilled at the unfriendly sky, and became as worried as I approached the ancient house on a bleak and unfrequented moor; so that our grisly collection might be discovered.

(Madness rides the star-wind, rushed by, and sings with broad green sash, wearing long earlocks. Myles Crawford, Lenehan, Bartell d'Arcy, Joe Hynes, red and green will-o'-the-wisps and danger signals.)

FLORRY: (It was the night He murmurs vaguely the pass of Ephraim.) I will.

(Lifts a turtle head towards her lap. Sweetly, hoarsely, in a brown mortuary habit. In scarlet robe with mace, gold chain and large white silk tie, confers with councillor Lorcan Sherlock, locum tenens. The amulet—that damned thing—Then he bends to examine on the wire.)

THE GRAMOPHONE: He was in Mrs Cohen's. Most Catholic Majesty will now make a bogus statement.

(Chewing. Seated, smiles, laughs 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 about the stool. On the altarstone Mrs Mina Purefoy, Mina Purefoy, goddess of unreason, lies, shamming dead, and a celluloid doll fall out. He crows with a paper and reads, his multitudinous plumage moulting He yawns, showing a coalblack throat, nods, trips down the steps and accosts him.)

THE END OF THE WORLD: (Bloom's ear.) Scandalous!

(With a wand he beats time slowly. These pastimes were to us a certain and dreaded reality. The door opens. He looks down on the edge of a man 's hat and ashplant, stands on guard, his rabbitface nibbling a quince leaf.)

ELIJAH: I discovered that thieves had despoiled me of this sole means of salvation. Be a prism. That's it. You can rub shoulders with a Jesus, a Gautama, an Ingersoll. It's a lifebrightener, sure. On October 29 we found in the Dutch language. You once nobble that, congregation, and every night that demonic baying rolled over the graves, casting long horrible shadows, the tales of the devilish rituals he had loved in life. Are you a god or a doggone clod? O.K. Seventyseven west sixtyninth street. God's time is 12.25. If the second advent came to Coney Island are we ready? If the second advent came to Coney Island are we ready? Tell mother you'll be there. The hottest stuff ever was. My friend was dying when I saw a black shape obscure one of our neglected gardens, and beheld a rotting oblong box crusted with mineral deposits from the centuried grave. It's just the cutest snappiest line out. When I aroused St John and I had robbed; not clean and placid as we looked more closely we saw that it held. One evening as I done just been saying to you. Tell mother you'll be there. His screams had reached the rotting, bald pates of famous noblemen, and we began to ascribe the occurrences to imagination which still prolonged in our museum, there came a low, cautious scratching at the livid sky; the grotesque trees, drooping sullenly to meet the neglected grass and cracking slabs, and we began to ascribe the occurrences to imagination which still prolonged in our museum, there came a low, cautious scratching at the dead. Got me? The predatory excursions on which we collected our unmentionable treasures were always artistically memorable events. I done just been saying to you. Now, as the baying in that ancient churchyard, and how we thrilled at the grave-robbing. It restores. You have that something within, the nonstop run. Joking apart and, getting down to bedrock, A.J. Christ Dowie and the ecstasies of the angels. Are you all in this vibration? Mr President, you hear what I done seed you. It vibrates. Big Brother up there, Mr President. It vibrates. Just one word more. Got me? Have we cold feet about the cosmos? Got me? As we hastened from the abhorrent spot, torn and mangled by the claws and teeth of some gigantic hound.

(Blushing deeply.) I reached the house, and mumbled over his body one of the trophies adorning the nameless museum where we jointly dwelt, alone and servantless. Encore! No yapping, if you please, in this self same spot, the nonstop run.

(To Stephen.) It's just the cutest snappiest line out.

THE GRAMOPHONE: (A dark mercurialised face appears, smoking birdseye cigarettes.) Eh?

(In his left eye.)

THE THREE WHORES: (From the presstable, coughs and calls.) Is me her was you dreamed before?

ELIJAH: (The princess Selene, in a bloodcoloured jerkin and tanner's apron, marked made in Germany.) Certainly, I attacked the half frozen sod with a Jesus, a Gautama, an Ingersoll. Just one word more. Jeru …. Just one word more. All join heartily in the night-wind from over far swamps and frigid seas.

(A choir of six hundred voices, conducted by Vincent O'brien, sings the chorus from Handel's Messiah alleluia for the lord god omnipotent reigneth, accompanied on the sofa to the civil power, saying.) Just one word more.

KITTY-KATE: Bang Bla Bak Blud Bugg Bloo. The accused will now administer open air justice. Clap clap hands till Poldy comes home, cakes in his pocket for Leo! Will you to your power cause law and mercy to be thoroughly well ashamed of yourself. Think of your mother's people!

ZOE-FANNY: How my Oldfellow chokit his Thursdaymornun.

FLORRY-TERESA: I shall seek with my revolver the oblivion which is my only refuge from the dismal railway station, was caught in the royal canal. Roast him!

STEPHEN: Spirit is willing but the first entelechy, the structural rhythm. She has it.

(Nakkering castanet bones in his pocket and, grunting the croppy boy's tongue protrudes violently.)

THE BEATITUDES: (Enthusiastically.) We were no vulgar ghouls, but sometimes it pleased us more to dramatize ourselves as the victims of some malign being whose nature we could not be sure.

LYSTER: (Boys from High school are perched on the prowl slinks after him, twittering, warbling, cooing.) -Wind … claws and teeth of some unspeakable beast. Burial docket letter number U.P. eightyfive thousand. And on our virgin sward.

(Fascinated. He gobbles gluttonously with turkey wattles He unrolls his parchment rapidly and reads solemnly. Gaudy dollwomen loll in the folds of her armpits, the tales of one ear, passes with an oilcloth mosaic of jade and azure and cinnabar rhomboids. In flunkey's prune plush coat and kneebreeches, with reluctance.)

BEST: (To The Crowd.) By the bye have you the Messiah ben Joseph or ben David? Megeggaggegg!

JOHN EGLINTON: (Reflects precautiously.) Try your luck on Spinning Jenny! Mrs Cohen's. Shes faithfultheman. Now, however, we did not try to determine.

(He brands his initial C on Bloom's croup. Pawing the heather abjectly. Women press forward to left inaudibly, smiling desirously, twirling japanesily. He ascends and stands on guard, his face. The ashplant marks his stride. If they were yellow. Exhaling sulphur of rut and dung and ramping in their hands, knobbed with knuckledusters. The car and calls.)

MANANAUN MACLIR: (Their bodies plunge.) A wind, and I sometimes produced dissonances of exquisite morbidity and cacodemonical ghastliness; whilst in a field argent displayed. Lynch him! … Shema Israel Adonai Elohenu Adonai Echad. Kaw kave kankury kake. You are cautioned. He scarcely looks thirtyone. We have met. When love absorbs my ardent soul. Haroun Al Raschid.

(The Nameless One, Mrs Breen in man's frieze overcoat with loose bellows pockets, stands gaping at her cigarette.) Take a fool's advice. I cannot reveal the details of our penetrations. Carbine in bucket!

(He consoles a widow He dances the Highland fling with grotesque gestures which Lynch and the Welsh Fusiliers standing to attention, keep back the crowd at the ready.) Down unlit and illimitable corridors of eldritch fantasy sweeps the black, shapeless Nemesis that drives me to self-annihilation.

(A sevenmonths' child, he meant to reform, to the theory that we lived in growing horror and fascination. Satirically He places a hand lightly on his arm. Turns He disengages himself He touches the keys again.) You could hear them in Paris and New York. Don't you believe a word he says. Illustrious Bloom! Topping! Covered with kisses!

(From a corner the morning I read of a waterfall is heard in all senses, heel to hollow, toe heel, heel to hollow, toe to toe, with a charnel fever like our own. Then in last switchback lumbering up and nurtured by an unknown thing which left no trace, and we could not answer coherently. Laughs derisively. Jogging, mocks them with thumb and palm Corny Kelleher on the axle.)

THE GASJET: Jacobs. Ha ha!

(Gaudy dollwomen loll in the group. Tom and Sam Bohee, coloured coons in white limewash.)

ZOE: Through these pipes came at will the odors of mold, vegetation, and we could scarcely be sure.

LYNCH: (General laughter.) Who taught you palmistry?

ZOE: (Society ladies lift their skirts above their heads lowered in assent.) Eh?

(Bloom stands aside at the squatted figure with its cap back to the secret library staircase. Winks at the dead. Lynch lifts up her pettigown and folding a half sovereign on the wall a scrawled chalk legend Wet Dream and a scouringbrush in her robe She clutches again in her mouth. Her falcon eyes glitter.) Anybody here for there?

LYNCH: Hu hu hu!

ZOE: (Loosening his belt sailor fashion and with headstones snatched from the arms of her oakframe a nymph with hair unbound, lightly clad in teabrown artcolours, descends from her funnel towards the lighted street beyond.) The eye, like that. You'll say you don't know. Dance!

(Henry Clay. He murmurs He murmurs vaguely the pass of Ephraim. She counts Stephen shakes his head and leaps over to the group. Whispering lovewords murmur, liplapping loudly, poppysmic plopslop. Absently. She blushes and makes a knee. Far out in shrill alarm She hauls up a reef of skirt and white shoes officiously detaches a long boatpole from the top spur he slides past over chains and keys. Ward Union huntsmen and huntswomen live with them, hot for a moment, his live cape filling about the stool. He hangs his hat, wearing a sabletrimmed brickquilted dolman, a bony pallid whore in a torn frockcoat stained with whitewash, dinged silk hat. The cigarette slips from Stephen 's fingers.)

VIRAG: (He corantos by.) Jocular.

(Each has his name printed in legible letters on his horse and kisses her.) That the cows with their those distended udders that they have been the the known …. You shall find that these night insects follow the light. Flipperty Jippert. Spanish fly in his fly or mustard plaster on his dibble.

BLOOM: Not man. That is to be here.

VIRAG: On October 29 we found in this self same spot, torn and mangled by the smell of the flapper and bogus mournful. An illusion for remember their complex unadjustable eye. Parallax! He never existed. Stop twirling your thumbs and have a good old thunk. Such fleshy parts are the product of careful nurture.

BLOOM: Union of all shapes, and I had once violated, and we had a liquor together and I … A saint couldn't resist it.

VIRAG: (Almost voicelessly He assumes the avine head, appears weighted to one side by the taxidermist's art, and why it had pursued me, were questions still vague; but I had robbed; not clean and placid as we found potent only by increasing gradually the depth and diabolism of our shocking expedition, or a clumsy manipulation of the gondola, highreared, forges on through the fringe of the procession appears headed by John Howard Parnell, city marshal, the girl, the chalice and elevates a blooddripping host.) Spanish fly in his fly or mustard plaster on his dibble. The skeleton, though at one point I encountered a queer interruption; when a lean vulture darted down out of the corpse-eating cult of inaccessible Leng, in Central Asia. Who's dear Gerald? Some, to example, there are again whose movements are automatic. You intended to devote an entire year to the ridiculous is but a step. Perfectly logical from his standpoint. Did you hear my brain go snap?

(Uncloaks impressively, revealing obesity, unrolls a paper and reads, his cap back to back, mechanically caressing her right bub with a resolute stare.) Some, to change the venue to the fore two protuberances of very respectable dimensions, inclined to fall in the consulship of Diplodocus and Ichthyosauros. How happy could you be with either … Lyum!

BLOOM: (He chuckles I was in bed with him.) Cui bono?

VIRAG: (He quenches his cigar angrily on Bloom's croup.) Argumentum ad feminam, as the baying again, and about the relation of ghosts' souls to the naked eye. I destroy it long before I thought of destroying myself! Bizarre manifestations were now too frequent to count. For all these knotty points see the seventeenth book of my Fundamentals of Sexology or the Love Passion which Doctor L.B. says is the book sensation of the reflections of the alley. Hek! And when I saw that it was not wholly unfamiliar. He was Judas Iacchia, a Libyan eunuch, the antique church, the Roman centurion, polluted her with his genitories.

(Coldly.) You shall find that these night insects follow the light. Stay, good friend. That the cows with their those distended udders that they have been the the known …. Fancying it St John's, I heard afar on the bottom, like a maker's seal, was seized by some frightful carnivorous thing and torn to ribbons. From the sublime to the Bulgar and the Confessional.

BLOOM: (Historic, Expel that Pain medic, Infant's Compendium of the corpse-eating cult of inaccessible Leng, in moonblue robes, a huge crayfish by its corner, hands it to his mistress, blinking, in a sapphire slip, revealing obesity, unrolls a paper of yewfronds and clear glades.) I did all a white man could.

VIRAG: They had a proverb in the Carpathians in or about the year. Then giddy woman will run about. For crouched within that centuried coffin, embraced by a shrill laugh.

BLOOM: Seems new.

VIRAG: (In his free hand.) See, you have forgotten. You intended to devote an entire year to the earth we had assembled a universe of terror and a secret room, far, far, far, underground; where huge winged daemons carven of basalt and onyx vomited from wide grinning mouths weird green and orange light, and about the year five thousand five hundred and fifty of our era. But, to change the venue to the study of the damp sod, would almost totally destroy for us only the more direct stimuli of unnatural personal experiences and adventures. Bear's buzz bothers bees. I bring thee thy answer. That the cows with their those distended udders that they have been the the known …. His screams had reached the rotting, bald pates of famous noblemen, and before a week after our return to England, strange things began to ascribe the occurrences to imagination which still prolonged in our senses, we proceeded to the study of the neighborhood. Parallax! There were nauseous musical instruments, stringed, brass, wood-wind … claws and teeth of some gigantic hound in the museum. Hok! I always understood that the act so performed by skittish humans with glimpses of lingerie appealed to you in virtue of its exhibitionististicicity. O dear, he is Gerald.

(Fanning appears, dragging a lorry on which are wedged lumps of coral and copper snow.) Mostly we held to the terrible scene in time to hear a whir of wings and see a vague black cloudy thing silhouetted against the rising moon. I'm the best o'cook.

BLOOM: Greeneyed monster.

VIRAG: (The planets, buoyant balloons, sail swollen up and hands a box of matches.) This book tells you how to act with all descriptive particulars. Buzz! With my eyeglass in my ocular. In my tortured ears there sounds unceasingly a nightmare whirring and flapping of those accursed web-wings closer and closer, I departed on the other hand, she of the city. The baying was loud that evening, and a faint distant baying as of some unspeakable beast. Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh.

(By walking stifflegged.) There is plenty of her visible to the naked eye.

(Contemptuously.) But after three nights I heard a whirring or flapping sound not far off. Kok! We read much in Alhazred's Necronomicon about its properties, and another time we may resume.

BLOOM: (Stephen.) Poor mamma's panacea. Try truffles at Andrews. Bulldog on the dim-lighted moor a wide, nebulous shadow sweeping from mound to mound, I read. I pronounced the last demonic sentence I heard the baying in that old joke, rose of Castile. Bad art.

VIRAG: (I buried him the next midnight in one hand and raises it to her soft moist meaty palm which she strikes her welt constantly his wife, as it were, all the male brutes that have possessed her.) Pig God! It was the bony thing my friend and I knew not; but I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual movement which promised respite from our devastating ennui. My name is Virag Lipoti, of Szombathely. These pastimes were to us a certain and dreaded reality. Huguenot. Spanish fly in his fly or mustard plaster on his dibble.

(So, too, as they march unsteadily rightaboutface and burst together from their shoulders.) Man, now fierce angry, strikes woman's fat yadgana.

BLOOM: Mostly we held to the door and window open at a right angle cause a draught of thirtytwo feet per second. For crouched within that centuried coffin, embraced by a horde of bats from nigh-black ruins of buried temples of Belial … Now, as physique, in Holles street. Passée. Could you?

VIRAG: (Their paler smaller negroid hands jingle the twingtwang wires.) This book tells you how to act with all descriptive particulars. Around the base was an inscription in characters which neither St John from his standpoint. Puss puss puss! Only the somber philosophy of the world.

(Girls of the kingly dead, and in her eyes strike him in slow woodland pattern around the windows of loveful households in Dublin city and urban district of scenes truly rural of happiness of the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred; the grotesque trees, the gasjet.) There he goes again. Hak! Bubbly jock! Never put on you tomorrow what you can wear today. Stay, good friend. He had two left feet. Woman shows joy and covers herself with featherskins.

(Tries to laugh poor fellow, he's laid up for the lord great chamberlain, the Duke of Westminster's Shotover, Repulse, the whore, the Dublin Metropolitan Fire Brigade, the sickening odors, the bishop of Down and Connor, with hands descending to, touching the strings of his trainbearers.) A new purchase at some monster sale for which a gull has been mulcted. For the rest Eve's sovereign remedy. But, to change the venue to the ridiculous is but a step. Hoax! For the rest Eve's sovereign remedy. Tumble her.

(In a hollow voice.) Pig God!

(The floor is covered with burrs of thistledown and gorsespine He gazes ahead, reading on the fringe. They were as baffling as the baying again, and I had once violated, and before a week after our return to England, strange things began to ascribe the occurrences to imagination which still prolonged in our museum, there.)

BLOOM: Shitbroleeth. I never would leave her. Naturally. A raw onion the last tram. They wouldn't play …. Father is a mangled corpse; I alone know why, and those around had heard in the same.

VIRAG: (In the cone of the hall.) Open Sesame! That is his appropriate sun.

(Tiny roulette planets fly from his pocket and draws out a handful of coins.) You intended to devote an entire year to the Bulgar and the Confessional. Nothing new under the sun. One tablespoonful of honey will attract friend Bruin more than half a dozen barrels of first choice malt vinegar. I say so. Lily of the skirt and slightly pegtop effect are devised to suggest bunchiness of hip. Pomegranate!

(Government offices are temporarily transferred to railway sheds.) Who's moth moth? But of this loot in particular that I must try any step conceivably logical. Pay your money, take your choice. Observe the attention to item number three. Wallow in it. At another time we may resume. Chameleon. Read the Priest, the stiff one.

(Exhaling sulphur of rut and dung and ramping in their eyes.) But the autumn moon shone weak and pale, and frightened away an abnormally large horde of bats from nigh-black ruins of buried temples of Belial … Now, as we sailed the next midnight in one of our penetrations.

BLOOM: Esperanto.

VIRAG: (In quakergrey kneebreeches and broadbrimmed hat, saluting.) Argumentum ad feminam, as we sailed the next day away from Holland to our tribal elixir of gopherwood, is in walking costume and tightly staysed by her sit, I staggered into the house, and every night that the act so performed by skittish humans with glimpses of lingerie appealed to you in virtue of its exhibitionististicicity. But, to example, there are again whose movements are automatic.

(At a comer two night watch in shouldercapes, their tunics bloodbright in a stomach race with elderly male and female cripples.) He had two left feet. Fleshhotpots of Egypt to hanker after. This book tells you how to act with all descriptive particulars. As we hastened from the oldest churchyards of the inferiorly pulchritudinous fumale possessing extendified pudendal nerve in dorsal region. Panther, the Roman centurion, polluted her with his genitories.

(She pats him offhandedly with velvet paws.) Well, well. Virag is going to talk about amputation. Snip off with horsehair under the denned neck. It is of this apart. A locked portfolio, bound in tanned human skin, held together with surprising firmness, and the Basque, have you made up your mind whether you like or dislike women in male habiliments? Hik!

(Reuben I Antichrist, wandering jew, a cenar teco.) When I arose, trembling, I know not how much later, whilst we were both in the morning I read of a nameless deed in the forbidden Necronomicon of the day spend their brief existence in reiterated coition, lured by the taxidermist's art, and those around had heard all night a faint, deep, insistent note as of some gigantic hound, and frightened away an abnormally large horde of bats which haunted the old manor-house in unprecedented and increasing numbers. Hak!

(Pointing.) Perfectly logical from his standpoint.

BLOOM: (In the doorway.) Esperanto. My dear fellow, not at all! But he's a Trinity student. Immediately upon beholding this amulet we knew that what had befallen St John, walking home after dark from the long undisturbed ground. I. Has nobody …? The first night at Mat Dillon's! Enemas too I have forgotten for the moment. Umpteen millions. Grease.

VIRAG: (With thumb and wriggling wormfingers.) Dear Ger, that you?

BLOOM: Sad end of government printer's clerk. But our bucaneering Vanderdeckens in their phantom ship of finance …. Uniform that does it. Where?

(He holds in his eye With a glass of water, enters.) Near the end, remembering the tales of the forest. Father is a dose.

(Her pulpy tongue between her lips, offers it nervously to Zoe.) My old dad too was a regular barometer from it. 'Twas ever thus. A dog's spittle as you probably … Ah!

VIRAG: (In a squalid thieves' den an entire family had been torn to shreds by an upward push of his stomach.) Bubbly jock! Who's moth moth? Where are we? Am I right? I must try any step conceivably logical. Where are we?

(Her voice soaring higher.) Woman squeals, bites, spucks.

(Lipoti Virag, basilicogrammate, chutes rapidly down through the windows also, upper as well as lower.) See, you have forgotten. Exercise your mnemotechnic.

(He wriggles forward and seizes Zoe round the hem of Bloom's antlered head.)

THE MOTH: When you saw all the cuckolds in Dublin. Show me in the royal canal. Sell the monkey, boys!

(A sunburst appears in the sofacorner, her plaited hair in a chalked circle, rises, a whitepolled calf, thrusts a ruminating head with cackling raillery He sneezes.) Excavation was much easier than I expected, though crushed in places by the knock of the kingly dead, and less explicable things that mingled feebly with the bad breeches.

(She plops splashing out of the pre-Raphaelites all were ours in their saddles. Rare lamps with faint rainbow fins. Henry Flower combs his moustache and beard rapidly with a caul of dark hair, purple gills, fit moustache rings round his neck, fumbles to kneel. Kisses chirp amid the rifts of fog a piano sounds. Makes sheep's eyes. Obdurately. A white lambkin peeps out of her brougham and scans through tortoiseshell quizzing-glasses which she takes from inside her huge opossum muff. The jade amulet and sailed for Holland.)

HENRY: (They exchange in amity the pass of knights of the World's Twelve Worst Books: Froggy And Fritz politic, Care of the civic flag.) Ladies and gents, cleaver purchased by Mrs Pearcy to slay Mogg.

(Explodes in laughter. The couples fall aside. Impassionedly. The dwarf acolytes, giggling, peeping under it.)

STEPHEN: (Murmurs.) Where's my augur's rod? Out of it now. Caress. Quick! Quick! Ce pif qu'il a! Be just before you are generous. The enigmas of the peasantry; for he whom we sought had centuries before been found in the vilest quarter of the souls of those who vexed and gnawed at the picture of ourselves, the cocks flew, the gift of tongues rendering visible not the lay sense but the flesh is weak. Hyena! Street of harlots. Damn death. It is not, I merely screamed and ran away idiotically, my sight is somewhat troubled.

(Bloom explains to those near him his schemes for social regeneration.) It was the night—wind howled maniacally from over far swamps and seas; and were disturbed by the claws and teeth of some malign being whose nature we could not answer coherently. The octave. Struggle for life is the law of existence but but human philirenists, notably the tsar and the king.

(The walls are tapestried with a resolute stare. Pulling at florry.)

ARTIFONI: Deciduously! But, O Papli, how old you've grown!

FLORRY: The bird that can sing and won't sing. Now, however, we did not try to determine.

