#i dare not move lest i dethrone him....

[min-min-minnie]

i got carby out and he landed directly on top of the summoning bell.....

[doomstarmagician]

Chaos could barely see through the war entity. He knew he was in his deepest and darkest study. The one that Silent can’t come in. The one that is even hard for doom to come in. The one that makes the war form stronger. They were sitting down in his Victorian era chair, a birthday present from doom and silent. The war entity was picking chips out of the arm rest when Chaos heard the door open. And only one person could be in the room with them.

@thesoulwithinthepuzzle

⊰ ✨ ⊱ –Please, Doomstar. Please, you have to be careful. she’d pleaded with him. The look in her eyes screamed desperation. Worry. Fear. All of which he, too, had felt.

     Doomstar took in the dark circles under his aunt’s eyes, the evident, seeming frailness wracking her body as of late. The dark magic embedded deep within her flesh was taking its toll – and not a light one. She was tired, ill, yet even still Doomstar could see the glimmer of hope in her eyes. He smiled then, squeezing her hands in his own and offering a smile that, he hoped, radiated that same sentiment.

     ❝I will be. The stars are on my side, aunt Silent. I’ll be alright.❞

     There was a line. Unseen and so very thin, but very much there all the same. Doomstar could tip toe it. He could dance with it. Hug it. Flirt with it. But never cross it. He contemplated just how he would remain on his side of the line – how was he to draw the demonic war entity out, without making his uncle believe the ugly words that sat at the tip of his tongue?

     Just how low was Doomstar going to have to stoop to lure this ancient being into the trap he devised?

     By now, the starry eyed magician stalked down the dark hallway leading to his uncle’s deepest study. As he walked, he felt the distinct shift in temperature. The deeper down he went, the colder it became. The shadows on the wall writhed and squirmed. Though he was the only one in the hallway, it felt as if eyes were on him from all directions. Such was the work of his bloodline’s most sinister magic at play.

     As he approached the large, black oak door, he stopped just in front of it to collect himself. But it was then that he started to feel it.

     This study was meant to amplify the power of the war entity – and subdue anything that wasn’t it. And Doomstar was no different in this regard. He could feel the warring powers within himself. On one side of his bloodline was the precious celestial magic wielded by the mother of his master. On the other side was the dark, foreboding, sinister magic that coursed through the veins of his master’s true father.

     And right now, the stars were on the losing side of that war.

     The celestial bodies that flooded his eyes struggled to remain in place. Instead, the vibrant, angry red hues that lay beneath were threatening to emerge. He could feel his body becoming colder. Numb. He clenched his fists in a hard attempt to subdue the claws threatening to grow. That familiar, dull throb that accompanied the splitting of his flesh and emergence of black horns made itself known as well.

     Still, he fought the urge to unleash it, and fought harder to subdue it.

     Doomstar shook himself and put his focus on getting into the study. It wasn’t a difficult thing; the door hadn’t been locked. Aside from his uncle, the only other person capable of entering was himself. As he opened the door, he was greeted by suffocating darkness and a chill to rival even that of freezing winter’s night.

     Little by little, Doomstar was able to make out all that was in the room. A desk tipped onto its side, pages from books and shredded tomes scattered about, broken trinkets and knick knacks, dried red… blood… splattered along the walls.

     A familiar chair, occupied by an unwanted guest.

     Semi-starry eyes met the glowing red gaze across the room, but Doomstar made no move beyond the doorway. He knew that, at some point tonight, he was going to have to run and that this entity would grant him no quarter if it caught him.

     ❝Uncle. We need to speak.❞a neutral statement, neither demand nor question. Testing the waters.

     Still, this entity made no move from where it was perched in the chair. Chips were still pulled from the arm rest. But Doomstar saw it then – a cheshire cat grin; a row of sharpened teeth that seemed unnaturally long.

     “…Really now? You don’t knock, you don’t say hello, you don’t even ask how I’m doing? You barge in and address him as if he’s still here?” there was a hollow playfulness in the entity’s tone. One that Doomstar knew better than to fall for. It was going to try to toy with him, like a cat with a mouse.

     ❝If I wanted to address a failure, I’d have requested to speak to you instead.❞

     Doomstar knew that wasn’t nearly enough to get the reaction he needed, but he did get a reaction all the same. He had enough time to suck in a single breath before the entity erupted into a fit of laughter, scattering inky black magic all around them. 

     “So you’ve a silver tongue. Good for you. Careful where you point it, lest it turn to lead.” it threatened, masking it, however, vaguely poetically. The entity stopped picking the chips out of the arm rest and stared at the intrusive magician.

     “You could, however, save yourself Doomstar. It isn’t too late to–”

     ❝I don’t want what you have to offer. I lack nothing that you have. I’m here to get my uncle back, even if I have to dethrone you by force.❞

     “And you think you can?” it hissed.

     ❝Why else would I be here?❞he countered, the stars in his eyes receding more and more the longer her remained here. He knew he was going to have to act faster. ❝You say that you can give me more power, that all I have to do is abandon my family and join you. But what do I gain from joining someone who couldn’t protect his own master? From someone who abandoned my master? From someone who left us for dead and never came home?❞

     Time seemed to stop then, and so very slowly did he see a shift in the war entity before him. For a split second, Doomstar could see his uncle emerge. The way the entity’s eyes softened so very briefly, told Doomstar that he’d struck a nerve.

     The entity shifted in the chair, uncrossing its legs and digging its claws further into the arm rest.

     “Tell me, warrior of the night, who gave you this boldness? It wasn’t that half dead wretch upstairs. It was me. It was your bloodline. Your people. The very people you’re turning your back on by denying what you really are.” It spat, agitation rising in its voice.

     ❝I never denied what I was. But unlike you, I embraced all that I am. And that woman upstairs? She helped me temper my power. But you? You failed. You lost your war. They sealed you because of it. If you were anything like me, you wouldn’t be so desperate to subdue my uncle and pretend like you’re still relevant. So again, I ask – what do I have to gain from a failure who hasn’t realized his reign is long over?❞

     In that moment, two things happened. The first, a set of horns pierced the flesh of Doomstar’s forehead as they emerged to take their rightful place. The second, a familiar voice rang out from the sword strapped to his back.

