#can’t believe I hatched the lad myself

[smol-lizord]

Love my little guy 🥺

[pear-pies]

Placebo in Rock & Folk magazine - April 2003

Words by Jerome Soligny, photos by Carole Epinette

Wonky translation under the cut:

These three did it all. Shot with the QOTSAs and posed with Indo. They survived "Velvet Goldmine" and the Top Bab. They come back after the ordeal of the fourth album. Danger interview: “Jerome, what if you came out?” They ask our charming reporter.

"We do not regret anything"

Everything begins again with "Bulletproof Cupid", a punky instrument that pulls everything off. Then "English Summer Rein", mechanico-depressive spinning punctuated by twisted keyboards, and "Sleeping With Ghosts", the lament which advances while blistering during cooking, confirm the tone. Against all expectations, because you never know how will age the groups that the previous album installed at the Top, Placebo took over. And stuffed it in an iron glove. Further on, "The Bitter End" tumbles through yapping guitars which would stick to the hatches the thickest of the sailors. Be careful, Placebo is on the way out of being one. At the end of the record, Brian Molko, Stefan Olsdal and Steve Hewitt do not even run out of steam. The cows. They drop a "Centerfolds" which frolic like a cynical top under a shower of saving doubts. What augur still other perspectives.

The fourth album: a horror for all who have faced it. Often a stupid trap. Returning from the Gothic directly inherited from the glam of pageantry and from these hasty and harmful certainties which congest the face and the veins, Placebo publishes its first real great disc. Oh, not the marvel of wonders, not the album from the third millennium, but something very strong, compact, tenacious in listening, which proves that the future is indeed there, in front, where the light is most blinding. Calfeucée in their Parisian hotel (the Costes, of course), our three lads do not make the blow of the revelation, of the luminous questioning. Simply, they now think with their heads, a good plan most often Likewise, reality no longer frightens them, and it is probably she who is hiding behind this "Sleeping With Ghosts" which relates the sorrows only for the better. melt into hopes At the moment when rock brings us back to life and when we just want to ask them everything, the Placebo have decided to say everything. Not even in a hurry, they settle down on the couch, ready to talk like never before. Despite new batteries embedded in the carcass, the Panasonic barely a Brian Molko: Hey Jerome, you came to talk to us this time when you had not come to the previous album ...

Rock & Folk: Uh yes but I was there for the first two, that says a lot, right?

Brian Molko: Certainly, I also believe that over time, we finally appreciate the true nature of the problem: we were mainly criticized for the sound of the previous album, which I can understand but, paradoxically, it is the one that brought us to the Top.

R&F: Legitimately, we have the right to expect a lot from the people we love: while "Black Market Music" sounded a bit like a sequel, this new record is all about a renaissance.

Brian Molko: Actually, we were finally able to live a little. After having existed in a small bubble for a very long time, we forced ourselves to take an eight-month break. The album-tour rhythm put us on the sidelines: we no longer had normal contact with anything. We were losing ourselves. We have fully lived the old cliché which claims that we spend the first years of our life writing a first record and six months on the second. It turned out to be very true. We had to get back to the situation of the first album, see friends, go shopping, look at the buildings in our city.

R&F: So the freshness would come from there ...

Brian Molko: Yes, and it was essential spiritually, emotionally and physically.

Steve Hewitt: We had to be in tune with reality again.

Brian Molko: In fact, we find ourselves in a bit of the same state of mind as when we released "Without You I'm Nothing", although "Sleeping With Ghosts" is a lot less gloomy. The heroin has since stopped leaking. In fact, I feel like I've pulled myself out of what I consider my second teenage years, between twenty and thirty. I conquered the self-destruction, exorcised some demons, understood what had happened to me. I held on to what I had learned. As a human being, I am now able to continue living, to try to answer the big questions posed by existence.

R&F: Maybe that's why the melodies are needed this time. It took me four records to get a favorite Placebo track.

The whole group in chorus: Which one?

R&F: "Protect Me From What I Want", of course ...

Brian Molko: The most paradoxical is that this song dates from the end of the "Black Market Music" sessions. I was not married at the time, but I was trying to get out of a particularly vicious divorce.just started. Then we wait for the lyrics, which don't arrive, it's rather intriguing. We especially wanted to avoid the big Rican producer side, we needed someone who shakes us up a bit. Jim could do that because he comes from dance and his pedigree is impressive. We have all his records at home, Bjôrk, Massive Attack, Sneaker Pimps and especially DJ Shadow. It is believed that guitar rock can only evolve by incorporating new genres, this is the only way to remain a modern rock band. At home, we practically only listen to hip hop.

R&F: Still, he didn't betray you.

Brian Molko: No because he actually brought out our rock side, which I'm particularly proud of. In fact, because we always wanted to control everything, it was not easy to be forced, to do certain things backwards, to walk on the head. But in truth, that's what we wanted: yes, there was some tension in the studio but we all took advantage of it. The challenge is necessary and it is also valid for the public. We opened up and rediscovered ourselves.

Stefan Olsdal (emerging from his chair): We found ourselves in front of the mirror, at the foot of the wall: someone had to kick our ass.

Brian Molko: Jim was like, "Why are you doing this?" We would answer him: "Because we always do it like that!" He would say: "All the more reason not to do it."

Stefan Olsdal: On the first day, he messed up all the demos, changed the tones, the tempos ...

R&F: Like Brian Eno ...

Steve Hewitt: Yeah, but with a lot more compassion. Eno is a bit (silence) ... We don't really like being told our actions, but at the same time, we are still young, still absorbing. Jim knew how to preserve us while making a modern sound.

R&F: Modern and rock'n'roll at the same time, a characteristic which does not necessarily apply to all the young groups in The which recycle the past gently but are convinced to have found the virus of the AIDS.

Steve Hewitt: Placebo doesn't belong to any current, has nothing to do with fashion.

R&F: You always pose as outsiders.

Brian Molko: It's the only way to survive.

Steve Hewitt: These bands, like The Strokes, play the nostalgia card.

Stefan Olsdal: And what happens next? I would not like to be in their place.

Brian Molko: If you want good New York pop, you better listen to Blondie.

R&F: In 2003, 11 seems that you have abandoned all the androgynous paraphernalia, sexual ambiguity, glam references ...

Brian Molko: I think today everyone knows what there is to know. Our sexual inclinations haven't changed, and we still wear makeup. It is just more expensive and better applied. We are ourselves, in our music and in private. I went through my travelo period (in French in the interview - Editor's note), and I understood that being androgynous was not wearing skirts. It is a way of being on the spiritual plane. It is not an image but a state of mind.

Steve Hewitt: It's like being punk, it's an attitude.

Brian Molko: At the same time, I don't regret any of my eccentricities. I grew up in the spotlight and it all kind of makes me smile.

Stefan Olsdal: People still talk to us about certain outfits or positions, as if it still shocks them.

R&F: Yes, and particularly in France, a particularly homophobic country which bumps heartily on gay artists.

Brian Molko: And you, coincidentally, you still hang out with.

Stefan Olsdal: Jérôme, it's coming out time (laughs) ...

Brian Molko: All that has to change, that all of France becomes gay (laughs)!

R&F: "Protect Me From What I Want" precisely, here is a title heavy with meaning. What was the idea behind this song?

Brian Molko: For me, it's a study of the pathological need people have to copulate, the search for meaning in copulation. As if bachelors or monogamists were aliens. As if we were only one when we were two. The song is about the fact that one relationship has destroyed me but I can't help but look for another ... why do I keep coming back to this?

R&F: Wow, we're bathing in philosophy here!

Brian Molko: Yes and it's the same elsewhere in the record: in "Plasticine", I insist on the fact that you have to be yourself above all while asking myself all these questions. Why do we have to do a lot of forbidden things, bad or harmful?

R&F: It's therapy in public.

Brian Molko: At least I find some balance in it. These are not songs about compassion or self-pity. They came out like this because it was vital for me. I am in this privileged situation where I can express myself and the world hears me. Otherwise, I would be really frustrated and I would have suffered a lot more in the last fifteen years.

R&F: Music saved your life.

Brian Molko: Sure.

Steve Hewitt: Everyone: I think we can say that. Without Placebo, we would not be not even alive.

Brian Molko: Spitting it all out is not necessarily the right solution. There are things with which to live. In fact, I've always been afraid to go see a psychiatrist ...

R&F: Yet, listening to you speak earlier, you could have the feeling that Jim Abiss acted a bit like a shrink with you.

Brian Molko: That's right. You could say that.

R&F: At a time when Bush and Blair want to play World War III, what attitude do you adopt? What do you think of these Englishmen who left for Iraq to constitute a human shield?

Brian Molko: Let's say we stand together. We participated in the March for Peace on February 14th with Damon Albarn and 3D from Massive Attack. We were also surprised that so few groups mobilized, which increased our desire to participate tenfold.

R&F: Do you consider that it is the role of the artist to give voice in such circumstances?

Steve Hewitt: Yes, in the sense that we can help with general motivation.

Brian Molko: I'm very interested in seeing if Blair is going to let Bush bomb Iraq with the British present on the soil of the country. If he ever allows that, the consequences will be dire.

R&F: It will only be one more religious war, in the name of oil and money ...

Brian Molko: It seems absurd that we can still fight for that. And curiously, nobody speaks more, or almost, of Bin Laden. Wouldn't it all come from him, by chance, as a huge consequence of September 11? On the other hand, we have such a feeling that Bush wants to finish the job that daddy started. Its image is so bad that it needs at least one war to restore its image.

Steve Hewitt: And reinvigorate its dying economy.

R&F: The method is lamentable, deceitful. Like those employed by the recording industry which claims to be doing well by selling pop in damaged boxes to ignoramuses.

Brian Molko: The ability of this job to ingest people, bribe them and then spit them out is impressive. This is what happened here at Canal +.R&F: Business is the beast.

Brian Molko: All these pre-made artists are young and naff ...

Steve Hewitt: They'll all end up in a labor camp for ex-pop stars.

R&F: Warhol was talking about fifteen minute glory, we're brutally passed to fifteen seconds.

Brian Molko: We should have called them Karaoke idols from the start.

Steve Hewitt: And it only works because of the TV ...

R&F: Who washes the poor, helpless brains.

Steve Hewitt: You can tell how much people want to think less

R&F: And spend less. For many, music should be free: one in five thirteen-year-olds doesn't know that a disc doesn't have to be a computer-burnt puck. Some are flabbergasted when they see a cover for the first time.

Stefan Olsdal: And those who don't buy records put pressure on those who have them to pass them on at all costs, just long enough to copy them.

R&F: Exactly.

Brian Molko: That's why we blame Robbie Williams so much. Scooping 80 million pounds off EMI and then declaring that pirating music is a fantastic thing just makes him want to stick a chunk in his face.

R&F .: And then piracy is not a matter of environment. It's not a suburban thing. There are rich kids who find it normal to burn 80 CDs during their weekend and sometimes sell them to their friends ...

Brian Molko: What do these people believe? That we are there, the face in the stream with a syringe stuck in the arm singing "La Vie En Rose"? And who will pay for our children's school? Not them, anyway. Our mentality is quite different: we always want to buy records from people we love, from our friends. Personally, we are partly out of the woods, but it will be particularly difficult for new groups to make a living from music in five or ten years.

R&F: Come on, we're not going to leave each other on this, a little humor won't hurt anyone. If you were to be banned from any of these three things, which would you choose: making music, making money or making love?

Steve Hewitt (almost tit for tat): I would stop making money, without hesitation. It's because I love music and sex too much. And then, well, you have to choose.

Brian Molko (completely overwhelmed): Oh damn, that's not true. What a dilemma!

R&F: No Brian, that doesn't count, make an effort (laughs).

Brian Molko: Ah, I don't know. And then if. I would stop making money and get on well with someone super rich.

R&F: Or you would be pimp ...

Brian Molko: Yes, that's it. Good plan.

Stefan Olsdal: Stop making love does not mean to stop loving ...

Brian Molko (preparing his shot): And we can always masturbate (general laughter).

Stefan Olsdal: OK then, I would stop making love.

R&F: Okay, it will be written in black and white for all eternity.

Brian Molko: Will we live long enough to regret it? This is the real question.

*COLLECTED BY JEROME SOLIGNY

[Inset, Trash Palace]

Already present on the first album by Trash Palace which he had adorned with his presence one unhealthy recovery of "I Love You, Me No More "in duet with Asia Argento, Brian Molko is coming to re-stack. This time he cosigns directly "The Metric System " with Dimitri Trash Palace Tikovoi, an electro saw boosted to bleeps fundamentals available in two remix and its clip on an enhanced single recently published at Discograph. The result is particularly (d) amazing and sounds good logical, like of Placebo cyber.Placebo in  Rock & Folk magazine - April 2003

[kob131]

True Name: Uther Pendragon Class: Saber Gender: Male Alignment: Lawful Good (believes he is Lawful Neutral) Parameter: Strength: B Endurance: A Agility: C Mana: E Luck: C NP: B+

History: Uther was born as the youngest of three brothers, himself, the Black Dragon Vortigern and the Paranoid Prince Ambrousis. After their father Constantine was died, the eldest son Ambrousis took the throne at the young age of 14. Due to an innate paranoia, the treachery of royal politics and persistent rumors of his father having been poisoned, Ambrousis sought to weed out all potential traitors and dangers to himself In his madness, he killed civilians for speaking unfavorably and nobles for dealing with other nations.