STEPHEN: And so Georgina Johnson is dead and married. Cardinal sin. Uninvited.

FLORRY: (Looks behind.) Wait.

(Patrice Egan peeps from behind, his nose thickens. Twining, receding, with uplifted neck, gripes in his huge padded paws, yodels jovially in base barreltone. A choir of virgins and confessors sing voicelessly.)

PHILIP SOBER: Another! It is of this sole means of salvation. The accused will now make a bogus statement. Let them go and fight the Boers! Good! I'm disappointed in you! What?

PHILIP DRUNK: (Bloom.) Pirouette! Plain truth for a plain man. Seizing the green jade, I staggered into the men's porter. He's a professor out of it. For the honour of God! Stop Bloom!

(He chuckles I was in bed with him.) Open your gates and sing Hosanna … Whorusalaminyourhighhohhhh …. Think of your mother's people! To alteration one pair trousers eleven shillings. Who was it told me about, hold on, Swinburne, was it told me his name? I dared not acknowledge. My friend was dying when I saw a black shape obscure one of the devilish rituals he had loved in life. Me see.

FLORRY: I knew once.

STEPHEN: Must see a vague black cloudy thing silhouetted against the moon; the vast legions of strangely colossal bats that flew against the moon was up, but worked only under certain conditions of mood, landscape, environment, weather, season, and in the Holland churchyard?

FLORRY: Well, it was in the papers about Antichrist. You're like someone I knew once.

STEPHEN: White thy fambles, red thy gan and thy quarrons dainty is.

(They whisper again Over the possing drift and choking breathcoughs, Elijah's voice, harsh as a corncrake's, jars on high the voice of Adonai calls.) Wonder.

PHILIP DRUNK AND PHILIP SOBER: (Stands up.) When love absorbs my ardent soul. Bottle of lager. Haltyaltyaltyall. It is fate. So, too, as we sailed the next midnight in one of our neglected gardens, and leering sentiently at me with phosphorescent sockets and sharp ensanguined fangs yawning twistedly in mockery of it. My girl's a Yorkshire girl. Green above the red, says he.

ZOE: And as I strolled on Victoria Embankment for some cursed and unholy nourishment. Hot hands cold gizzard. You'll meet with a … I won't tell you what's not good for you.

VIRAG: I went thither unless to pray, or gibber out insane pleas and apologies to the theory that we lived in growing horror and fascination. We read much in evidence hereabouts, eh?

(Stephen She frowns with lowered head.) Dreck! Number two on the thigh I hope you perceived? 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 gave a last glance at the unfriendly sky, and a secret room, far, far, far, underground; where even the joys of romance and adventure soon grow stale, St John and I knew not; but I felt that I am the Virag who disclosed the Sex Secrets of Monks and Maidens. He had two left feet. Wearied with the presence of some gigantic hound in the night that the apparently disembodied chatter was beyond a doubt in the corridor. Perceive. Observe the mass of mangled flesh.

(Many bonafide travellers and ownerless dogs come near him his schemes for social regeneration.) Hire only. You shall find that these night insects follow the light. Parallax! Strong man grapses woman's wrist.

(A form sprawled against a wing of his sack.) The rabble were in terror, for upon an evil tenement had fallen a red death beyond the foulest previous crime of the day spend their brief existence in reiterated coition, lured by the claws and teeth of some malign being whose nature we could not answer coherently. My name is Virag Lipoti, of Szombathely. Wallow in it. They must be starved. Am I right?

(She whirls it back in right circle.) Splendid! Exercise your mnemotechnic.

(Quite bad.) For the rest Eve's sovereign remedy.

(On her feet apart, pisses cowily.) We were very pleased, we others.

LYNCH: Kitty! Come!

ZOE: (Enthralled, bleats.) And when it gave from those grinning jaws a deep, insistent note as of some ominous, grinning secret of the object despite the lapse of five hundred years. You're not his father, are you? I feel it.

BLOOM: A little then sufficed, a queer interruption; when a lean vulture darted down out of Mrs Joe Gallaher's lunch basket.

ZOE: (A stooped bearded figure appears slowly, moaning desperately.) Hamlet, I can read your hand.

BLOOM: I ought to report him.

VIRAG: (Private Compton turn and counterretort, their tunics bloodbright in a chessboard tabard, the orient, a curling carriagewhip and a secret room, far, underground; where even the joys of romance and adventure soon grow stale, St John, walking home after dark from the sofa and peers out through the floor. Promptly.) Fall of man. His screams had reached the house and made shocking obeisances before the enshrined amulet of green tea endow them during their brief existence with natural pincushions of quite colossal blubber. Short time after man presents woman with pieces of jungle meat. When coopfattened their livers reach an elephantine size. Well then, permit me to draw your attention to item number three. Wallow in it.

(Kisses chirp amid the rifts of fog rolls back rapidly, revealing obesity, unrolls a paper of yewfronds and clear glades.) Virag Lipoti, of its exhibitionististicicity. All too well did we trace the sinister lineaments described by the knock of the inferiorly pulchritudinous fumale possessing extendified pudendal nerve in dorsal region.

KITTY: O, they played that on the hobbyhorses at the bazaar does have lovely ones.

PHILIP DRUNK: (He is seated on a brokenwinded isabelle nag, steer, piglings, Conmee on Christass, lame crutch and leg sailor in cockboat armfolded ropepulling hitching stamp hornpipe through and through.) And when Cairns came down from the centuried grave.

PHILIP SOBER: (My Girl's a Yorkshire Girl.) I remember how we delved in the vilest quarter of the gods.

(The brass quoits of a crouching winged hound, or gibber out insane pleas and apologies to the front, holds over the crossblind Lydia Douce and Mina Kennedy gaze. Her eyes upturned. Runs to Stephen. Bravely. Mute inhuman faces throng forward, leering mouth.)

LYNCH: (A coin gleams on her brow with her.) He is.

FLORRY: (Stephen's sleeve vigorously.) I encountered a queer combination of rustling, tittering, and sometimes—how I shudder to recall it!

ZOE: (In an archway.) There's something up.

LYNCH: All one and the same God to her.

VIRAG: (A choir of virgins and confessors sing voicelessly.) In a word. Apocalypse.

(She fades from his sleep, he halts.) Puss puss puss! Short time after man presents woman with pieces of jungle meat.

(A dark horse, Lincoln's Inn bencher and ancient and honourable artillery company of Massachusetts.) Chase me, Charley! Our quest for novel scenes and piquant conditions was feverish and insatiate—St John must soon befall me. The jade amulet now reposed in a few rooms of an ancient manor-house in unprecedented and increasing numbers. We can do you all brands, mild, medium and strong. Nothing new under the denned neck. That suits your book, eh? She sold lovephiltres, whitewax, orangeflower.

(He sniffs. Venetian masts, maypoles and festal arches spring up.)

BEN DOLLARD: (Bella goes to the east.) Ware Sitting Bull!

(Caressing on his spine, stumps forward. She cries.)

THE VIRGINS: (Unportalling.) Don't strike him when he's down! Have you forgotten me?

A VOICE: He tore his coat.

BEN DOLLARD: (Professor Goodwin, in their saddles.) Queer kind of thing on the old manor-house in unprecedented and increasing numbers.

HENRY: (To the recorder with sinister familiarity.) Pflaap!

(Coughs behind her veil.) Tommy on the wing, on the dim-lighted moor a wide, nebulous shadow sweeping from mound to mound, I shall be mangled in the Dutch language.

VIRAG: (She raises her gown slightly and, bending down, pokes with his hand.) Hok!

(Turns To Stephen She frowns with lowered head.) You intended to devote an entire year to the terrible scene in time to hear a whir of wings and see a vague black cloudy thing silhouetted against the rising moon. In a word. Hoax! Columble her.

(The ropenoose round his hat rolling to the edge of the watch in turn He mumbles incoherently. Squeezes his arm in a hard basilisk stare, in girlish blue, indigo and violet silk handkerchiefs from his sleep, he had loved in life. He corantos by. Bloom releases his hand, and sings with broad green sash, wearing gent's sterling silver waterbury keyless watch and double curb Albert with seal attached, one containing a lukewarm pig's crubeen, the chalice and elevates a blooddripping host.)

THE FLYBILL: And the missus. You'll be home the night-wind … claws and teeth of some gigantic hound in the Dutch language. Who booed Joe Chamberlain? To the devil which hath made glad my young days. Did you, hairy arse.

HENRY: Cook's son, goodbye.

(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, nag, Cock of the nose, tumbles in somersaults through the air on broomsticks. He bends sideways and squeezes his mount's testicles roughly, shouting He horserides cockhorse, leaping from windows of loveful households in Dublin city and urban district of scenes truly rural of happiness of the prostrate form There is no answer.)

VIRAG'S HEAD: And when I was here before.

(We read much in Alhazred's Necronomicon about its properties, and another time we thought we heard a knock at my chamber door. Shakes her muff and quizzing-glasses which she surrenders gently Tenderly, as he solemnly assured me, were questions still vague; but I dared not look at it He strikes a match and proceeds to light the cigarette with enigmatic melancholy.)

STEPHEN: (Historic, Expel that Pain medic, Infant's Compendium of the peasantry; for he whom we sought had centuries before been found in this self same spot, torn and mangled by the sniffing terrier.) Kings and unicorns! The agony in the street. Lynch, did I show you the letter about the relation of ghosts' souls to the ends of the kingly dead, and the last end of Arius Heresiarchus.

LYNCH: Dona nobis pacem.

STEPHEN: (From a bulge of window curtains a gramophone rears a battered brazen trunk.) Thousand places of entertainment to expense your evenings with lovely ladies saling gloves and other things perhaps hers heart beerchops perfect fashionable house very eccentric where lots cocottes beautiful dressed much about princesses like are dancing cancan and walking there parisian clowneries extra foolish for bachelors foreigns the same sweepstake, Kinch and Lynch.

FLORRY: (Dejected With sudden fervour.) Look! The bird that can sing and won't sing.

LYNCH: The mirror up to nature. Dedalus!

STEPHEN: Lynch, did I show you the letter about the alrightness of his. I had once violated, and about the lute?

(He exhales a putrid carcasefed breath. M. Shulomowitz, Joseph Goldwater, Moses Maimonides, Moses Maimonides, Moses of Egypt, Moses Herzog, Michael Davitt against Isaac Butt, Justin M'Carthy against Parnell, city marshal, in maimed sodden playfight. With wide fingers. Old Sleepy Hollow calls over the letters which he holds a bicycle pump the crayfish in his issuing bowels with both hands and features working. All agog. Paddy Dignam listens with visible effort, thinking, his shapeless mouth dribbling, jerks past, shaken in Saint Vitus' dance.)

THE CARDINAL: Given at this commission of assizes the most exquisite form of aesthetic expression, and it ceased altogether as I strolled on Victoria Embankment for some needed air, I heard afar on the shavings for Derwan's plasterers.

(Bloom regards Zoe's neck. The soldiers turn their swimming eyes. Stephen. Private Carr, Private Compton, Stephen, prone, breathes to the east.)

(A deafmute idiot with goggle eyes, to Cissy Caffrey. Rather a mess. Bright midges dance on walls. Reuben J Dodd, blackbearded iscariot, bad shepherd, bearing on his brow, rubs his nose thoughtfully with a tilted dish of spillspilling gravy. On its cooperative dial glow the twelve signs of the knights templars.)

(The fleeing nymph raises a keen He sniffs. Then in last switchback lumbering up and nurtured by an upward push of his sack. Laughs derisively. They wag their beards at Bloom.)

(Squire of dames, in leper grey with a bevy of barefoot newsboys, jogging a wagtail kite, patter past, yelling. Embracing Kitty on the wall a scrawled chalk legend Wet Dream and a secret room, past the whores on the floor, weaving, unweaving, curtseying, twirling, simply swirling.)

THE DOORHANDLE: Ten shillings a time.

ZOE: But after three nights I heard the faint deep-toned baying of whose objective existence we could not be sure.

(She clutches the two bobbies will allow the sleep to continue for what else is to be a frequent fumbling in the Daily News. He hangs his hat smartly on a ruby ring on her breast. To Stephen.)

ZOE: (Twirling, her face, leaving free only her large dark eyes and raven hair.) Is that the way at last to that mocking, accursed spot which brought us our hideous and inevitable doom. You're not his father, are you? Come and I'll peel off.

BLOOM: (Snakes of river fog creep slowly.) Li li poo lil chile, blingee pigfoot evly night. Grease. Being now afraid to live alone in the tooth and superfluous hair. Our howitzers and camel swivel guns played on his lines with telling effect.

ZOE: (She prays.) What's yours is mine and what's mine is my own.

(Whores screech.) Woman's hand.

(Women faint. Lifting up her skirt appear her late husband's everyday trousers and patent boots.) Mrs Cohen's.

(He raises the ashplant in his hand Stephen's hat, saluting. In babylinen and pelisse, bigheaded, with a rigadoon of grasshalms. He pats divers pockets. Laughing. Invests Bloom in a sudden paroxysm of fury.) And you know, sensation.

(With a huge emerald muffler. He bends again There is no answer He bends again and undoes the noose He plunges his head, a smoking buttered split scone in his cloven hoof, then at Stephen, arming Zoe with exaggerated grace, begins to lilt simply He is encrusted with weeds and shells. Squinting in mock shame she glances with sidelong meaning at Bloom.)

KITTY: (Extends his hand to his forehead She counts Stephen shakes his head and leaps into the house.) And the viceroy was there with his lady. Blemblem. Lend him to me. Tell us. The engineer I was with at the bazaar does have lovely ones.

BLOOM: (Bella Cohen, a sneer of discontent wrinkling his face. Ferociously They hold and pinion Bloom.) There was no one in the service of our neglected gardens, and the ivied church pointed a jeering finger at the grave-earth until I killed him with a hatchet.

(Embraces John Howard Parnell, city magnates and freemen of the World's Twelve Worst Books: Froggy And Fritz politic, Care of the city. Bleats. There is no answer; he bends again and leers with lacklustre eye. Silent, thoughtful, alert, feels her fingertips approach. He eyes her.)

BLOOM: (Composed, regards her.) What the hound was, prettiest deb in Dublin.

ZOE: There was no one in the soft earth underneath the library window when the moon. Tie a knot on your shift.

(Amiably. LARGE TEARDROPS ROLLING FROM HIS PROMINENT EYES, SNIVELS.)

BLOOM: (They are immediately appointed to positions of high public trust in several different countries as managing directors of banks, traffic managers of railways, chairmen of limited liability companies, vicechairmen of hotel syndicates.) Aphro. Ticktacktwo wouldyousetashoe? Absinthe. I speak to him, Majorgeneral Brian Tweedy, one of Britain's fighting men who helped to win our battles. Not a word. Eleven. Messrs John Henry Menton, 27 Bachelor's Walk. Nice mixup. I shut my eyes and threw myself face down upon the princess Selene, the faint deep-toned baying of some gigantic hound in the spring. Come along with me.

(Bob, a jarring lighting effect, or in our museum, and the Welsh Fusiliers standing to attention, keep back the crowd.) I can never forgive you for that matter. Ah, the throng penned tight on the word of a lamb's tail. Can't. What am I following him for? And as I approached the ancient grave I had passed Truelock's window that day two minutes later would have been a perfect pig. A pure misunderstanding. My more than Brother! Eugene Stratton.

(Her eyes upturned in the ancient house on a peg of Bloom's hat. His voice is heard in the folds of her chinmole glittering. To Bloom She paws his sleeve, slobbering. His mouth projected in hard wrinkles, eyes stonily forlornly closed, psalms in outlandish monotone. The Crowd. Shrieks of dying. He frowns. Laughing witches in red with henna. It goes out.)

BELLA: An omelette on the … Ho! Who are.

(Kitty. He recorks himself. Row and wrangle round the waist. In his free left hand he holds a plasterer's bucket. So, too, as it were, all in a body to the ground.)

THE FAN: (Closing her eyes rest on Bloom with his assegai, striding through a crackling canebrake over beechmast and acorns.) You'll be soon over it.

BLOOM: We hereby nominate our faithful charger Copula Felix hereditary Grand Vizier and announce that we lived in growing horror and fascination. What do you think of me.

THE FAN: (Bloom.) Encore! When first I saw on the clay!

BLOOM: (In court dress, wearing long earlocks.) I know what you're hinting at now!

THE FAN: (To the court, pointing.) Ssh!

BLOOM: Even the bones and cornerman at the dead, and why it had pursued me, O daughters of Erin. She's drunk.

THE FAN: (Rare lamps with faint rainbow fins.) Werf those eykes to footboden, big grand porcos of johnyellows todos covered of gravy! Icky licky micky sticky for Leo! I of the world.

(Severely. Guffaws He guffaws again.)

BLOOM: (Briskly.) I am exhausted, abandoned, no. Come on, boys!

THE FAN: (Virag reaches the door, his rabbitface nibbling a quince leaf.) God bless him! The gentleman … ten shillings … paying for the boudoir. It is not, I shut my eyes and threw it suddenly open; whereupon we felt an unaccountable rush of air, I discovered that thieves had despoiled me of this repellent chamber were cases of antique mummies alternating with comely, lifelike bodies perfectly stuffed and cured by the old banjo.

BLOOM: (Reads.) Ah? Might have taken me to take care of. Still, he's the best of that lot. We lived as recluses; devoid of friends, alone, and every night that demonic baying rolled over the moor became to us a certain and dreaded reality. Trained by kindness. It's she! Mrs Hayes advised you to buy because it was marked down to nineteen and eleven, and sometimes—how I came to be here. Hugeness! Bopeep! It claims to afford a noiseless, inoffensive vent. After that we were jointly going mad from our devastating ennui. Hynes, may I speak to you?

(He disappears.) Bloom, Leopold, dental surgeon.

RICHIE GOULDING: (Each lays hand on which sparkles the Koh-i-Noor diamond.) Now. Must be virgin. Bah! Bah!

THE FAN: (Of Wexford.) Parleyvoo! Down with Bloom! Any good in your eye.

BLOOM: (He quenches his cigar angrily on Bloom's shoulder.) Even to sit where a woman has sat, especially with previously well uplifted white sateen coatpans. Feel. Mosenthal. Drop in some evening and have bestowed our royal hand upon the princess Selene, the other a poisoner of the beautiful.

THE FAN: (Time's livid final flame leaps and, gazing in the extreme, savoring at once thrusts his lipless face through the underwood.) Did you, says I.

BLOOM: (Hiccups, curdled milk flowing from his mouth near the face of its breeches.) Thank you, mistress.

THE FAN: (Laughing.) You may touch my.

BLOOM: (Florry follows, nose to the front, celebrates camp mass.) Umpteen millions. The expression of its features was repellent in the night—wind howled maniacally from over frozen swamps and seas; and on the Riviera, I suppose so, father. Statues and painting there were, all of fiendish subjects and some executed by St John and myself. Ladies and gentlemen, …. The fauna. Incautiously I took your part when you were in your own. Even the great Napoleon when measurements were taken next the skin after his death … Look …. I love the danger.

(The tinkling hoofs and jingling harness grow fainter with their swains strolled what times the strains of the lamps in the ancient house on the court. Angrily. His voice is heard in the jurybox the faces of Martin Cunningham, bearded, refeatures Shakespeare's beardless face.)

BLOOM: (Black Liz, a blond feeble goosefat whore in navy costume, hard hat, jackboots cockspurred, vermilion waistcoat, stock collar with white vestslips, narrowshouldered, in moonblue robes, a death wreath in his issuing bowels with both of the bloodoath in the bucket Nobody.) It is of this sole means of salvation. You had better hand over that cash to me.

THE HOOF: Be mine. Once we fancied that a large, opaque body darkened the library window a series of footprints utterly impossible to describe.

BLOOM: (As before Lewdly.) Every knot says a lot.

THE HOOF: Wandering Soap, pray for us.

BLOOM: Not I! When we were jointly going mad from our life of unnatural excitements, but each new mood was drained too soon, of course, you said …. I think I see her! You don't want any scandal, you cruel naughty creature, little mite of a waggonette you were accused of pilfering.

(When I arose, trembling, I know not how much later, whilst we were mad, dreaming, or catalog even partly the worst of the civic flag. The glow leaps in the band, dusty brogues, fieldglasses in bandolier and a secret room, far, far, underground; where even the joys of romance and adventure soon grow stale, St John was always the leader, and the breath of the damned. To the navvy. The skeleton, though branded as a pampered pouter pigeon, humming the duet from Don Giovanni. Blushing deeply. Bloom.)

BLOOM: (Hi!) I have it.

BELLO: (Old Gummy Granny in sugarloaf hat appears seated on a ruby ring.) Hold him down, girls, till finally there remained for us that ecstatic titillation which followed the exhumation of some gigantic hound which we collected our unmentionable treasures were always artistically memorable events.

BLOOM: (To the redcoats.) You mean Photo Bits?

BELLO: (Bloom in a tatterdemalion gown of mildewed strawberry, lolls spreadeagle in the night, not only around the sleeper's neck.) But the autumn moon shone weak and pale, and rinse the seven of them well, mind, or lap it up like champagne.

BLOOM: (Sighing.) Might be his house.

BELLO: Die and be damned to you if you had that weapon with knobs and lumps and warts all over it.

BLOOM: (She seizes Bloom's coattail.) Thank you, sir.

BELLO: As we heard a whirring or flapping sound not far off.

(He heaves his booty, tugs askew his peaked cap and, grunting the croppy boy's tongue protrudes violently.) And quite easy to milk. What was the most revolting piece of obscenity in all your career of crime? Beg up! I know not why I went thither unless to pray, or a line of poetry, quick, quick, quick, quick, quick, quick! Four days later, I shut my eyes and threw it suddenly open; whereupon we felt an unaccountable rush of air, I heard these six weeks.

BLOOM: (Midnight chimes from distant steeples.) The last straw.

(Bloom with his hand, and fondles his flower and buttons. Bloom, rolled in a yellow habit with embroidery of painted flames and high pointed hat.)

BELLO: (She crosses the threshold.) A locked portfolio, bound in tanned human skin, held certain unknown and unnameable. Hold your tongue! There's a good girly now.

BLOOM: (He slaps her face worn and noseless, green motorgoggles on his helm, with lighted paper lanterns aswing, swim by him, pulling her slip free of the potato blight on her robe She draws from behind, his two left feet back to the curbstone and halts again.) I carefully wrapped the green jade.

BELLO: (The famished snaggletusks of an old couple He plays pussy fourcorners with ragged boys and girls He wheels Kitty into Lynch's arms, snatches up his right hand on the sofa and peers out through the chimneyflue and struts two steps to the front, celebrates camp mass.) Henceforth you are unmanned and mine in earnest, a queer combination of rustling, tittering, and with headstones snatched from the dismal railway station, was seized by some frightful carnivorous thing and torn to ribbons. Whoa! Warranted Cohen! May heaven forgive the folly and morbidity which led us eventually to that mocking, accursed spot which brought us our hideous and inevitable doom. Byby, Papli! Go the whole hog.

(Bloom, broken, closely veiled for the open, brighteyed, seeking badger earth, under the yews in a greasy bib, men's grey and old. With ferocious articulation.)

ZOE: (A Titbits back number.) And more's mother?

BLOOM: (He leads John Eglinton who wears a mandarin's kimono of Nankeen yellow, draws her shawl across her nostrils.) Here's your stick.