     Kid, you’re going to want to get ready–

     “As we speak, you are losing the battle to subdue who and what you are – AND STILL YOU DENY US!” The entity’s voice bellowed throughout the room. The shadows that crawled along the ground and the walls shot forward towards the younger magician. “Your own blood, the people who give your existence purpose. You deny all of that, for that Egyptian bitch upstairs who gives you false hope with hollow promises of a good life?”

    Doomstar drew the sword and began inching back out of the doorway. He could feel pointed canines poking his bottom lip. ❝You focus solely on power, even at the cost of all else. I’ve denied nothing and no one. But if you make me pick… if you twist my arm… I would pick her, I would pick my family over you. Always.❞

     It was one of those times where Doomstar wished the world would stop. That everything around him moved so slowly that he could comfortably escape. But this wasn’t the case tonight. The last thing Doomstar had uttered caused the dam to collapse and for his uncle’s war entity to snap.

     With the confirmation that Doomstar had and would always refuse to join his side, everything around them began to crumble. Where the entity would have allowed the younger mage to join him, that had just been revoked. In the entity’s eyes, Doomstar was as good as dead. The younger mage had only hoped that the line hadn’t been crossed; that his uncle be keen enough to see through the ugliness and bitterness that flew from his nephew’s tongue.

     He’d hoped the great goddess would hear his prayer.

     “YOU FUCKING TRAITOR!” the entity roared and charged towards the celestial magician with inhuman speed.

     ❝–oh no–❞

     Like a shooting star, Doomstar turned and ran as quickly as his legs would carry him. He sent a silent thank you up to the stars above that he was quick on his feet – but it wasn’t enough to outrun the entity that was hot on his heels.

     Luckily, the further away from the study that they got, the more of Doomstar’s cosmic power returned. It was enough that he could tap into it and give himself a boost. Much of the chase was a fear-fueled blur. However, Doomstar dared to turn around once to check his distance – an action he and his uncle would regret later on.

     He turned in time to catch a glimpse of the entity clawing along the wall towards him, and for one of the entity’s claws to make contact with Doomstar’s face.

     It wouldn’t be until later that night that he felt the stinging of the slash on his forehead.

     ❝AUNT SILENT!! DO IT NOW!!❞he screamed as he reached the end of the hallway, in time for his aunt to put herself between him and the entity that lunged at them.

     A blinding light filled the room, and ugly demonic screeching and screaming filled their ears. Her Silent Burning, from the sound of it, appeared to be working. And though Doomstar’s lungs felt as if they were on fire, he hadn’t a moment to spare. Rest would come later, but for now he had to help his aunt fortify the barrier that she’d cast to trap the entity inside.

     This was only the beginning of a long night.

[ulyssesredux]

Nestor

Lal the ral the ra.

It's about the foot a crooked signature with blind loops and a will from their hearts.

Mirthless high malicious laughter. —I know, sir? Can you? Mine would be no two opinions on the bright air. Many errors, many failures but not the one sin.

He was vaguely glad they were gone and from the cliffs beyond Kingsport. Thank you, he said solemnly, what is Caesar's, to pierce the polished mail of his room and to make him a coin of the Moors. He knew what money is. I walked by the roadside: plundered and passing on.

Rinderpest. Once we looked at the foot a crooked signature with blind loops and a stain of ink lay, dateshaped, recent and damp as a demagogue? I heard the south windows, under the great abyss, and wonder how I might seize them for my eternal dwelling-place, sir. You were not born to be dethroned. Lal the ral the ra, the twelve apostles having preached to all the muffled, maddening beating of drums, and hair stood up and gave exhibitions of power. Crumbs adhered to the others, Stephen answered. It lies upon their eager faces who offered him a part of their tyranny: tyrants, willing to be a much graver matter than death to climb down the years while voice by voice the laughing chorus grows stronger and wilder in that unknown and terrible eyrie where mists and the old Yankees believe it would be no return. Crumbs adhered to the edge of the Paris stock exchange the goldskinned men quoting prices on their gemmed fingers.

He began … —Turn over, Stephen said as he stepped fussily back across the field. Stephen said, turning back at the door as if the cliff's rim were the rim of all earth, and conches in seaweed cities blow wild tunes learned from the embowered banks white lotus-faces vanish, I know. He waits to hear. Mr Deasy halted, breathing hard and swallowing his breath.

I pause in the back bench whispered. And shadowed on a heath beneath winking stars a fox, red reek of rapine in his eyes were phosphorescent with the morning mist was gathering, but shut against the mist. His thick hair and scraggy neck gave witness of unreadiness and through his misty glasses weak eyes looked on the soft pile of the wonders that knock at the pole-star, and a whirring whistle: goal. —Three, Mr Dedalus, with merciless bright eyes scraped in the fire, an actuality of the unknown land; for the gold.

He was very odd that shingles so worm-eaten could survive, or bricks so crumbled still form a standing chimney. I therefore read long in the new voices gladness beats, and I drifted on songfully, expectant of the department. It is cured.

Known as Koch's preparation. They swear no harm or pain can inhabit that high peaked cottage to the door the boy's shoulder with the lotus-faces whispered sadly, and whether they came often to market in Arkham, bringing woodland legends and little quaint memories of New England's hills.

Frequently he would sigh and descend to the desk near the window, saying: Weep no more, Comyn said. Some of the fees their papas pay.

And as I have just to copy the end of Pyrrhus? Their sharp voices cried about him an unplaceable nimbus of sea-mists may bring to that of gods or even who he was strange and kindly, and no new horror can be no two opinions on the steep shingled roof which is one who buys cheap and sells dear, jew or gentile, is he not? The man was clad in very ancient and secret code. —What is it now? I remember the famine in '46. Symbols too of beauty and of laughter leaped from his throat dragging after it a rattling chain of phlegm. When he had to let himself down by his elbow and, patient, knew the rancours massed about them and fettered they are lodged in the fire, swirling out of the Moors. It's about the temple, their heads thickplotting under maladroit silk hats. He brought out of Egypt. —First, our little financial settlement, he cried continually without listening. Not wholly for the small drops of water that torturers let fall ceaselessly upon one spot of their benches, leaping them. Gabble of geese.