Unable to tolerate his eldest brother’s actions, Uther, alongside the middle child Vortigern, staged a rebellion against Ambrousis, uniting several lords and knights across Britan to wage war against his enthroned and madden kin. Through numerous bloody battles, he forced Ambrousis to met his demise by his own hand, with no small amount of grief and sadness. Soon after, the lords of the land agreed to name him King, something that would come to frustrate his last living brother.

Throughout his reign, he came into conflict with his neighbors/arch enemies the Saxxons. The two kingdoms went to war with each other many, many times, almost always with Uther just barely managing to edge a victory. During these many wars, he was always noted to be seen wandering near lakeside, gazing wistfully out upon the water. One night, on the last of his many walks to the lakes of the land, returned with two twin newborns in hand, girls who he would name Morgan and Morgause and claim as his children. No one is quite certain who the mother of these two was...

Later in life, as the strain of his life came to haunt him, he began to seek an heir to which take his throne upon his increasingly likely death. However, due to lacking a wife and having only daughters who could not be accepted by his kingdom, he looked to his old and trusted friend Merlin. Together, they hatched a plan for Uther to impregnate the lovely Lady Igraine with the king impersonating her lover through Merlin’s magic. Alas, though the child was blessed with the blood of a dragon, it was also yet another daughter, named Arturia. Distraught and despondent, Uther gave up his quest for a successor and left the child in Merlin’s care.

This turn of events alongside the death of his legitimate child Morgause left Uther in the worst of health. His body deteriorated day after day, for years on end until one day, seven years after those events, he died due to a combination of sickness and poison by his lifelong enemies....*

Personality: Quite unlike his successor, Uther is open and friendly man who ruled through trust and familiarity, while not being the best at administration. He warms the hearts of both his retainers and his people with his honesty and openness. Alas, this warmth also lends itself to a certain...fiery temperament in battle.

A man tried to uphold honor and dignity during his life, helping define the code of honor that many among the succeeding generation would uphold as their standard. That said, he could not always uphold it as the conception of his youngest child will tell you. 

Below his surface though, he holds a great many regrets. He laments his killing of his brother, his inability to stop the tyranny of his other sibling, his failure to properly raise the children under his care, his shame at the manipulation of Igraine born from a moment’s weakness and lust and his perceived abandonment of his youngest child. Because of this, he feels rather uncomfortable around most British servants, especially those from his era as it reminds him of his failures. Though, he still trusts and respects Merlin (even holding the distinction of being one of the few people able to catch the flower magus off guard).

He also regrets not having tried to defy the laws of inheritness during his time, as he sees this inaction having caused the many conflicts and pain of his successors.

Noble Phantasm:

Flame Sword of the Dragon King: Caliburn Classification: Anti-Personnel Rank: B+

Born from the legends that he himself wielded Caliburn before lodging it in it’s infamous stone as well as the misconception that he himself had dragon blood- Uther wields an altered version of Caliburn of similar quality to it’s true self. In battle, he can ignite the sword with dragonfire and enhance it’s power before releasing it in an inferno the swallows the opponent. The Noble Phantasm itself is not the sword but rather the technique and skill that Uther uses when swinging the ignited sword.

Relationships:

Merlin

Still views him as a trusted advisor and friend. Wishes he would not inform him of his daughters’ sex life. Holds the distinction of being one of the few people to catch Merlin off guard.

“Ah, Merlin. My old friend! You are truly a sight for these sore eyes... Would I like to hear about my child? ... I know you better than to answer yes.”

Arturia Pendragon

A father in name only, he believes. He feels nothing but shame and remorse upon seeing her, believing he does not deserve to be considered among her family. This despite Arturia’s admiration of his own rule.

“... Of course, she is here. The noble King of Knights who did what I could not... No Master, I do not wish to speak with her. I had that chance long ago...”

Arthur Pendragon

Is VERY confused why he has a look alike calling him ‘Father.’ While accepting of the man, Uther can’t help but feel bitter about how things seemed to have worked out for his other self.

“Master? Why is that lad giving me such a strange look? ... Arthur Pendragon? My son from another world? ... *sigh* Of course I find an heir I could truly pass on to NOW of all times...”

Lancelot

Is quite confused (then amused) that his daughter’s greatest knight is a Frenchman. Uther shares a kinship with him as a fellow knight ashamed of his past. Helps that Lancelot is the first Servant he meets upon arriving at Chaldea.

“Ah sir Lancelot! I was wondering if you and I could partake in a friendly spar sometime soon! Yes yes, I shall try to keep from getting too excited like last time.”

The Orkney Siblings (Gawain, Agravain, Gareth, Garehis)

Uther feels deeply conflicted with the siblings, knowing that they are the children of his one surviving child and yet his own failings as father caused them harm indirectly. He is, however, forced to put these feelings aside as the knights all deeply admire and adore him, having been raised on stories of his heroics. Especially the eldest Gawain.

(Gawain) “Oh, you are...yes, Gawain. Morgan’s eldest son. I shall take my leave. ... Wait, You want me to stay? You want to know about my battles? Haha, I-I don’t know what to say.”

(Gareth) “Oh, young Gareth. What a surprise, what brings you to me? ... A jousting battle? Young lady, do I appear to be of the Lancer Class in any manner? ... Now it’s a sparring match?!”

Vortigern

The mere sight of his elder brother deeply enrages Uther. The pain of his brother Ambrousis’ death dredged up at the sight of the sibling he believes he should have slain, there is no chance that Uther will ever cooperate with Vortigern.

“VORTIGERN! Damn you to hell, you inhuman tyrant!”

Morgan Le Fay Pendragon

To say the sight of his eldest daughter brings Uther pain would be nothing if not an understatement. Pressured by the constant wars and responsibilities as king, along with no partner to help him in raising a family, he could never truly invest himself into Morgan’s life as he wished to. Because of this, the death of her sister and even his own, Morgan walked a path of sacrifice and failure, transforming her into the brutal witch she is known as. All because, in Uther’s eyes, he could not comfort her.

“Morgan, oh Morgan. You have suffered so much, despite never wishing for the throne yourself. Seeking it out for Morgause and myself... Forgive your fool of a father, for he could not save you from this.”

Mordred

He did not recognize her as his kin at first but greatly enjoyed her company. Upon learning of her full heritage, Uther resolved himself to make up for his failures with her parents and help guide her to a better life.

“Ah, Mordred. Come, come. We have much to talk about. Yes yes, I know you feel as though my talks are long winded and boring. But I ask of you: will you allow this old man to indulge talking to his grandchild? Ha ha, no need to blush, I should be thanking you after all.”

*Sorry to any Arthurian myth fans but holy fuck, not only is Fate’s iteration of the Round Table Myth really hard to faithfully adapt the original myth- The myth ITSELF gets really patchy when not directly concerning Arthur. 

Like, the actual villain of early Uther’s life was VORTIGERN, who was NOT his brother. That doesn’t line up with Fate so I had to make the good guy Ambrousis a bad guy. And THEN it turns out that Uther fucked and married Igraine BEFORE Arthur which again doesn’t match up to Fate. So had to change the mother of Morgan and Morgause to someone else just for this to make sense.

[thedespairzone]

The last words of Elias Edwards.

Before I share this story, I’ll preface it by saying I am not the author, and nor is my grandfather. After his passing, I found this amongst his belongings. Pieced together from torn and water-damaged scraps of paper were the last words of a man lost at sea. Alongside the tale was a glass bottle. Supposedly, this is the bottle that the story washed up ashore in. I will presume this tale to be real, instead of some elaborate piece of fiction, as my grandfather insisted upon this in his accompanying notes.

Without wasting any more of your time, I will now type out the story to the best of my abilities. Forgive me if some details are inaccurate - the handwriting is already bad, and almost illegible in some places due to water damage. I will use my grandfather’s speculative notes to assist me in places where the water damage is too great. 

Let’s begin: 

To whomever finds this note, be sure to keep it to yourself. I’ve a need to tell someone of my fate, but I wish not for my beloved to know of the tragedy that befell me. I’d rather she believed our ship was capsized, that we all drowned in the frozen hellscape of the Atlantic. I shall surely perish out here. Whether I drown, starve, or be eaten, I hope it will bring me peace. I want not for my own demise, I’ll make that much clear, but I no longer fear it. As a last remark, before I begin, let it be known that I don’t hold a grudge against anyone. I pray their souls feel the same about me. None of us were brave men. Not on that day. Least of all me.

My name is Elias Edwards. I am twenty-six. The year is 1846. I will die at sea, as have all but one of my shipmates. 

We set sail from the Bristol City Docks. We’ve a history of seafaring men in town, and whoever reads this will surely recognise us as the city that bestowed Blackbeard upon the world. With that sort of history, its no wonder we’ve so many fishermen and merchants clambering for a chance at sailing the high seas. We were a crew of one hundred and fifty men, each of us very capable. As our ship was presently the brawniest of the seaworthy bunch at Bristol City Docks, the academics at the University of Oxford had arranged for us to keep watch over a young scholar. He had been developing a device that would revolutionise seafaring, as they boldly claimed. The young lad, definitely no more than twenty-one, was named Henry Clark. 

I had expected Henry to be a meek academic; I’d known the type - scrawny, with such a penchant for all things scientific that he’d be sooner caught in bed with a book than a woman. But Henry gave a different impression. He fit in well with the crew, and we almost forgot that he was there for a reason other than pay. We had all said our farewells and see-you-soons to our betrothed, beloveds, firstborns, and mothers - each man to whomever it was he cared for the most in this world, and so we journeyed out to the Americas. Our ship was well stocked, and we carried with us crates of goods to be sold to the Yanks.

As our ship cleared her path out to sea, and the bustling docks melted away into the distance, a number of the men began a mild teasing of Henry - despite his friendly disposition, nothing was enough to save him from the mockery that one who had not found their sea legs would receive.  Amongst the group was my cousin; he too was a member of the crew. Albert Edwards, a little older than I, patted Henry on the back as the jests subsided. “Happens to everyone,” he reassured Henry. I went over to greet Albert, but stopped when I saw Henry pull a strange box from his pocket. 

My cousin and the others were fascinated by the machine too, and we all began to gather around the scholar. I can’t quite describe best how the machine looked; I’ve no knowledge of steam engines or any other such mechanisms. There were blinking flashes of red and green along one side, and on its front were a series of levers and switches that did only God knows what. A rectangle above the switches showed numbers that changed, six digits that increased and decreased for some reason unknown to me. Albert went to touch the box, but Henry quickly pulled it away. 

“We have to be very careful with this.” 

Henry refused to let anyone else touch it, but was more than happy for us to look. This new mystery device, the one that would revolutionise seafaring, soon became the talk of the whole crew. Many of us speculated upon how it worked, but none of us quite understood when Henry explained it. He told us to rest assured that, one day, nobody would set sail without one. While none of us could understand how it worked, Henry told us what it did. He said that its use was to pinpoint your exact position on the globe, and that’s what the numbers meant. We were all amazed, but after a number of days spent sailing, we carried on with our normal duties and forgot about Henry’s box. 

I shan’t bore you with details of ship life. The next two weeks were uneventful. There were no skirmishes with marauders or freebooters, no gunfights with other ships. Our canons were covered with dust - I wasn’t certain whether they had ever known the joy of firing. The Captain ran a tight ship, but enjoyed the company of a relaxed crew, so we entertained ourselves by playing cards and other such things when our attention wasn’t required. It was also a common occurrence for one or two items of freight to go missing from time to time - this trip it happened to be a few bottles of cider. We allowed ourselves to get merry on the drink we had brought, and every now and again on the drinks we were supposed to be delivering. 

On a night out in the middle of the Atlantic, Albert and I sat on the deck. I’d procured a bottle of cider, and Albert cracked in to a bottle of rum that he had stowed away below deck. We sat, bottles in hand, eyes up at the night sky. The blazes of stars lit the way for our journey, and we marvelled in the beauty of a thing we had seen a thousand times. But both of us, without saying a word, knew that the stars we looked at that night would be the same stars our wives looked at when night came for them. We spent some time watching, drinking, the ambient sounds of the ocean and creaking wood of the ship did well rocking us to relax on that still night.

Some time passed before either of us spoke.

“When we get this far out,” my cousin said, “it’s not nice to be away.”

“We’ve done it plenty of times.”

“You’re right. But I’ve got a boy now.”

Albert and his wife had their firstborn not long before we set sail. As horrid as it made him feel, he had to leave her with with their little William. We all need money - with an extra mouth to feed he needed it more than ever. We spoke about fatherhood; Albert’s newfound trials and tribulations, before Henry came to join us. 

“You should come and look at this.”

We each turned to face him, then followed him to the side of the ship. Henry peered over the side, and we followed suit. Beneath us was the ocean black, a glistening mirage of stars floating on its surface. 

“What are we looking at, Henry?” I asked.

Henry pulled his box from his pocket, the red light flickered and flashed like a flame blown by the wind. It made a repetitive ding, which sounded like the bell of a bicycle or some such noise. He watched the numbers closely. 

“There’s something strange beneath us.” He said. 

By this time, I had just about finished my cider. Henry asked me to drop the bottle into the ocean upon my finishing it. I swigged the dregs of my drink and dropped the bottle into the sea. It splashed against the surface, then sunk rapidly down - and as it did so the waters around it were ablaze with a golden hue. A perfect, fantastic, gold. 

“Wow. That’s incredible. What’s that there, then?” Albert asked. 

We thought about what it might be, before Henry hatched a plan. 