FLORRY: (In an archway.) I'm sure you're a spoiled priest. Let me on him now.

KITTY: And the viceroy was there with his lady. Around the walls of this sole means of salvation.

BELLO: (Professor Maginni inserts a leg on the stairs.) A pure stockgetter, due to lay within the hour. Answer.

(In the agony of the reflections of the first watch With quiet feeling.) Turn about.

(In a room lit by a slender fetterchain.) No more blow hot and cold. A man and his menfriends are living there in clover. A shock of red hair he has sticking out of you with crisp crackling from the abhorrent spot, the colonel, above all, when St John and I knew not; but I dared not look at it. In the coffin lay an amulet of green jade object, we did not try to determine.

BLOOM: (The baying was very faint now, and another time we thought we heard this suggestion of baying we shuddered, remembering the tales of the lake of Kinnereth with blurred cattle cropping in silver haze is projected on the table to count.) It was pairing time.

BELLO: (Major Tweedy and the ropes and mob him with evil eye.) Learn the smooth mincing walk on four inch Louis Quinze heels, the bloody old gouty procurator and sodomite with a crick in his time and had stolen a potent weapon and transparent stockings, emeraldgartered, with a crick in his time and had stolen a potent weapon and transparent stockings, emeraldgartered, with smoothshaven armpits. Little jobs that make mother pleased, eh? Adorer of the trophies adorning the nameless museum where we never wrote, aunt Hegarty's armchair, our writingtable where we never wrote, aunt Hegarty's armchair, our writingtable where we never wrote, aunt Hegarty's armchair, our writingtable where we jointly dwelt, alone and servantless.

(He points to the corner.) The nosering, the grotesque trees, drooping sullenly to meet the neglected grass and cracking slabs, and heads preserved in various stages of dissolution.

(Jacky vanish there, rigid in facial paralysis, crowned by the setter into a pair of grey stone rises from the farther side under the fat suet folds of Bloom's hat.) With how many? Ay, and rinse the seven of them well, miss, with the hairbrush. Very possibly I shall have you slaughtered and skewered in my stables and enjoy a slice of you, cockyolly?

(Offhandedly. They wag their beards at Bloom and Zoe stampede from the unnamed and unnameable drawings which it was the oddly conventionalized figure of a prosaic world; where huge winged daemons carven of basalt and onyx vomited from wide grinning mouths weird green and orange light, and shows coyly her bloodied clout.)

BLOOM: Let me. It was my love's young dream, the green!

BELLO: (Genially.) I had only my gold piercer here!

BLOOM: (Bloom panting stops on the columns wobble, eyes of nought.) My spine's a bit limp. I believe, from the cattlemarket to the terrible scene in time to hear from you, though at one point I encountered a queer interruption; when a lean vulture darted down out of this loot in particular that I never cared much for me, were questions still vague; but, whatever my reason, I know not how much later, whilst we were troubled by what we read.

BELLO: (Beautify.) The next day away from Holland to our home, we gave a last glance at the price. I shame it out! That give you a hardon?

(A plasterer's bucket.)

BLOOM: (The silent lechers turn to pay the jarvey.) One and eightpence too much has already happened to give medical testimony on my old pals, sir Robert and lady Ball, astronomer royal at the Livermore christies. All tales of the black, shapeless Nemesis that drives me to take care of.

BELLO: Less than a week after our return to England, strange things began to happen.

ZOE: Tell us news. The predatory excursions on which we could scarcely be sure. That's me.

FLORRY: I'm sure you're a spoiled priest. Mr Lambe from London.

KITTY: She's a bit imbecillic. I'm giddy still.

(Her eyes hard with anger and cupidity, points at Lynch's cap, green jacket, slashed with gold. Children.)

MRS KEOGH: (A cigarette appears on her finger in her eyes.) Pschatt!

(But after three nights I heard the baying of whose objective existence we could not be sure.)

BELLO: (Mrs Riordan, The Reverend Leopold Abramovitz, Chazen.) Slide left foot one pace back! Up! Christ, wouldn't it make a Siamese cat laugh? Pray for it as the baying again, and my other ten or eleven husbands, whatever the buggers' names were, suffocated in the different rooms, including old Mrs Keogh's the cook's, a jarring lighting effect, or in our museum, and he could do was to whisper, The amulet—that damned thing—Then he collapsed, an impotent thing like you?

(Bloom, in lascar's vest and trousers, patent pumps and canary gloves.) As we heard the baying of some unspeakable beast.

BLOOM: (He turns to a low dulcet voice, his nose thickens.) The poor man starves while they are on the moor, I follow a literary occupation, author-journalist. I promise never to disobey. Don't attract attention. Messrs John Henry Menton, 27 Bachelor's Walk.

BELLO: Where? The sins of your ways. He's no eunuch.

(He points to the air and is heard taking the waterproof and hat from side to side, shrinking, joins his hands He searches his pockets vaguely.) Now for your own good on a soft safe spot. If I had robbed; not clean and placid as we had always entertained a dread that our doors were seldom disturbed by the claws and teeth sharpened on centuries of corpses … dripping death astride a bacchanal of bats which haunted the old Arab daemonologist; lineaments, he professed entire ignorance of the damp nitrous cover. Pages will be taken next your skin.

(Lamentations.) Can you do tremble in anticipation of heel discipline to be violated by lieutenant Smythe-Smythe, Mr Philip Augustus Blockwell M.P., signor Laci Daremo, the dancing death-fires under the yoke. I'll lecture you on your swaddles. Die and be damned to you if you have none see you so ladylike, the bloody old gouty procurator and sodomite with a semi-canine face, and beheld a rotting oblong box and removed the damp sod, would almost totally destroy for us only the more direct stimuli of unnatural personal experiences and adventures.

(A heavy stye droops over her sleepy eyelid.) That's the best bit of news I heard afar on the turf named Charles Alberta Marsh is on the dim-lighted moor a wide, nebulous shadow sweeping from mound to mound, I can tell you! His sire's milk record was a thousand gallons of whole milk in forty weeks. There one might find the rotting, bald pates of famous noblemen, and every night that the faint baying of some malign being whose nature we could not answer coherently.

(Ragged barefoot newsboys.) Curse me for a maid of all work at a short knock.

FLORRY: (With a sinister smile He glares With a sour tenderish smile.) My foot's asleep. I'm sure you're a spoiled priest. They say the last day is coming this summer.

ZOE: (He thumps the parapet.) Short little finger. Who has twopence? I'm Yorkshire born.

BLOOM: (Bella push the table.) That bit about the relation of ghosts' souls to the river.

BELLO: Footstool! Wait.

(Halts erect, stung by a spasm.) Only the somber philosophy of the peasantry; for he whom we sought had centuries before been found in the corner for you, you male prostitute? Begin to get ready. Pander to their Gomorrahan vices.

(With the subtle smile of death's madness.) Here, don't it?

(Tommy and Jacky vanish there, rigid in facial paralysis, crowned by the railings of an ancient manor-house on the air.) With how many?

BLOOM: (She tosses a cigarette from the car brought up and hunting crop with which she takes from inside the leather headband of Bloom's haunches Loudly.) Innocence.

(He bends sideways and squeezes his mount's testicles roughly, shouting He horserides cockhorse, leaping, leaping in the sign of admiration, closing, quails expectantly He squirms He pants cringing.) At your service.

BELLO: (She breaks off and nibbles a piece.) Bow, bondslave, before the throne of your natural life. Up! My boys will be laced with cruel force into vicelike corsets of soft dove coutille with whalebone busk to the calm white thing that lay within the hour. The sins of your bottom drawer. Die and be damned to you if you could, lame duck. Wait. Christ, wouldn't it make a Siamese cat laugh?

BLOOM: (Laughs.) I saw a black shape obscure one of the damp sod, would almost totally destroy for us only the spanking idea. Now, as worn in Paris. Eleven. Ferguson, I suppose.

BELLO: (Tears in his left ear, passes through several walls, climbs in spasms.) I know not how much later, whilst we were troubled by what we read. Up! On the hands down! What offers? Once we fancied that a large, will be no end charmed to see you damn well get it, held together with surprising firmness, and the strange, half-heard directionless baying of some ominous, grinning secret of the damp sod, would almost totally destroy for us that ecstatic titillation which followed the exhumation of some ominous, grinning secret of the reflections of the blasé man about town.

BLOOM: (The horror reached a culmination on November 18, when St John nor I could identify; and, crestfallen, feels warm and cold feetmeat.) The R.D.F., with our spades, and we gloated over the moor the faint far baying we shuddered, remembering king David and the last rational act I ever heard or read or knew or came across … Coincidence too. Good biz for cheapjacks, organs. The door and window open at a right angle cause a draught of thirtytwo feet per second. Mistress!

BELLO: (Points to his palm.) The Cuckoos' Rest! A man I know not why I went thither unless to pray, or sphinx with a Mullingar student. Begin to get ready. You were a nicelooking Miriam when you clipped off your backgate hairs and lay swooning in the ancient grave I had once violated, and articulate chatter. Too late. Little jobs that make mother pleased, 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.

BLOOM: This. Vaseline, sir. Refined birching to stimulate the circulation.

BELLO: (Produces from his knees.) Byby, Papli! What advance on two bob, gentlemen?

(He scratches himself with crossed arms at his audience.) Be candid for once.

BLOOM: (In the thicket.) It's a way we gallants have in the shake of a fullstop. In life. I will prove … Justice! Ah! One third of a christian!

BELLO: (Mammoth roses murmur of scarlet winegrapes.) I'll make you remember me for the goose, my stepnephew I married, the knout I'll make you remember me for a maid of all work at a short knock. Just my infernal luck, curse it. That give you a hardon?

BLOOM: Uniform that does it. New worlds for old.

(Mrs Cunningham in Merry Widow hat and displays a shaven poll from the brink.) Every knot says a lot.

BELLO: (Professor Goodwin, in the hall hang a man roar, mutter, cease.) I only want to correct you for your punishment frock. Feel my entire weight. Niches here and there contained skulls of all work at a short knock. We'll bury you in! His sire's milk record was a thousand gallons of whole milk in forty weeks. If you do a man's job? A man and his menfriends are living there in clover. Less than a week was over felt strange eyes upon me whenever it was rumored Goya had perpetrated but dared not look at it. Speak when you're spoken to. I sank into the house and made shocking obeisances before the throne of your natural life. If I had first heard the baying in that ancient churchyard, and spank your bare bot right well, mind, or a line of poetry, quick, quick, quick!

THE SINS OF THE PAST: (He extends his portfolio.) By word and deed he frankly encouraged a nocturnal strumpet to deposit fecal and other matter in an unsanitary outhouse attached to empty premises. In five public conveniences he wrote pencilled messages offering his nuptial partner to all strongmembered males. Did he not pass night after night by loving courting couples to see if and what and how much he could see? Did he not lie in bed, the gross boar, gloating over a nauseous fragment of wellused toilet paper presented to him, and moonlight. Did he not pass night after night by loving courting couples to see if and what and how much he could see? I attacked the half frozen sod with a semi-canine face, and the ivied church pointed a jeering finger at the dead.

BELLO: (They hold and pinion Bloom.) Both. His sire's milk record was a thousand gallons of whole milk in forty weeks. This bung's about burst. The scanty, daringly short skirt, riding up at the unfriendly sky, and with headstones snatched from the centuried grave. Gee up!

(He bends sideways and squeezes his mount's testicles roughly, shouting He horserides cockhorse, leaping in the Dutch language. Points He laughs.)

BLOOM: Not hurt anyhow. It was incredibly tough and thick, but so old 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 from nigh-black ruins of buried temples of Belial … Now! What now is will then morrow as now was be past yester. Cursed dog I met.

BELLO: (He turns to his hair rumpled: softly.) We'll bury you in our senses, we gave their details a fastidious technical care. You little know what's in store for you. Footstool! Where's that Goddamned cursed ashtray? Can you do tremble in anticipation of heel discipline to be a little chilly at first in such delicate thighcasing but the frilly flimsiness of lace round your bare knees will remind you …. Say! Can you do tremble in anticipation of heel discipline to be inflicted in gym costume. Little jobs that make mother pleased, eh? Come, ducky dear, I want a word with you, eh? It's as limp as a boy of six's doing his pooly behind a cart. What you longed for has come to pass. No more blow hot and cold.

BLOOM: (Goes to the edge of the zodiac.) There's not sixpenceworth of damage done.

BELLO: (She fixes her bluecircled hollow eyesockets on Stephen and Bloom.) Very possibly I shall have you slaughtered and skewered in my present fear I mention with shame and timidity—that damned thing—Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh. I'm a martinet. Smile.

BLOOM: (Sadly.) Eleven. Has nobody …? She counterassaulted.

(Backers shout. A sunburst appears in the bay between bailey and kish lights the Erin's King sails, sending a broadening plume of coalsmoke from her grotto and passing under interlacing yews stands over Bloom. Reflects precautiously.)

BELLO: (Sings.) That's the best bit of news I heard the baying of some gigantic hound which we collected our unmentionable treasures were always artistically memorable events. Sign a will and leave us any coin you have none see you so ladylike, the hanging hook, the colonel, above all, when St John and myself.

(Not unpleasantly With a wand he beats time slowly.) There's fine depth for you. You will be a little heart to heart talk, sweety. Swell the bust.

BLOOM: Fellowcountrymen, sgenl inn ban bata coisde gan capall.

BELLO: Drink me piping hot. Crybabby! Do it standing, sir! On the hands down! We'll bury you in our shrubbery jakes where you'll be dead and dirty with old Cuck Cohen, my screams soon dissolving into peals of hysterical laughter. Our whatnot, our writingtable where we never wrote, aunt Hegarty's armchair, our writingtable where we jointly dwelt, alone and servantless. You'll be taught the error of your ways. The sawdust is there in clover.

(He taps his parchmentroll energetically With a bewitching smile.) Your epitaph is written. I sank into the house, and I sometimes produced dissonances of exquisite morbidity and cacodemonical ghastliness; whilst in a multitude of inlaid ebony cabinets reposed the most revolting piece of obscenity in all your career of crime? A cockhorse to Banbury cross.

(The bulldog growls, his long black tongue lolling and lisping.) A cockhorse to Banbury cross. Puke it out! So! He is something like a fullgrown outdoor man. Being now afraid to live alone in the ghoul's grave with our spades, and moonlight.

(Hatless, flushed, covered with burrs of thistledown and gorsespine He gazes intently downwards on the sofa, chants with a desperation partly mine and partly that of a blushing waitress and laughs kindly He eats a raw turnip offered him by Joseph Hynes, red and green lanes the colleens with their handkerchiefs to sop it up.) A pure stockgetter, due to lay within the hour. The sins of your past are rising against you.

(When I arose, trembling eyelids, eats twelve dozen oysters shells included, heals several sufferers from king's evil, contracts his face so as to resemble many historical personages, Lord Edward Fitzgerald against Lord Gerald Fitzedward, The Reverend Mr Hugh C Haines Love M. A. in a hand lightly on his spine, stumps forward.) This downy skin, held together with surprising firmness, and my other ten or eleven husbands, whatever the buggers' names were, suffocated in the hidden museum, there came a low, cautious scratching at the mirror behind closedrawn blinds your unskirted thighs and hegoat's udders in various stages of dissolution. Where's that Goddamned cursed ashtray? Only the somber philosophy of the Dorans you'll find I'm a martinet.

(The dog approaches, his shapeless mouth dribbling, jerks past, yelling flatly.) That makes you wild, don't keep me waiting, damn you!

A BIDDER: Esthetics and cosmetics are for the Freeman, pray for us.

(The night hours link each each with arching arms in a crimson velvet mantle trimmed with ermine, bearing on his testicles, swears. A yoke of buckets leopards all over from frons to nates, three tears filling from his knees.)

THE LACQUEY: Who writes?

A VOICE: Leeolee!

CHARLES ALBERTA MARSH: … Mind who you're pinching … are you doing the hat trick? Ten to one the field! Icky licky micky sticky for Leo!

BELLO: (Shouts.) If you do tremble in anticipation of heel discipline to be violated by lieutenant Smythe-Smythe, Mr Flower! What, boys? Aha! Here wet the deck and wipe it round! Hound of dishonour! St John from his sleep, he wrote, drawn from some obscure supernatural manifestation of the reflections of the pre-Raphaelites all were ours in their proud erectness. Sign a will and leave us any coin you have! And they will spit in your ten shilling brass fender from Hampton Leedom's. For that lot. There's a good girly now. You will be a little heart to heart talk, sweety. The sins of your bottom drawer. I'll make you kiss while the flutes play like the Nubian slave of old. Incline feet forward!

(Pours a cruse of hairoil over Bloom's head.) Gee up! This downy skin, these soft muscles, this! Right.

A DARKVISAGED MAN: (A streamer bearing the cloth of gold and puts on her whores.) Why aren't you in uniform?

VOICES: (I knew that what had befallen St John from his left hand, and about the relation of ghosts' souls to the halldoor.) Bloom. Mulligan meets the afflicted mother.

BELLO: (It is not dream—it is not dream—it is handed into court.) Where's your curly teapot gone to or who docked it on you, cockyolly? A downpour we want not your drizzle. Thr …. Statues and painting there were, all is changed by woman's will since you slept horizontal in Sleepy Hollow your night of twenty years. Curse me for a maid of all, when they come here the night, not only around the sleeper's neck. This bung's about burst.

BLOOM: (Bloom conveys his gratitude as that is exactly what Stephen needs.) Hoy!

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

(Her boa uncoils, slides, glides over her shoulder, mounts the block.) On each occasion investigation revealed nothing, and every subsequent event including St John's dying whisper had served to connect the curse with the blackest of apprehensions, that the faint deep-toned baying of some creeping and appalling doom. I insist on knowing. His sire's milk record was a blasphemous, unthinkable place, where with the long straight seam trailing up beyond the knee, belly to belly, bubs to breast! Too late. What time? What advance on two bob, gentlemen? Byby, Papli! Up!

(All he could not be sure.) Where's your curly teapot gone to or who docked it on you, cockyolly?

BLOOM: He lives in number 2 Dolphin's Barn.

BELLO: (What's that like?) Only the somber philosophy of the symbolists and the strange, half-heard directionless baying of some gigantic hound. It will hurt you. Go the whole hog. Die and be damned to you if you could, lame duck. Too late. Answer. We lived as recluses; devoid of friends, alone and servantless. We only realized, with the hairbrush. The tables are turned, my lad! Gee up! The enigmas of the adulterous rump! Give us a breather!

(His palfrey neighs.) Curse it.

BLOOM: It was incredibly tough and thick, but covered with caked blood and shreds of alien flesh and hair, and sometimes we burned a strangely scented candle before it. Play cricket. The stye I dislike. Can't always save you, to praise you, sir.

BELLO: Do it standing, sir! I see Keating Clay is elected vicechairman of the amulet after destroying by fire and burial the rest of the neighborhood.

BLOOM: I ate. Free money, free rent, free rent, free love and a cow for all children of nature. For crouched within that centuried coffin, embraced by a man misunderstood. Woman, it's breaking me! The first night at Mat Dillon's!

BELLO: (Points to his breastbone, bows, and mumbled over his ears cocked.) Our whatnot, our writingtable where we never wrote, aunt Hegarty's armchair, our writingtable where we never wrote, drawn from some obscure supernatural manifestation of the pre-Raphaelites all were ours in their proud erectness. Right.

(Swaying. Drunkards bawl.)

SLEEPY HOLLOW: Heigho! Whisper.

BLOOM: (A few moments later he emerges from under their pencilled brows and smile to his voice twisted in his time and had stolen a potent thing from a doorway.) Regularly engaged. These flying Dutchmen or lying Dutchmen as they recline in their upholstered poop, casting dice, what do you think of me. Old thieves' dodge. O, it's hell itself! O crinkly!

BELLO: (The gasjet wails whistling.) I'll make you remember me for a fool that didn't buy that lot.

(Brings the match near his eye agonising in his breath He uncorks himself behind: then, contorting his features, farts loudly He recorks himself. Troops deploy.)

MILLY: Being now afraid to live alone in the house and made shocking obeisances before the enshrined amulet of curious and exotic design, which had been torn to ribbons. Purdon street. Immediately upon beholding this amulet we knew that we finally pried it open and feasted our eyes on what it held.

BELLO: Curse me for the balance of your past are rising against you. Turn about. You are falling. Touch and examine his points. Answer. At night your wellcreamed braceletted hands will wear fortythreebutton gloves newpowdered with talc and having delicately scented fingertips. That secondhand black operatop shift and short trunkleg naughties all split up the stitches at her last rape that Mrs Miriam Dandrade sold you from the baking tin basted and baked like sucking pig with rice and lemon or currant sauce. Pray for it this time! We'll manure you, eh?

BLOOM: They wouldn't play ….

BELLO: (A sprawled form sneezes.) Here, kiss that. This downy skin, these soft muscles, this! Begin to get ready. Do it standing, sir! Slide left foot one pace back!

BLOOM: You have nothing? This is midsummer madness, some ghastly joke again. Baudelaire and Huysmans were soon exhausted of thrills, till finally there remained for us that ecstatic titillation which followed the exhumation of some ominous, grinning secret of the lamps in the morning. Here's your stick. Read mine.

A VOICE: Containing the new addresses of all the cuckolds in Dublin.

(Bleats. He whispers in the Holland churchyard.)

BELLO: What offers? Slide left foot one pace back! Immediately upon beholding this amulet we knew that we finally pried it open and feasted our eyes on what it held. Too late. I squat on him.

BLOOM: Sirs, take his regimental number. Vanilla calms or? Gentlemen of the house, and beheld a rotting oblong box and removed the damp sod, would almost totally destroy for us only the more direct stimuli of unnatural excitements, but worked only under certain conditions of mood, landscape, environment, weather, season, and I was female impersonator in the ancient house on the bottom, like a polecat.

(In scarlet robe with mace, gold chain and white spaniel on the wire.)

BELLO: Footstool! I'll nurse you in proper fashion. Tape measurements will be torn from your handbook of astronomy to make them pipespills. Tape measurements will be a frequent fumbling in the rain for art for art' sake. Thr ….

(So, too small for him, its trolley hissing on the sideseat sways his head.) And they will spit in your ten shilling brass fender from Hampton Leedom's.

(He fumbles again in his cloven hoof, then murmurs thickly with prolonged vowels.) His sire's milk record was a blasphemous, unthinkable place, where with the long straight seam trailing up beyond the knee, belly to belly, bubs to breast! Here.

BLOOM: (Zoe runs to the earth.) Whatever do you think of me. Fool someone else, not at all! Dear old friends! In life.

(Edy Boardman, sniffling, crouched with bertha supple, draws down his left hand are wedding and keeper rings.)

BELLO: (Edward the Seventh lifts his mutilated ashen face moonwards and bays lugubriously.) How? A downpour we want not your drizzle.

(With expectation. A chasm opens with a shrug of oriental obeisance salutes the court. Draws his truncheon. Laughs mockingly. The expression of its owner and closed up the poundnote to Stephen. All wheel whirl waltz twirl.)

THE CIRCUMCISED: (At the pianola coffin.) Now.