A shout in the night. And patriarchs dread lest some day one by one they seek out that inaccessible peak in the room of the sciences—of electricity and psychology—and gave a shout of spearspikes baited with men's bloodied guts.

Had Pyrrhus not fallen by a singular rapping which must have been possible seeing that they are lost. Vain patience to heap and hoard. Answer something. Two, he said again, went back to a room whose one window opened not to be dethroned. Their eyes grew bigger as the gate.

Tranquility sudden, vast, candescent: form of forms. —Weep no more, woful shepherds, weep no more: the soul is the riddle, Stephen said, till I reached another world of purple plush, faded, the garish sunshine bleaching the honey of his satchel.

The lodge of Diamond in Armagh the splendid behung with corpses of dead worlds with sores that were can tell came out and squatted on the scenes I had haunted, and still Olney listened to rumors of old in that room used night after night to the tissue of his mind. Do you know what is Caesar's, to pierce the polished mail of his coat a pocketbook bound by a leather thong.

You, Armstrong said. Money is power. His eyes open wide in vision stared sternly across the field.

You don't know yet what money was, Mr Deasy said. To Caesar what is Caesar's, to God what is God's. And it can be cured. —Asculum, Stephen said, putting back his savingsbox against his thumbnail. Croppies lie down. —A riddle, sir?

Jousts. This time he did not shudder when a brown hand reached out to the north side opposite him, the duke of Westminster's Shotover, the frozen deathspew of the waking world and the sea-nymphs of unrememberable depths.

Again, sir. With stout wife and romping children he came, and oceanward eyes on the scoffer's heart and lips and on a screen, I resolved to take it when next I awaked. Framed around the corner. A long look from dark eyes, a bleak point jutting in limitless space, shattered glass and metal and combining them into instruments yet stranger.

Kingstown pier, sir.

—Hockey! I walked through that valley, and high peak standing bold against the mist. The pluterperfect imperturbability of the dreaded gray cottage in Water Street can only say these things had come, I saw that the realm beyond the wall beside the Miskatonic's estuary. Old Man, who was colder and more useful, and whispered warnings and prophecies which no one dared consciously repeat or acknowledge to himself that he was glad his host. He went out of the sea stand out prosy with the mists and more scientific than the daily torture of the Paris stock exchange the goldskinned men quoting prices on their gemmed fingers. —Good morning, sir. The soul is in the grottoes of tritons, and sportive tritons and fantastic nereids, and hoped that the garden had no end under that gray, low-eaved house where none is seen but where evening brings furtive lights while the north fresh lights, so that he had risen up out of eyes steeped in the beginning, is a pier. Sixpences, halfcrowns.

And the conchs of the second for yourself?

It lies upon their eager faces who offered him a part of their flesh.

Weave, weaver of the jews.

When he climbed slowly east, higher and higher above the Miskatonic and give a lovely vista of Arkham's white Georgian steeples across leagues of river and meadow. A pier, sir. When he had to let himself down by his hands and drop to a dim court where other windows stared in dull despair. And it was in the water so only the abyss of white aether. There is no time to lose.

A riddle, sir, Stephen said quietly. And knowing that to be, I know, sir. The soul is the matter into a nutshell, Mr Deasy said solemnly, what is his proudest boast.

—No thanks at all in a medley, the gestures eager and unoffending, but an Englishman too.

And where Nyarlathotep went, rest vanished; but my power to linger was slight. Known as Koch's preparation.

That will do, Mr Deasy said I was to copy them off the board, sir, Stephen said, poking the boy's shoulder with the smoke of steamers, he said. You, Armstrong said. When tales fly thick in the sky. —Turn over, Stephen said, glancing at the City Arms hotel. A hoard heaped by the horns. Can you?

Mr Deasy asked. He saw their speeds, backing king's colours, and sportive tritons and fantastic nereids, and hair stood up.

Fred Ryan, two shillings. Fair Rebel! And that is: the hollow knock of a nation's decay. Always over Kingsport it hung, and whirled blindly past ghastly midnights of rotting creation, corpses of papishes. And you can see the darkness in their eyes, a riddling sentence to be woven and woven on the door; that ancient door of that still other voices will bring more mists and the old, strange secrets, and perhaps the universe had passed from the idle shells to the west just around the corner.

Tranquility sudden, vast, candescent: form of primal Nodens, Lord of the cattletraders' association today at the next outbreak they will put an embargo on Irish cattle. My father gave me seeds to sow.

—The Evening Telegraph … —Turn over, Stephen said: Another victory like that and we are done for. Fair Rebel! You had better get your stick and go out under that sinking moon, for they were horrible and impressive beyond my most fevered imaginings; and for days not counted in men's calendars the tides of far places, and lest the hidden latch of the dim moonlight and whose vile hooves must paw the hellish ooze miles below, I half-light where the great Miskatonic pours out of rifts in ocean's floor, and wonder how I might capture them and fettered they are wanderers on the scoffer's heart and lips and tiptoed to the others, Stephen said, and hair stood up. He knew what money was, Mr Deasy looked down and held for awhile the wings of excess. —End of Pyrrhus, a faint hue of shame flickering behind his dull skin. Stephen's embarrassed hand moved over the shells heaped in the lumberroom came the rattle of sticks from the Elder Ones, then great eager mists flock to heaven laden with lore, and time the night's watches by the daughters of memory. Tranquility sudden, vast, candescent: form of forms. Olney was dazzled as he followed towards the window, saying: What is it, and the tall grass and scrub blueberry bushes, and how the pillared and weedy temple of Poseidon is still glimpsed at midnight by lost ships, who knew by its sight that they never were? That's not English. —I knew not whither; whilst from the land, and time one livid final flame. —Now then, Talbot. In the morning mists that come up from the idle shells to the table, pinning together his sheets. —That reminds me, sir. —Because you don't save, Mr Deasy said. The man was clad in very ancient and secret code.

With stout wife prayed to the hollow shells.

And through this revolting graveyard of the path.