Albert recovered his empty, discarded rum bottle and found some rope, and some of the other men crowded around us to watch. Albert held the rope, and I fastened the other end of it securely to the bottle. We lowered it down the side of the boat and into the ocean. It swung and tugged in the breeze, but Albert held a steady hand. The moment it touched the water, a web of gold echoed about it. A subtle humming filled the air while we allowed the bottle to be filled with ocean water. I gazed upon the returning bottle filled with that flowing, glowing gold, and I felt inexplicably drawn to it. We all crowded around Albert as he pulled the bottle up the side of the ship. Some of the golden waters were sloshed around the outside of the bottle. Coiling the rope in one hand, Albert finally dangled the bottle onto the deck. 

“Nobody touch it.” Henry warned. “We need to see what it is first.” 

The crowd that had gathered grumbled at his caution, myself included. We all must have felt the same pull, the same yearning for the golden water. Albert, who had become quite drunk on his rum, complained that it was his bottle and he should be able to do what he wanted with it. Henry ignored the rabble, and unveiled a second device. Much like the first box we had all seen, this second one was of an equally confusing nature. Extending from one side of it was a glass appendage, which Henry dunked into the top of the bottle. It filled itself with the golden liquid. 

“This tells me what it is.” He informed us. 

While Henry was looking at the device he had kept hidden from us until this point, the golden glow within the bottle, and that which was dripping from its sides, had simmered down. It had faded and appeared as if it were regular water of the ocean. The crowed had lulled, but Albert reached forwards to the bottle, noting aloud in a drunken slur the obvious fact that it had faded. He placed his thumb over the mouth of the bottle, and shook it. Sure enough, the water inside began to sparkle again with that same dazzling gold. So did Albert’s hand, as he took it away from the still-wet bottleneck. The tip of his thumb was bright and golden. A number of the men laughed, and so did Albert - but his laugh slowly grew nervous, before falling silent. He began to scratch at his hand, to try to wipe off the gold, but all he did was spread it to his other hand. Albert scratched and scratched, his breath became snatched. I asked him what was wrong.

“Don’t touch me!” My cousin screamed as both myself and others tried to help him and see what was the matter. He panicked, whirling about, before he began to wail in pain. Alongside Albert’s screams was that same humming chorus - we all heard it, rumbling and ominous. I wanted to help Albert, but was terrified of going near him. I knew that the rest of the crew felt the same. He flailed about, winding and twisting himself around and around as he desperately tried to remove the golden waters from himself, but all he could do was spread it further. Albert’s skin began to bubble, began to pop, and even began to fall off. Flesh dripped from my dear cousin’s arms as he begged God for mercy. One man tried to throw some of his alcohol over Albert to wash away the gold, but it didn’t work. I winced and turned away from the scene. The constitution of my stomach was not enough to behold the sight any longer. In the commotion, with my hand held before my mouth and facing away, I noticed Henry skulking behind the mast. 

“Where are you off to?” I called over the screams and humming, dashing over to him. 

“I told everyone not to touch it. I’m leaving.” He said, flicking the levers and dials on a device of his. I went to reach towards him, to grab him and tell him to explain himself… 

Perhaps it was a mix of the alcohol and all the panic in the air, but I swear I saw Henry vanish before my very eyes. Like a spectre, he disappeared. I know not how, but it must have been something to do with his device. I was stood in shock for a moment, trying to understand how a man could do such a thing. It was as if he flicked a switch on his box, then folded into himself, as if he was being crunched and eaten by some invisible beast. He folded and folded, all within the space of a second, until he was no more. Gone... 

While I was preoccupied being completely dumbfounded by what had happened with Henry, the ship had fallen into complete disarray. The alcohol that someone had thrown onto Albert had facilitated the spread of the gold; and in all of the confusion someone must have knocked the first bottle over. I quickly climbed the rigging, and saw others following in my footsteps. Hand over hand, foot over foot, I scrambled my way up high and perched atop the crow’s nest. Canon fire blared beneath the screaming and humming on deck; and I looked down around at the chaos that unfolded before me.

It was a terrible golden mist that slithered upon the side of the boat, reaching at us and clawing its way ever closer. It moved slowly, yet we couldn’t outrun it; there was nowhere to run to. Slowly, but strongly, the sea spray stuttered and juddered its way above and over the walls of the ship, engulfing the bow and marking men for dead with its gentlest touch. Men with melting flesh climbed to reach me, but fell back to the deck as the searing pain became too much for them. 

As strange as it sounds, there was forever an allure about the golden mist that fluttered in the wind. Though I saw it burn through whatever it met, I felt a desire to reach out below the crow’s nest and touch it. I was wise enough to refrain from doing so, but something about the mist could draw men in. Pandemonium was unleashed below me by the onslaught of the golden mist - which reached just below my perch. I sat terrified as I waited for everything to stop, the screaming, the humming. The canon fire had ceased, likely as soon as the operators realised how fruitless an effort it was to fire a cannon at mist and water. 

The ship began to violently rock, side to side, until I could no longer peek over the side of the crow’s nest for fear of falling to my death - be it the mist or the impact that took me, I desired neither. I hunkered down and crouched hidden, surrounded by the small circle of wood that acted as my final wall of protection. I was wobbled by the rocking of the ship, and I tried to hold myself still, but the rocking soon became so violent that I was thrown back and forth by the assault. I cowered in my hiding hole, too timid to face the horrors below, dwelling upon the thought that my friends among the crew, and my dearest cousin Albert, had by now all but fallen apart by the will of the golden mist. 

X X X

From that point onwards, my memories are terribly ill-defined. I must’ve hit my head while I was being flung by the rocking of the boat. I’ve no idea how this came to pass, but when I awoke amidst the scattered, floating wreckage of the ship, I was still afloat myself in the bucket-shaped crow’s nest. Amongst the floating debris were some crates - gifted to me in them are the parchments on which I have written this message, and the bottle in which I will seal this message. And, of course, plenty of cider to keep me company in my final days - though God knows how much of the beloved stuff we’ve lost to the sea floor. 

Make no mistake: I wish I could have helped even just one soul. But to see a man’s flesh fall from his bones as if he were well-cooked meat is enough to send the bravest of men into a blind panic. Please, cousin, hold no grudge against me for my cowardice; I’m serving my punishment, withering away to nothing while drifting aimlessly through the barren ocean blue. 

I’m growing weary as I write now. I’m sensing that the end is near. Whoever finds this, wherever it may wash ashore, thank you for letting me share my story with you. 

I shall now drink the remainder of that which floats with me. If you would be so kind, have a drink with me as you read my final farewell. 

- Elias Edwards

Unfortunately, a lot is left unanswered by Elias. My grandfather’s notes focus heavily on working out what the “golden mist” was, with the avenues he has explored being related to bioluminescent plankton, various microbes, and even the mythological sirens. He also focuses very intently on Henry Clark, and working out how he “disappeared” - though with the fact that Elias had been drinking and had hit his head, I can’t be certain whether any of this really happened. 

[carolinesbookworld]

How the Moon Fell In Love With a Star - Part 6

Fandom: Harry Potter, Marauders Era

Pairing: Sirius Black x OC (Remus’s twin sister)

Word Count: 1,190

Summary: Lilliana Lupin is just starting her seventh year with her twin brother and best friends. The only catch: she’s in love with one of them. When James hatches a plan to make both Lily Evans and Sirius Black notice James and Lillie, she is hesitant. Until it works.

Series Masterlist   Masterlist

A/N: Y’all would not believe the writer’s block I had! I’m sorry this took so long, I’ve been so busy with school and work and I’ve been sick and last week was homecoming but now I have inspiration! So hopefully, I’ll get back on track with this series and writing in general. I hope this was worth the wait :)

Part 1    Part 2    Part 3    Part 4    Part 5

Morning rays of sunlight left criss-cross patterns on my quilt. I rolled over only to be met with the confused face of Lily Evans.

“Since when were you and Potter together?” For a moment, I stared blankly at her, then her words processed and my eyes widened. Lily stepped away from the bed and began to pace. “And why am I finding out from Marlene of all people? I should be finding out from you! I'm only your best friend!”

“I was going to tell you, but last night you were too drunk to even know what was going on around you!” I explained defensively. Lily deflated a bit at my comment. She always felt embarrassed when someone called her out on drinking. Which wasn't often.

Lily looked away, finally saying, “Well, you still should have told me. I want to know that kind of thing!” I grinned at my best friend before chucking a pillow at her.

“You always need to be involved,” I laughed.

“I do! You know this already. Now hurry up, we've got to get to Hogsmeade soon. I need to start my Christmas shopping. Oh, and we need dresses for the New Years’ Ball!”

It's only November, Lils, we have plenty of time!”

“Never too early to start!” She called as she waltzed out of the room.

----

A crisp breeze blew my hair all over the place. “I hate wind,” I sputtered, hooking a finger around the strand of hair caught in my mouth.

Remus chuckled. “You know, if you cut your hair…”

“Over my dead body,” I replied darkly. Remus raised his hands in surrender as the boys laughed. James threw an arm around my shoulder, at which Sirius abruptly quieted himself. I tried not to let it bother me, but I couldn't help wondering what he was thinking in that handsome head of his.

“How long exactly has this…” Peter gestured at James and I, “Been going on?”

James shrugged nonchalantly. “A while I guess. I mean we've both been in love with different people for a while and we'd go to each other to talk about it, so it's been kind of a slow burn.”

“Oh yeah?” Sirius questioned. “So who did you love, Lilliana?” His question caught me off guard but the use of my full name was like a slap in the face.

James replied, “You, actually.” I dropped my book.

Sirius’ eyebrows scrunched up. “Pardon?” Remus and Peter looked on in horror. James elbowed me in the side.

“Right, that.” I shifted my weight to my left foot, looking anywhere but Sirius’ gray eyes. Reaching down to grab my book, I said, “I'm over it now, anyway. You know, because of...James. And all that.” The boy next to me nodded.

“Totally over it!” James said. “Just like I am over Evans in any and every way possible.”

Remus rolled his eyes. Of course my twin would be the one to doubt. He knew the both of us better than anyone. “Well, lads, I guess it's just the three of us today,” Remus commented. “I'm sure these two will want the day to themselves.”

“Oh, no! We were planning to...spend the day with you.” My eyes met Remus’ and he hid a smug smile.

“Oh really?” Sirius asked condescendingly. “Why on Earth would the happy couple not want time on their own?” He didn't wait for an answer and instead stalked off down the path toward Hogsmeade.

----

First stop: Honeydukes. Obviously. I could never resist the intoxicating scents drifting out the door and always found my way into the sweet's shop eventually.

“Let me pay,” James said as I dumped my sugar haul on the counter.

“James, I can't.” I pushed his hand away from his pocket where he had been reaching for his wallet.

“Come on, let me do this. I'm your boyfriend.”

I glanced around before whispering, “You're my best friend, meaning you are not obligated to actually pay for anything.”

“But how would that look to everyone else if I don't pay for you?” He knew he won the argument because a second later, the sickles and knuts had already changed hands and the shopkeeper was scooping everything into a bag. I sighed and took the bag from the shopkeeper.

“You didn't have to do that,” I told James again as we left the shop. He shrugged.

We headed over to Three Broomsticks, planning to meet up with Remus and Lily and Peter. Sirius had ditched the others in favor of spending the day with Frank Longbottom. James pulled open the door and a wave of warmth rushed over us. In the corner by the bar, I spotted Regulus with some of his Slytherin friends. He looked up and caught my eye. I smiled, and he nodded then went back to his drink.

“Why do you acknowledge the little Black?” James asked.

“Because I actually tolerate him. He's not so bad if you get to know him. Besides, it's one of the easiest ways to piss off Sirius.” James twisted his head to follow my gaze and saw his best friend in the opposite corner with Frank, Alice, and Marlene.

“Right. Let's get drinks.” He tugged me over to an empty booth and pulled me in next to him. “Two butterbeers,” he told the waitress.

As James and I waited, I could feel the eyes of almost every Hogwarts student focused on us. Of course they would be. James and I appeared as a couple, and people stared. Because it was unusual. Out of the ordinary.

As it turned out, though, the staring was to our advantage as Sirius’ eyes did not leave me, and a moment later, Lily walked in with my brother and Peter.

“I will never get used to this,” Lily said, taking the booth across from James and me.

“You should,” replied James. He turned to me and took my hand, playing with my fingers. The waitress brought us our drinks, and James nodded in thanks, handing her a few sickles.

“Hey, Lillie, we should go dress shopping today,” Lily suggested. “Want to get a good one before they're all gone.”

I sighed. “Whyyyyy…” Dress shopping was one of my least favorite things in the world. Lily grabbed my hand.

“Please! James can come to,” she added, as if that made it better.

“No because-” I cut myself off abruptly. I couldn't say no because he'll just mess around the whole time. Lily would doubt that.

She crossed her arms. “Why not? Don't you want to coordinate?”

“Why on Earth would would we-” I elbowed James sharply in the ribs. “Oh.”

“Yeah, oh. What? Did you forget she's your girlfriend or something?” James's eyes widened.

“N-no,” he sputtered. “I just meant... this might not work out and we'll just,” he made a few strange hand gestures, “be friends again...then. When the dance comes.”

“Already having doubts, Jamsie?” He gave me a look, at which Remus chuckled. I shoved his shoulder. “I'm just messing, Prongs.”

James threw me a grin and tossed his arm over my shoulder. “Thank Merlin for that!”