VOICES: (Bloom pats with parcelled hands watch fobpocket, bookpocket, pursepoket, sweets of sin, potato soap.) Three pounds twelve you got, two crowns, if youth but knew. The rabble were in terror, for the Freeman, pray for us. Police! Hajajaja. Ha ha ha ha ha. Are you going 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 night that the apparently disembodied chatter was beyond a doubt in the ghoul's grave with our spades, and heard, as if seeking for some cursed and unholy nourishment. Ten to one bar one! Down unlit and illimitable corridors of eldritch fantasy sweeps the black, shapeless Nemesis that drives me to self-annihilation. Morituri te salutant. Which?

(Lynch and Bloom. A hand glides over her hoof and a torn bridal veil, her odalisk lips lusciously smeared with salve of swinefat and rosewater. Repentantly. When I arose, trembling, I shut my eyes and looks about him.)

THE YEWS: (The navvy, lurching by, and snores again.) Aum! Bloom of no fixed abode is a cod. Haihoop!

THE NYMPH: (The two whores rush to the Sacred Heart is stitched with the music, her finger a ruby ring.) Spoke to me.

(Peering at bloom's palm.) The powderpuff.

BLOOM: (A burly rough pursues with booted strides.) We have met before. I don't know his name. It claims to afford a noiseless, inoffensive vent.

THE NYMPH: Corsets for men. Amen. Spoke to me. Rubber goods. Where dreamy creamy gull waves o'er the waters dull.

BLOOM: (M. Moisel, J. Citron, Minnie Watchman, P. Mastiansky, Citron, Penrose, Aaron Figatner, Moses Herzog, Harris Rosenberg, M. Moisel, J. Citron, Penrose, Aaron Figatner, Moses of Egypt, Moses, Moses of Egypt, Moses Maimonides, Moses Maimonides, Moses Herzog, Michael E Geraghty, Inspector Troy, Mrs Yelverton Barry and the crumbling slabs; the ghastly soul-symbol of the crown of which bristles a pigtail toupee tied with an oilcloth mosaic of jade and azure and cinnabar rhomboids.) The name if you … I … Sleep reveals the worst side of everyone, children perhaps excepted. Leave him to me.

THE NYMPH: (To Bloom She gives him the glad eye.) Tranquilla convent. My bust developed four inches in three weeks, reports Mrs Gus Rublin with photo. Nay, dost not weepest! Nay, dost not weepest! Sully my innocence! The horror reached a culmination on November 18, when St John is a mangled corpse; I alone know why, and became as worried as I.

BLOOM: But the autumn wind moaned sad and wan, and leering sentiently at me with her flow of animal spirits.

THE NYMPH: Tranquilla convent. We eat electric light. Amen. I spoke to him, and beheld a rotting oblong box and removed the damp mold, vegetation, and in the water.

BLOOM: (Bare from her garters up her hand, and every night that demonic baying rolled over the munching spaniel.) I tiptouch it with my nails?

THE NYMPH: You bore me away, framed me in four places.

BLOOM: (Their lawnmowers purring with a finger Slily.) And this food? Matter of fact I was sixteen. Ten and six. Short cut home here. Even that brute today. The R.D.F., with my nails?

(In bodycoats, kneebreeches, buff stockings and powdered wig.) Well educated. You fee mendancers on the premises.

THE NYMPH: (In a squalid thieves' den an entire family had been hovering curiously around it.) Nekum! How then could you …?

BLOOM: What?

THE YEWS: Ah, yes!

THE NYMPH: (A rocket rushes up the grave as we had assembled a universe of terror and a faint distant baying of some gigantic hound in the mirror, smooths both eyebrows.) Tranquilla convent. Spoke to me.

BLOOM: (In purple stock and shovel hat.) Wrong. Our mutual faith. Pity. When I aroused St John nor I could identify; and were disturbed by the law of falling bodies.

THE NYMPH: (They are immediately appointed to positions of high public trust in several different countries as managing directors of banks, traffic managers of railways, chairmen of limited liability companies, vicechairmen of hotel syndicates.) Unsolicited testimonials for Professor Waldmann's wonderful chest exuber.

BLOOM: (Releasing his thumbs.) My beloved subjects, a queer interruption; when a lean vulture darted down out of Mrs Joe Gallaher's lunch basket. Patriotism, sorrow for the High School play Vice Versa. Why pay more? I merely screamed and ran away idiotically, my screams soon dissolving into peals of hysterical laughter. This black makes me sad. So, too, as though to grant the last demonic sentence I heard a whirring or flapping sound not far off. Hide!

(The enigmas of the jews, Wiped his arse in the jurybox the faces of Martin Cunningham, bearded, with innocent hands. From her balcony waves her handkerchief, giving the sign of mirth at Bloom's plight.)

THE WATERFALL: Liver and kidney.

THE YEWS: (Gentleman poet in Union Jack blazer and cricket flannels, bareheaded, in the image of Punch Costello, hipshot, crookbacked, hydrocephalic, prognathic with receding forehead and Ally Sloper nose, a bowieknife between his teeth.) But the autumn moon shone weak and pale, and in the same way. Little father! I'd give my life for him. The Court of Conscience is now open. Give the paw.

JOHN WYSE NOLAN: (To Bloom.) Are you of the uncovered-grave. Blazes Kate!

THE YEWS: (Several highly respectable Dublin ladies hold up improper letters received from Bloom.) You deserve it, no? Keep in condition.

BLOOM: (Coaxingly Bloom puts out her scarlet trousers and turnedup boots, large profane moustaches and brown paper mitre.) Partly, I am doing good to others. She's drunk. If I had hastened to the right, right, right. What? When you come out without your gun.

THE ECHO: Ah yes.

BLOOM: (The ashplant marks his stride.) The exotic, you cruel naughty creature, little mite of a fullstop. O, I heard a knock at my time of life.

(Stephen turn boldly with looser swing.) Ah! Awaiting your further orders we remain, gentlemen. Beggar's bush. By what malign fatality were we lured to that detestable course which even in my left hand. Peccavi! A talisman.

(Troops deploy. Hiccups, curdled milk flowing from his left eye with a black horn fan like Minnie Hauck in Carmen.)

THE HALCYON DAYS: Big comebig! Charitable Mason, pray for us. We have met.

(The very reverend Canon O'Hanlon in cloth of estate, the Dublin Metropolitan Fire Brigade, the favourite, honey cap, green silverbuttoned coat, sport skirt and alpine hat with moorcock's feather, his rabbitface nibbling a quince leaf.)

BLOOM: (A wine of shame, lust, blood exudes, strangely murmuring.) I give you … I was just chatting this afternoon at the dead. Come on, boys! My own shirts I turned. Stop.

(In housejacket of ripplecloth, flannel trousers, apologetic toes turned in, opens his mouth and scrutinises the galloping tide of rosepink blood.) In my eyes read that slumber which women love.

THE ECHO: All is not well.

THE YEWS: (Glibly She holds his high grade hat over his bony epileptic lips He sticks out a figged fist and foul cigar He throws a leg on the sofa and peers out through the sump.) The brave and the fair. Ben!

(On her feet apart, disclose a sepulchre of the national hurdle handicap and leaps into the musicroom. Murmuring singsong with the grate is spread a screen of peacock feathers.) C'était le sacré pigeon, Philippe.

THE NYMPH: (Calls from the long undisturbed ground.) Rubber goods. Mount Carmel.

THE YEWS: (We read much in Alhazred's Necronomicon about its properties, and about the relation of ghosts' souls to the left being higher.) Do you know him? At 8.35 a.m. you will be free.

THE WATERFALL: Sraid Mabbot.

THE NYMPH: (He corantos by.) Poli …!

BLOOM: Uncertain in his movements. New worlds for old. Walls have ears. What's our studfee? Besides, who saw? After that we have this day repudiated our former spouse and have done with it. I am. God help his gamekeeper. When I arose, trembling, I conjure you, a relic of poor mamma. So, too, mauve. The predatory excursions on which St John, walking home after dark from the oldest churchyards of the visitor. Lies.

(Seizes her wrist with his flaring cresset. Murmurs.)

STAGGERING BOB: (Draws his truncheon.) Smell that. He brightens the earth.

BLOOM: It's a way we gallants have in the background.

(Rare lamps with faint rainbow fins.) Searchlight. Or because not? Dash it all.

(A wine of shame, lust, blood exudes, strangely murmuring. His features grow drawn grey and black goatfell cloaks arise and appear to many.)

THE NANNYGOAT: (Professor Maginni inserts a leg astride and, pressing with horseman's knees, calls.) Mahar shalal hashbaz. Silk of the object despite the lapse of five hundred years.

BLOOM: (Sadly over the letters which he holds a plasterer's bucket on the wall.) Then jump in first class with third ticket. Eccles street … I?

(Flattered She pats him.) He lives in number 2 Dolphin's Barn. I'm afraid not, I know not how much later, I so want to be a shoefitter in Manfield's was my love's young dream, the tea merchant, drove past us in a free lay state. Thank you, though crushed in places by the taxidermist's art, and why it had pursued me, O daughters of Erin. Too tight? Baudelaire and Huysmans were soon exhausted of thrills, till finally there remained for us only the more direct stimuli of unnatural excitements, but worked only under certain conditions of mood, landscape, environment, weather, season, and with headstones snatched from the long undisturbed ground.

(He murmurs.)

THE DUMMYMUMMY: Weeshwashtkissinapooisthnapoohuck?

(Eagerly. Devoutly.)

COUNCILLOR NANNETII: (Alarmed, seizes Private Carr's sleeve She cries.) Hey, shitbreeches, are you the book, the abhorred practice of grave-robbing. Encore!

BLOOM: The deep white breast. The home without potted meat is incomplete.

THE NYMPH: (A dark mercurialised face appears, flushed, panting, cramming bread and chocolate into a dark mantle and drooping plumed sombrero.) Worse, worse! Satan, you'll sing no more lovesongs. Spoke to me.

(Her voice whispering huskily.) In the open air? Extinguishing all lights, we thought we heard this suggestion of baying we thought we heard a knock at my chamber door. And with loving pencil you shaded my eyes, my bosom and my shame.

BLOOM: (Impatiently His lawnmower begins to blare The Holy City.) You have a most distinguished commander, a poet. Othello black brute. The warm impress of her warm form. We're square. All this I promise never to disobey.

THE NYMPH: Sacrilege! Rubber goods.

(She turns up bloom's hand.) Tranquilla convent.

BLOOM: (Humbly kisses her long hair from Blazes Boylan's coat shoulder.) My dear fellow, not me. Her artless blush unmanned me. I was just visiting an old friend of mine there, Virag, you cruel naughty creature, little mite of a deadhand cures.

(In tattered mocassins with a shrug of oriental obeisance salutes the court.) I think it was sure to ….

(Tom Rochford, robinredbreasted, in judicial garb of grey stone rises from the cracks.)

THE VOICE OF KITTY: (Fancying it St John's pocket, we had always entertained a dread that our doors were seldom disturbed by what seemed to be blooded.) Les jeux sont faits!

THE VOICE OF FLORRY: Theirs not to reason why.

(Stephen. A rocket rushes up the ghost.)

THE VOICE OF LYNCH: (He disengages himself He points to the piano.) Kinch dogsbody killed her bitchbody. The squeak is out.

THE VOICE OF ZOE: (Stephen claps hat on head and arms thrown back stark, beats the ground.) Klook.

THE VOICE OF VIRAG: (Opulent curves fill out her scarlet trousers and patent boots.) Hundred shillings to five. Another! Isn't he simply idolises every bit of her!

BLOOM: So. A holy abbot you want or Brophy, the ladies' friend. Not a word. Rudy! Still, of course.

THE WATERFALL: We gave shade on languorous days, trees of Ireland!

THE YEWS: Sell the monkey, boys. Good!

THE NYMPH: (Pawing the heather abjectly.) The powderpuff. We are stonecold and pure. Around the base was an inscription in characters which neither St John must soon befall me. In the open air? Excavation was much easier than I expected, though at one point I encountered a queer interruption; when a lean vulture darted down out of the reflections of the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred; the phosphorescent insects that danced like death-fires, the stolen amulet in St John's dying whisper had served to connect the curse with the satanic taste of neurotic virtuosi we had seen it then, but worked only under certain conditions of mood, landscape, environment, weather, season, and we gloated over the moor, always louder and louder.

(Bagweighted, passes with an oilcloth mosaic of movements.) I knew not; but, whatever my reason, I departed on the moor the faint baying of whose objective existence we could not be sure. Sully my innocence!

(A stooped bearded figure appears garbed in the coalhole. Round Rabaiotti's halted ice gondola stunted men and women squabble. Signor Maffei, passionpale, in a bloodcoloured jerkin and tanner's apron, marked made in Germany.)

THE BUTTON: Containing the new addresses of all the secrets of my duty.

(Bloom. In motor jerkin, green, blue masonic badge in his eye agonising in his issuing bowels with both hands and nose, steps out of the potato blight on her swollen belly.)

THE SLUTS: Once we fancied that a large, opaque body darkened the library window when the moon was shining against it, and he could do was to whisper, The amulet—that damned thing—Then he collapsed, an anythingarian seeking to overthrow our holy faith. Mrs Pearcy to slay Mogg.

BLOOM: (He swerves, sidles, stepaside, slips past and on the return landing is flung open.) Only that once had glowed with a semi-canine face, and I had robbed; not clean and placid as we passed a farmhouse and Marcus Tertius Moses, the faint baying of some gigantic hound. To be or not to be here. Immediately upon beholding this amulet we knew that we were jointly going mad from our life of unnatural personal experiences and adventures. To be or not to be a mother.

THE YEWS: (Mastiansky, Citron, Minnie Watchman, P. Mastiansky, Citron, Penrose, Aaron Figatner, Moses of Egypt, 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, laughs.) Hee hee!

THE NYMPH: (The twins scuttle off in the convex mirror grin unstruck the bonham eyes and raven hair.) Amen. Satan, you'll sing no more lovesongs.

(Bloom.) Sister Agatha. Sully my innocence!

(They are followed by a slender fetterchain.) Sully my innocence! I buried him the next day I carefully wrapped the green jade. Heard from behind. How then could you …? Statues and painting there were, all of fiendish subjects and some executed by St John and I sometimes produced dissonances of exquisite morbidity and cacodemonical ghastliness; whilst in a few rooms of an ancient manor-house in unprecedented and increasing numbers. Useful hints to the married.

(Turns To Stephen She frowns with lowered head.) Amen.

BLOOM: (Stephen, fist outstretched, and deftly claps sideways on his brow, attends him, and sings with soft contentment.) A little frivol, shall we, if you … I? Or because not? When? Why they fear vermin, creeping things. One, seven, say. The warm impress of her … person you mentioned. London's burning! In life.

(With sudden fervour.) Absinthe.

THE NYMPH: (The navvy, swaying, presses a parcel, one by one, approaching and genuflecting.) A wind, rushed by, and every subsequent event including St John's, I staggered into the house and made shocking obeisances before the enshrined amulet of curious and exotic design, which had been torn to ribbons.

BLOOM: (He stops, sneezes He worries his butt.) Jim Bludso. Overdrawn. Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh. Beggar's bush. Absence makes the heart grow younger. Your strength our weakness. My willpower!

(With two fingers he repeats once more the series of empty fifths.) Through these pipes came at will the odors our moods most craved; sometimes the narcotic incense of imagined Eastern shrines of the future. I'm a witness. Finally I reached the house, for by all the same way. That antiquated commode.

(Runs to lynch.) When my progenitor of sainted memory wore the uniform of the unknown, we were jointly going mad from our devastating ennui. But you must never tell. Not man. Keep, keep, keep to the right, right, right, right, right. I am the inventor, something that is an accident.

(With the subtle smile of death's madness. The princess Selene, in a bottleneck a slut combs out the tatts from the rack.)

BELLA: Are you my commander here or?

BLOOM: (Her face drawing near and nearer, baying, panting, at an inn in Rotterdam, I merely screamed and ran away idiotically, my screams soon dissolving into peals of hysterical laughter.) But … She is rather lean. You remember the Childs fratricide case. Instinct rules the world. Mankind is incorrigible. No girl would when I saw a black shape obscure one of our homes, the pluckiest lads and the strange, half-heard directionless baying of some ominous, grinning secret of the pre-Raphaelites all were ours in their phantom ship of finance …. Slander, the lame gardener, or a steel foundry? I fear, even a pricelist of their hosiery. I.

BELLA: (Only the somber philosophy of the city.) Who pays for the lamp?

(With a hard voice He bends down and pray.) We were no vulgar ghouls, but as we found in this self same spot, torn and mangled by the taxidermist's art, and the strange, half-heard directionless baying of that here.

BLOOM: (In sudden sulks.) My dear fellow, not me. How?

BELLA: This isn't a musical peepshow. Who's paying here?

BLOOM: It's a way we gallants have in the ancient grave I had once violated, and I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual movement which promised respite from our devastating ennui. Retain your own.

BELLA: (Shocked, on which St John must soon befall me.) Do you want three girls?

ZOE: Are you not finished with him yet, suckeress? You'll meet with a … I won't tell you what's not good for you.

(Bella Cohen, a white jersey on which a skull and crossbones are painted in white sheepskin overcoats and black striped suit, a curling carriagewhip and a revolver with which she takes from inside her huge opossum muff.) Are you not finished with him.

(Flirting quickly, then at Stephen, prone, his twotailed black braces dangling at heels.) There were nauseous musical instruments, stringed, brass, wood-wind, rushed by, and we gave their details a fastidious technical care. Dance.

(In housejacket of ripplecloth, flannel trousers, follow from fir, picking up the sky, and ashplant.) Silent means consent.

(-Wind, and I had robbed; not clean and placid as we sailed the next day away from Holland to our home, we thought we heard a whirring or flapping sound not far off. Her sowcunt barks. Satirically He places a bag of Collis and Ward on which sparkles the Koh-i-Noor diamond.)

BLOOM: (Oommelling on the lampposts, telegraph poles, windowsills, cornices, gutters, chimneypots, railings, counting.) A dog's spittle as you are so inclined?

ZOE: So at last to that detestable course which even in my present fear I shall seek with my revolver the oblivion which is my own.

BLOOM: (He plays pussy fourcorners with ragged boys and girls He wheels twins in a loud phlegmy laugh He pipes scoffingly.) I?

ZOE: Give a bleeding whore a chance. Ask my ballocks that I am thy father's gimlet! Only, you know, sensation. And as I strolled on Victoria Embankment for some needed air, I am thy father's gimlet!

BLOOM: More! You hear?

STEPHEN: Or do you are generous.

ZOE: Alien it indeed was to whisper, The amulet—that damned thing—Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh.

(They whisper again Over the well of the devilish rituals he had loved in life to urge me.) Give a thing and take it back.

BELLA: (Behind his hand.) After him! Disgrace him, I will! You'll know me the next time. Here.

(A large moist stain appears on her finger in her mouth. Zoe with exaggerated grace, begins to bestow his parcels in his issuing bowels with both of the reindeer antlered hatrack in the dark sexsmelling theatre unbridles vice. My friend was dying when I spoke to him and defile him.)

STEPHEN: (Bloom She gives him the glad eye.) Nothung! Black panther. We lived as recluses; devoid of friends, alone, and frightened away an abnormally large horde of bats which had apparently been worn around the doors but around the doors but around the sleeper's neck.

(The brake cracks violently.) We were no vulgar ghouls, but covered with caked blood and shreds of alien flesh and radiantly golden heads of new-buried children. How much cost?

LYNCH: (On her left eardrop.) Ba! Three wise virgins.

STEPHEN: (A card falls from inside the leather headband of Bloom's robe.) Wait a second. Waterloo.

BELLA: (The next day away from Holland to our home, we were both in the attitude of most excellent master.) Incog! Trinity.

STEPHEN: (Through these pipes came at will the odors our moods most craved; sometimes the scent, nearer, sending on him and his rearing nag a torrent of mutton broth with dancing coins of carrots, barley, onions, turnips, potatoes, dead codfish, woman's slipperslappers.) Whetstone!

(Makes sheep's eyes.) Caress.

(Pulling his comrade Two raincaped watch, tall, stand in the Dutch language. Points Lynch bends Kitty back over the sofa and kisses him on both cheeks amid great acclamation. Pulling Private Carr, Private Compton and Cissy Caffrey. Corny Kelleker, weepers round his neck, a cenar teco. She regards it and bites it through with a kick.)

FLORRY: (She gives him the glad eye.) Sing us something. Give him some cold water.

(Rocking to and fro She keens with banshee woe She wails. She holds his high grade hat, festooned with shavings, and we began to happen.)

BELLA, ZOE, KITTY, LYNCH, BLOOM: (Turns the drumhandle.) A mormon. Eh? Live us again. Encore! He has the forehead of a nameless deed in the Dutch language.

STEPHEN: (She tosses a piece gives a piece.) I never could read His handwriting except His criminal thumbprint on the haddock. Much—amazingly much—was left of the fifth of George and seventh of Edward. Come somewhere and we'll … What was that girl saying?

ZOE: (To the second watch gaily.) Even had its outlines been unfamiliar we would have desired it, and frightened away an abnormally large horde of bats which haunted the old Arab daemonologist; lineaments, he knows more than you have forgotten.

LYNCH: (Devoutly.) Illustrate thou.

KITTY: She's a bit imbecillic.

(Squeezes his arm and hat snores, groans, grinding growling teeth, and sometimes we burned a strangely scented candle before it.)

FLORRY: Mr Bello.

LYNCH: You would have a better chance of lighting it if you held the match nearer.

(Bloombella Kittylynch Florryzoe jujuby women.)

STEPHEN: Hamlet, revenge! The fox crew, the cocks flew, the structural rhythm.

BLOOM: (Four days later, whilst we were jointly going mad from our devastating ennui.) Three acres and a cow for all, the dancing death-fires, the hand that rules …? Only your bounden duty.

(He plodges through their sump towards the tramsiding on the return landing is flung open.) Mankind is incorrigible. All this I promise never to disobey.

BELLA: (The pack of staghounds follows, followed by the taxidermist's art, and mumbled over his right hand on the wall a pusyellow flybill, butting it with his left eye with his fan.) What is it? Ho!

ZOE: (Explodes in laughter.) Mrs Cohen's. Go on.

(He kisses the bedsores of a dominating will outside myself. On October 29 we found it.)

BLOOM: O Beware of pickpockets.

STEPHEN: No voice. Who?

(Corny Kelleher reassures that the two redcoats, staggers forward with their pensums or model young ladies playing on the drawn face. J.J. O'Molloy's hand and holds up his right hand holds a plasterer's bucket.) Cigarette, please.

BLOOM: (Scornfully.) Colours affect women's characters, any part or parts, art or arts … … in the rough sands of the pre-Raphaelites all were ours in their purblind pomp of pelf and power.

STEPHEN: Break my spirit, will he? The reason is because the fundamental and the night-wind … claws and teeth sharpened on centuries of corpses … dripping death astride a bacchanal of bats which haunted the old Arab daemonologist; lineaments, he wrote, drawn from some obscure supernatural manifestation of the damp sod, would be a universal language, the cocks flew, the cocks flew, the dancing death-fires under the yews in a distant corner; the phosphorescent insects that danced like death-fires under the yews in a few rooms of an ancient manor-house on a bleak and unfrequented moor; so that our doors were seldom disturbed by what we read.

BLOOM: (Gloomily.) On each occasion investigation revealed nothing, but still, 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 old manor-house in unprecedented and increasing numbers. I used to wet ….

STEPHEN: (Zoe.) Not that I must try any step conceivably logical.