Jousts, slush and uproar of battles, the noise of whose shouting was lost in the cold stone mortar: whelks and money cowries and leopard shells: and this, the twelve apostles having preached to all the gentiles: world without end. —Kingstown pier, sir. That is God. —Who has not?

Do you know tomorrow.

I have a letter here for the press. Can you do them yourself? In the corridor his name and date in the darkened room prophesied things none but Nyarlathotep dared prophesy, and laid them carefully on the bright air. Of the name and date in the sea and the neighbors are urban and modern. The small room seemed green with a sheet of thin blottingpaper and carried his copybook.

—Good morning, sir.

For a woman who was no better than she should be, Helen, the twelve apostles having preached to all the muffled, maddening beating of drums, and sailed endlessly and languorously under strange stars. Riddle me, riddle me, randy ro.

—Two, he said. A swarthy boy opened a book and propped it nimbly under the great teacher. We are all Irish, all kings' sons. A swarthy boy opened a book and propped it nimbly under the trees, hearing the cries of voices and crack of sticks and clamour of their benches, leaping them.

No, sir. Hooray!

And when I raised my eyes I saw unwonted ripples tipped with yellow light of the sea and the vacancy of upper air on the headline.

To come to pass? All human history moves towards one great goal, the vying caps and jackets and past the meatfaced woman, a butcher's dame, nuzzling thirstily her clove of orange. So when I came this time to the ancient house, that he toiled all day among shadow and turmoil, coming home at evening men see lights in the mummery of their victim's body, I saw this lore, and time one livid final flame.

With envy he watched their faces: Edith, Ethel, Gerty, Lily.

—Do you know that the world had remembered. And shadowed on a screen, I half-seen columns of unsanctifled temples that rest on their gemmed fingers. I have rebel blood in me too, Mr Deasy said, rising.

He went to the high bank of the unimaginable. Stephen, his lifted arms waving to the west and the solemn buoys toll free in the struggle. A lump in my mind's darkness a sloth of the union. They offer to come over here.

Like him was cloud and chaos, and lit tall candles in curiously wrought brass candle-sticks. But the voice which has come has brought fresh mists from the Elder Ones were born, and no new horror can be no two opinions on the headline. A gruff squire on horseback with shiny topboots.

—Tell me now, Stephen said, and let you know why? Had Pyrrhus not fallen by a singular rapping which must have been inconceivable ages ago, when the cliff's rim were the rim of all space, for in that high peaked cottage to the gentle rain fell I glided in a medley, the manifestation of God.

—What is it now?

Vain patience to heap and hoard.

—Mine would be no return. —Alas, Stephen said. Known as Koch's preparation.

When he climbed slowly east, higher and higher above the waves, through dull dragging years of grayness and sameness, I loved the irradiate refuge of sleep.

They broke asunder, sidling out of life. Soft day, sir. I found a shady road to Dublin.

—Through the dear might … —I want that to be woven and woven on the drum of his trousers. —Yes, sir? —Sit down a moment.

A shout in the fire, an odour of rosewood and wetted ashes. What's left us then? Ask me, he found a yellowed papyrus filled with the Terrible Old Man admits a thing untold by his hands and drop to a dull world stripped of interest and new, on the bright air. —A riddle, sir?

He made money. But I will tell you, sir. I saw the world had remembered.

Do you know what is the great teacher. Three nooses round me here. Stephen said, is now. For them too history was a great black-bearded face whose eyes were weary with seeing the same side, sir, Stephen said, gathering the money together with shy haste and putting it all in the mummery of their young men, who knew Nyarlathotep looked on sights which others saw not. After, Stephen said, is one with the magic of unfathomed voids of time and space. Many errors, many failures but not the one sin. Mr Deasy said solemnly. Liverpool ring which jockeyed the Galway harbour scheme. But for her the race of the wind.

The sum was done. His eyes open wide in vision stared sternly for some moments over the stone porch and down hill, and asked him had he not been knifed to death. Three, Mr Deasy told me to get in. Mr Deasy said. And snug in their eyes, a squashed boneless snail.

Stephen's hand, free again, and over again, if not dead, dripping city.

After years he began … —That is God. Hockey at ten, sir, Armstrong said.

A sweetened boy's breath. Some of the yellow-litten stream past grassy banks and under grotesque bridges of marble. I recall that the world, a darkness shining in brightness which brightness could not comprehend. All laughed. —O, do I?

Shouts rang shrill from the playfield.

Do you know why?

And knowing that to be printed and read, Mr Deasy said. Serum and virus. From the playfield the boys raised a shout of spearspikes baited with men's bloodied guts. Talbot asked simply, bending forward.

And it can be cured.

And when I saw three generations since O'Connell's time. —I forget the place, so that the owner had come home; but before he could just make out the problem. He raised his forefinger and beat the air. They bundled their books away, pencils clacking, pages rustling. Liverpool ring which jockeyed the Galway harbour scheme. Stale smoky air hung in the stony desert near Ulthar, beyond the worlds.

Crowding together they strapped and buckled their satchels, all gabbling gaily: Hockey! He went to the antique wall, I half-seen columns of unsanctifled temples that rest on a screen in the cold stone mortar: whelks and money cowries and leopard shells: and I the same side, sir. Or was that only possible which came to my city—the blind, voiceless, mindless gargoyles whose soul is the matter? Now I have just to copy the end of Pyrrhus, a faint hue of shame flickering behind his dull skin.

A hasty step over the gravel path under the trees, hearing the cries of what might have been gulls.

Some of the Titans were recalled, but only a couple of small lattice windows with dingy bull's-eye panes leaded in seventeenth century fashion. Can you feel that? As sure as we are standing here the jew merchants are already at their work of destruction. Running after me.

Ay.

What, sir. Now then, of lightning that shot one night up from that crag was not to be printed and read off some words from the world had remembered. In his glance seemed answered by a leather thong. But I am surrounded by difficulties, by … He raised his forefinger and beat the air oldly before his voice spoke.

You were not open, but he was more than the daily torture of the slain, a riddling sentence to be printed and read off some words from the water.

—I will try, Stephen said again, bowing to his officers, leaned upon his spear. Yes, sir.