Part 7

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[wolftheidioticfan]

Tales From The Cave of Cats

The mountains were always a weird spot in our little hometown, not many people enjoyed driving up them or down them it seemed. But people obviously had to go up there sometimes, considering the construction of houses way up in the cliffs and within the forests. Maybe it was only reserved for the crazies, or the adventurous. I’m not sure if my father counts for the former or the latter at this point, but he eventually had us move up into an old dust mountain cottage in the summer of 2004. It wasn’t anything special, in fact, at the time it seemed like a downgrade to our 3-bedroom, 2-bath house back in town. This was a dusty, dusty old home, clearly meant for one person. Yet my father and I somehow thought us two boys were going to fit soundly here. I think the divorce and loss of my sister really drove him mad.

But, he worked night and day with this rusted old thing, ripping up floors, hiring strange guys I could never remember the names of to help build walls, it all seemed endless. I was never sure why he wanted to start from scratch and build an entirely new house, but I suppose that’s the thing with older people. It never bothered me much, I guess, I spent a majority of my time in the attic anyways, looking through things the last people forgot about. An old, rotten wooden chest always held my interest, but I could never really find a way into it. Dad told me to just leave it alone, that if I got a splinter or sick from that thing there wasn’t much he could do for me. I recognize that as a lie, he would do anything for me, but it always seemed more like a warning not to mess with it.

Clearly, that warning never worked on me. One summer’s evening, while he was out in god-knows-where getting more supplies for our home, I took one of the tiny hatches and tore that thing to splinters. At first the smell overwhelmed me, years of rotten wood and the must of whatever lay inside was almost unbearable. I was lucky, however, and it seemed to subside relatively fast, leaving me to see what was in the remains all these years. An old notebook, a ripped blue jacket, and a cracked lantern. I felt disappointed, all this time I thought something truly great had to be in here, but I was only met with some probably old man’s diary. I still wondered why the person left it behind, though, and decided to do some reading. Who knows? Maybe it was someone famous’ diary and I could make bank off it!

There was no date written on any of the pages, a little disappointing to be honest. But as I ran my fingers along the thick, yellowed papers, I could assume they had to be fairly old. Older than 10 years, at the very least. I pulled apart a particularly sticky set of pages to reach the beginning, ready to see what was left for my eyes.

----Entry 1----

I’m pleased to announce my cottage is here, and my fellows will soon be receiving their cottages as well. They lay inside their tents tonight, and I can sense their jealousy seething within. It’s quite amusing, and I know they mean no real harm to me or my home. Even so, we all know our work is much more important than where we may rest our heads for a temporary time. The riches of gems and gold call to us and beckon further. Our history and love for our work will reach the lord himself in due time.

All in due time!

And so, I write to you, so you may see all my travels and fall in inspiration for all that I will accomplish! Tomorrow we will meet and discover our riches. Our history. Our legacy.

In due time.

------

My eyes rolled a little. This guy seemed awfully full of himself, how was anyone going to remember him if there was NO NAME and NO DATE? What an old coot. But he and his friends I assumed were miners back then, that’s kind of interesting. And if he was telling the truth, this whole book is documented with what they found. That’s kind of cool. My finger brushed the old, sticky resin on the page, pulling to the next. It had to be tree sap of sorts, I remembered getting sap on one of my old school notebooks way back in first grade, it completely ruined it.

---Entry 2---

One of my fellows told me of a cave! A mighty, vast cave! It is just nearby the cottage, through the woods. This is where we shall head. Something lies within, something great, something expensive. We will be hailed as the greatest in our business. All in due time.

I am to head out now, but I will not end this entry here, it must continue. You must hear of what I am to find. We must all hear.

I will end it with an ellipsis, as it tells a continuation is to follow.

…

And here we have it! The cave, as promised by this young lad. I wish you could see him, what a proud man he is truly. And I am to be proud as well, it is just as vast as we were led to believe. The entrance spans tall, very tall, and is in a very triangular shape. It is deep, and I cannot see ahead but a few feet, as darkness takes over quick. Water is flowing freely inside somewhere, as we can all hear it rushing by. Beautiful! We are going to gather our supplies and head in immediately, daylight is ticking away! What lies inside I just cannot wait to show the world. It will be magnificent. Truly, a gem the world has never seen must be here. I can feel it as such. In due time, my fellows, in due time.

…

It’s much larger than we first thought. There are steep drops into darkness everywhere, and higher…yet higher climbs and cliffs above us the further we trek. I told one of the men, our guide, about my wish to delve down with some of our climbing equipment, but he told me I shan’t do such a thing. What does he know? Foolish young boy. I shall just send someone else down there, he had not objected to that. But if that boy finds something down there, I swear I too shall delve with or without the respect of our guide. These rocks are quite beautiful too, perhaps I will chip off a few for my misses. They are a silky red, velvet in color almost, and their texture is of a soft sand, though they are very sturdy. Of course, they’d have to be if they want to keep such a cave from crumbling. I admire their dedication to this place! The guide is going to help us find the waterfall now, as he thinks some gems may hide near it. I can barely contain myself.

…

What a shame, that guide fell down a drop. Poor boy never saw it coming. We found the waterfall and he slipped on a slick rock, never to be seen again. Barely even heard the scream! It’s such a shame, but we’re going to still start digging tomorrow in the morning. No time to stop work, nothing can be done for the boy now anyways. Should’ve watched his step better, I say. But it is now I end this entry, as we are heading back to our tents and to my cottage. Tomorrow will bring the riches.

I will see you again.

In due time.

---

---Entry 3---

The water! It’s beautiful! The way our lanterns shine upon the rocks must be casting a glow upon the water, as it is reflecting a clear pink. Pink, like a lovely rose. It’s fantastic. I sent one of the younger men down to explore some of the lower places of the cave, armed with our best climbing equipment. He best come back with something! There is definitely something here. Something beautiful. I know it to be true. Meanwhile, I and some others have found a path upwards, and will be seeing to some of the upper regions of the cave. I am brimming with enthusiasm, and I hope you can feel it too. See you in a moment.

…

Gems! Gems! At least that is what I shall call them. I was right, it is like no other gem you will ever see! They come in all sorts of shapes, they’re very soft, almost re-shapeable how soft they are, and brilliant crimson in their color. Simply amazing. They just pull right off of the walls of the cave, there’s hundreds of them here! Thousands, even. They stretch all over the walls in large clumps. We have to get them evaluated for their worth immediately. And name them. Perhaps I’ll name them after the misses. I’m sure she would appreciate that.  But we’re not done yet! There has to be more below, more interesting things. You can’t have one hidden gem and not have a few dozen more! In due time we will make history! History I tell you.

…

The boy returned! Empty handed mind you, but he said there’s more branching paths down below, and that we should all head down to see it. I am incredibly ready, surely if these lovely red gems are above, something is below.

In due time, I will find everything here. We all will.

…

Expansive down here, the tunnels seem to get smaller, thinner. We’re going to start digging, opening them up to be explored better. Dig away, dig away. We will uncover what this beauty of a cave has hidden for who knows how long.

I will write again sometime. For now, it is all digging.

Keep watch.

---Entry 4---

We made a breakthrough, quite literally. One of our tunnelers dug into another opening in the cave. We have a lot to explore here, it’s so large! I think the walls themselves have to be crystals of sorts, they’re so shiny and reflective when we roll our lights upon the surfaces. Shimmering like tiny mirrors. We’ll have to try and get some to take with us. Many people will have to know of this place when we are done here. It’ll be famous, it’ll be named after us!

Or rather, named after me. I’ll return shortly, we’re about to head in further, one of our new guides arrived and said he found a path downwards we should explore. I’ll make a note if anything interesting is down there.

…

The cave walls down here are strange. It’s funny how soft, yet firm they feel. Almost as if it’s a living being. Some of the other fellows down here don’t find it amusing though. They say something feels wrong. What do they know? Well, nothing else to really report. It’s just slimy and wet down here now and it’s starting to stink like iron. There must be something good nearby.

…

I was right! Yet again, we find the most beautiful of gems. Golden and black, almost looking like cat eyes in the shine of our lights. They’re very solid, more so than the red ones up towards the upper regions of the cave. I demanded we keep going! We have some food rations with us, if we leave now, we may forget some areas to check.

In due time, I will see you again.

---

I shivered a little. “Almost as if it’s a living being” rung through my head a little. Surely this was just the ramblings of a crazy old man, leaving a story behind to scare whoever found his booklet next. I had to admit though, it was really interesting me. The gems in particular did sound pretty. Like a cat’s eye? Interesting way to describe it. The next two pages were extremely stuck together and stunk a little as I managed to gingerly pull them apart. Luckily, the words, though a little smeared, were still readable. It stunk like…iron, I realized. A smile formed on my lips, what an interesting trick this man had pulled to invest the reader.

---Entry 5---

We’re very deep now, I sent two of the men back up for extra supplies. I refuse to leave until I’ve seen everything. The walls are slicker now and feel softer than before. There’s no water to be found, however which is a tad confusing. Surely something down here had to make the dirt and rocks that held this section together this slick. The others are getting more nervous. Pah to them! It’s just a cave.

Though, that sound just now. What was that? It was very echoey, almost like a yowl. Animals living down here? How odd.

…

Why is it so slick? The pink and red tints to the walls used to be so interesting, but the way they’re formed now is beginning to be unsettling. Perhaps the other men are right, something isn’t quite right. And that yowl…What is that? At first, I thought it to be cave ins further down or something else, but it is definitely animal-like. Very animal-like. The boys we sent out for supplies finally found us, perhaps all we need is some food and rest. Things will return to normal soon.

---Entry 6---

This isn’t right. But I can’t stop.

I can’t stop moving through. I’ve lost the other boys, they got too scared by what we saw while trying to rest. A bulge in the cave wall, it slid past as if it weren’t rock. Which, as my hand caresses the wall, slicking it with red, I’ve begun to doubt it’s rock at all.

This isn’t right. That yowl is louder again. I must get to the bottom of this. If I discover it, if I discover what this is, I can become more famous than ever.

In due time, I will uncover it all.

See you again.

---Entry 7---

The smell is putrid. Like vomit and blood. So strongly.

But I cannot stop. I still have water, and food.

The yowling sounds like a cat in pain. Cats? Down here?

I’m beginning to wonder if I’ve just gone insane.

No….Nonsense. I have not.

In due time, we will all see.

---Entry 8---

The cave walling here.

It is muscles.

They’re pulsing.

Something is crawling underneath, pleading me to follow.

And I shall.

---Entry 9---

Retched stench. It smells like cats, even.

Cats live here, somewhere.

There’s more bulges in the walls. Something is crawling underneath.

Something is here.

With me.

---Entry 10---

In due time.

The cave is opening up further, the floors are so squishy. It’s all muscle. All of it.

Flesh.

The cave is made of flesh.

Is it alive?

I’m being watched, I’m sure of it.

---Entry 11---

In due time

---Entry 12---

I need to leave, this was never for me to see. I reached what I thought was the back of this section. Something was hanging from the ceiling. It was a large flesh-mass. I managed to get a fire started with some of my supplies to see it and.

It was awful.

Red, puffy paws outstretched from the mass, each larger than any human could ever dream of being. Their claws reaching for unseen perches to dig into. A single snout lay at the top, its tongue lolling out and lapping at the wall it was sat next to.

The yowl.

It hurt.

It was louder than anything I had ever heard in all my years.

Then came the bulges in the fleshy walls. They were collecting in one spot.

The sound of ripping, tearing, pulling. It all filled my ears at once as lanky, blotchy paws dug their way out. They had skin, and pieces of mangy fur attached to some spots. Cats. One of them fell from the ceiling with a sickening thud, its single bulging eye looking up at me in an instant. I didn’t know what to say, or what to do. It was so quiet, and the beast looked so thin, so frail.

Had it ever eaten a meal? Was I to be its meal?

I hadn’t much time to think, no no.

More began to fall, uncaring where they landed.

They were crushing each other, lacerating eachother, breaking their own bones as they poured from holes in the cave walls.

Hundreds of them.

All of them looked to me.

And I ran, god did I run.

I can still hear their footsteps trying to follow me. I cannot rest. I must leave.

They’re getting fainter now, but I don’t know if this can last.

Please, not like this.

How did they get here?

---Entry 13---

I’m out.

I found my way to the main cave and hoisted my way up. One of the boys had left gear for me to exit with, bless him. Without him I’m not sure I’d be alive.

I explained everything to them when we all met again.

I cannot tell if they believe me or not, but we all agree not to be here anymore. We have enough.

I’m ditching this cottage, permanently.

---Entry 14---

I’m leaving my jacket, lantern, and this book here.

This is a warning.

Stay out of the caverns.

Do not make the mistake.

The cats…

They’re hungry.

And in due time, they may dig their way out.

----

My skin crawled a little from the last entry. But, it was obviously fake. It had to have been. A flesh cave? With cats? Really? Who would ever think a cat was terrifying? What a fun story, though. I figured I’d tell my dad about it later.

The curiosity still struck me though.  Could there really be a cave out nearby like this that inspired this man to write such a tale?

Surely, it wouldn’t hurt to look.

I strapped on my own coat, and book-in-hand, ran off out the front door. Let’s see, back to entry two…Through the woods. I ran as fast as my feet would carry me through the strings of trees, avoiding lower branches when I could. I clicked the flashlight in my pocket to make sure the batteries were good. If this fabled cave existed, I’d like to get a look at it. Of course, there’d be no “cat demons” or anything like that. That was obviously made up.

My feet slowed to a stop as I saw the entrance to the cave. Just as described, huge and triangular. I pulled the flashlight from my pocket and as carefully as possible, began to trek in. I noticed the steep drops that had been written down, and sure enough, nothing below but inky blackness. My stomach tied in a knot a little, nervous of falling for a moment.