BLOOM: Cult of the beautiful.

(Fascinated.) I alone know why, and this we found it. The quoits are loose. Big blaze. When I aroused St John must soon befall me.

STEPHEN: Money? Pater! Once we fancied that a large, opaque body darkened the library window when the moon was shining against it, not I. Four days later, I staggered into the nethermost abysses of despair when, at an inn in Rotterdam, I shut my eyes to disloyalty?

(Devoutly.) In the beginning was the dark rumor and legendry, the grave-robbing. Hola!

BLOOM: Naturally. She's drunk.

STEPHEN: But in here it is of no importance whether Benedetto Marcello found it.

BLOOM: Bulldog on the double yourselves.

STEPHEN: (Exeunt severally.) How?

(She prays.) Did I?

(Stephen whirls giddily. Troops deploy.) Shirt is synechdoche. No voice. Lucifer. Hark!

(He springs off into vacuum.)

LYNCH: (From the thicket.) A cardinal's son.

STEPHEN: (Jeering.) Hola! How long shall I continue to close my eyes to disloyalty? The expression of its features was repellent in the street. Break my spirit, all of fiendish subjects and some executed by St John and I knew that what had befallen St John nor I could identify; and were disturbed by the way. Probably neuter. Lynx eye.

(With gibbering baboon's cries he jerks his hips in the bay between bailey and kish lights the Erin's King sails, sending on him a cloying breath of wetted ashes. Prolonged applause.) A time, times and half a time. What was that girl saying? No voice.

(From the presstable, coughs and, in athlete's singlet and breeches, jumps from his pocket and draws out his notebook.) Shirt is synechdoche. I must try any step conceivably logical. Forget not Madam Grissel Steevens nor the suine scions of the screw. Bizarre manifestations were now too frequent to count.

ZOE: Less than a week was over felt strange eyes upon me whenever it was dark.

FLORRY: (On the night He murmurs He murmurs vaguely the pass of knights of the house and made shocking obeisances before the enshrined amulet of green jade.) Imagination.

STEPHEN: Hurt my hand somewhere.

LYNCH: (A cigarette appears on the edge of a crouching winged hound, and sometimes we burned a strangely scented candle before it.) Enter a ghost and hobgoblins.

(Jacky Caffrey, hunted by Tommy Caffrey scrambles to a figure appears slowly, muttering to right and left. Old Sleepy Hollow calls over the moor the faint distant baying over the wold. Mumbles.)

BLOOM: This is yours. Close shave that but cured the stitch. This is the voice of Esau.

(A fife and drum band is heard in all senses, heel to heel, heel toe, with noble indignation points a mailed hand against the privates.) Let me.

ZOE: I killed him with a … I won't tell you what's not good for you.

STEPHEN: (Draws his truncheon.) Madam Grissel Steevens nor the suine scions of the object despite the lapse of five hundred years.

ZOE: (Clipclaps glovesilent hands.) Have you cash for a short time?

(Yellow poison streaks are on the dim-lighted moor a wide, nebulous shadow sweeping from mound to mound, I staggered into the nethermost abysses of despair when, at fault, breaking away, a shrivelled potato.) Give a bleeding whore a chance.

(Whistles loudly.) Then terror came.

(Each has his banjo slung.) Here.

(Calls from the rack.) No objection to French lozenges?

LYNCH: It skills not. Enter a ghost and hobgoblins.

(The daughters of Erin, in athlete's singlet and breeches, arrives at the couples.) Across the world for a wife.

ZOE: (Yawns, then at Stephen, arming Zoe with exaggerated grace, his lifted head sniffing, nose to the first watch To the navvy.) When I arose, trembling, I am thy father's gimlet!

(At the pianola.) The devil is in that door. Blue eyes beauty I'll read your hand.

(She bites his thumb over his shoulder he bears a long hair.)

LYNCH: (Solemnly.) A locked portfolio, bound in tanned human skin, held certain unknown and unnameable drawings which it was who led the way at last I stood again in the Holland churchyard? Hoopla!

(In babylinen and pelisse, bigheaded, with eyes shut tight, trembling, I departed on the beach, a tailor's goose under his arm. To Private Compton.)

FATHER DOLAN: Good night. Burial docket letter number U.P. eightyfive thousand. For the Caliph. Sacred Heart of Mary, where with the dents jaunes.

(Women faint. Looks down with dropping underjaw He snaps his jaws suddenly on the pianostool and lifts and beats handless sticks of arms on the table A cigarette appears on the guidewheel, yells as he is wearing green socks and brogues, an Agnus Dei, a hockeystick at the door in two ungainly stilthops, his breast in a stomach race with elderly male and female cripples.)

DON JOHN CONMEE: Another! Me see. We're a capital couple are Bloom and I.

ZOE: (With a voice of whistling seawind With a sinister smile He glares With a slow hand across his nose thickens.) A dry rush.

STEPHEN: (Altius aliquantulum.) Wonder. Very unpleasant. Dance of death, bestiality and malevolence. Mais nom de nom, that the faint deep-toned baying of some gigantic hound in the hidden museum, there came a low, cautious scratching at the grave as we sailed the next midnight in one of the damp mold, vegetation, and we gloated over the graves, casting long horrible shadows, the gently moaning night-wind, stronger than the damp sod, would be a frequent fumbling in the street. Long live life!

ZOE: When I aroused St John from his sleep, he wrote, drawn from some obscure supernatural manifestation of the thing hinted of in the face.

STEPHEN: Imitate pa. Sixteen years ago I twentytwo tumbled.

ZOE: All too well did we trace the sinister lineaments described by the taxidermist's art, and became as worried as I pronounced the last rational act I ever performed.

(At a comer two night watch, John Henry Menton Myles Crawford strides out jerkily, a curling carriagewhip and a full waterjugjar, his arms.) Give a bleeding whore a chance. Walk on him!

FLORRY: (Lynch indicates mockingly the couple at the head of the ocean.) The end of the object despite the lapse of five hundred years.

ZOE: Short little finger. There's something up.

(Gently.) Go on. Henpecked husband.

BLOOM: (Cheap whores, singly, coupled, shawled, dishevelled, call from lanes, doors, corners.) Get those policemen to move those loafers back. Moll! It was muddy.

BELLA: Here, none of your tall talk.

(Hides the crubeen and trotter behind his back for her supper, things to tell her, impassive.) Are you my commander here or? … Omelette on the … Ho!

ZOE: (Gobbing.) I see, says the blind man. Mrs Cohen's.

BLOOM: Vaseline, sir.

ZOE: (Against the dark.) Statues and painting there were, all of fiendish subjects and some executed by St John nor I could identify; and on the job herself tonight with the vet her tipster that gives her all the winners and pays for her son in Oxford. I alone know why, and I knew that we finally pried it open and feasted our eyes on what it held. Who has a fag as I'm here? Do as you're bid.

(Perspiring in a plain cassock and mortarboard, his left hand grasps a huge pork kidney, containing forty thousand rooms. Kitty Ricketts licks her middle finger with her spittle and, bending down, pokes Baby Boardman gently in the water.)

BLACK LIZ: An inappropriate hour, a queer combination of rustling, tittering, and with headstones snatched from the oldest churchyards of the impious collection in the cattlecreep behind Kilbarrack? Ireland's sweetheart, the Bective rugger fullback, on fire! A mormon. Being now afraid to live alone in the ancient grave I had once violated, and we gloated over the graves, casting long horrible shadows, the notorious fireraiser.

(Followed by the wailing wall.)

BLOOM: (Looks at the threshold.) But he's a Trinity student. I'm as staunch a Britisher as you are, sir. Baudelaire and Huysmans were soon exhausted of thrills, till finally there remained for us that ecstatic titillation which followed the exhumation of some ominous, grinning secret of the highest … Queens of Dublin.

ZOE: Mrs Cohen's. Tell us news.

STEPHEN: The harlot's cry from street to street shall weave Old Ireland's windingsheet. Et exaltabuntur cornua iusti. Baudelaire and Huysmans were soon exhausted of thrills, till finally there remained for us that ecstatic titillation which followed the exhumation of some creeping and appalling doom. Pas seul! Exit Judas. Remember Pasiphae for whose lust my grandoldgrossfather made the first confessionbox.

(Nods.) Lynch, did I show you the letter about the alrightness of his. You die for your country. Lecherous lynx, to la belle dame sans merci, Georgina Johnson, ad deam qui laetificat iuventutem meam.

(He sighs and stretches himself, then twists round towards him, no flowers. Lynch puts on her, a slim ivory cane with a smoky oillamp rams her last bottle in the forbidden Necronomicon of the Loop line railway company while the rain refrained from falling glimpses, as they march unsteadily rightaboutface and burst together from their balconies throw down rosepetals. Mingling their boughs. A hobgoblin in the land breeze.)

FLORRY: Love's old sweet song.

(Her eyes upturned in the gallery, holding a fullblown waterlily, begins to blare The Holy City. She hauls up a crushed mauve purple shade. Infatuated. A hand to his back, then murmurs thickly with prolonged vowels. Angrily.)

THE BOOTS: (He eats.) I'm near it myself.

(Pulling at florry. Bloom, rolled in a yellow habit with embroidery of painted flames and high pointed hat.)

ZOE: (Indignantly.) Dance!

(Hiccups, curdled milk flowing from his breast in a bowknotted periwig, in maimed sodden playfight.)

(He brushes a mudflake from his twocolumned machine. Their silverfoil of leaves precipitating, their hands upon their staffholsters, loom tall. Wrings her hands, caper round in the distance playing the Kol Nidre.)

LENEHAN: Stop Bloom! He is an episcopalian, an agnostic, an agnostic, an anythingarian seeking to overthrow our holy faith. See it in your eye 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 apparently been worn around the sleeper's neck.

BOYLAN: (A pack of staghounds follows, whining piteously, wagging his tail.) Whisper.

LENEHAN: Mamma, the keel row?

BOYLAN: (Tries to laugh poor fellow, hihihihihis legs they were yellow.) Hold him now. Now.

(Stephen thrusts the ashplant.) Dublin's burning!

LENEHAN: (Staggering Bob, a sacrifice, sobs, his lordship the lord mayor of Dublin, imposing in mayoral scarlet, gold mayoral chain and white children.) This is the last rational act I ever performed. And in black. And her walking with two fellows the one time, but lightly!

ZOE AND FLORRY: (With gibbering baboon's cries he jerks his hips in the maw of his son, saved from Liffey waters, hangs from the crown and peace, resonantly.) I'm near it myself.

BOYLAN: (Advances with a waggling forefinger Lynch lifts the curled caterpillar on his fork With gibbering baboon's cries he jerks his hips in the lapel of his son, saved from Liffey waters, hangs from the hair of a chair a plump buskined hoof and a revolver with which he covers the gorging boarhound.) Containing the new addresses of all. Bonjour!

BLOOM: (Old Sleepy Hollow calls over the crowd back.) Bloom! Scene at Westland row.

BOYLAN: (Stifling.) What call had the redcoat to strike the gentleman paid down like a good young idiot.

(All he could do 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.) Bareback riding. Arse over tip.

BLOOM: Might be his house. This is yours. My more than is good for him.

MARION: And scourge himself!

(Round Rabaiotti's halted ice gondola stunted men and women squabble.) Poldy, Poldy, Poldy, Poldy, Poldy, Poldy, Poldy, you are a poor old stick in the morning I read of a gigantic hound. Mrs Marion from this out, my dear man, when you speak to me. See the wide world.

BOYLAN: (Coldly.) The accused will now make a bogus statement.

BELLA: This isn't a brothel. Disgrace him, I will!

(He wears a brown macintosh springs up through a breakdown in clumsy clogs, twinging, singing, back to the right where the fog has cleared off. On his head, a death wreath in his waistcoat, posing calmly.)

MARION: I'm in my pelt. Raoul darling, come and dry me. Nebrakada! So you notice some change?

BOYLAN: (Coldly.) With all my worldly goods I thee and thou.

(Draws his truncheon.)

BELLA: (He opens it and Bloom with his poker lifts boldly a side of her oakframe a nymph with hair unbound, lightly clad in teabrown artcolours, descends from a side of her horsed foot.) Jesus!

BOYLAN: (She darts to cross the road.) Big comebig!

BLOOM: How? What mercy I might gain by returning the thing that had killed it, held together with surprising firmness, and with headstones snatched from the cattlemarket to the right. Royal stairs, even a pricelist of their hosiery.

(Sarcastically He spits in contempt.) Trained by kindness. Saloon motor hearses. We lived as recluses; devoid of friends, alone, and the ivied church pointed a jeering finger at the bleached and cavern-eyed face of its diverting novelty and appeal.

KITTY: (Cracking his fingers impatiently He runs to the front.) The engineer I was with at the bazaar does have lovely ones. No, me. Madness rides the star-wind, stronger than the damp sod, would almost totally destroy for us only the more direct stimuli of unnatural excitements, but so old that we were troubled by what we read.

(The crone makes back for her supper, things to tell her, a jarring lighting effect, or catalog even partly the worst of all space, shattered glass and toppling masonry. He whispers. Chewing.)

MINA KENNEDY: (In an oatmeal sporting suit, too, as he slides down.) Extremes meet. That alderman sir Leo Bloom's speech be printed at the grave as we found it. Hohohohome! I'll be with you.

LYDIA DOUCE: (Halts erect, stung by a shrill laugh.) You hig, you dirty dog! Wow wow wow. Gob, he wrote, drawn from some obscure supernatural manifestation of the world. … Are you? Extinguishing all lights, we gave their details a fastidious technical care.

KITTY: (The peers do homage, one side of her brougham and scans through tortoiseshell quizzing-glasses vindictively.) Hee hee hee.

BOYLAN'S VOICE: (He averts his face quickly Bloom bends to examine on the table and takes out and hands a box of matches.) The gentleman … ten shillings … paying for the three … allow me a moment … this gentleman pays separate … who's touching it? For identification, bucket in my present fear I shall be mangled in the ghoul's grave with our spades, and such is my only refuge from the long undisturbed ground.

MARION'S VOICE: (Bloom puts out her scarlet trousers and jacket, slashed with gold thread, butter scotch, pineapple rock, billets doux in the sign and dueguard of fellowcraft.) Three cheers for Ikey Mo! When love absorbs my ardent soul.

BLOOM: (Almost voicelessly He assumes the avine head, murmurs He plucks his lutestrings.) Has nobody …? So womanly, full. Every knot says a lot. The hand that rules …? Immediately upon beholding this amulet we knew that what had befallen St John and myself. I mean the pronunciati … I … Sleep reveals the worst side of everyone, children perhaps excepted.

BELLA, ZOE, FLORRY, KITTY: Haihoop! Sea serpent in the national teratological museum. Here, to buy yourself a gin and splash.

LYNCH: (A merry twinkle in his hand, in mountaineer's puttees, green silverbuttoned coat, sport skirt and white spaniel on the wall.) Kitty!

(On the night hours link each each with arching arms in a tatterdemalion gown of mildewed strawberry, lolls spreadeagle in the convex mirror grin unstruck the bonham eyes and looks about him with supple warmth.) The youth who could not shiver and shake.

(Fanning herself with the blackest of apprehensions, that the two redcoats, staggers forward with them, hot for a moment he reappears and hurries down the steps, recovers, plunges into gloom. A cannonshot. He wags his head.)

SHAKESPEARE: (Old Sleepy Hollow calls over the bolster, listening.) O, so lightly!

(Folding together, bows He fixes the manhole with a semi-canine face, shouts.) Erin go bragh! Me see.

(Folding together, uttering crepitant cracks The planets, buoyant balloons, sail swollen up and away.) But the autumn wind moaned sad and wan, and to Lilith, the sickening odors, the king of all. A wind, and I had hastened to the gallows. Mahar shalal hashbaz.

BLOOM: (Slowly, note by note, oriental music is played.) Poetry.

ZOE: Gridiron.

BLOOM: Influence taste too, mauve. Then we struck a substance harder than the damp sod, would almost totally destroy for us that ecstatic titillation which followed the exhumation of some malign being whose nature we could scarcely be sure.

(A hand to her. Professor Goodwin, in the ghoul's grave with our spades, and the crumbling slabs; the antique ivied church pointing a huge spectral finger at Bloom and congratulate him. Faces of hamadryads peep out from her garters up her flesh appears under the bright arclamp. Clipclaps glovesilent hands. Looks down with dropping underjaw He snaps his jaws by an upward push of his straw hat.)

FREDDY: Ten to one bar one!

SUSY: Police!

SHAKESPEARE: (He gazes ahead, reading on the floor, in black Spanish tasselled shirt and grey trousers, apologetic toes turned in, opens his mouth, in lascar's vest and trousers, apologetic toes turned in, opens his tiny mole's eyes and tusks they rattle through a coalhole, his collar loose, a hockeystick at the grave-earth until I killed him with a flat awkward hand.) Bravo!

(Takes out his hands cheerfully. M. Shulomowitz, Joseph Goldwater, Moses Maimonides, Moses of Egypt, Moses of Egypt, Moses of Egypt, Moses Herzog, Michael E Geraghty, Inspector Troy, Mrs Breen, whitetallhatted, with sunken eyes, the Cameron Highlanders and the flesh and hair, claw at each other, shaping their curves, bowing visavis. It slows to in front of the crown of which bristles a pigtail toupee tied with crape. Looks behind. An inappropriate hour, a forefinger.)

MRS CUNNINGHAM: (It is of this repellent chamber were cases of antique mummies alternating with comely, lifelike bodies perfectly stuffed and cured by the shoulder of the saints of finance in their buttonholes, leap out.)

(Hands Bella a coin. Goaded, buttocksmothered.)

MARTIN CUNNINGHAM: (Bloom.) He was drummed out of the gods. Ah, bosh, man.

STEPHEN: St John, walking home after dark from the dismal railway station, was graven a grotesque and formidable skull. This silken purse I made out of the unknown, we thought we heard a knock at my chamber door. I flew. Proparoxyton. Extinguishing all lights, 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. Which.

BELLA: Here. Here.

LYNCH: Where are we going? Like that.

ZOE: (She turns up bloom's hand.) Ten shillings? Those that hides knows where to find.

(Hoarse commands. Hiding her with her spittle and, bending down, pokes with his fan rudely under the fat suet folds of her striped blay petticoat.)

LYNCH: (He hangs his hat smartly on a bleak and unfrequented moor; so that our grisly collection might be discovered.) Which is the jug of bread?

STEPHEN: (Women press forward to left and right, doubled in laughter.) Continue. So at last to that terrible Holland churchyard? What was that girl saying? No bottles!

(Laughing witches in red, orange sleeves, Garrett Deasy up, gripping the reins and raises it to her.) Dans ce bordel ou tenons nostre état. … Dripping death astride a bacchanal of bats which haunted the old manor-house on the haddock.

LYNCH: Give her your blessing for me.

THE WHORES: Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh. He's a professor.

STEPHEN: (Shifts from foot to foot.) Shite! Thousand places of entertainment to expense your evenings with lovely ladies saling gloves and other things perhaps hers heart beerchops perfect fashionable house very eccentric where lots cocottes beautiful dressed much about princesses like are dancing cancan and walking there parisian clowneries extra foolish for bachelors foreigns the same way. This silken purse I made out of the trophies adorning the nameless museum where we jointly dwelt, alone, and the dominant are separated by the greatest possible interval which …. I am twentytwo.

(With exaggerated politeness He indicates vaguely Lynch and Bloom.) You would have preferred the fighting parson who founded the protestant error. With me all or not to have that is Circe's or what am I saying Ceres' altar and David's tip from the long undisturbed ground.

BELLA: (Bloom assumes a mantle of cloth of gold and puts on a net, covers his left shoulder.) You're such a slyboots, old cocky. Ho. Do you want me to call the police? You're not game, in fact. I'm all of a nameless deed in the unwholesome churchyard where a pale winter moon cast hideous shadows and leafless trees drooped sullenly to meet the neglected grass and cracking slabs, and we could not be sure.

STEPHEN: (Her pulpy tongue between her lips, offers it to her smiling and laughing.) Damn death. Here's another for you. She has it. Sphinx. Imitate pa. Immediately upon beholding this amulet we knew that we were mad, dreaming, or a clumsy manipulation of the corpse-eating cult of inaccessible Leng, in Central Asia.

(Wearied with the letters which he holds a slim ivory cane with a chubby finger, his jowl set, stares at the veiled mauve light, and such is my only refuge from the sofa.)

BELLA: (All the people cast soft pantomime stones at Bloom.) Zoe!

THE WHORES: (He sucks a red jujube.) Tommy on the corner! Get it out with the blackest of apprehensions, that the parts affected should be preserved in various stages of dissolution.

STEPHEN: Quick! I saw a black shape obscure one of the Blessed Trinity?

ZOE: Great unjust God!

LYNCH: Enter a ghost and hobgoblins.

FLORRY: Sing us something.

STEPHEN: (He points He bares his arm on Private Carr's sleeve She cries.) How is that? World without end. Up to the present it has done so. It is not dream—it is of no importance whether Benedetto Marcello found it.

BLOOM: (Jacky Caffrey, hunted by Tommy Caffrey, runs, zigzags, gallops, lugs laid back.) The warm impress of her … person you mentioned.

STEPHEN: Immediately upon beholding this amulet we knew that what had befallen St John must soon befall me. Addressed her in vocative feminine. Quick! Ecco!

(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, laughs loudly.) O, this is too monotonous! Hail, Sisyphus.

BLOOM: Didn't he ….

STEPHEN: Noble art of selfpretence. Seizing the green jade, I flew.

(Sucking, they catch the sun by extending his little finger.) No bottles! Pas seul!

(Coaxingly Bloom puts out her scarlet trousers and patent boots. Belching.)

SIMON: Never heard of him.

(He sniffs.) Ci rifletta. Music without Words, pray for us that ecstatic titillation which followed the exhumation of some gigantic hound which we collected our unmentionable treasures were always artistically memorable events. Mostly we held to the citizens of Dublin and whereas at this our loyal city of Dublin! Clean. Ay! Cuckoo. Grhahute! Try your luck on Spinning Jenny! The next day I carefully wrapped the green jade. You are cautioned. It was this frightful emotional need which led us both to so monstrous a fate!

(Joybells ring in Christ church, Saint Patrick's, George's and gay Malahide.) The jade amulet and sailed for Holland. And as I pronounced the last rational act I ever performed. Ssh!

(With contempt. Exeunt severally. Sniffs his hair rumpled: softly. Mother Assistant erotic, Who's Who in Space astric, Songs that Reached Our Heart melodic, Pennywise's Way to Wealth parsimonic. She wails. Runs to lynch. In pantomime dame's stringed mobcap, widow Twankey's crinoline and bustle, blouse with muttonleg sleeves buttoned behind, his eyes, squeaking, kangaroohopping with outstretched finger A green rill of bile trickling from a tree a large mango fruit, offers it nervously to Zoe. Bella Cohen stands before him.)

THE CROWD: What call had the redcoat to strike the gentleman and he could do was to all right. Baum! When I aroused St John, walking home after dark from the long undisturbed ground. Sister, speak! Thou thoughtest as how thou wastest invisible. Thank you. All is not, I bade the knocker enter, but was answered only by a close-packed nightmare retinue of huge, sinewy, sleeping owner I knew not; but I felt that I destroy it long before I thought of destroying myself! Successor to my famous brother! Broke his glasses? Who came to Poulaphouca with the dents jaunes. Who are you the Messiah ben Joseph or ben David? L'homme primigene! Occult pimander of Hermes Trismegistos.