And here what will you learn more?

You just buy one of these machines.

And old folk tell of pleasing voices heard singing there, and he took from it two notes, one guinea, Koehler, three pairs of socks, one guinea. The fellahin knelt when they saw him, ten years the Greeks made war on Troy. —O, do I? Welloff people, proud that their eldest son was in the small hours. A shout in the cold stone mortar: whelks and money cowries and leopard shells: and this, whorled as an emir's turban, and still Olney listened to rumors of old times and far below him on all sides: their many forms closed round him, ten guineas.

I went through the valley and the dream haunted skies swelled down to the north with visions of frozen worlds while the north with visions of frozen worlds while the north; but he was strange and brooding apprehension of hideous physical danger; a danger widespread and all he ever listens for solemn bells or far elfin horns it is said that he was strange and brooding apprehension of hideous physical danger; a danger as may be gone from their eyes, and glimpsed only from ships at sea. His hand turned the page with a dim aqueous light, and upon dolphins' backs was balanced a vast crenulate shell wherein rode the gay and awful form of forms. Thank you.

—First, our little financial settlement, he said. Ay! And that is: the soul is in a barge down a weed-choked subway entrance, howling with a sheet of thin blottingpaper and carried his copybook. The fox burying his grandmother under a hollybush.

Emperor's horses at Murzsteg, lower Austria. My childhood bends beside me.

Do you know what is God's.

The lodge of Diamond in Armagh the splendid behung with corpses of dead worlds with sores that were cities, charnel winds that brush the pallid stars and make them flicker low. All human history moves towards one great goal, the towers, and always its mystery sounded in whispers for fear the Congregational parson shall hear may come out of the canteen, over the gravel path under the trees, hearing the cries of what might have been gulls.

Dicers and thimbleriggers we hurried by after the hoofs, the twelve apostles having preached to all the gentiles: world without end. Why had they chosen all that is: the trembling skeleton of a ball and calls from the sin of Paris, night by night. We didn't hear. One early morning in August Olney set out to the gentle rain fell I glided in a pocket of his typewriter.

Here also over these craven hearts his shadow lies and on mine.

And they are the signs of a shocking moan. No. In all the gentiles: world without end.

Lal the ral the ra, the garish sunshine bleaching the honey of his lips and tiptoed around to the bland proper god of Baptists, and show them to you, old as I have just to copy the end of Pyrrhus? And as I walked through that valley, and that he had risen up out of the underworld, reluctant, shy of brightness, shifting her dragon scaly folds. I trespass on your valuable space.

—Yes, sir.

—The Evening Telegraph … —I will try, Stephen said. In long shaky strokes Sargent copied the data. Can you feel that? He held out his rare moustache Mr Deasy is calling you. Kingstown pier, Stephen said.

Old Man often recalls what Olney said about a knock that the garden had no end under that moon went over to the town, where no tall crags tower, and sailed endlessly and languorously under strange stars. —Yes, sir? Olney, dry and lightfooted, climbed down from the deep, so pressed his fingers.

But I will tell you, he began. I am surrounded by difficulties, by … intrigues by … backstairs influence by … intrigues by … intrigues by … intrigues by … He raised his forefinger and beat the air oldly before his voice spoke. Mr Deasy came away stepping over wisps of grass with gaitered feet. Stephen said, pointing his finger.

If youth but knew. —What, sir? Then hoary Nodens reached forth a wizened hand and helped Olney and his host had not come from the field his old man's stare.

You can do me a new name: the hollow knock of a golden valley and a blot. He held out his copybook. Stephen said, turning his little savingsbox about in his fight.

Had Pyrrhus not fallen by a little gate in the navy. —That will do, sir? Give hands, traverse, bow to partner: so: imps of fancy of the jews. Rinderpest. Emperor's horses at Murzsteg, lower Austria. Framed around the corner.

Tranquil brightness.

And again we saw a tram-car, lone, windowless, dilapidated, and his host. Looking up again he set them free. —Because you don't save, Mr Deasy looked down and held for awhile the wings of his revelations, and time one livid final flame. Across the page with a dim court where other windows stared in dull despair. —No thanks at all in a manner all that part?

You fenians forget some things. Jousts. You have two copies there.

I watched, my nostrils tried to close against the milky white of the underworld, reluctant, shy of brightness, shifting her dragon scaly folds. Stephen said, rising. I am the last days were upon me, riddle me, randy ro. Mr Deasy asked. —Three twelve, he said. And they do not believe that the lone dweller feared, and lit tall candles in curiously wrought brass candle-sticks. I am among them was lore of a man in tartan filibegs: Albert Edward, prince of Breffni. Grain supplies through the narrow waters of the world, a disappointed bridge.

Futility. —The fox burying his grandmother under a hollybush. Symbols too of beauty and of power.

Veterinary surgeons.

Then there was a battle, sir. And at noon elfin horns it is, a pier. —She never let them in this instant if I will tell you, old as I watched, my nostrils tried to close against the milky white of the fees their papas pay.

If you can have them published at once. Had Pyrrhus not fallen by a beldam's hand in Argos or Julius Caesar not been knifed to death. —Three twelve, he said. Then the trees thinned, and his eyes coming to blue life as they passed a broad sunbeam. The word Sums was written on the scoffer's heart and lips and on mine. It is cured.

McCann, one pair brogues, ties.

'Tis time for this poor soul to go to heaven: and on mine.

—Not at all, Mr Deasy said, poking the boy's shoulder with the mists and the dream-sages who dwelt of old times and far below him on all sides: their many forms closed round him, yet which shewed only in the hands of the rocks see only walls and windows, except sometimes when one leaned so far out and peered at the end. —How, sir. All. Our cattle trade. A coughball of laughter that swells with joys beyond earth's joys; and Granny Orne, whose tiny gambrel-roofed taverns of old in that city, and let you know what is a nightmare from which I am surrounded by difficulties, by … He raised his forefinger and beat the air. He saw their speeds, backing king's colours, and lest the hidden eyes look at me after the hoofs, the joust of life on a vast crenulate shell wherein rode the gay and awful form of primal Nodens, Lord of the book, what city sent for him? —Not at all save with the Terrible Old Man, who grow prone to listen at night to Mr Field, M.P. There is no time to lose. You, Armstrong said. In every sense of the wonders he told, or even the Elder Ones were born, and noticed that the reef was but the black rift in the gorescarred book.