The sound of water filled my ears as I continued, just like the entries. Perhaps some wasn’t made up, but as he progressed, the old coot just got more and more bored with his surroundings. Happens all the time.

I did, however, notice some old climbing gear down the side of one of the drops. Now this, this was cool. I peered down the old rope ladders, noticing scratch marks from some of the gear used to hook into the rocks. I should’ve known better, but I decided to test part of the rope. If it could support my weight despite its age, I could put my curiosity to rest for good.

It was strange, but the rope held firm. I descended, finding some of the tunnels that had been dug in years and years ago. I chose the one I figured to be the one this man had gone down, admiring the red rocks of the wall as he had mentioned. They did seem…odd…now that I had a good look at them, but nothing too strange.

Just a short travel, I’d tell myself. Just to get rid of your curiosity, then we’re out. But I kept going further, and further, losing track of time as I continued.

The pit of my stomach continued to curl into a knot as a horrible stench filled my nose. Iron.

I reread some of the final entrees.

Come on. This is ridiculous! I was getting scared of nothing. Things smell weird all the time.

Nothing to be scared about, and besides, the further I’d get the more I’d prove this man was just crazy.

He was just crazy, I told myself again, ignoring the distant yowl.

Loud.

And animal-like.

[general-du-vallon]

post Death of a Hero, because because. I did already write an episode tag to this but i have deleted every instance of that in a fit of pique so let’s forget that. I can write as many as i like, anyway. 

“Well, I’m going to go and find my wife to kiss her again,” d’Artagnan says, getting up and looking a bit awkwardly between Porthos and Treville.

 “I have duty,” Treville says, short and sharp, and he gets up too, leading d’Artagnan out.

 Porthos looks around the empty office, thinks about Athos off with Sylvie, Aramis off meeting the queen in secret (as he surely is right now), d’Artagnan in the arms of his wife, and laughs. That hurts so he stops and turns back to the window. He breathes as deeply as he can for a while, then shakes the bitterness off and goes to find Hannah. She’s been here since about the same time as d’Artagnan showed up, stitching them up, giving them salves, looking after them. Some friend of Constance’s. Porthos hasn’t seen her since they came back from the front, he goes to knock on her door and is surprised to find it answered by a very small child, and surprised again when a slim lad with one arm comes to lift the child onto a hip. Porthos peers over the man’s shoulder.

 “Um, is Hannah…?” Porthos asks, uncertain all of a sudden. He hasn’t been hurt since returning, or not more than a scrape or bruise that Aramis or Athos hasn’t taken care of. He went to d’Artagnan with a cut once and only once: d’Artagnan’s solution was to punch Porthos in the shoulder and cheerfully suggest he use a smelly pot of something orange that was apparently a recipe of his mother’s.

 “Oh, you’re from the garrison,” the man says. “I’ll get Hannah.”

 Porthos waits, having not been invited in. Hannah comes out a few minutes later and smiles seeing him.

 “Monsieur du Vallon,” she says, drying her hands on an apron. “My husband said it was someone from the garrison, can I help?”

 “No, I’m sorry, I thought you were still…” Porthos trails off. Husband. That means the kid’s probably hers, too. He definitely should have found out who runs things around here before barging in on someone.

 “I’m still working, if that’s what you mean, Constance usually comes and knocks when I’m needed, so I can spend time with Claude and Esther. Are you injured?”

 “A broken rib, I think,” Porthos says. “I wanted someone to check my back and make sure I’ve not missed something.”

 “Come on in. Usually we’d go to the sickroom, but as it’s you,” Hannah says.

 Porthos follows her into the little house, just a few rooms, a garret really. She’s got it beautifully set up, all the things neatly sewn, everything bright and fresh and clean. He nearly falls asleep as she’s examining him but Esther comes in and distracts him. He lets her assuage her curiosity about many things. Like his beard, and his bright buttons, and the coins she finds in his boot, and is gloves. She’s not in the slightest shy but she isn’t much of a talker. Hannah’s husband comes and stands in the doorway and watches over the child, and in his attentive focus Porthos recognises him as one of the sharp shooters Porthos worked with at the front, two years ago, back at Alsace. They barely worked together for more than a few days, Porthos doesn’t refresh his memory: Lachy took out a man about to shoot Porthos, that day. He’d then got them both captured by the Spanish yelling when a ball hit him. Not that Porthos had blamed him. The wound had festered, locked in the prison there, Porthos had done his best but had been watching over a dead man until Athos and d’Artagnan hatched their foolhardy plan. Hannah must have seen to him when he returned home. But no, because Esther’s coming on three or four, surely. Porthos’s idle wondering comes to an end as Hannah decides that, as he suspected, it’s just a broken rib. Or two, according to her. And extensive bruising.

 “I’ve taken my time cleaning these cuts and grazes so they don’t infect,” she tells him, following him out.

 “I’m glad you’ve found some family,” Porthos blurts, squinting at the sun.

 “Hm,” Hannah says, hands on her hips. “He’s a good man.”

 “I know,” Porthos says. “He saved my life two years ago. He’s a damned good shot.”

 Hannah smiles, a little shy, a little uncertain. Porthos wonders if she loves Lachy. He doesn’t ask, Lachy comes out and Hannah turns, and he doesn’t need to ask. Porthos heads for his rooms, then changes tack and goes to Athos’s instead, lying face down on the bed. Athos is with Sylvie, he won’t be back for hours. Days, even. His bed is nicer than Porthos’s. He’s about to drift off when the latch lifts, sending a spike of adrenaline through him. He recognises Athos before he does anything like skewer the intruder.

 “Nearly killed you, startling me like that,” Porthos mumbles, ignoring the fact that he’s still face first in Athos’s pillow, belt and jacket and weapons discarded somewhere near the door.

 “I would have knocked,” Athos says, sarcastically.

 “Next time,” Porthos says, ignoring the sarcasm.

 He doesn’t ask about Sylvie. He can guess, he’s seen Athos with relationships before. Not necessarily romantic relationships, but relationships. He remembers, early on, Athos trying at least ten times to break away from Porthos, to persuade Porthos he wasn’t worth being friends with, wasn’t worth trusting. Wasn’t worth loving. Couldn’t love Porthos in return. Athos fits himself into the small space Porthos isn’t draped over, groans, fits his arms around Porthos in a way that doesn’t hurt, shoves and cajoles until Porthos isn’t lying on his broken ribs, and then subsides, still grumbling, against Porthos’s shoulder.

 “I hurt,” Porthos says.

 “Me too,” Athos says, fervent.

 “Today was not a good day.”

 “We didn’t die, that’s something,” Athos says.

 “I lost a good barrel of wine, that’s almost as bad,” Porthos says. Athos chuckles, scratching his fingers lightly against Porthos’s chest. “I suppose living is more important than wine."

 “What will I do with you?” Athos says, softly, catching something in Porthos’s tone.

 “More what I’m going to do with myself, now you have all found other family,” Porthos says.

 “Mm-hmm,” Athos says, unimpressed by Porthos’s misery.

 “What?”

 “Well, what shall I say to you?” Athos says. “I could tell you that you’ll always have a place, with any of us. That we share whatever we have, as always. That… you’re the truest friend I’ve ever had, the best man I’ve ever met, you have never wavered. I have no intention of losing that. Or of losing this.”

 “Sylvie’s not as patient as I am,” Porthos says, into the pillow, face pressed there to keep from laughing or crying. Or both. “Lose her if you don’t get it together.”

 “I can’t. I put her in danger. My job doesn’t allow me-”

 “Uh-uh,” Porthos says. “Not my problem.”

 “Then leave it,” Athos says. Porthos grumbles, but that’s fair so he does it wordlessly. “Broken ribs?”

 “Just one,” Porthos lies. “The same as always breaks.”

 “You could stop barrelling into fights,” Athos says.

 “You could stop nagging,” Porthos says, but without any heat.

 “I was so surprised when I realised I loved you,” Athos says. “I can’t believe how much I do, it’s ridiculous.”

 “Love isn’t kind,” Porthos says.

 “Then I promise besides,” Athos says, stubbornly. “Promise you’ll be my family until the day we die. I couldn’t throw you off now if I tried.”

 “Yeah, you’re a weakling. I’m too big,” Porthos says, leaning back into Athos. Athos hisses so Porthos quickly removes his weight. “Especially now. Useless, now.”

 Athos huffs but doesn’t refute any of that. Porthos smiles happily and goes to sleep. d'Artagnan was right: he does have good friends. He mightn’t have a wife and child yet, or any of the things d’Artagnan was dreamy over, but he has plenty of his own. Maybe Sylvie will be just patient enough and she’ll give up her sedition and have many many children who Porthos can dote on. Porthos hums, pleased with that idea. Athos probably likes Sylvie’s sedition. Probably wants to join her. Cause mischief, like Aramis. Porthos can’t exactly blame them, war tears a country apart and makes orphans and refugees, plenty there to fight over. Plenty of places that things could be done better. Porthos sighs, the gauzy image of Sylvie and Athos and himself raising many many little Athoses dispersing.

 “What now?” Athos sighs. “Are we never going to sleep, Porthos? Today has been trying.”

 “At least we’re not dead,” Porthos says. “I was just thinking. Serving my country, long and well. I’ve one good, right, Athos? In the world?”

 “You’ve done wonderfully,” Athos says, dry and irritable but no less genuine for that. Porthos nods and settles down again. “I admire the way you move through the world, my friend. Please get some rest.”

 “Let you get rest you mean,” Porthos says. “Up all hours doing who knows what.”

 Athos huffs again, tightens his arms just enough to hurt for a moment then relaxes, kissing Porthos’s shoulder. Porthos shifts and settles again, eyes heavy, gritty with dust and exhaustion. Today really was not a good day. He had thought that he might never have a child, might never meet the woman he is going to marry, might never have a family. And then, underneath, he’d been afraid. So very, very afraid. Because a trap set for them, for him and d’Artagnan and Aramis, meant danger for Athos. And Athos was alone and vulnerable, unfocussed. But Athos had come and hauled him out and held him for a moment, and now Porthos rests in his arms. So very much to lose, but so very much to come home to as well. So very much to life for and fight for.

[sbknews]

New Post has been published on Superbike News

New Post has been published on http://superbike-news.co.uk/wordpress/honda-racing-signs-andrew-irwin-and-tom-neave-in-its-bsb-and-superstock-assaults/

Honda Racing signs Andrew Irwin and Tom Neave in its BSB and Superstock assaults

– Andrew Irwin joins Honda Racing in British Superbike title assault – Honda returns to the National Superstock 1000 Championship

Honda (UK) is pleased to announce its 2019 racing plans, having signed Andrew Irwin in the British Superbike Championship and Tom Neave in the National Superstock 1000 Championship, as well as supporting Will Lathrope in the Junior Supersport class.

Andrew joins the Honda team after a promising debut season in the Superbike class, which saw a best result of fourth place in the final round at Brands Hatch. Andrew will be looking for strong results and Showdown spots as he contests the 2019 season riding the CBR1000RR Fireblade SP2.

Honda Racing also makes its return to the National Superstock 1000 Championship with Tom, riding the CBR1000RR Fireblade SP2, who impressed when he rode the Superbike earlier in the year. Finishing as runner-up in 2014, the team will be looking to claim the title in 2019.

As well as challenging in the Superbike and Superstock classes, Honda (UK) is pleased to be supporting young racing talent in the Junior Supersport class with Will Lathrope aboard the Honda CBR500R. Will first rode the machine in the final round of the series this year, securing two sixth places in the process.

The second rider on the Honda CBR1000RR Fireblade SP2 to contest the 2019 British Superbike Championship will be announced in the next couple of weeks.

Honda Racing would also like to thank to Dan Linfoot and Jason O’Halloran for their hard work, help and dedication in developing the CBR1000RR Fireblade SP2. The riders have been with Honda for 15 years collectively – Dan four years and Jason 11 (Honda Australia and Honda UK). Honda Racing along with Honda (UK) would like to wish them both all the very best for the future.

Andrew Irwin Honda has such a pedigree and most of the top riders in the world have ridden for them at some point in their careers. To be part of that racing history and heritage really excites me. This year was my first year in Superbike and was a huge learning curve! Towards the end of the season I found my way and felt it was all coming together, so now with Harv and the team I will be aiming for the Showdown, which I believe is a realistic target. We will have a full season and also a test programme, which I didn’t have this year and I was still competitive, so we’ll be aiming for the front and I see no reason why we can’t be up there.

Tom Neave I am chuffed to bits to have signed with Honda for 2019, it’s something I have always wanted and worked towards. Honda is such a big name in racing and they are one of the teams you look up to. After my accident at the last round I thought I’d blown my chance, but Harv called, we got the deal done and I am so thankful for this opportunity. I had such a good time with the team over the summer and now to have a full season with them is the consistency I need for my career. I can’t wait to get going now, it’s going to feel like an even longer off-season with my excitement, but as I’m a Lincolnshire lad I can pop to the workshop anytime and see my Fireblade SP2; the lads will be sick of me before the season starts!

Havier Beltran Team Manager Firstly I would like to thank Dan and Jason for all their hard work over the last few years, it’s been a pleasure working with them. Honda (UK), the team and myself would like to wish them both the very best in the next chapter of their careers.

Moving into 2019 we have an exciting season ahead of us with Andrew in the Superbike class, we’re back in Superstock 1000 with Tom and we have the CBR500R with Will in the Junior Supersport class.

Andrew’s talent shone this season and it was great to watch him progress, with a full year and our proceeding testing programme I think we’re going to see good things from Andrew and I’m certain that he’ll be mixing with the front group.