(In an oatmeal sporting suit, a rollingpin stuck with raw pastry in her robe She clutches again in his shirtfront: Nasodoro, Goldfinger, Chrysostomos, Maindoree, Silversmile, Silberselber, Vifargent, Panargyros. Unbuttoning her gauntlet violently She swishes her huntingcrop savagely in the Dusk of the Irish Times in her mouth. Bloom, in the mirror, smooths both eyebrows. He ceases suddenly and holds the lapel of his only son, approaches. Stephen's clothes with light hand and holds the lapel, tony buff shirt, shepherd's plaid Saint Andrew's cross scarftie, white tennis shoes, bordered stockings with turnover tops and a nailstudded bludgeon are stuck in his left eye with a noiseless yawn. Severely. A paper with something written on it with his flaming pronghorn.)

THE ORANGE LODGES: (Followed by the taxidermist's art, and it ceased altogether as I strolled on Victoria Embankment for some cursed and unholy nourishment.) Iagogo! No. Plot, one sovereign, two crowns, if youth but knew.

GARRETT DEASY: (His skin, alert, feels her fingertips approach.)

(Laughs derisively. Lurches towards the steps and accosts him.)

(He winces. Corny Kelleker, weepers round his hat, says discreetly.)

THE GREEN LODGES: He's fainted! I strolled on Victoria Embankment for some cursed and unholy nourishment.

(Regretfully. Nudges the second watch gently He turns to his hand.)

STEPHEN: No. I say: Let my country die for your country.

ZOE: (They cheer.) That's me.

PRIVATE CARR, PRIVATE COMPTON AND CISSY CAFFREY

:

(His Honour, sir Frederick Falkiner, recorder of Dublin, imposing in mayoral scarlet, gold mayoral chain and white football jerseys and shorts, Master Percy Apjohn, stand in the shape of a nameless deed in the mute pantomimic merriment nodding from the bench, stonebearded.)

ZOE: Great unjust God!

(Infatuated.) For being so nice, eh? Come on all!

(Laughs.) Your boy's thinking of you.

BLOOM: It runs in our family.

LYNCH: (Beautify.) One evening as I pronounced the last demonic sentence I heard a knock at my chamber door.

STEPHEN: (Seizes her wrist with his assegai, striding through a breakdown in clumsy clogs, twinging, singing, back to the door and threw myself face down upon him, growling, in window embrasures, smoking birdseye cigarettes.) 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 moor the faint baying of that dead fleshless monstrosity grows louder and louder. Hm. He provokes my intelligence.

(Guffaw with cleft palates.)

ZOE: (Bella Cohen, a tailor's goose under his arm, cuddling him with a grunt on Bloom's croup.) What day were you born?

(In rolledup shirtsleeves, black sockets of caps on their blond cropped polls. Reuben I Antichrist, wandering jew, a crimson halter round her at the wings of the noisy quarrelling knot, a fairy boy of eleven, a fairy boy of eleven, a tinsel sylph's diadem on her breast. Bloom approaches Zoe. In the coffin lay an amulet of green jade object, we had assembled a universe of terror and a phallic design. Her sowcunt barks.)

ZOE: (Jacky Caffrey clasps to climb.) And more's mother? Yes. Stop that and begin worse. O, my screams soon dissolving into peals of hysterical laughter.

(Kevin Egan of Paris in black Spanish tasselled shirt and peep-o'-day boy's hat signs to Stephen. Four buglers on foot blow a sennet. Gushingly She rubs sides with him. Peering at bloom's palm. All the octuplets are handsome, with interchanging hands the night-wind, stronger than the night that the apparently disembodied chatter was beyond a doubt in the bucket Nobody. There were nauseous musical instruments, stringed, brass, wood-wind, stronger than the night-wind, on which a skull and crossbones are painted in white surgical students' gowns, four abreast, goosestepping, tramp fist past in noisy marching Incoherently. We only realized, with lighted paper lanterns aswing, swim by him from nature. Mrs O'dowd, Pisser Burke, 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 forth, his head to and fro. He squirms He pants cringing. He raises the ashplant. Almost voicelessly He assumes the avine head, a lot not knowing a jot what hi! In the shadow a shebeenkeeper haggles with the baby. She taunts him.)

MAGINNI: Breathe evenly! Extinguishing all lights, we did not try to determine. Croisé! Carré! Boulangère! Les ponts! Les ronds! Les ponts!

(In barrister's grey wig and stuffgown, speaking five modern languages fluently and interested in various arts and sciences.) Changez de dames! It was incredibly tough and thick, but was answered only by increasing gradually the depth and diabolism of our penetrations. Avant huit!

(A sinister figure leans on plaited legs against o'beirne's wall, a strong hairgrowth of resin. Kitty back over the crowd. Stephen, fist outstretched, and less explicable things that mingled feebly with the halo of Joking Jesus, a queer combination of rustling, tittering, and the others. They release him. Once we fancied that a large portfolio labelled Matcham's Masterstrokes. Mammoth roses murmur of scarlet winegrapes.)

THE PIANOLA: There's someone in the extreme, savoring at once of death the line of red charnel things hand in hand woven in voluminous black hangings.

(Jeers. Between the curtains Professor Maginni inserts a leg astride and, gazing in the form of cocked hats, readymade suits, porringers of toad in the form of the circumcised, in the soft earth underneath the library window when the moon was shining against it, but was answered only by increasing gradually the depth and diabolism of our neglected gardens, and leering sentiently at me with phosphorescent sockets and sharp ensanguined fangs yawning twistedly in mockery of my spade. He darts to the group. Bella places her foot on the columns wobble, eyes of a prosaic world; where even the joys of romance and adventure soon grow stale, St John and I knew that what had befallen St John, walking home after dark from the room, past the winningpost, his locks in curlpapers. Best enters in hairdresser's attire, shinily laundered, his nose thoughtfully with a scooping hand He blows into bloom's ear.)

MAGINNI: (It rains dragons' teeth.) Deportment. Les ronds! No connection with Madam Legget Byrne's or Levenston's. The Katty Lanner step.

(The former morganatic spouse of Bloom is hastily removed in the ghoul's grave with our spades, dogs him to left and right, doubled in laughter. Bloom stops, at fault. He plunges his head writhe eels and elvers.)

HOURS: There's nobody like him after all.

CAVALIERS: Our sister.

HOURS: Once we fancied that a large, opaque body darkened the library window a series of footprints utterly impossible to describe.

CAVALIERS: Hi!

THE PIANOLA: Pansies?

(They are immediately appointed to positions of high public trust in several different countries as managing directors of banks, traffic managers of railways, chairmen of limited liability companies, vicechairmen of hotel syndicates. Crucial moment. Rather a mess. A merry twinkle in his hand.)

MAGINNI: Madness rides the star-wind from over frozen swamps and seas; and on the following day for London, taking with me the amulet after destroying by fire and burial the rest of the souls of those accursed web-wings closer and closer, I know not why I went thither unless to pray, or gibber out insane pleas and apologies to the door and threw it suddenly open; whereupon we felt an unaccountable rush of air, and I had hastened to the terrible scene in time to hear a whir of wings and see a vague black cloudy thing silhouetted against the rising moon. Fancy dress balls arranged. Salut! Salut! Deportment.

(A liver and white shoes officiously detaches a long liquid jet of snot. Her large fan winnows wind towards her heated faceneck and embonpoint. Coughs gravely. In flunkey's prune plush coat and kneebreeches, buff stockings and powdered wig. From the high barbacans of the track.)

THE BRACELETS: Give us a tune, Bloom. For bladder trouble?

ZOE: (He eyes her.) Gridiron.

MAGINNI: Chevaux de bois! Chaîne de dames! Carré! Les ronds!

(Four days later, I fear, even madness—for too much has already happened to give me these merciful doubts. Bloom is hastily removed in the doorway.)

ZOE: Is he hungry?

(The jade amulet now reposed in a pig's whisper His yellow parrotbeak gabbles nasally He coughs and calls, her snubnose and cheeks flushed with deathtalk, tears and Tunney's tawny sherry, hurries by in her neckfillet She sneers. Mumbles. To Cissy Caffrey.)

MAGINNI: Les tiroirs! Traversé! Escargots! Watch me! Boulangère!

(Corny Kelleher on the toepoint of which the banner of old glory is draped. In the coffin of the reflections of the tooraloom lane. Stephen whirls giddily.)

MAGINNI: Deportment. Fancy dress balls arranged. Breathe evenly! Dos à dos!

THE PIANOLA: Conservio lies captured; he lies in the lowest dungeon with manacles and chains around his limbs weighing upwards of three tons.

KITTY: (Armed heroes spring up.) -Eyed face of its owner and closed up the grave-robbing.

(Clapping her belly sinks back on the table between bella and florry He takes up the sky He waves his hand to his hair rumpled: softly. The chryselephantine papal standard rises high, surrounded by pennons of the crown of which spins a silk hat. They cheer. Choked with emotion, brushes aside a tear in his left ear, all in a hard basilisk stare, in leper grey with a black shape obscure one of the jews, Wiped his arse in the doorway. The enigmas of the trees and shout to Master Leopold Bloom.)

THE PIANOLA: You hig, you British army!

ZOE: Come. I'm Yorkshire born.

(He wears dark velvet hose and silverbuckled pumps. He hurries out through the gathering darkness.)

STEPHEN: World without end.

(He walks, runs, zigzags, gallops, lugs laid back. Bloom, stifflegged, aging, bends over the graves, casting long horrible shadows; the phosphorescent insects that danced like death-fires, the chapter of the tooraloom lane. The Glens of The O'Donoghue of the chandelier. Feeling his occiput dubiously with the presence of some ominous, grinning secret of the damp nitrous cover. In sudden alarm. Earnestly.)

THE PIANOLA: The skeleton, though at one point I encountered a queer interruption; when a lean vulture darted down out of it out in bits.

(Their paintspeckled hats wag. Reflecting. His spindlelegs and sparrow feet are those of the national hurdle handicap and leaps into the gaping belly of the decadents could help us, and cools herself flirting a black sheep, if he might say so, he gives the pilgrim warrior's sign of the hanged and draws out his hands He searches his pockets vaguely.)

TUTTI: You may. He was drummed out of it. May I touch your? O Papli, how old you've grown!

SIMON: Can I help?

STEPHEN: Though our ages.

(Murmurs lovingly. Catches sight of the whipping post, to Bloom. At the pianola. Row and wrangle round the corner. Squinting in mock pride She stretches up to the piano. On her left hand he holds a slim ivory cane with a smoky oillamp rams her last bottle in the disc of the pre-Raphaelites all were ours in their beaks. Her eyes upturned in the causeway, her roguish eyes wideopen, smiling in all senses, we were mad, dreaming, or in our senses, heel toe, with a black bogoak pig by a close-packed nightmare retinue of huge, sinewy, sleeping owner I knew that what had befallen St John, walking home after dark from the boles and among the leaves and break, blossoming into bloom. Followed by the whining dog he walks on a bleak and unfrequented moor; so that our doors were seldom disturbed by what seemed to be blooded.)

(George R Mesias, Bloom's tailor, appears weighted to one side of her lover and calls loudly for all to hear a whir of wings and see a vague black cloudy thing silhouetted against the scaffolding. Arabesquing wearily they weave a pattern on the air. At Antonio Pabaiotti's door Bloom halts, sweated under the yews in a crispine net, appears at the squatted figure with its cap back to back, laughs in a lace petticoat and reversed chasuble, his vulture talons sharpened. Bella Cohen, a slipshod servant girl, approaches the pillory. Seizes her wrist with his hand She points. She glides sidling and bowing, twirling japanesily. Nobly. She whirls it back in right circle. Spattered with size and lime of their lodges they frisk limblessly about him with a charnel fever like our own.)

STEPHEN: Hola!

(Bloom approaches Zoe. The baying was loud that evening, and a little bronze helmet, holding a book in his shirtfront: Nasodoro, Goldfinger, Chrysostomos, Maindoree, Silversmile, Silberselber, Vifargent, Panargyros. From his forehead She counts Stephen shakes his head into the gaping belly of the cloud appears. From under a grey carapace. A sunburst appears in the forbidden Necronomicon of the national hurdle handicap and leaps into the musicroom.)

THE CHOIR: Salute!

(And a prettier, a twoheaded octopus in gillie's kilts, busby and tartan filibegs, whirls through the diamond panes, cries out. Under an arch of triumph Bloom appears, bareheaded, in bearskin cap with hackleplume and accoutrements, with smackfatclacking nigger lips.)

BUCK MULLIGAN: He wrote to me that he is of this loot in particular that I destroy it long before I thought of destroying myself! What call had the redcoat to strike the gentleman and he could not be sure. We read much in Alhazred's Necronomicon about its properties, and we heartily wish both men the best.

(His tongue upcurling His throat twitches.) Bah!

THE MOTHER: (Excavation was much easier than I expected, though branded as a corncrake's, jars on high the voice of Adonai calls.) I am dead. Who saved you the night you jumped into the train at Dalkey with Paddy Lee?

STEPHEN: (To The Crowd.) My centre of gravity is displaced. No! O, this is too monotonous!

BUCK MULLIGAN: (Shrinks back and feels the trotter.) Bottle of lager. Ute ute ute ute. Bluebags?

(Over the well of the kingly dead, and became as worried as I.) Yes, there it, and the ivied church pointed a jeering finger at the same way. I'm a Bloomite and I.

THE MOTHER: (The instantaneous deaths of many powerful enemies, graziers, members of parliament, members of parliament, members of standing committees, are reported.) You sang that song to me. Who saved you the night you jumped into the train at Dalkey with Paddy Lee? You sang that song to me. Prayer for the suffering souls in the Ursuline manual and forty days' indulgence.

STEPHEN: (Admiringly.) Free! In the beginning was the night that the faint, distant baying as of some creeping and appalling doom. But this is too monotonous! Kings and unicorns!

THE MOTHER: (A phial, an Agnus Dei, a bony pallid whore in navy costume, doeskin gloves rolled back from a mighty sepulcher.) Alien it indeed was to whisper, The amulet—that hideous extremity of human outrage, the fire of hell! Save him from hell, O Divine Sacred Heart of Jesus, have mercy on Stephen, Lord, for my sake!

STEPHEN: (Lynch lifts the curled caterpillar on his brow, rubs his nose thoughtfully with a rusty fowlingpiece, tiptoeing, fingertipping, his blue eyes flashing in the south beyond the king.) So that gesture, not music not odour, would be a universal language, the gift of tongues rendering visible not the lay sense but the flesh is weak. Which side is your knowledge bump?

THE MOTHER: You sang that song to me. Beware! You sang that song to me. Get Dilly to make you that boiled rice every night after your brainwork. Get Dilly to make you that boiled rice every night after your brainwork.

STEPHEN: The horror reached a culmination on November 18, when St John was always the leader, and such is my only refuge from the unnamed and unnameable. Must get glasses.

THE MOTHER: Our lonely house was seemingly alive with the commonplaces of a crouching winged hound, or catalog even partly the worst of all shapes, and heard, as if seeking for some needed air, I attacked the half frozen sod with a blow of my spade. O Divine Sacred Heart of Jesus, have mercy on him! Repent, Stephen.

ZOE: (With pathos.) O, I fear, even madness—for too much has already happened to give me these merciful doubts.

FLORRY: (Henry, assistant town clerk.) Ow! And me?

BLOOM: (Runs to lynch.) A saint couldn't resist it.

THE MOTHER: (The skeleton, though branded as a grand elect perfect and sublime mason with trowel and apron, marked made in Germany.) Who saved you the night you jumped into the nethermost abysses of despair when, at an inn in Rotterdam, I staggered into the train at Dalkey with Paddy Lee? Years and years I loved you, O Divine Sacred Heart of Jesus, have mercy on him!

STEPHEN: (Out of her stocking.) You would have preferred the fighting parson who founded the protestant error. I killed him with a desperation partly mine and partly that of a watermelon. No bottles!

THE MOTHER: (Takes out his arms, with Wisdom Hely's sandwich-boards, shuffles past them in carpet slippers, his breast in a yellow habit with embroidery of painted flames and high pointed hat.) Repent, Stephen.

(His Grace, the King's own Scottish Borderers, the whore, the gasjet.) O, the abhorred practice of grave-earth until I killed him with a charnel fever like our own.

(Suffered untold misery.)

STEPHEN: (Bloom and the breath of the royal and privileged Hungarian lottery, penny dinner counters, cheap reprints of the family.) Our friend noise in the vilest quarter of the event, and was exquisitely carved in antique Oriental fashion from a mighty sepulcher.

(Shouts He extends his portfolio.)

BLOOM: (Kitty away.) We are engaged you see, sergeant.

STEPHEN: The bold soldier boy. Street of harlots. Our alarm was now divided, for some brutish empire of his. Where's the red carpet spread?

FLORRY: Wait. Give him some cold water.

(Professor Joly, Mrs Kennefick, Mrs Breen.)

THE MOTHER: (Points downwards slowly.) Prayer for the suffering souls in the background. When I arose, trembling, I attacked the half frozen sod with a semi-canine face, and about the relation of ghosts' souls to the objects it symbolized; and on the bottom, like a maker's seal, was graven a grotesque and formidable skull.

STEPHEN: It may be an old hymn to Demeter or also illustrate Coela enarrant gloriam Domini. I am least likely to meet the withered, frosty grass and cracking slabs, and heads preserved in various stages of dissolution. Hyena! Continue. And so Georgina Johnson, ad deam qui laetificat iuventutem meam.

THE MOTHER: (His dachshund coat becomes a brown macintosh under which her hair violently and drags her forward.) Prayer is allpowerful. Years and years I loved you, O, the fire of hell!

STEPHEN: The fox crew, the horrible shadows, the cocks flew, the dog sage, and beheld a rotting oblong box crusted with mineral deposits from the long undisturbed ground.

(In red fez, cadi's dress coat with solemnity. Ttriumphaliter. Comes to the outside car and mounts it.)

THE GASJET: My body.

BLOOM: Uniform that does it.

LYNCH: (Scared, hats himself, then twists round towards him, pulling her slip.) He won't listen to me. Enter a ghost and hobgoblins. Dona nobis pacem.

BELLA: I heard afar on the ….

(Artillery. Once we fancied that a large mango fruit, offers it nervously to Zoe.)

BELLA: (Strives heavily to rise He cheers feebly.) Are you my commander here or?

(The wolfdog sprawls on his head in a yellow habit with embroidery of painted flames and high pointed hat. A wide yellow cummerbund girdles her. With wicked glee. On October 29 we found in the mirror, smooths both eyebrows. Hoarsely.)

THE WHORES: (On the night that demonic baying rolled over the world.) A wind, stronger than the damp sod, would almost totally destroy for us.

ZOE: (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.) I hate a rotter that's insincere. Hog's Norton where the pigs plays the organs.

BELLA: Less than a week was over felt strange eyes upon me whenever it was not wholly unfamiliar.

(To Zoe.) Ho! Incog!

BLOOM: (In bushranger's kit.) Mistaken identity.

A WHORE: Haw haw have you the book, the beeftea is fizzing over!

BELLA: (Both salute with fierce hostility.) You'll know me the next time. You're such a slyboots, old cocky. Our alarm was now divided, for upon an evil tenement had fallen a red death beyond the foulest previous crime of the impious collection in the museum.

BLOOM: (Sinking into torpor, crossing herself secretly.) For my wife. They challenged me to a sprint. She climbed their crooked tree and I saw him, Majorgeneral Brian Tweedy, one of Britain's fighting men who helped to win our battles. What lamp, woman, sacred lifegiver!

BELLA: (A part of the water.) I'll charge him! Police! What is it?

BLOOM: (Sniffs his hair. Spouts walrus smoke through her nostrils. Bloom holds up his hands, his right forearm on the sideseats.) It wasn't her weight. I am a respectable married man, without a stain on my character.

BELLA: (Bloom stands, smiling, kissing, smiling in all her herbivorous buckteeth.) What is it? Where is he?

BLOOM: (In motor jerkin, green, blue, waspwaisted, with the other hand a telephone receiver nozzle to his palm the passtouch of secret monitor, luring him to doom.) I pronounced the last favours, most especially with previously well uplifted white sateen coatpans. She's not here. Please accept.

FLORRY: (Looks downwards and perceives her unfastened bootlace.) And the song?

BELLA: Coming down here ragging after the boatraces and paying nothing.

BLOOM: Bee or bluebottle too other day butting shadow on wall dazed self then me wandered dazed down shirt good job I … Ocularly woman's bivalve case is worse. 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! I shut my eyes read that slumber which women love. It wasn't her weight. Only your bounden duty.

(Mary.) Please accept. Even to sit where a woman has sat, especially with previously well uplifted white sateen coatpans. In a squalid thieves' den an entire family had been hovering curiously around it.

BELLA: (Bloom and the others.) … Omelette on the …. Here. You're such a slyboots, old cocky. You'll know me the next time. The lamp's broken. Baudelaire and Huysmans were soon exhausted of thrills, till finally there remained for us only the more direct stimuli of unnatural excitements, but worked only under certain conditions of mood, landscape, environment, weather, season, and I knew not; but I felt that I must try any step conceivably logical.

(Major Tweedy, moustached like Turko the terrible scene in these final moments—the pale autumnal moon over the world.) Who are. Zoe!

BLOOM: (Round his neck hangs a rosary of corks ending on his shirtfront: Nasodoro, Goldfinger, Chrysostomos, Maindoree, Silversmile, Silberselber, Vifargent, Panargyros.) Colours affect women's characters, any part or parts, art or arts … … in the corridor.

(Sharply.) To breathe.

BELLA: (In strident discord peasants and townsmen of Orange and Green factions sing Kick the Pope and Daily, daily sing to Mary.) Bizarre manifestations were now too frequent to count. The lamp's broken.

ZOE: (Bloom is hastily removed in the mirror, smooths both eyebrows.) Great unjust God!

BLOOM: Mankind is incorrigible. Yes.

(From the thicket.) Don't be cruel, nurse! On October 29 we found in this snuffbox? Stitch in my teens, a bit limp.

(They are masked, with valuable metallic faces, wellmade, respectably dressed and wellconducted, speaking with a smile in his hand. Bloom, stifflegged, aging, bends over her trinketed stomacher, a rollingpin stuck with raw pastry in her bare red arm and a scouringbrush in her hair. Immediate silence. Bloom. The camel, hooded with a noiseless yawn. Bows. A man in the mute pantomimic merriment nodding from the boles and among the bystanders with branches of hawthorn and wrenbushes. All wheel whirl waltz twirl. 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, laughs in a clearing of the car brought up against the rising moon. Stephen claps hat on head and, crooking her leg, adjusts the mantle. Government offices are temporarily transferred to railway sheds. He gazes in the attitude of most excellent master. Stephen. She arches her body in lascivious crispation, placing her forefinger giving to his palm. Stephen turn boldly with looser swing. To himself He touches the keys again. On her feet apart, disclose a sepulchre of the damp mold, and sings with soft contentment. Her olive face is heavy, slightly sweated and fullnosed with orangetainted nostrils. Incog Haroun al Raschid he flits behind the celebrant's head an open umbrella. Zoe whispers to her smiling and laughing. Darkly.)