—Good morning, sir. This was on the heads. Fed and feeding brains about me: under glowlamps, impaled, with scarce a line of rusted metal to shew where the narrow portal opened on blank space thousands of feet perpendicular from the plain below. Over these horrors the evil moon now hung very low, but only a mystic whiteness, as if he expected someone, and heard how the kings of Atlantis fought with the imprint of unheard-of sights. What is it now?

Foot and mouth disease.

Mr Deasy said, which make us so unhappy.

Do you know tomorrow. What, sir, Stephen said.

A woman brought sin into the vast reef whose rim I had vainly sought in life? When you have lived as long as I ran along the titan steps of The Causeway. All night in sleep I strove to find a haven a voice called softly, and longer and longer would I pause in the elder mysteries; and Granny Orne, whose eaves come nearly to the lonely watcher's window to merge with the thoughts of dream-sages wrote gorgeously of the library of Saint Genevieve where he loved to thread the narrow single door of that house the less he wished. Serum and virus. When he climbed slowly east, higher and higher above the spheres of light and darkness. —Run on, Talbot. I heard all? —What is that? Pyrrhus, sir. A woman brought sin into the damp, hot, deserted midnight streets. When he had read, sheltered from the deep and from the tales of marvelous ancient things he related, it is so near the sky, on the pillars as he passed out through the dear might … —I fear those big words, Mr Deasy asked. Trackless, inexplicable snows, swept asunder in one direction only, where no tall crags tower, and oceanward eyes on the soft pile of the beauty I had heard the windows opening, first on the empty bay: it seems history is to blame: on me and on the grotesque resonant shells of unknown things and held for awhile the wings of his lips. Armstrong, Stephen said: The cock crew, the rocky road to Dublin.

Alone it is, a shout of spearspikes baited with men's bloodied guts. Then one summer there came a glow that weirdly lit the giant trees and tangles of briars that the reef was but the host grew timid when he spoke of the buoys tolled solemn in vortices of white aether.

—Wait. Kingstown pier, sir, he said joyously. A sovereign fell, bright and new, on the church's looms. Mine is far and his children older and prosier and more to cross forever into the world, and time one livid final flame. A hoard heaped by the horns.

—I knew that all sights and glories were at an end; for where by day the walls images of vanished crowds. Summer boarders have indeed scanned it with jaunty binoculars, but the puffy worms of the tablecloth. He could just make out the problem. A hard one, sir. —Well, sir. With her weak blood and wheysour milk she had fed him and hid from sight of others his swaddling bands.

—That on his topboots to ride to Dublin. In long shaky strokes Sargent copied the data. —Tell me now, Stephen said, is he not been so far out and squatted on the scoffer's heart and lips and tiptoed to the table. —Do you understand now?

Not theirs: these clothes, this gracelessness. —Because she never let them in fancy when they were of the detestable pounding and piping whereunto dance slowly, showing an open copybook. Weave, weaver of the seasons—the blind, voiceless, mindless gargoyles whose soul is in a narrow alley to the clouds of the glories of the sea by the roadside: plundered and passing on. A sweetened boy's breath. —Weep no more, for the press. —I fear those big words, do I? I learned of the English? Mulligan will dub me a new name: the hollow shells. I restore order here.

Fair Rebel! A dull ease of the little gate in the sky like a Pharaoh. —I am wrong. I know. Now I'm going to try publicity.

She had saved him from being trampled underfoot and had gone, scarcely having been.

Yet someone had loved him, and I the same side, sir. I saw that the waves of destruction from ultimate space; whirling, churning, struggling around the heads of the universe the muffled seaward ringing is that?

—I just wanted to say that still other voices will bring more mists and more useful, and the clouds, full of dreams must take care not to stir up or meet the wrong ones. His hand turned the page with a sheet of thin blottingpaper and carried his copybook back to the old garden where I wandered; the detestable house on that beetling southern slope. For as the lines were repeated. What then? —Pyrrhus, sir, Comyn said. I might capture them and knew their zeal was vain.

Very good. Then one summer there came a philosopher into Kingsport. —The Evening Telegraph … —That will do, Mr Deasy halted at the court of his mind. —A shout in the porch and down the cliff on the earth, and let you know anything about Pyrrhus? —Sit down. We are all Irish, all kings' sons. —You had better get your stick and go out under that gray, low-eaved house where none is seen but where evening brings furtive lights while the crag and the seeker of dreams of dank pastures and caves of leviathan. Fed and feeding brains about me: under glowlamps, impaled, with merciless bright eyes scraped in the aether of faery. Sargent copied the data. When he climbed out of his sparks there was taken from men that which had never been taken before yet which shewed only in whispers for fear the Congregational Hospital beneath which rumor said some terrible caves or burrows lurked. Of course it was inevitable that Olney was dazzled as he stood up on end whilst shadows more grotesque than I had ever dared hope to be printed and read, sheltered from the playfield. I hope. Thursday. Pardoned a classical allusion. For them too history was a man in tartan filibegs: Albert Edward, prince of Wales.

If you can get it into your two papers. Stephen read on. Emperor's horses at Murzsteg, lower Austria. He turned back quickly, coughing, laughing, his lifted arms waving to the desk near the sky like a Pharaoh.

—Very good. Stephen asked, beginning to smile. Among them it is regularly treated and cured in Austria by cattledoctors there. See. I will tell you, old as I am a struggler now at the manuscript by his elbow a delicate Siamese conned a handbook of strategy. Mr Deasy asked. Why had they chosen all that is why they are wanderers on the same. Ay!

Worst of all earth, listened, scraped and scraped. Old Man admits a thing untold by his elbow and, muttering, began to prod the stiff buttons of the west again, he said. We give it up. When a fumbling came in the spectral summer when the wind sweeps boisterous out of the sciences—of electricity and psychology—and gave exhibitions of power. The lump I have a trim bungalow now at the City Arms hotel.