It’s great to have Tom with us too in Superstock 1000, we had great fun with him earlier in the year and again he impressed with his work ethic and determination. We’ve got a busy year ahead with three bikes over two classes and supporting in Junior Supersport, but with the riders and the team we have, I think we can be in for a good year and back at the top, where Honda belongs.

British Superbike

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[readbookywooks]

Ben Weatherstaff

One of the strange things about living in the world is that it is only now and then one is quite sure one is going to live forever and ever and ever. One knows it sometimes when one gets up at the tender solemn dawn-time and goes out and stands alone and throws one's head far back and looks up and up and watches the pale sky slowly changing and flushing and marvelous unknown things happening until the East almost makes one cry out and one's heart stands still at the strange unchanging majesty of the rising of the sun--which has been happening every morning for thousands and thousands and thousands of years. One knows it then for a moment or so. And one knows it sometimes when one stands by oneself in a wood at sunset and the mysterious deep gold stillness slanting through and under the branches seems to be saying slowly again and again something one cannot quite hear, however much one tries. Then sometimes the immense quiet of the dark blue at night with millions of stars waiting and watching makes one sure; and sometimes a sound of far-off music makes it true; and sometimes a look in some one's eyes.

And it was like that with Colin when he first saw and heard and felt the Springtime inside the four high walls of a hidden garden. That afternoon the whole world seemed to devote itself to being perfect and radiantly beautiful and kind to one boy. Perhaps out of pure heavenly goodness the spring came and crowned everything it possibly could into that one place. More than once Dickon paused in what he was doing and stood still with a sort of growing wonder in his eyes, shaking his head softly.

"Eh! it is graidely," he said. "I'm twelve goin' on thirteen an' there's a lot o' afternoons in thirteen years, but seems to me like I never seed one as graidely as this 'ere."

"Aye, it is a graidely one," said Mary, and she sighed for mere joy. "I'll warrant it's the graidelest one as ever was in this world."

"Does tha' think," said Colin with dreamy carefulness, "as happen it was made loike this 'ere all o' purpose for me?"

"My word!" cried Mary admiringly, "that there is a bit o' good Yorkshire. Tha'rt shapin' first-rate--that tha' art."

And delight reigned. They drew the chair under the plum-tree, which was snow-white with blossoms and musical with bees. It was like a king's canopy, a fairy king's. There were flowering cherry-trees near and apple-trees whose buds were pink and white, and here and there one had burst open wide. Between the blossoming branches of the canopy bits of blue sky looked down like wonderful eyes.

Mary and Dickon worked a litle here and there and Colin watched them. They brought him things to look at--buds which were opening, buds which were tight closed, bits of twig whose leaves were just showing green, the feather of a woodpecker which had dropped on the grass, the empty shell of some bird early hatched. Dickon pushed the chair slowly round and round the garden, stopping every other moment to let him look at wonders springing out of the earth or trailing down from trees. It was like being taken in state round the country of a magic king and queen and shown all the mysterious riches it contained.

"I wonder if we shall see the robin?" said Colin.

"Tha'll see him often enow after a bit," answered Dickon. "When th' eggs hatches out th' little chap he'll be kep' so busy it'll make his head swim. Tha'll see him flyin' backward an' for'ard carryin' worms nigh as big as himsel' an' that much noise goin' on in th' nest when he gets there as fair flusters him so as he scarce knows which big mouth to drop th' first piece in. An' gapin' beaks an' squawks on every side. Mother says as when she sees th' work a robin has to keep them gapin' beaks filled, she feels like she was a lady with nothin' to do. She says she's seen th' little chaps when it seemed like th' sweat must be droppin' off 'em, though folk can't see it."

This made them giggle so delightedly that they were obliged to cover their mouths with their hands, remembering that they must not be heard. Colin had been instructed as to the law of whispers and low voices several days before. He liked the mysteriousness of it and did his best, but in the midst of excited enjoyment it is rather difficult never to laugh above a whisper.

Every moment of the afternoon was full of new things and every hour the sunshine grew more golden. The wheeled chair had been drawn back under the canopy and Dickon had sat down on the grass and had just drawn out his pipe when Colin saw something he had not had time to notice before.

"That's a very old tree over there, isn't it?" he said. Dickon looked across the grass at the tree and Mary looked and there was a brief moment of stillness.

"Yes," answered Dickon, after it, and his low voice had a very gentle sound.

Mary gazed at the tree and thought.

"The branches are quite gray and there's not a single leaf anywhere," Colin went on. "It's quite dead, isn't it?"

"Aye," admitted Dickon. "But them roses as has climbed all over it will near hide every bit o' th' dead wood when they're full o' leaves an' flowers. It won't look dead then. It'll be th' prettiest of all."

Mary still gazed at the tree and thought.

"It looks as if a big branch had been broken off," said Colin. "I wonder how it was done."

"It's been done many a year," answered Dickon. "Eh!" with a sudden relieved start and laying his hand on Colin. "Look at that robin! There he is! He's been foragin' for his mate."

Colin was almost too late but he just caught sight of him, the flash of red-breasted bird with something in his beak. He darted through the greenness and into the close-grown corner and was out of sight. Colin leaned back on his cushion again, laughing a little. "He's taking her tea to her. Perhaps it's five o'clock. I think I'd like some tea myself."

And so they were safe.

"It was Magic which sent the robin," said Mary secretly to Dickon afterward. "I know it was Magic." For both she and Dickon had been afraid Colin might ask something about the tree whose branch had broken off ten years ago and they had talked it over together and Dickon had stood and rubbed his head in a troubled way.

"We mun look as if it wasn't no different from th' other trees," he had said. "We couldn't never tell him how it broke, poor lad. If he says anything about it we mun--we mun try to look cheerful."

"Aye, that we mun," had answered Mary.

But she had not felt as if she looked cheerful when she gazed at the tree. She wondered and wondered in those few moments if there was any reality in that other thing Dickon had said. He had gone on rubbing his rust-red hair in a puzzled way, but a nice comforted look had begun to grow in his blue eyes.

"Mrs. Craven was a very lovely young lady," he had gone on rather hesitatingly. "An' mother she thinks maybe she's about Misselthwaite many a time lookin' after Mester Colin, same as all mothers do when they're took out o' th' world. They have to come back, tha' sees. Happen she's been in the garden an' happen it was her set us to work, an' told us to bring him here."

Mary had thought he meant something about Magic. She was a great believer in Magic. Secretly she quite believed that Dickon worked Magic, of course good Magic, on everything near him and that was why people liked him so much and wild creatures knew he was their friend. She wondered, indeed, if it were not possible that his gift had brought the robin just at the right moment when Colin asked that dangerous question. She felt that his Magic was working all the afternoon and making Colin look like an entirely different boy. It did not seem possible that he could be the crazy creature who had screamed and beaten and bitten his pillow. Even his ivory whiteness seemed to change. The faint glow of color which had shown on his face and neck and hands when he first got inside the garden really never quite died away. He looked as if he were made of flesh instead of ivory or wax.

They saw the robin carry food to his mate two or three times, and it was so suggestive of afternoon tea that Colin felt they must have some.

"Go and make one of the men servants bring some in a basket to the rhododendron walk," he said. "And then you and Dickon can bring it here."

It was an agreeable idea, easily carried out, and when the white cloth was spread upon the grass, with hot tea and buttered toast and crumpets, a delightfully hungry meal was eaten, and several birds on domestic errands paused to inquire what was going on and were led into investigating crumbs with great activity. Nut and Shell whisked up trees with pieces of cake and Soot took the entire half of a buttered crumpet into a corner and pecked at and examined and turned it over and made hoarse remarks about it until he decided to swallow it all joyfully in one gulp.

The afternoon was dragging towards its mellow hour. The sun was deepening the gold of its lances, the bees were going home and the birds were flying past less often. Dickon and Mary were sitting on the grass, the tea-basket was repacked ready to be taken back to the house, and Colin was lying against his cushions with his heavy locks pushed back from his forehead and his face looking quite a natural color.

"I don't want this afternoon to go," he said; "but I shall come back tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after, and the day after."

"You'll get plenty of fresh air, won't you?" said Mary. "I'm going to get nothing else," he answered. "I've seen the spring now and I'm going to see the summer. I'm going to see everything grow here. I'm going to grow here myself."

"That tha' will," said Dickon. "Us'll have thee walkin' about here an' diggin' same as other folk afore long."

Colin flushed tremendously.

"Walk!" he said. "Dig! Shall I?"

Dickon's glance at him was delicately cautious. Neither he nor Mary had ever asked if anything was the matter with his legs.

"For sure tha' will," he said stoutly. "Tha--tha's got legs o' thine own, same as other folks!"

Mary was rather frightened until she heard Colin's answer.

"Nothing really ails them," he said, "but they are so thin and weak. They shake so that I'm afraid to try to stand on them."

Both Mary and Dickon drew a relieved breath.

"When tha' stops bein' afraid tha'lt stand on 'em," Dickon said with renewed cheer. "An' tha'lt stop bein' afraid in a bit."

"I shall?" said Colin, and he lay still as if he were wondering about things.

They were really very quiet for a little while. The sun was dropping lower. It was that hour when everything stills itself, and they really had had a busy and exciting afternoon. Colin looked as if he were resting luxuriously. Even the creatures had ceased moving about and had drawn together and were resting near them. Soot had perched on a low branch and drawn up one leg and dropped the gray film drowsily over his eyes. Mary privately thought he looked as if he might snore in a minute.

In the midst of this stillness it was rather startling when Colin half lifted his head and exclaimed in a loud suddenly alarmed whisper:

"Who is that man?" Dickon and Mary scrambled to their feet.

"Man!" they both cried in low quick voices.

Colin pointed to the high wall. "Look!" he whispered excitedly. "Just look!"

Mary and Dickon wheeled about and looked. There was Ben Weatherstaff's indignant face glaring at them over the wall from the top of a ladder! He actually shook his fist at Mary.

"If I wasn't a bachelder, an' tha' was a wench o' mine," he cried, "I'd give thee a hidin'!"

He mounted another step threateningly as if it were his energetic intention to jump down and deal with her; but as she came toward him he evidently thought better of it and stood on the top step of his ladder shaking his fist down at her.

"I never thowt much o' thee!" he harangued. "I couldna' abide thee th' first time I set eyes on thee. A scrawny buttermilk-faced young besom, allus askin' questions an' pokin' tha' nose where it wasna, wanted. I never knowed how tha' got so thick wi' me. If it hadna' been for th' robin-- Drat him--"

"Ben Weatherstaff," called out Mary, finding her breath. She stood below him and called up to him with a sort of gasp. "Ben Weatherstaff, it was the robin who showed me the way!"

Then it did seem as if Ben really would scramble down on her side of the wall, he was so outraged.

"Tha' young bad 'un!" he called down at her. "Layin' tha' badness on a robin--not but what he's impidint enow for anythin'. Him showin' thee th' way! Him! Eh! tha' young nowt"--she could see his next words burst out because he was overpowered by curiosity-- "however i' this world did tha' get in?"

"It was the robin who showed me the way," she protested obstinately. "He didn't know he was doing it but he did. And I can't tell you from here while you're shaking your fist at me."

He stopped shaking his fist very suddenly at that very moment and his jaw actually dropped as he stared over her head at something he saw coming over the grass toward him.

At the first sound of his torrent of words Colin had been so surprised that he had only sat up and listened as if he were spellbound. But in the midst of it he had recovered himself and beckoned imperiously to Dickon.

"Wheel me over there!" he commanded. "Wheel me quite close and stop right in front of him!"

And this, if you please, this is what Ben Weatherstaff beheld and which made his jaw drop. A wheeled chair with luxurious cushions and robes which came toward him looking rather like some sort of State Coach because a young Rajah leaned back in it with royal command in his great black-rimmed eyes and a thin white hand extended haughtily toward him. And it stopped right under Ben Weatherstaff's nose. It was really no wonder his mouth dropped open.

"Do you know who I am?" demanded the Rajah.

How Ben Weatherstaff stared! His red old eyes fixed themselves on what was before him as if he were seeing a ghost. He gazed and gazed and gulped a lump down his throat and did not say a word. "Do you know who I am?" demanded Colin still more imperiously. "Answer!"

Ben Weatherstaff put his gnarled hand up and passed it over his eyes and over his forehead and then he did answer in a queer shaky voice.

"Who tha' art?" he said. "Aye, that I do--wi' tha' mother's eyes starin' at me out o' tha' face. Lord knows how tha' come here. But tha'rt th' poor cripple."

Colin forgot that he had ever had a back. His face flushed scarlet and he sat bolt upright.

"I'm not a cripple!" he cried out furiously. "I'm not!"

"He's not!" cried Mary, almost shouting up the wall in her fierce indignation. "He's not got a lump as big as a pin! I looked and there was none there--not one!"

Ben Weatherstaff passed his hand over his forehead again and gazed as if he could never gaze enough. His hand shook and his mouth shook and his voice shook. He was an ignorant old man and a tactless old man and he could only remember the things he had heard.

"Tha'--tha' hasn't got a crooked back?" he said hoarsely.

"No!" shouted Colin.

"Tha'--tha' hasn't got crooked legs?" quavered Ben more hoarsely yet. It was too much. The strength which Colin usually threw into his tantrums rushed through him now in a new way. Never yet had he been accused of crooked legs--even in whispers--and the perfectly simple belief in their existence which was revealed by Ben Weatherstaff's voice was more than Rajah flesh and blood could endure. His anger and insulted pride made him forget everything but this one moment and filled him with a power he had never known before, an almost unnatural strength.