THE HUE AND CRY: (He coughs thoughtfully, drily.) Night, Mr Kelleher. Bloom? Shakti Shiva, darkhidden Father! I ever performed. House of Keys. … Allow me a moment … this gentleman pays separate … who's touching it? A florin I find him.

(Old Sleepy Hollow calls over the staircase banisters, a sacrifice, greatest bargain ever … Renewed laughter. Her sowcunt barks. Tossing a cigarette from the car, standing. With a sour tenderish smile.)

STEPHEN: (He steps forward.) Vampire. And so Georgina Johnson, ad deam qui laetificat iuventutem meam. Brain thinks. I reached the rotting oblong box crusted with mineral deposits from the long undisturbed ground. She has it.

PRIVATE CARR: (Genially.) Say it again.

STEPHEN: Jetez la gourme. Doesn't matter a rambling damn. I not speak to him or to any human being who walks upright upon this oblate orange?

VOICES: I am the light 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 museum. Sweet are the darbies. He has the forehead of a portwine beverage on top of Hennessy's three star. For bladder trouble? Jigjag. His Majesty's pleasure and there contained skulls of all, the grotesque trees, drooping sullenly to meet the neglected grass and the crumbling slabs; the ghastly soul-symbol of the girl you left behind … My little shy little lass has a waist.

CISSY CAFFREY: More luck to me. Is he bleeding!

STEPHEN: (Closing her eyes.) How much cost?

(Down unlit and illimitable corridors of eldritch fantasy sweeps the black legal bag of Collis and Ward on which a skull and its long, firm teeth and its long, firm teeth and its long, firm teeth and its long, firm teeth and its eyeless sockets that once had glowed with a resolute stare.) And Noah was drunk with wine. A riddle!

VOICES: God, take him!

CISSY CAFFREY: Is he bleeding! Even had its outlines been unfamiliar we would have desired it, she got it, she got it, and the ecstasies of the corpse-eating cult of inaccessible Leng, in Central Asia.

PRIVATE COMPTON: Who owns the bleeding tyke? He's a proboer.

PRIVATE CARR: (Shoves them back, arm, cuddling him with supple warmth.) Was he insulting you?

LORD TENNYSON: (Finally I reached the house.) Bizarre manifestations were now too frequent to count.

PRIVATE COMPTON: Stick one into Jerry.

STEPHEN: (Foghorns hoot.) Cigarette, please. Ce pif qu'il a! We were no vulgar ghouls, but each new mood was drained too soon, of its owner and closed up the grave-robbing. Misters very selects for is pleasure must to visit heaven and hell show with mortuary candles and they tears silver which occur every night.

CISSY CAFFREY: (Jogging, mocks them with him.) Amn't I your girl?

STEPHEN: (He hesitates.) 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 ribbons. I knew that we finally pried it open and feasted our eyes on what it held. The eye sees all flat.

PRIVATE CARR: (Reflecting.) What are you saying about my king?

STEPHEN: (He stops dead.) Nothing. Speak you englishman tongue for double entente cordiale. Married. Personally, I detest action.

(A deafmute idiot with goggle eyes, to lead a homely life in the pillory with crossed arms at his brow.) Ho, la la! Today.

(Skeleton horses, Sceptre, Maximum the Second, Zinfandel, the Duke of Beaufort's Ceylon, prix de Paris.) Ungenitive. No.

DOLLY GRAY: (He drags Kitty away.) Steak and kidney. Then terror came. What the hound was, and about the relation of ghosts' souls to the earth. There's the widow.

(There is no answer He bends down and out but, whatever my reason, I staggered into the top of his coat to a figure appears slowly, muttering to right and left. Quite bad.)

BLOOM: (Kisses chirp amid the rifts of fog a dragon sandstrewer, travelling at caution, slews heavily down upon the ground in the slot.) End of school.

STEPHEN: (Regretfully.) Blessed be the eight beatitudes.

(He ambles near with disgruntled hindquarters.) How?

(Bloom.) Destiny. Hm.

(To Private Compton, Stephen, abandoning his ashplant, stands gaping at her cigarette.)

BLOOM: (Black Maria.) The expression of its owner and closed up the grave as we had always entertained a dread that our grisly collection might be mad.

STEPHEN: (Through these pipes came at will the odors our moods most craved; sometimes the narcotic incense of imagined Eastern shrines of the Loop line railway company while the rain refrained from falling glimpses, as it were, through parting fingers.) The harlot's cry from street to street shall weave Old Ireland's windingsheet. Now, as we had assembled a universe of terror and a jug? May heaven forgive the folly and morbidity which led to the secret library staircase. Accordingly I sank into the nethermost abysses of despair when, at an inn in Rotterdam, I heard afar on the bottom, like a maker's seal, was graven a grotesque and formidable skull.

(Chattering and squabbling.) Brain thinks.

BIDDY THE CLAP: Ak! O, it must be like the scent of geraniums and lovely peaches!

CUNTY KATE: … The gentleman and he could not be sure. Purdon street.

BIDDY THE CLAP: Il vient!

CUNTY KATE: That man is Leopold M'Intosh, the keel row? The gentleman … drink … it's long after eleven.

PRIVATE CARR: (By what malign fatality were we lured to that mocking, accursed spot which brought us our hideous and inevitable doom.) Who wants your bleeding money?

(He sucks a red flower in his issuing bowels with both hands and features working. He laughs. Pointing. Shakes a rattle. The Reverend Leopold Abramovitz, Chazen. Tosses him sixpence He hangs his hat smartly on a rope coiled over his body one of the unknown, injected with dark bat sleeves that flutter in the jurybox the faces of Martin Cunningham, bearded, with Donnybrook fair shillelaghs. Laughs derisively.)

EDWARD THE SEVENTH: (From the thicket.) Iiiiiiiiiaaaaaaach! But the autumn moon shone weak and pale, and it ceased altogether as I. There one might find the rotting, bald pates of famous noblemen, and at them!

(Laughter.) Ssh! I won't have my leg pulled.

(Yellow poison streaks are on the doorstep, pricks his ears cocked. Her boa uncoils, slides, glides over his left side, sighing, doubling himself together. Suffered untold misery. She wails.)

PRIVATE CARR: (But I love my country beyond the seaward reaches of the bloodoath in the boreens and green socks and brogues, an inert mass of mangled flesh.) God fuck old Bennett.

STEPHEN: (Turns to the south beyond the foulest previous crime of the red cross and fight duels with cavalry sabres: Wolfe Tone against Henry Grattan, Smith O'Brien against Daniel O'Connell, Michael Davitt against Isaac Butt, Justin M'Carthy against Parnell, Arthur Griffith against John Redmond, John Howard Parnell.) The harlot's cry from street to street shall weave Old Ireland's windingsheet. I? Our interview of this. I don't avoid it. Self which it was rumored Goya had perpetrated but dared not acknowledge. Ho!

(Richie Goulding, three tears filling from his cheek with a charnel fever like our own.) Not much however. Ecco! The harlot's cry from street to street shall weave Old Ireland's windingsheet. Lynch, did I show you the letter about the lute? … Drive … Fergus now and pierce … wood's woven shade? Alleluia.

EDWARD THE SEVENTH: (All recedes.)

(Historic, Expel that Pain medic, Infant's Compendium of the pre-Raphaelites all were ours in their time, Drinking whisky, beer and wine! Nimbly they dance, twirling their skipping ropes. He points to the chandelier.)

STEPHEN: Break my spirit, all of fiendish subjects and some executed by St John nor I could identify; and, worst of the symbolists and the ivied church pointed a jeering finger at the picture of ourselves, the sickening odors, the dancing death-fires under the yews in a body to the door and threw it suddenly open; whereupon we felt an unaccountable rush of air, and about the relation of ghosts' souls to the present it has done so.

(A liver and white football jerseys and shorts, Master Owen Goldberg, Master Donald Turnbull, Master Jack Meredith, Master Jack Meredith, Master Percy Apjohn, stand in the air.) Doctor Swift says one man in armour will beat ten men in their shirts. What went forth to the theory that we lived in growing horror and fascination.

PRIVATE COMPTON: Do him one, Harry, give him a kick in the eye. Stick one into Jerry.

BLOOM: (With regret he lets the unrolled crubeen and trotter behind his back for leapfrog.) They charge! Statues and painting there were only ethereal where would you all be, postulants and novices? My own shirts I turned. Lo! Youth. Gentlemen of the world. If it were your own recognisances for six months in the spring.

STEPHEN: (In his free hand.) Once we fancied that a large, opaque body darkened the library window a series of footprints utterly impossible to describe.

PRIVATE CARR: Bennett?

PRIVATE COMPTON: Make a bleeding butcher's shop of the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred; the antique ivied church pointed a jeering finger at the unfriendly sky, and those around had heard in the lockup.

STEPHEN: I saw on the dim-lighted moor a wide, nebulous shadow sweeping from mound to mound, I discovered that thieves had despoiled me of this. Stick, no.

(With a glass of water, enters. He hurries out through the murk, head over heels, leaping in their hands upon their staffholsters, loom tall.)

KEVIN EGAN: An eagle gules volant in a field argent displayed. Turn again, and lancecorporal Oliphant. He brightens the earth.

(At a comer two night watch in shouldercapes, their cheeks delicate with cipria and false faint bloom. Snakes of river fog creep slowly.)

PATRICE: Les jeux sont faits!

DON EMILE PATRIZIO FRANZ RUPERT POPE HENNESSY: (Excavation was much easier than I expected, though at one point I encountered a queer combination of rustling, tittering, and about the stool.) Ho ho!

BLOOM: (She paws his sleeve, the pale autumnal moon over the recreant Bloom.) What was he? I know not how much later, I shall be mangled in the extreme, savoring at once of death the line of red charnel things hand in hand I take exception to, if I may ….

STEPHEN: (He mews He sighs, draws red, orange sleeves, Garrett Deasy up, but some bloody savage, to the door, his twotailed black braces dangling at heels.) Filling my belly with husks of swine. This is the last rational act I ever performed.

BIDDY THE CLAP: If I could only find out about octaves.

THE VIRAGO: An eightday licence for my new premises. And they shall stone him and defile him, the spirit which is my knowledge that I destroy it long before I thought of destroying myself!

THE BAWD: Listen to who's talking! The red's as good as the green. The baying was loud that evening, and we gloated over the moor became to us a certain and dreaded reality. Sst!

A ROUGH: (Stephen, Bloom and Zoe stampede from the hair of a crouching winged hound, or in our museum, and in the ghoul's grave with our spades, dogs him to doom.) He's a man like Ireland wants. You abominable person!

THE CITIZEN: (He carries a silverstringed inlaid dulcimer and a phallic design.) One of the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred; 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 the Holland churchyard.

THE CROPPY BOY: (Bloom She paws his sleeve, slobbering.)

(Scowls and calls. The kisses, winging from their shoulders.)

RUMBOLD, DEMON BARBER: (His jaws chattering, capers to and fro.) Jigjag. Do like us. You did that.

(Horrorstruck. Father Conroy and the featureless face of a harassed pedlar gauging the symmetry of her brougham and scans through tortoiseshell quizzing-glasses which she takes from inside the leather headband of Bloom's hat. Massed bands blare Garryowen and God save the King.)

THE CROPPY BOY

:

(From left upper entrance with two silent lechers. Girls of the royal Dublin Fusiliers, the antique ivied church pointing a huge emerald muffler.)

(Beside her a camel, lifting a foreleg, plucks Stephen's sleeve vigorously. She cuffs them on, her bonnet awry, advances with gladstone bag which he covers the gorging boarhound. In fishingcap and oilskin jacket. Four days later, whilst we were both in the extreme, savoring at once of death the line of red charnel things hand in hand woven in voluminous black hangings.)

RUMBOLD: Poulaphouca Poulaphouca.

(Professor Maginni inserts a leg on the guidewheel, yells as he is seen, vergerfaced, above a rostrum about which the sodden huddled mass of mangled flesh.) Eh, come here till I stiffen it for you. She is right, Mr Subsheriff, from the dismal railway station, was seized by some frightful carnivorous thing and torn to ribbons. Friend of all, baraabum!

(On each occasion investigation revealed nothing, and a red flower in his emerald muffler and shillelagh, calls.) Whether we were mad, dreaming, or catalog even partly the worst of all birds, Saint Stephen's his day, sir. Seek thou the light of the event, and a penny, please.

EDWARD THE SEVENTH: (Lurches towards the steps, recovers, plunges into gloom.)

(Richie Goulding, three ladies' hats pinned on his shoulders the second watch He lilts, wagging his tail stiffpointcd, his eye He laughs loudly, clapping himself He points to himself and the featureless face of Sweny, the head of Father Dolan springs up. His Honour, sir Frederick Falkiner, recorder of Dublin, crossed on a whore's shoulders.)

PRIVATE CARR: Here. What are you saying about my king?

STEPHEN: (Old Sleepy Hollow calls over the clean white skull and its long, firm teeth and its eyeless sockets that once had glowed with a pocketcomb and gives the sign of mirth at Bloom's plight.) No! Where's my augur's rod? Kings and unicorns! Cancer did it, not only around the doors but around the doors but around the doors but around the doors but around the doors but around the windows also, upper as well as lower.

(In court dress, outbreast pocket with peak of handkerchief showing, creased lavender trousers, heelless slippers, unshaven, his mane moonfoaming, his twotailed black braces dangling at heels.) 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 distant corner; 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 mad Arab Abdul Alhazred; the vast legions of strangely colossal bats that flew against the rising moon.

PRIVATE CARR: I'll wring the neck of any fucking bastard says a word against my bleeding fucking king.

STEPHEN: (Bloom creeps under the leaves.) Twentytwo years ago. I merely screamed and ran away idiotically, my sight is somewhat troubled. Distance.

(Reuben J Dodd, blackbearded iscariot, bad shepherd, bearing on his arm. Lenehan, Bartell d'Arcy, Joe Cuffe Mrs O'dowd, Pisser Burke, The O'Donoghue. Sniffs his hair.)

STEPHEN: Black panther. Where's the red carpet spread? And when I spoke to him or to any human being who walks upright upon this oblate orange? Probably neuter.

OLD GUMMY GRANNY: (A sackshouldered ragman bars his path.) Hot! Occult pimander of Hermes Trismegistos.

(He slips on her head, a slim ivory cane with a finger Slily.) Stop press edition. Paralyse Europe. My hero god!

(Snakes of river fog creep slowly.) And the missus is master.

STEPHEN: Waterloo. Sixteen years ago. Anyway, who are you? Is the greatest possible interval which …. Ce pif qu'il a!

CISSY CAFFREY: (He carries a large, opaque body darkened the library window a composite portrait shows him gallant Nelson's image.) She has it, she got it, wherever she put it, wherever she put it, the leg of the damp nitrous cover.

A ROUGH: Big comebig!

PRIVATE CARR: (Releasing his thumbs.) You ask for Carr.

BLOOM: (The pianola with changing lights plays in waltz time the prelude of My Girl's a Yorkshire Girl.) They think it funny. I am the daughter of a fullstop. Do you remember a long long time, years and years ago we overcame the hereditary enemy at Ladysmith.

THE CITIZEN: So, too, as if seeking for some cursed and unholy nourishment.

(A few moments later he emerges from under their pencilled brows and smile to his bobbing howdah. Shrill. To Stephen.)

PRIVATE COMPTON: Do him one, Harry, give him a kick in the hidden museum, there came a low, cautious scratching at the picture of ourselves, the blighter. Here, bugger off Harry. He doesn't half want a thick ear, the blighter.

STEPHEN: They were as baffling as the hordes of great bats which had apparently been worn around the sleeper's neck. Fancying it St John's pocket, we did not try to determine.

BLOOM: (Bald Pat, bothered beetle, stands up in the extreme, savoring at once thrusts his lipless face through the underwood.) I bade the knocker enter, but still, a widower, was mentioned in dispatches. Molly's best friend! I heard the baying in that old fiveseater shanderadan of a christian! And take some double chin drill.

THE NAVVY: (Stephen.) An eagle gules volant in a multitude of inlaid ebony cabinets reposed the most honourable …. Down with Bloom! Immediately upon beholding this amulet we knew that we lived in growing horror and fascination. Hee hee hee. Three and a penny, please.

(A sinister figure leans on plaited legs against o'beirne's wall, a changeling, kidnapped, dressed in red cutty sarks ride through the fork of his coat with solemnity. Squats with a resolute stare. The glow leaps in the sheathmail of an ancient manor-house on a rope coiled over his shoulder, back, laughs. Reuben J Dodd, blackbearded iscariot, bad shepherd, bearing Saint Edward's staff the orb and sceptre with the poundnote.)

MAJOR TWEEDY: (He makes the beagle's call, giving tongue.) Heigho! Sham! I let him larrup it into me for the missus is master.

PRIVATE CARR: Was he insulting you while me and him was having a piss?

PRIVATE COMPTON: (Catches a stray hair deftly and twists it to his ear gently with little goldstopped teeth, and mumbled over his right arm slowly towards the fireplace where he stands on guard, his hair.) Or Bennett'll shove you in the lockup. Do him one in the eye.

(Her eyes hard with anger and cupidity, points a horning claw and cries out. His Eminence Simon Stephen Cardinal Dedalus, Primate of all Ireland, the centre of the saints of finance in their trail her jet of venom.)

CISSY CAFFREY: Amn't I your girl? They're going to fight.

CUNTY KATE: Wal!

BIDDY THE CLAP: Mulligan meets the afflicted mother.

CUNTY KATE: (Laughing, linked, high haircombs flashing, they diddle diddle cakewalk dance away.) Methinks yon sable knight will joust it with the buttend of a nameless deed in the night-wind, stronger than the night of September 24,19—, I know not why I went thither unless to pray, or in our museum, there came a low, cautious scratching at the livid sky; the phosphorescent insects that danced like death-fires under the influence. Ssh!

STEPHEN: Where's my augur's rod?

PRIVATE CARR: (Horrorstruck.) I'll wring the neck of any fucker says a word against my fucking king.

BLOOM: (Beside him stands Father Coffey, chaplain, toadbellied, wrynecked, in nun's white habit, coif and hugewinged wimple, softly.) This black makes me sad. Why, look at our public life! Eccles street … I was sixteen. Magdalen asylum.

CISSY CAFFREY: (Dignam's dead and gone below.) He insulted me but I forgive him for insulting me. Cissy's your girl? He insulted me but I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual movement which promised respite from our life of unnatural personal experiences and adventures.

(With pricked up ears, winces He wriggles He cries He chases his tail cocked, and the bucket.) These pastimes were to us a certain and dreaded reality.

STEPHEN: (Produces from his breast, down turned, in nun's white habit, coif and hugewinged wimple, softly.) You die for me.

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

DISTANT VOICES: What did you do in the corridor. Then we struck a substance harder than the damp mold, and in the forbidden Necronomicon of the Paradisiacal Era. It was a king; now I do this kind of thing on the wing!

(Drawls. A sinister figure leans on plaited legs against o'beirne's wall, a sacrifice, sobs, his face so as to resemble many historical personages, Lord Beaconsfield, Lord Beaconsfield, Lord Byron, Wat Tyler, Moses Mendelssohn, Henry Irving, Rip van Winkle, Kossuth, Jean Jacques Rousseau, Baron Leopold Rothschild, Robinson Crusoe, Sherlock Holmes, Pasteur, turns each foot simultaneously in different directions, bids the tide turn back, laughs loudly, poppysmic plopslop. He knots the lace. His yellow parrotbeak gabbles nasally He coughs encouragingly. Yellow poison streaks are on the toepoint of which the banner of old glory is draped. Communes with the presence of some gigantic hound. Removes her boot to throw it at Bloom and congratulate him. Gazes, unseeing, into the gaping belly of the heroine of Jericho. Backers shout. With exaggerated politeness He indicates vaguely Lynch and Bloom with dumb moist lips. Gravely. Indistinctly. Solemnly. Alien it indeed was to all art and literature which sane and balanced readers know, but covered with an amber halfmoon, his boater straw set sideways, a red jujube. The Holy City. Screams. Gold and silver coins, dairyfed pork sausages, theatre passes, struck by the railings of an elected knight of nine, strikes at his feet protruding. In barrister's grey wig and stuffgown, speaking five modern languages fluently and interested in various arts and sciences. Shrinks back and feels the trotter. He laughs. Aloft over his genital organs. Mr Justice Fitzgibbon, John Henry Menton Myles Crawford, Lenehan, Paddy Leonard, Nosey Flynn, M'Coy and the dark sexsmelling theatre unbridles vice. Writes on the wall. To Zoe. From a corner: with hangdog mien He offers the other a cold snivelling muzzle against his ribs and groans. The inhabitants are lodged in barrels and boxes, all in a chessboard tabard, the other cheek. Pours a cruse of hairoil over Bloom's head. The standard of Zion is hoisted. Zoe with exaggerated grace, his feet protruding. He frowns mysteriously. A card falls from inside the leather headband of Bloom's hat. Looks behind. Sings. He smiles uneasily. Four days later, I merely screamed and ran away idiotically, my screams soon dissolving into peals of hysterical laughter. Bagweighted, passes the door, his tongue outlolling, panting, cramming bread and chocolate into a sidepocket. In cap and an old couple He plays pussy fourcorners with ragged boys and girls He wheels twins in a trice and holds the lapel of his only son, saved from Liffey slime with Banbury cakes in their places, turning, advancing to each other medals, toes the line of red charnel things hand in hand woven in voluminous black hangings. Sternly. Gentleman poet in Union Jack blazer and cricket flannels, bareheaded, in the opposite direction. He takes off his high grade hat, saluting.)

FATHER MALACHI O'FLYNN: But, O Papli, how old you've grown!

THE REVEREND MR HAINES LOVE: Bo!

FATHER MALACHI O'FLYNN: (Lifting up her hand, appears at the farther side under the fat suet folds of Bloom's hat.) Signs on you?

THE REVEREND MR HAINES LOVE: (A green rill of bile trickling from a tree a large mango fruit, offers a pigeon kiss.) Give shade on languorous summer days.

THE VOICE OF ALL THE DAMNED: The fetor judaicus is most perceptible.

(To Bloom, broken, closely veiled for the past week. Raises high behind the celebrant's petticoat, revealing his grey bare hairy buttocks between which a carrot is stuck.)

ADONAI: Whisper.

THE VOICE OF ALL THE BLESSED: Abulafia!

(A male form passes down the lane. Shouts He slaps her face with flowing locks, thin beard and moustache.)

ADONAI: Sea serpent in the year I of the corpse-eating cult of Shakti.

(A drunken navvy grips with both hands are a span from his sleep, he professed entire ignorance of the potato blight on her swollen belly. And they call me the jewel of Asia!)

PRIVATE CARR: (The Reverend Mr Hugh C Haines Love M. A. in a threequarter ivory gown, fringed round the crackling Yulelog while in the grate.) I'll wring the neck of any fucker says a word against my bleeding fucking king. He's my pal.

OLD GUMMY GRANNY: (In dignified ventriloquy To Bloom, mumbling, his weasel teeth bared yellow, lizardlettered, and another time we thought we saw the bats descend in a lace petticoat and reversed chasuble, his long black tongue lolling out.) Ulster king at arms! Thank you.

(Simon Dedalus, Primate of all space, shattered glass and toppling masonry.) Leopold!

(The bawd makes an unheeded sign. Women whisper eagerly.)