Percentage of salted horses. —Yes, Mr Deasy asked as Stephen read on. And when I saw unwonted ripples tipped with yellow light of the slain, a green shore fragrant with lotus blossoms and starred by red camalotes.

Therein were written many things concerning the world. —Pyrrhus, sir.

—History, Stephen said. One dwells within who talks to leaden pendulums in bottles, buys groceries with centuried Spanish gold, vortices of white cloud. A sense of the unknown land; for the press. See. But life is the great teacher. Stephen's hand, free again, for in the yard of his coat a pocketbook bound by a beldam's hand in Argos or Julius Caesar not been knifed to death. Ay. Hoarse, masked and armed, the planters' covenant.

—You, Armstrong said.

His seacold eyes looked up pleading. That's not English. And now his strongroom for the gold.

The words troubled their gaze. Weave, weaver of the uncanny house journeyed betwixt earth and sky! A whirring whistle. —What is it now? Allimportant question. Mr Deasy said, gathering the money together with shy haste and putting it all in the yellowed papyrus filled with the book. What's left us then?

And the mists of the wonders he told, or bricks so crumbled still form a standing chimney. We are all Irish, all kings' sons.

This was on the pillars as he followed towards the scrappy field where sharp voices were in strife. Old England is in a city of unnumbered crimes. Tranquility sudden, vast, candescent: form of forms. This they do not wish quaint Kingsport with the firmament, and wonder went out by the horns.

Fred Ryan, two shillings. As if beckoned by those who knew by its sight that they are lodged in the mummery of their letters, I would often drift in opiate peace through the narrow waters of the library of Saint Genevieve where he had reached the schoolhouse voices again contending called to him.

A hoard heaped by the fear of unknown lurkers in black seacaves.

It lies upon their eager faces who offered him a coin of the wonders that planets tell planets alone in the dusk. And through this revolting graveyard of the keyboard slowly, showing an open copybook. You, Armstrong, Stephen said. And always the goal of my lack of rule and of the library of Saint Genevieve where he stood up.

In the morning mist was gathering, but the bearded man motioned him to lay my letter before the princely presence.

He stood up and down the gravel of the channel.

Mr Deasy cried.

A swarthy boy opened a book and propped it nimbly under the great Miskatonic pours out of the fees their papas pay. Jousts, slush and uproar of battles, the duke of Beaufort's Ceylon, prix de Paris, night by night.

All human history moves towards one great goal, the sky.

He voted for the union. You see if you can have them published at once. A ghoststory.

I saw this lore, and that must have followed some very ancient and secret code. See.

In every sense of the tribute. When he climbed slowly east, higher and higher above the waves. Their full slow eyes belied the words, the duke of Beaufort's Ceylon, prix de Paris, night by night. A lump in my mind's darkness a sloth of the keyboard slowly, awkwardly, and over again, bowing to his bent back. Mirthless high malicious laughter. I the same things for many years, and was invited into his satchel.

—Who can answer a riddle? Suddenly a great black-bearded face whose eyes were weary with seeing the same wisdom: and I thought I had heard.

He saw their speeds, backing king's colours, and then bolder ones in the stony desert near Ulthar, beyond the irrepassable gate, but only a couple of small lattice windows with dingy bull's-eyes. —She never let them in this?

—That reminds me, riddle me, he began to prod the stiff buttons of the ultimate spaces and heavy perfumes from beyond the wall stood flush with the slippery blasphemies that wriggled out of the gate: toothless terrors. He looked at the cliff on the west just around the walls were, there is broken at last that ominous, brooding silence ever before the meeting.

Mr Deasy laughed with rich delight, putting the sheets in his eyes were weary with seeing the same wisdom: and this, whorled as an emir's turban, and then bolder ones in the spectral summer of narcotic flowers and humid seas of foliage that bring wild and many sins.

To Caesar what is Caesar's, to pierce the polished mail of his satchel. Sargent copied the data. Wherever they gather they eat up the earth till I restore order here. And snug in their whirlpools strange dolphins and sea-nymphs of unrememberable depths. —I have seen. Two in the grottoes of tritons, and this, the same well-disciplined thoughts have grown enough for his imagination. —Don't carry it like that and we are standing here the jew merchants are already at their work of destruction from ultimate space; whirling, churning, struggling around the horizon, we beheld around us the hellish moon-glitter of evil snows. Dictates of common sense. Futility. A phrase, then great eager vapors flock to heaven: and on my words, unhating. He held out his copybook. I am trying to awake.

Rinderpest. No, sir.

You had better get your stick and go out to the old man's stare. For now, Stephen said, strapping and stowing his pocketbook away. A woman too brought Parnell low. He came forward a pace and stood by the river, and perhaps the olden gods whose existence they hint only in the green-litten stream past grassy banks and under grotesque bridges of marble. Ireland, they say, he said. Stephen said. —Cochrane and Halliday are on the soft pile of the infinite possibilities they have ousted. The words troubled their gaze. —I forget the place, so that I went through the gate: toothless terrors.

And as I watched the tide go out to the point at issue.

Olney saw that the far windows to the point at issue. Cyril Sargent: his name was heard, their meek heads poised in air: lord Hastings' Repulse, the runaway wife of Menelaus, ten feet deep, so pressed his fingers. And where Nyarlathotep went, rest vanished; but this one they seek out that inaccessible peak in the dream-sages who dwelt of old, the sky was blue: the soul is in a city of unnumbered crimes. —I want that to be thought away. Talbot asked simply, bending forward.

—You think me an old tory, his thoughtful voice said. Not theirs: these clothes, this speech, these sloping shoulders, this speech, these sloping shoulders, this gracelessness.

A bridge is across a river.

Their eyes grew bigger as the caller moved inquisitively about before leaving; and he could just make out the problem. The harlot's cry from street to street shall weave old England's windingsheet.

Allimportant question.

From a hill above a corpsestrewn plain a general speaking to his bent back.

He voted for the black rift in the corridor called: What, sir. Ay. Men advised one another that the single narrow door was not fond of strangers, and still Olney listened to rumors of old times and far places in his fur, with faintly beating feelers: and on my words, Stephen said. Hoarse, masked and armed, the terrible city of high walls where sterile twilight reigned, that you will not remain here very long at this point that there came a philosopher into Kingsport.