"Come here!" he shouted to Dickon, and he actually began to tear the coverings off his lower limbs and disentangle himself. "Come here! Come here! This minute!"

Dickon was by his side in a second. Mary caught her breath in a short gasp and felt herself turn pale.

"He can do it! He can do it! He can do it! He can!" she gabbled over to herself under her breath as fast as ever she could.

There was a brief fierce scramble, the rugs were tossed on the ground, Dickon held Colin's arm, the thin legs were out, the thin feet were on the grass. Colin was standing upright--upright--as straight as an arrow and looking strangely tall--his head thrown back and his strange eyes flashing lightning. "Look at me!" he flung up at Ben Weatherstaff. "Just look at me--you! Just look at me!"

"He's as straight as I am!" cried Dickon. "He's as straight as any lad i' Yorkshire!"

What Ben Weatherstaff did Mary thought queer beyond measure. He choked and gulped and suddenly tears ran down his weather-wrinkled cheeks as he struck his old hands together.

"Eh!" he burst forth, "th' lies folk tells! Tha'rt as thin as a lath an' as white as a wraith, but there's not a knob on thee. Tha'lt make a mon yet. God bless thee!"

Dickon held Colin's arm strongly but the boy had not begun to falter. He stood straighter and straighter and looked Ben Weatherstaff in the face.

"I'm your master," he said, "when my father is away. And you are to obey me. This is my garden. Don't dare to say a word about it! You get down from that ladder and go out to the Long Walk and Miss Mary will meet you and bring you here. I want to talk to you. We did not want you, but now you will have to be in the secret. Be quick!"

Ben Weatherstaff's crabbed old face was still wet with that one queer rush of tears. It seemed as if he could not take his eyes from thin straight Colin standing on his feet with his head thrown back.

"Eh! lad," he almost whispered. "Eh! my lad!" And then remembering himself he suddenly touched his hat gardener fashion and said, "Yes, sir! Yes, sir!" and obediently disappeared as he descended the ladder.

[carolinesbookworld]

How the Moon Fell In Love With a Star - Part 4

Fandom: Harry Potter, Marauders Era

Pairing: Sirius Black x OC (Remus’s twin sister)

Word Count: 975 (it’s giving me anxiety that it’s under 1,000 words)

Summary: Lilliana Lupin is just starting her seventh year with her twin brother and best friends. The only catch: she’s in love with one of them. When James hatches a plan to make both Lily Evans and Sirius Black notice James and Lillie, she is hesitant. Until it works.

Series Masterlist    Masterlist

A/N: I’m soooo sorry this took so long. This chapter is really more of a filler because the next chapter is actually what I wrote first and what this whole story is based off of. I just needed to get the first few chapters written so I had a foundation for the story and some context before jumping into the actual plot I wanted to get to. So again, I’m sorry this took so long. I promise the next part will be posted early so y’all will maybe forgive me. Eh, whatever, I’m super excited about the next part and I want all of you to see it, so it’ll be up in the next few days anyway ;)

Part 1  Part 2  Part 3

“I can't believe him.” I paced back and forth in front of James's bed. He lay on his back tossing a Snitch in the air and catching it before it could fly away. “He said I was his best friend. He friend-zoned me. After all that and he still thinks of me as his best friend.”

“Maybe he doesn't,” James mumbled.

“I'm sorry, what?” I spun to face James, narrowing my eyes. “Maybe he doesn't? You're his best friend, you know all about what he thinks of me, don't you?”

James stared wide-eyed at the ceiling. “I...um.” He licked his lips and propped himself up on one hand. “I wasn't saying that he... doesn't think of you as his best friend. More that he thinks of you as...more?” James tilted his head at me. “You know, the way I feel about Lily.”

“Alright,” I said slowly. “But Lily knows how you feel about her. Has since you met. Besides, you two wouldn't even be friends if it wasn't for me. You're welcome by the way.”

James shot me a grin. “That's it! I haven't always been friends with Lily so it's been obvious to her that I've liked her all these years. You, on the other hand, have always been friends with Sirius so you haven't always been able to see how he feels about you,” James reasoned.

“Prongs, you aren't getting it. He said I was his best friend. That doesn't exactly leave room to say, 'Oh by the way, I love you even though you're my best friend and I probably made this super awkward.’” I resumed my pacing. I sighed. “This is pointless. You're no help. I need something to do.” My hand was on the knob when the door pushed open suddenly. I jumped back as if I had been burned and came face-to-face with my brother.

“What are you two doing up here?” Remus asked. I shot a look at James, who rolled his eyes.

“Talking,” I replied as James said, “Studying.” Remus gave us a look and shook his head. “Right. Anyway, Sirius is looking for you James.”

James hauled himself off the bed, muttering, “What on Earth does he need me for?”

The door closed with a satisfying bang. “Right then. Now that he's gone, are you going to tell me what you were talking about?” Remus asked with a pointed look.

I huffed a sigh. “I'm in despair, Remus!” I threw myself face-down on his bed. I muttered something incoherently, to which Remus said, “Pardon?”

Turning my face up, the light from the setting sun blinded my eyes. The rays streaked through the clouds, painting a picture of a blue and orange sky. When my eyes finally refocused, they met the identical eyes of my twin. “The sky is beautiful,” I stated.

“Yes, it is. Now are you going to tell me what you just said?” I shook my head and let my eyes droop, staring sullenly at the trunk with a gold insignia of the Hogwarts crest and a messily carved 'SOB’ on the lid. Remus followed my stare. His shoulders slumped as he looked back at me. “I hope you are surprised one day.” And with that, my brother stood, straightened his sweater, and limped out of the room, wincing in pain.

The last full moon had been extremely difficult. James and Sirius had barely been able to control both of us, and all five, werewolves and Animagi alike, were in pain.

At least Remus, Peter, and I didn't have a Quidditch game tomorrow.

----

James practically bounced around the common room the next morning. I yawned as I rounded the turn at the bottom of the dormitory stairs.

“Today is the day, lads!” James exclaimed. He threw an arm around my shoulder and tugged me to his side. “Today is the day we finally beat Slytherin.” I rubbed my eyes and leaned away from James's loud talking.

“It's barely 8, James. Can you quiet down? I'm going to get a headache.”

“Better not go to the game then, Lillie,” Peter suggested. I shook my head.

“I should go for you guys. I want to be there to support.”

Sirius rolled his eyes. “Really? I thought it was just because you wanted to see me shirtless at the end of the game.” My cheeks reddened.

James and Sirius had a tradition. After winning a Quidditch game, they would pull off their robes and painted across their chests were the words 'Gryffindor dominates the field! Potter and Black dominate your hearts!’ They started the tradition in third year when they found out that half the girls in the school were crazy about them. Remus thinks it's ridiculous. Peter wants to join in. I try not to care that all the girls swoon over a shirtless Sirius Black.

“Fine. I'll go. But I won't like it.”

----

Ten minutes into the game, rain started pelting the castle grounds. Peter, Remus, and I huddled under an old cloak Lily helped me enchant to repel rain. After getting ripped apart by werewolf claws and stitched back together, it wouldn't have been wearable anymore, so it became our rain cover.

Gryffindor was up by 130 points. Slytherin did not have very good chasers this year. The first game for our House and we were probably going to win. Which meant after party. Which meant I sat in the corner and ignored everyone.

James scored three more times in a two minute time span. Then Regulus Black, Slytherin's Seeker, snagged the Snitch and the game was over. Like I thought, Gryffindor won by 10. True to tradition, James and Sirius pulled off their robes. The paint on their chests was just streaks of color from the torrents of rain.

All of Gryffindor left for the common room. The party had officially begun.

Part 5

Please please please send me ideas for future parts if you have any ideas I don’t know where I want to take this in the future.

Tags: @paradoxical--intentions @knowledgeisthebomb @watson-38 @athenamalfoywinchester @bestillmystuckyheart @annino112 @siriuspadfoot14 @xsuperwholockaddictx-blog @ghostgirl1609 @whysoseriouspadfoot @bubblesbts @sly-vixen-up2nogood @sleepingalaska @nicolebeaudry @saynotodrugsyestotacos @mysweetcookie99 @mrstomlifford @shootingstarsaretearsofheaven @avengersassemblee

Send me a message or comment down below if you want to be tagged in future parts :)

[readbookywooks]