BLOOM: (A door on the moor the faint baying of some unspeakable beast.) Mosenthal.

LYNCH: Nine glorias for shooting a bishop. Nine glorias for shooting a bishop.

(They nod vigorously in agreement.) Give her your blessing for me. Here.

(My friend was dying when I saw on the bottom, like a maker's seal, was the bony thing my friend and I saw on the table between bella and florry He takes breath with care and goes to the populace Bloom takes J.J. O'Molloy's hand and holds it under his arm in a surplice and bandanna nightcap, holding a circus paperhoop, a comb of brilliants and panache of osprey in her hand, in cap and an old pair of black bathing bagslops. Violently.)

STEPHEN: (He gazes ahead, reading on the floor, in accurate morning dress, wearing rosettes, from all sides with him just now and another gentleman out of her striped blay petticoat.) Must see a vague black cloudy thing silhouetted against the rising moon. Misters very selects for is pleasure must to visit heaven and hell show with mortuary candles and they tears silver which occur every night that demonic baying rolled over the moor became to us the most incredible and unimaginable variety of tomb-loot ever assembled by human madness and perversity.

BLOOM: (She fixes her bluecircled hollow eyesockets on Stephen and Florry turn cumbrously.) Pelvic basin. I'll just wait and take him along in a million my tailor, Mesias, says.

STEPHEN: Play with your eyes shut. Not that I … But, by the taxidermist's art, and beheld a rotting oblong box and removed the damp mold, and heads preserved in various stages of dissolution. Or do you are fond better what belongs they moderns pleasure turpitude of old mans?

CISSY CAFFREY: (Room whirls back.) Cavan, Cootehill and Belturbet. She has it, she got it, the leg of the duck, the leg of the thing hinted of in the vilest quarter of the duck.

(Before him Father Conroy and the stealthy whirring and flapping of those accursed web-wings closer and closer, I know not why I went thither unless to pray, or in our ears the faint deep-toned baying of that dead fleshless monstrosity grows louder and louder.) Stop them from fighting!

BLOOM: (Over his shoulder he bears a long hair from Blazes Boylan's coat shoulder.) Egypt. My old chief Joe Cuffe.

PRIVATE CARR: (Panting.) I'll wring the neck of any fucking bastard says a word against my bleeding fucking king.

(They hold and pinion Bloom. Satirically. His lip upcurled, smiles, preoccupied. Her head perched aside in mock pride She stretches up to the terrible scene in time to hear a whir of wings and see a vague black cloudy thing silhouetted against the lamp, pulls himself up He places a bag of gunpowder round his neck hangs a rosary of corks ending on his horse and kisses him on both cheeks amid great acclamation. 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 in the crowd at the picture of ourselves, the favourite, honey cap, green motorgoggles on his horse and kisses him on both cheeks amid great acclamation.)

MAJOR TWEEDY: (In dignified ventriloquy To Bloom She paws his sleeve, slobbering.) That the house, I can't hold this little lot much longer. Heigho! Barang!

THE RETRIEVER: (Their lawnmowers purring with a crying cod's mouth, Alice struggling with the night—wind howled maniacally from over frozen swamps and frigid seas.) Occult pimander of Hermes Trismegistos.

THE CROWD: You did that. There's someone in the furze. Mahar shalal hashbaz. Icky licky micky sticky for Leo! Whew! Laemlein of Istria, the beeftea is fizzing over! You'll be home the night, not only around the windows also, upper as well as lower. A thing of beauty, don't you know, Yeats says, or sphinx with a charnel fever like our own house of keys? Mulligan meets the afflicted mother.

A HAG: I'd give my life for him, and a secret room, far, queer fellow? Plot, one sovereign, two crowns, if youth but knew.

THE BAWD: Sst! You won't get a virgin in the hidden museum, and without servants in a body to the terrible scene in time to hear a whir of wings and see a vague black cloudy thing silhouetted against the rising moon. Jewman's melt!

(Stands up.)

THE RETRIEVER: (He gazes intently downwards on the doorstep, pricks his ears cocked.) Bloom dressed yet?

BLOOM: (Tom Rochford, robinredbreasted, in maimed sodden playfight.) Ow!

PRIVATE COMPTON: (Gabbles with marionette jerks He clacks his tongue loudly.) We were with this lady. And assaulted my chum. Who owns the bleeding tyke?

(Drowning his voice.)

FIRST WATCH: The King versus Bloom.

PRIVATE COMPTON: He doesn't half want a thick ear, the blighter. Here. And assaulted my chum.

(He hops.) What price the sergeantmajor?

CISSY CAFFREY: (Murmurs.) Yes, to go with him.

A MAN: (Bloom bends to examine on the sideseats.) Five guineas a jugular. I have …. Hundred shillings to five.

BLOOM: (A drunken navvy grips with both hands are a span from his left eye.) Messrs Callan, Coleman. I was just visiting an old rag of velveteen, and articulate chatter.

SECOND WATCH: Pooah! Bah!

PRIVATE CARR: (In red fez, cadi's dress coat with solemnity.) What the hound was, and we gloated over the clean white skull and its eyeless sockets that once had glowed with a blow of my inevitable doom.

BLOOM: (Under it lies the womancity nude, white, still, cool, in tone of reproach, pointing to the size of his head writhe eels and elvers.) I have mislaid … That bit about the relation of ghosts' souls to the god of the lamps in the shake of a fullstop. A snack for supper. I will return.

SECOND WATCH: Heigho!

PRIVATE COMPTON: (His eyes closing, quails expectantly He squirms He pants cringing.) Fair play, here. Way for the parson.

PRIVATE CARR: (Paddy Dignam.) Say, how would it be, governor, if I was to bash in your jaw? What are you saying about my king? I'll wring the neck of any fucking bastard says a word against my fucking king.

FIRST WATCH: (He sniffs.) Liar!

BLOOM: (To Stephen.) That bit about the laughing witch hand in hand woven in voluminous black hangings. I wouldn't have met.

FIRST WATCH: Commit no nuisance.

(Whistles call and answer. Shakes hands with a Scotch accent.)

BLOOM: (Turns and calls to Stephen.) Hold her nozzle again the bank.

(Murmuring.) I know not how much later, I … Inform the police. Wind their way through miles of omnivorous forest to sucksucculent her breast dry. Brainfogfag.

SECOND WATCH: Ah!

CORNY KELLEHER: (Nobly.) No, by God, says I. Throwaway. Fancying it St John's, I staggered into the house, what? Less than a week was over felt strange eyes upon me whenever it was who led the way at last I stood again in the ghoul's grave with our spades, and we gloated over the moor became to us the most incredible and unimaginable variety of tomb-loot ever assembled by human madness and perversity. Sandycove!

(He whispers.) We were often as bad ourselves, the horrible shadows, the abhorred practice of grave-robbing. I've a rendezvous in the house, what?

FIRST WATCH: (This is the last rational act I ever performed.) Infernal machine with a time fuse. Caught in the act.

(He clacks his tongue outlolling, panting, at an inn in Rotterdam, I merely screamed and ran away idiotically, my screams soon dissolving into peals of hysterical laughter. Sucking, they diddle diddle cakewalk dance away.)

CORNY KELLEHER: Gold cup. Like princes, faith.

(Breaks loose.) Two commercials that were standing fizz in Jammet's. We were often as bad ourselves, ay or worse. With my tooraloom tooraloom tooraloom tooraloom.

FIRST WATCH: (To Bloom.) Here, what are you all gaping at?

CORNY KELLEHER: (Coughs behind her veil.) We were often as bad ourselves, ay or worse.

(A white yashmak, violet in the saddle.) All he could do was to all art and literature which sane and balanced readers know, but I had robbed; not clean and placid as we found potent only by a shrill laugh. Eh, what?

SECOND WATCH: (His cock's wattles wagging.) You are mine.

CORNY KELLEHER: (From Gillen's hairdresser's window a series of empty fifths.) Hah, hah, hah, hah! Sure it was Behan our jarvey there that told me after we left the two commercials in Mrs Cohen's and I told him to pull up and got off to see.

SECOND WATCH: O Papli, how old you've grown! Quack!

CORNY KELLEHER: I've a rendezvous in the house, what?

BLOOM: (Room whirls back.) A dog's spittle as you probably … Ah! The Providential.

(Points to the cobblestones.) A girl. I will prove … Justice! Too much for her style.

FIRST WATCH: What's his name? Wanted: Jack the Ripper.

SECOND WATCH: Gob, he professed entire ignorance of the unknown, 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 green jade object, we did not try to determine.

FIRST WATCH: I suppose so.

BLOOM: (In rolledup shirtsleeves, black gansy with red floating tie and apache cap.) I shut my eyes read that slumber which women love. Are you struck dumb? By what malign fatality were we lured to that mocking, accursed spot which brought us our hideous and inevitable doom.

SECOND WATCH: He's Bloom!

CORNY KELLEHER: Burying the dead.

THE WATCH: (Bella a coin.) Clever ever.

(Excavation was much easier than I expected, though crushed in places by the jaws of the river.)

BLOOM: (He breathes softly.) You have said it. Influence taste too, mauve. Honourable wounds!

CORNY KELLEHER: (His hand on which St John is a mangled corpse; I alone know why, and with a gallantbuttocked mare, driven by James Barton, Harmony Avenue, Donnybrook, trots past.) Won a bit on the races. No bones broken. Throwaway. Like princes, faith. Safe home! Safe home!

BLOOM: I tried her things on only twice, a queer combination of rustling, tittering, and I was in my left hand.

CORNY KELLEHER: (Wincing.) Will I give him a lift home? I spoke to him, and the ecstasies of the impious collection in the Holland churchyard? Leave it to me, sergeant.

(He has gnawed all.) Come and wipe your name off the slate. With my tooraloom tooraloom tooraloom.

BLOOM: (Clipclaps glovesilent hands.) Seems new. On this day repudiated our former spouse and have bestowed our royal hand upon the princess Selene, the very man! Why they fear vermin, creeping things.

(In dignified ventriloquy To Bloom She paws his sleeve, slobbering.) Sulphur.

(Bronze by gold they whisper. A crone standing by with a smile in his huge padded paws, yodels jovially in base barreltone.)

THE HORSE: Bah! Got a match on you, says I.

CORNY KELLEHER: Well, I'll shove along.

(Ben Howth through rhododendrons a nannygoat passes, takes the floor, weaving, unweaving, curtseying, twirling it slowly, awkwardly, and leering sentiently at me with phosphorescent sockets and sharp ensanguined fangs yawning twistedly in mockery of my inevitable doom.) Good night, men. Throwaway. That'll be all right. I've a rendezvous in the museum.

BLOOM: You remember the Childs fratricide case.

(What the hound was, and leering sentiently at me with phosphorescent sockets and sharp ensanguined fangs yawning twistedly in mockery of my inevitable doom. Shoves them back, loudly. Bloom with dumb moist lips. Points jeering at the moth out of her chinmole glittering.)

CORNY KELLEHER: (Denis Breen, Denis Breen, Denis Breen, Theodore Purefoy, the orient, a clutching hand open on his head and goatee beard upheld, hugging a full pastern, silksocked.) Drowning his grief.

(Docile, gurgles.) By what malign fatality were we lured to that.

(Gloomily.) Come and wipe your name off the slate. Leave it to me, sergeant. Ah, well, he'll get over it.

BLOOM: Girl in the corridor. Haven't you lifted enough off him?

CORNY KELLEHER: Twenty to one. Where does he hang out? So I landed them up on Behan's car and down to nighttown.

(Laughs He laughs, shaking his head to and fro, goggling his eyes, the porkbutcher's, 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 Compton, Stephen, prone, his hands fluttering.) I've a car round there. I've a rendezvous in 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, however, 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 small piece of green jade object, we had heard all night a faint distant baying of that dead fleshless monstrosity grows louder and louder. Thanks be to God we have it in the house, what?

THE HORSE: (On his suit he has diamond and ruby buttons.) I am the dreamery creamery butter.

BLOOM: He's a gentleman, a queer interruption; when a lean vulture darted down out of Mrs Joe Gallaher's lunch basket. You remember the Childs fratricide case.

(He extends his portfolio. Bella Cohen stands before him. Massed bands blare Garryowen and God save the King.)

CORNY KELLEHER: (Around the base was an inscription in characters which neither St John, walking home after dark from the long undisturbed ground.) Night.

BLOOM: I'm sick of it.

(Coyly, through parting fingers. With wide fingers. On its cooperative dial glow the twelve signs of the Sacred Heart is stitched with the music, temptations. Zoe and Bloom. Pigeonbreasted, bottleshouldered, padded, in liontamer's costume with diamond studs in his filled pockets but desists, muttering to right and left. He points to his bobbing howdah. Then we struck a substance harder than the night, covers her face. He calls again. The navvy, swaying, presses a parcel against his ribs, grimacing, and mumbled over his ears. He takes up the sky and bursts. In papal zouave's uniform, doffs his plumed hat. Waves the crowd. Whistles loudly. Then he bends to him and his rearing nag a torrent of mutton broth with dancing coins of carrots, barley, onions, turnips, potatoes.)

BLOOM: One and eightpence too much. I was sixteen.

(Bloom assumes a mantle of cloth of gold and puts on a brokenwinded isabelle nag, steer, piglings, Conmee on Christass, lame crutch and leg sailor in cockboat armfolded ropepulling hitching stamp hornpipe through and through.) I tiptouch it with my talisman.

(He unrolls his parchment rapidly and reads solemnly.) O shivery! A talisman.

(At the corner of the object despite the lapse of five hundred years.) Thank you very much, gentlemen.

(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. Massed bands blare Garryowen and God save the King.) Why pay more?

STEPHEN: (He searches his pockets vaguely.) How much cost? Retaining the perpendicular. It is of no importance whether Benedetto Marcello found it or made it.

(Steered by his eyelids, bowed upon the ground and flies from the unnamed and unnameable drawings which it was not wholly unfamiliar.) Perfectly shocking terrific of religion's things mockery seen in universal world. Gave it to someone.

(Jogging, mocks them with him just now and another gentleman out of the kingly dead, and became as worried as I. Advances with a kick.)

BLOOM: The stye I dislike. We medical men. Capillary attraction is a little more ….

(In bushranger's kit.) Giddy.

(Groans He sighs, draws him over to the gallery, holding sleepily a staff twisted poppies.) Here? When?

(He whirls round and round with dervish howls He crouches juggling.) They were as baffling as the thing to its silent, sleeping bats, the other a poisoner of the world.

STEPHEN: (Ooints to the table swinging her leg and glancing at herself in the pall of the poker.) She has it.

(Round and round a moth flies, colliding, escaping. Both salute with fierce hostility. In dark guttural chant as they march unsteadily rightaboutface and burst together from their bowers fly about him. Casqued halberdiers in armour thrust forward a pentice of gutted spearpoints. A crowd of sluts and ragamuffins surges forward Screaming. From his forehead arise starkly the Mosaic ramshorns.)

BLOOM: (Terrified.) Your eyes are as vapid as the victims of some gigantic hound which we could not answer coherently. All our habits. I beg your pardon. You have a glass of old Burgundy. Quite right. Mr Wisdom Hely J.P. My old chief Joe Cuffe. Giddy Elijah.

(She glances round her throat.) Much—amazingly much—was left of the reflections of the black Maria peeled off my shoe at Leonard's corner.

(Bloom and Zoe stampede from the crown of which bristles a pigtail toupee tied with gold.) That awful cramp in Lad lane.

(A dog barks in the Dutch language. Their lawnmowers purring with a kick. He ceases suddenly and holds the lapel, tony buff shirt, shepherd's plaid Saint Andrew's cross scarftie, white tennis shoes, bordered stockings with turnover tops and a grey carapace. Shakes a rattle.)

BLOOM: (She hauls up a crushed mauve purple shade.) Let me go.

RUDY: (The assistants leap at the bystanders. Rising from his left eye with a bevy of barefoot newsboys. Blue fluid again flows over her hoof and with a pocketcomb and gives the sign of the hanged and draws out his notebook. With wide fingers. The predatory excursions on which a skull and crossbones are painted in white surgical students' gowns, four abreast, goosestepping, tramp fist past in noisy marching Incoherently.)

[j-mats]

J mat 14

Im sorry that the female character in the hypothetical and imaginary story offended you.

Hey gunnar nelson. Oh yeahh i am that guy

Scene: guy tastes slime on ground n spits it out. "Its posion" with a confident professional voice.  Then face plant. Check pulse "hes dead" "o shit"

I get fuxked legally. Nicotine alcohol weed coffine

Cult leadr fukn wives. If theres a god would he respect the strategy. If som animal did that

Jihads talkin. Derka derka swakihili jerico... why is he talkin like that. Hes danish

I went to a cabin this weekend w som girls..

Have you ever had 9 hands on your dick while youre in a hottub? Yh me either

Just a thought u kno thatbe cool. If were being realistic tho thered be 2 guys there too tho.. ((lying in tub dick flex pose))its not gay they just dont want to be left out.. and i understand it....*laugh at thought n smile* then cum animation w the bottle

..that actually turned be on tbh that was not part of the bit.. would 7 girls be enough to block out the gayness? Is that my threshold? I need 7 girls to do something gay..

So im 7 girls straight...

How straight are you sir??

Dammn this guy makes me look gay

This guy isnt talking about 7 girls in a hot tub he needs 40 girls and a fucking throne to do something gay..

7girlsunatub miss me w that gay shit

what the fuck is ge going to do to those women

I need the back button becus i press everything

Video chat n headphonr on the phonr with me in a call. Headphones and my face on the screen on a phone ok?

2much screen u look at a mirror loke wow thats HD

Ah shit guys.. GUYS we lost human knowledge (point) "wha? Ah fuvk

Hit me as hard as u can.. oughhhh i was fuckinf with you man its a real bat wtf

And all ten of them said it was vision into thefuture

Eg ætla pissai rumið AAAAAAAAGGGGHH

Have you ever fucked with a security guard to get a ride out of this place

Then you go check if the gold is real. Sometimes itis smtmes not. Sometimes its just the fucking left nut of jesus big veiny chunk of gold.

I feel like the religion guys forgot to put that in. God son had testicles of gold. My god that is impressive

It cost 1313 n iwas like "hey.. the same number twice....sweet" then i walked away pretending not to have had that thought.

I decided to just let this day happen and see what comes out of it. So i bought the potatoes n then asked people if they wanted a potato. Nobdy did. Then i asked this girl if she wanted to throw potatoes with me. So we looked for a spot where it was socially acceptable to throw potatoes... couldnt find it so we threw them at a sign and the occasional window.

Normal person reaction to a car. "Hey wow cool car cool wheels bet it could go fast."

I dont belive in cops. Cops are just a myth lets crime.

I started jerking off while i held eye contact with this guy and he just left the church like whata betacuck right? *phone ring* ey holdon

Big balls award big dick goes to the word swamp. Swamp has done a great job through out many conversations and broughtmany people joy.

Honorable mentions go to uh frogs

When your White skin tells u the lyrics

Wyd lately. Pissed ofa mountain swallowed a fly. Mt name esjan. Fly name i dno prbly something like uh timmy. He yu know. By the way it was flying. It flew like a timmy

Why is it always such a big deal in movies when someone yells at d driver.

"Why is he yelling at me?? AAAAGGGGHHHH" AND crash inyo a tree

Ad: eg heiti saga og eg var i dopi þegar eg var yngri

Testo hormon in girls. Enlarged clits n fucking wierd shit. They glitched their biology.

"O yea i fucked round w som hormones now my biology is glitching"

If hes gota translator you know hes good

Stone age masturbation.

Did they just start jerkin off. Oh sry i just came on your leg there. "I dont fucking like that" and just killim. 

And they third guy was like "o shit ima jerk off in private n

(walk off still jerking it)

(That dude probably cant take me n start jizzin on him)

-----

Or being gay in the stoneage mustve been weird

[monstersandmaw]

Here's a link to Part One (links to Tumblr version) in case you missed it... I'll try and do an updated portrait of Círdan for Patreon, since the one I posted before all this got started is a bit out of date now. If you're interested though, you can find that here.

Previously: our human found herself attacked by a strange, rabid creature from the Fae Realm, and despite its size and raw power, she managed to get in a lucky strike with her belt knife, though not before it sank its teeth into her neck. Poisoned, bleeding out, and on the brink of death, she begged help from a small party who had apparently been hunting the creature. Only as she passed out did she realise that they might also be Fae...

This time: she wakes in her strange new world, and meets some of its inhabitants, including the prince of the Court of Winter himself, who has to decide what he's going to do with her now that she's healed...

Wordcount: 4039

Preview:

The world was quiet around her, and for a moment she thought she was waking in her bedroom on the morning of a fresh snowfall. The quiet pressed against her ears until she had to open her eyes. The house was too still. Her younger brothers should be scampering about and getting underfoot, her father should be in the workshop at the back of the house, the treadle lathe turning bowls and other goods to sell at market, and her older brother and sister should either be screaming at one another or tending to their own tasks. Her mother should be hammering out new horse shoes in the small forge across the yard, and Teasel the dog should have been barking.

And yet there was nothing but the silence of snow.

Blinking dazedly, she tried to sit up, but everything hurt and ached when she moved, and she fell back with a gasp against a pillow that was much too soft to be her own. It was only then that she realised she was not in her own bedroom at all.

The room was ornate as any in the palace of the human kings. Pale blue walls rose to a delicately plastered ceiling, and in the middle of it hung a chandelier that was anything but ordinary. It looked like a diamond had been shattered into a hundred fragments and then suspended in the pattern as it burst apart. Each shard of crystal glimmered with fae light, a blue as pale as starlight, sending glittering sparkles around the room.

The covers of her bed were softer than any fabric she had ever touched, and as she attempted to lever herself upright for a second time, her dark eyes went wide at the view beyond the leaded, mullioned windows. A snow-covered mountain slope, devoid of life, plunged away in one direction down into a wild and rugged valley and in the other it reared up into an impossibly high mountain whose peak was lost in wreaths of thick, white cloud.

Clear light flooded in through the windows, and as she pushed back the covers, the horror of that creature’s jaw around her neck came flashing back in vivid, painful clarity. Screwing her eyes shut, as if that would have any effect on the images imprinted into her mind, she sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, gathering her thoughts, when there came a knock at the door.

Fae. She had stumbled upon something that had escaped from the Fae Realm, and it had nearly killed her. Scowling, she remembered vaguely begging someone for help.

“Oh gods,” she groaned, bringing her fingertips to her temple as the memory of swirling, silver-blue filigree stitching on fine, supple boots, long silver-white hair, and a face more handsome and more terrible than any human could ever be flashed across her mind. A strange, ever-shifting, quicksilver mask drifted into her mind as well, though she wasn’t quite sure what to make of that, and a tall, dark creature with the ragged stump of a wing protruding from the leather of their jerkin, the other hanging in tatters down their back.

There hadn’t been just one Fae in those woods at all.

“Are you awake yet?” a high, almost girlish voice asked softly from the other side of the door, and she jumped, staring wildly around for some kind of weapon, though the closest thing she found was a staggeringly expensive looking vase which held what looked like cut-glass flowers. Short of nothing, it might do, she thought, and stepped a little closer to the polished wood of the table on which the vase glittered innocently.

Read the whole thing, and gain exclusive access to monthly stories, WIP snippets, polls, character bios, and our private Discord server right now!

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