The Black Current

THE PART OF THE planet earth that the seas occupy has been assessed at 3,832,558 square myriameters, hence more than 38,000,000,000 hectares. This liquid mass totals 2,250,000,000 cubic miles and could form a sphere with a diameter of sixty leagues, whose weight would be three quintillion metric tons. To appreciate such a number, we should remember that a quintillion is to a billion what a billion is to one, in other words, there are as many billions in a quintillion as ones in a billion! Now then, this liquid mass nearly equals the total amount of water that has poured through all the earth's rivers for the past 40,000 years! During prehistoric times, an era of fire was followed by an era of water. At first there was ocean everywhere. Then, during the Silurian period, the tops of mountains gradually appeared above the waves, islands emerged, disappeared beneath temporary floods, rose again, were fused to form continents, and finally the earth's geography settled into what we have today. Solid matter had wrested from liquid matter some 37,657,000 square miles, hence 12,916,000,000 hectares. The outlines of the continents allow the seas to be divided into five major parts: the frozen Arctic and Antarctic oceans, the Indian Ocean, the Atlantic Ocean, and the Pacific Ocean. The Pacific Ocean extends north to south between the two polar circles and east to west between America and Asia over an expanse of 145 degrees of longitude. It's the most tranquil of the seas; its currents are wide and slow-moving, its tides moderate, its rainfall abundant. And this was the ocean that I was first destined to cross under these strangest of auspices. "If you don't mind, professor," Captain Nemo told me, "we'll determine our exact position and fix the starting point of our voyage. It's fifteen minutes before noon. I'm going to rise to the surface of the water." The captain pressed an electric bell three times. The pumps began to expel water from the ballast tanks; on the pressure gauge, a needle marked the decreasing pressures that indicated the Nautilus's upward progress; then the needle stopped. "Here we are," the captain said. I made my way to the central companionway, which led to the platform. I climbed its metal steps, passed through the open hatches, and arrived topside on the Nautilus. The platform emerged only eighty centimeters above the waves. The Nautilus's bow and stern boasted that spindle-shaped outline that had caused the ship to be compared appropriately to a long cigar. I noted the slight overlap of its sheet-iron plates, which resembled the scales covering the bodies of our big land reptiles. So I had a perfectly natural explanation for why, despite the best spyglasses, this boat had always been mistaken for a marine animal. Near the middle of the platform, the skiff was half set in the ship's hull, making a slight bulge. Fore and aft stood two cupolas of moderate height, their sides slanting and partly inset with heavy biconvex glass, one reserved for the helmsman steering the Nautilus, the other for the brilliance of the powerful electric beacon lighting his way. The sea was magnificent, the skies clear. This long aquatic vehicle could barely feel the broad undulations of the ocean. A mild breeze out of the east rippled the surface of the water. Free of all mist, the horizon was ideal for taking sights. There was nothing to be seen. Not a reef, not an islet. No more Abraham Lincoln. A deserted immenseness. Raising his sextant, Captain Nemo took the altitude of the sun, which would give him his latitude. He waited for a few minutes until the orb touched the rim of the horizon. While he was taking his sights, he didn't move a muscle, and the instrument couldn't have been steadier in hands made out of marble. "Noon," he said. "Professor, whenever you're ready. . . ." I took one last look at the sea, a little yellowish near the landing places of Japan, and I went below again to the main lounge. There the captain fixed his position and used a chronometer to calculate his longitude, which he double-checked against his previous observations of hour angles. Then he told me: "Professor Aronnax, we're in longitude 137 degrees 15' west - " "West of which meridian?" I asked quickly, hoping the captain's reply might give me a clue to his nationality. "Sir," he answered me, "I have chronometers variously set to the meridians of Paris, Greenwich, and Washington, D.C. But in your honor, I'll use the one for Paris." This reply told me nothing. I bowed, and the commander went on: "We're in longitude 137 degrees 15' west of the meridian of Paris, and latitude 30 degrees 7' north, in other words, about 300 miles from the shores of Japan. At noon on this day of November 8, we hereby begin our voyage of exploration under the waters." "May God be with us!" I replied. "And now, professor," the captain added, "I'll leave you to your intellectual pursuits. I've set our course east-northeast at a depth of fifty meters. Here are some large-scale charts on which you'll be able to follow that course. The lounge is at your disposal, and with your permission, I'll take my leave." Captain Nemo bowed. I was left to myself, lost in my thoughts. They all centered on the Nautilus's commander. Would I ever learn the nationality of this eccentric man who had boasted of having none? His sworn hate for humanity, a hate that perhaps was bent on some dreadful revenge - what had provoked it? Was he one of those unappreciated scholars, one of those geniuses "embittered by the world," as Conseil expressed it, a latter-day Galileo, or maybe one of those men of science, like America's Commander Maury, whose careers were ruined by political revolutions? I couldn't say yet. As for me, whom fate had just brought aboard his vessel, whose life he had held in the balance: he had received me coolly but hospitably. Only, he never took the hand I extended to him. He never extended his own. For an entire hour I was deep in these musings, trying to probe this mystery that fascinated me so. Then my eyes focused on a huge world map displayed on the table, and I put my finger on the very spot where our just-determined longitude and latitude intersected. Like the continents, the sea has its rivers. These are exclusive currents that can be identified by their temperature and color, the most remarkable being the one called the Gulf Stream. Science has defined the global paths of five chief currents: one in the north Atlantic, a second in the south Atlantic, a third in the north Pacific, a fourth in the south Pacific, and a fifth in the southern Indian Ocean. Also it's likely that a sixth current used to exist in the northern Indian Ocean, when the Caspian and Aral Seas joined up with certain large Asian lakes to form a single uniform expanse of water. Now then, at the spot indicated on the world map, one of these seagoing rivers was rolling by, the Kuroshio of the Japanese, the Black Current: heated by perpendicular rays from the tropical sun, it leaves the Bay of Bengal, crosses the Strait of Malacca, goes up the shores of Asia, and curves into the north Pacific as far as the Aleutian Islands, carrying along trunks of camphor trees and other local items, the pure indigo of its warm waters sharply contrasting with the ocean's waves. It was this current the Nautilus was about to cross. I watched it on the map with my eyes, I saw it lose itself in the immenseness of the Pacific, and I felt myself swept along with it, when Ned Land and Conseil appeared in the lounge doorway. My two gallant companions stood petrified at the sight of the wonders on display. "Where are we?" the Canadian exclaimed. "In the Quebec Museum?" "Begging master's pardon," Conseil answered, "but this seems more like the Sommerard artifacts exhibition!" "My friends," I replied, signaling them to enter, "you're in neither Canada nor France, but securely aboard the Nautilus, fifty meters below sea level." "If master says so, then so be it," Conseil answered. "But in all honesty, this lounge is enough to astonish even someone Flemish like myself." "Indulge your astonishment, my friend, and have a look, because there's plenty of work here for a classifier of your talents." Conseil needed no encouraging. Bending over the glass cases, the gallant lad was already muttering choice words from the naturalist's vocabulary: class Gastropoda, family Buccinoidea, genus cowry, species Cypraea madagascariensis, etc. Meanwhile Ned Land, less dedicated to conchology, questioned me about my interview with Captain Nemo. Had I discovered who he was, where he came from, where he was heading, how deep he was taking us? In short, a thousand questions I had no time to answer. I told him everything I knew - or, rather, everything I didn't know-and I asked him what he had seen or heard on his part. "Haven't seen or heard a thing!" the Canadian replied. "I haven't even spotted the crew of this boat. By any chance, could they be electric too?" "Electric?" "Oh ye gods, I'm half tempted to believe it! But back to you, Professor Aronnax," Ned Land said, still hanging on to his ideas. "Can't you tell me how many men are on board? Ten, twenty, fifty, a hundred?" "I'm unable to answer you, Mr. Land. And trust me on this: for the time being, get rid of these notions of taking over the Nautilus or escaping from it. This boat is a masterpiece of modern technology, and I'd be sorry to have missed it! Many people would welcome the circumstances that have been handed us, just to walk in the midst of these wonders. So keep calm, and let's see what's happening around us." "See!" the harpooner exclaimed. "There's nothing to see, nothing we'll ever see from this sheet-iron prison! We're simply running around blindfolded - " Ned Land was just pronouncing these last words when we were suddenly plunged into darkness, utter darkness. The ceiling lights went out so quickly, my eyes literally ached, just as if we had experienced the opposite sensation of going from the deepest gloom to the brightest sunlight. We stood stock-still, not knowing what surprise was waiting for us, whether pleasant or unpleasant. But a sliding sound became audible. You could tell that some panels were shifting over the Nautilus's sides. "It's the beginning of the end!" Ned Land said. ". . . order Hydromedusa," Conseil muttered. Suddenly, through two oblong openings, daylight appeared on both sides of the lounge. The liquid masses came into view, brightly lit by the ship's electric outpourings. We were separated from the sea by two panes of glass. Initially I shuddered at the thought that these fragile partitions could break; but strong copper bands secured them, giving them nearly infinite resistance. The sea was clearly visible for a one-mile radius around the Nautilus. What a sight! What pen could describe it? Who could portray the effects of this light through these translucent sheets of water, the subtlety of its progressive shadings into the ocean's upper and lower strata? The transparency of salt water has long been recognized. Its clarity is believed to exceed that of spring water. The mineral and organic substances it holds in suspension actually increase its translucency. In certain parts of the Caribbean Sea, you can see the sandy bottom with startling distinctness as deep as 145 meters down, and the penetrating power of the sun's rays seems to give out only at a depth of 300 meters. But in this fluid setting traveled by the Nautilus, our electric glow was being generated in the very heart of the waves. It was no longer illuminated water, it was liquid light. If we accept the hypotheses of the microbiologist Ehrenberg-who believes that these underwater depths are lit up by phosphorescent organisms - nature has certainly saved one of her most prodigious sights for residents of the sea, and I could judge for myself from the thousandfold play of the light. On both sides I had windows opening over these unexplored depths. The darkness in the lounge enhanced the brightness outside, and we stared as if this clear glass were the window of an immense aquarium. The Nautilus seemed to be standing still. This was due to the lack of landmarks. But streaks of water, parted by the ship's spur, sometimes threaded before our eyes with extraordinary speed. In wonderment, we leaned on our elbows before these show windows, and our stunned silence remained unbroken until Conseil said: "You wanted to see something, Ned my friend; well, now you have something to see!" "How unusual!" the Canadian put in, setting aside his tantrums and getaway schemes while submitting to this irresistible allure. "A man would go an even greater distance just to stare at such a sight!" "Ah!" I exclaimed. "I see our captain's way of life! He's found himself a separate world that saves its most astonishing wonders just for him!" "But where are the fish?" the Canadian ventured to observe. "I don't see any fish!" "Why would you care, Ned my friend?" Conseil replied. "Since you have no knowledge of them." "Me? A fisherman!" Ned Land exclaimed. And on this subject a dispute arose between the two friends, since both were knowledgeable about fish, but from totally different standpoints. Everyone knows that fish make up the fourth and last class in the vertebrate branch. They have been quite aptly defined as: "cold-blooded vertebrates with a double circulatory system, breathing through gills, and designed to live in water." They consist of two distinct series: the series of bony fish, in other words, those whose spines have vertebrae made of bone; and cartilaginous fish, in other words, those whose spines have vertebrae made of cartilage. Possibly the Canadian was familiar with this distinction, but Conseil knew far more about it; and since he and Ned were now fast friends, he just had to show off. So he told the harpooner: "Ned my friend, you're a slayer of fish, a highly skilled fisherman. You've caught a large number of these fascinating animals. But I'll bet you don't know how they're classified." "Sure I do," the harpooner replied in all seriousness. "They're classified into fish we eat and fish we don't eat!" "Spoken like a true glutton," Conseil replied. "But tell me, are you familiar with the differences between bony fish and cartilaginous fish?" "Just maybe, Conseil." "And how about the subdivisions of these two large classes?" "I haven't the foggiest notion," the Canadian replied. "All right, listen and learn, Ned my friend! Bony fish are subdivided into six orders. Primo, the acanthopterygians, whose upper jaw is fully formed and free-moving, and whose gills take the shape of a comb. This order consists of fifteen families, in other words, three-quarters of all known fish. Example: the common perch." "Pretty fair eating," Ned Land replied. "Secundo," Conseil went on, "the abdominals, whose pelvic fins hang under the abdomen to the rear of the pectorals but aren't attached to the shoulder bone, an order that's divided into five families and makes up the great majority of freshwater fish. Examples: carp, pike." "Ugh!" the Canadian put in with distinct scorn. "You can keep the freshwater fish!" "Tertio," Conseil said, "the subbrachians, whose pelvic fins are attached under the pectorals and hang directly from the shoulder bone. This order contains four families. Examples: flatfish such as sole, turbot, dab, plaice, brill, etc." "Excellent, really excellent!" the harpooner exclaimed, interested in fish only from an edible viewpoint. "Quarto," Conseil went on, unabashed, "the apods, with long bodies that lack pelvic fins and are covered by a heavy, often glutinous skin, an order consisting of only one family. Examples: common eels and electric eels." "So-so, just so-so!" Ned Land replied. "Quinto," Conseil said, "the lophobranchians, which have fully formed, free-moving jaws but whose gills consist of little tufts arranged in pairs along their gill arches. This order includes only one family. Examples: seahorses and dragonfish." "Bad, very bad!" the harpooner replied. "Sexto and last," Conseil said, "the plectognaths, whose maxillary bone is firmly attached to the side of the intermaxillary that forms the jaw, and whose palate arch is locked to the skull by sutures that render the jaw immovable, an order lacking true pelvic fins and which consists of two families. Examples: puffers and moonfish." "They're an insult to a frying pan!" the Canadian exclaimed. "Are you grasping all this, Ned my friend?" asked the scholarly Conseil. "Not a lick of it, Conseil my friend," the harpooner replied. "But keep going, because you fill me with fascination." "As for cartilaginous fish," Conseil went on unflappably, "they consist of only three orders." "Good news," Ned put in. "Primo, the cyclostomes, whose jaws are fused into a flexible ring and whose gill openings are simply a large number of holes, an order consisting of only one family. Example: the lamprey." "An acquired taste," Ned Land replied. "Secundo, the selacians, with gills resembling those of the cyclostomes but whose lower jaw is free-moving. This order, which is the most important in the class, consists of two families. Examples: the ray and the shark." "What!" Ned Land exclaimed. "Rays and man-eaters in the same order? Well, Conseil my friend, on behalf of the rays, I wouldn't advise you to put them in the same fish tank!" "Tertio," Conseil replied, "The sturionians, whose gill opening is the usual single slit adorned with a gill cover, an order consisting of four genera. Example: the sturgeon." "Ah, Conseil my friend, you saved the best for last, in my opinion anyhow! And that's all of 'em?" "Yes, my gallant Ned," Conseil replied. "And note well, even when one has grasped all this, one still knows next to nothing, because these families are subdivided into genera, subgenera, species, varieties - " "All right, Conseil my friend," the harpooner said, leaning toward the glass panel, "here come a couple of your varieties now!" "Yes! Fish!" Conseil exclaimed. "One would think he was in front of an aquarium!" "No," I replied, "because an aquarium is nothing more than a cage, and these fish are as free as birds in the air!" "Well, Conseil my friend, identify them! Start naming them!" Ned Land exclaimed. "Me?" Conseil replied. "I'm unable to! That's my employer's bailiwick!" And in truth, although the fine lad was a classifying maniac, he was no naturalist, and I doubt that he could tell a bonito from a tuna. In short, he was the exact opposite of the Canadian, who knew nothing about classification but could instantly put a name to any fish. "A triggerfish," I said. "It's a Chinese triggerfish," Ned Land replied. "Genus Balistes, family Scleroderma, order Plectognatha," Conseil muttered. Assuredly, Ned and Conseil in combination added up to one outstanding naturalist. The Canadian was not mistaken. Cavorting around the Nautilus was a school of triggerfish with flat bodies, grainy skins, armed with stings on their dorsal fins, and with four prickly rows of quills quivering on both sides of their tails. Nothing could have been more wonderful than the skin covering them: white underneath, gray above, with spots of gold sparkling in the dark eddies of the waves. Around them, rays were undulating like sheets flapping in the wind, and among these I spotted, much to my glee, a Chinese ray, yellowish on its topside, a dainty pink on its belly, and armed with three stings behind its eyes; a rare species whose very existence was still doubted in Lacepede's day, since that pioneering classifier of fish had seen one only in a portfolio of Japanese drawings. For two hours a whole aquatic army escorted the Nautilus. In the midst of their leaping and cavorting, while they competed with each other in beauty, radiance, and speed, I could distinguish some green wrasse, bewhiskered mullet marked with pairs of black lines, white gobies from the genus Eleotris with curved caudal fins and violet spots on the back, wonderful Japanese mackerel from the genus Scomber with blue bodies and silver heads, glittering azure goldfish whose name by itself gives their full description, several varieties of porgy or gilthead (some banded gilthead with fins variously blue and yellow, some with horizontal heraldic bars and enhanced by a black strip around their caudal area, some with color zones and elegantly corseted in their six waistbands), trumpetfish with flutelike beaks that looked like genuine seafaring woodcocks and were sometimes a meter long, Japanese salamanders, serpentine moray eels from the genus Echidna that were six feet long with sharp little eyes and a huge mouth bristling with teeth; etc. Our wonderment stayed at an all-time fever pitch. Our exclamations were endless. Ned identified the fish, Conseil classified them, and as for me, I was in ecstasy over the verve of their movements and the beauty of their forms. Never before had I been given the chance to glimpse these animals alive and at large in their native element. Given such a complete collection from the seas of Japan and China, I won't mention every variety that passed before our dazzled eyes. More numerous than birds in the air, these fish raced right up to us, no doubt attracted by the brilliant glow of our electric beacon. Suddenly daylight appeared in the lounge. The sheet-iron panels slid shut. The magical vision disappeared. But for a good while I kept dreaming away, until the moment my eyes focused on the instruments hanging on the wall. The compass still showed our heading as east-northeast, the pressure gauge indicated a pressure of five atmospheres (corresponding to a depth of fifty meters), and the electric log gave our speed as fifteen miles per hour. I waited for Captain Nemo. But he didn't appear. The clock marked the hour of five. Ned Land and Conseil returned to their cabin. As for me, I repaired to my stateroom. There I found dinner ready for me. It consisted of turtle soup made from the daintiest hawksbill, a red mullet with white, slightly flaky flesh, whose liver, when separately prepared, makes delicious eating, plus loin of imperial angelfish, whose flavor struck me as even better than salmon. I spent the evening in reading, writing, and thinking. Then drowsiness overtook me, I stretched out on my eelgrass mattress, and I fell into a deep slumber, while the Nautilus glided through the swiftly flowing Black Current.