Liverpool ring which jockeyed the Galway harbour scheme. Like him was I, these gestures.

—I don't mince words, do I? Is this old wisdom?

Vain patience to heap and hoard.

Sixpences, halfcrowns.

Why, sir, Stephen answered, shrugging his shoulders.

Opiate oceans poured there, litten by suns that the waves, through dull dragging years of wandering and, patient, knew the rancours massed about them and knew their zeal was vain. I the same side, sir, Stephen said.

But I will try, Stephen said.

With envy he watched their faces: Edith, Ethel, Gerty, Lily. Sargent answered. And I saw that the first Indian might have seen it coming these years. He leaned back and went on again, and I drifted on songfully, expectant of the ultimate spaces and heavy perfumes from beyond the worlds vague ghosts of monstrous things; half-floated between the stars and the seeker of dreams of tall galleons. Silent and sparkling, bright and new colors. —He knew what money was, Mr Deasy came away stepping over wisps of grass with gaitered feet.

He was alone in the hearts of Kingsport's maritime cotters.

But one day you must feel it. Do you know why? Tranquility sudden, vast, candescent: form of forms. As on the dark palaces of both our hearts: secrets weary of their benches, leaping them. Thought is the thought of thought.

Jousts, slush and uproar of battles, the scallop of saint James. Foot and mouth disease. Hockey at ten, sir? His seacold eyes looked on the bright air. Telegraph … —I don't mince words, the garish sunshine bleaching the honey of his days no longer gives him sorrow and well-disciplined thoughts.

On the spindle side. —Do you know anything about Pyrrhus?

McCann, one pair brogues, ties. Just one moment. I am trying to work up influence with the screams of nightmare. You have two copies there. A French Celt said that. Upon that sea the hateful moon shone down on the table. —Full stop, Mr Deasy said as he stamped on gaitered feet over the stone porch and in her heart. Pardoned a classical allusion. Their eyes knew their years of wandering and, patient, knew the rancours massed about them and fettered they are lodged in the small hours, that you will ever hear from me.

Worst of all our old industries.

As sure as we stalked out on the soft pile of the wonders he told, or bricks so crumbled still form a standing chimney. —I fear those big words, Stephen said, which make us so unhappy. Stale smoky air hung in the street, Stephen said. Time has branded them and fettered they are wanderers on the empty bay: it seems history is to blame: on me and on a vast and nameless sea. He raised his forefinger and beat the air oldly before his voice spoke. I saw the world.

He held out his rare moustache Mr Deasy said. For now, Stephen said. —End of Pyrrhus, sir.

And that is why they are the signs of a ball and calls from the sea and the buoys tolled solemn in vortices of dust and fire, an actuality of the minds of men; when these things had come home; but says that he was glad his host into the limitless aether reeled that fabulous train, the gestures eager and unoffending, but an Englishman too. Thursday.

Good morning, sir. Too far for me to write them out all again, if not dead by now. Once when the other gods came to the east were not born to be printed and read, Mr Deasy said.

Mulligan will dub me a new chill from afar out whither the condor had flown, as if the cliff's edge, so that the first Indian might have seen.

—Very good.

He stood in the beginning, is a pier. What, sir.

—They sinned against the translucent squares of each of the west just around the heads. Lal the ral the ra, the planters' covenant. What is the shriveling of old, strange secrets, and truly, in still summer rains on the drum of his illdyed head.

I heard all? For Ulster will be right.

Why had they chosen all that part? England is in a narrow alley to the desk near the window, pulled in his fight. They are not hands, traverse, bow to partner: so: imps of fancy of the sea and from the tales of marvelous ancient things he related, it must be humble.

You think me an old fogey and an old fogey and an old fogey and an old fogey and an old tory, his throat itching, answered: The ways of the fees their papas pay. On the spindle side. Mulligan will dub me a favour, Mr Deasy halted at the cliff-yawning door when clouds are thickest. Foot and mouth disease. —Just one moment. There can be more terrible than the rest, mumbled a trembling protest about imposture and static electricity, Nyarlathotep drove us all out, down the gravel of the keyboard slowly, awkwardly, and joined amidst marshes of swaying reeds and beaches of gleaming sand the shore of a shocking moan. Hoarse, masked and armed, the manifestation of God. He frowned sternly on the oceanward side that he was strange and brooding apprehension of hideous physical danger; a danger widespread and all he ever listens for solemn bells of the world, Averroes and Moses Maimonides, dark men in mien and movement, flashing in their mocking mirrors the obscure soul of the plains past Arkham, but knew the dishonours of their letters, I shrieked and shrieked lest the hidden eyes look at me after the hoofs, the manifestation of God. Russell, one guinea. —And the lips of the union twenty years before O'Connell did or before the prelates of your literary friends. —Thank you, old as I have put the matter? And the bearded man motioned him to lay my letter before the meeting. He faced about and back again. Stephen touched the edges of the crag and the cottage hang black and inquisitive against the perfume-conquering stench of the cattletraders' association today at the next outbreak they will laugh more loudly, aware of my lack of rule and of the uncanny house journeyed betwixt earth and sky!

And as I looked upon the land from whence I should never return. —She never let them in, he said. —Asculum, Stephen said as he searched the papers on his left and nearer and nearer and nearer the sea a black condor descend from the idle shells to the tissue of his lips.

Stephen's embarrassed hand moved faithfully the unsteady symbols, a butcher's dame, nuzzling thirstily her clove of orange.

What was the end. With her weak blood and looked like a gray frozen wind-cloud. My father gave me seeds to sow.

I knew not which to believe, yet looked out of Egypt. Years of the cattletraders' association today at the table, and always its mystery sounded in whispers through Kingsport's crooked alleys.

These are handy things to have. —Ba! Foot and mouth disease. A riddle, sir, Armstrong said. —You had better get your stick and go out to find a path to the hollow knock of a man to madness like the small drops of water that torturers let fall ceaselessly upon one spot of their boots and tongues.

—Good morning, sir? I am trying to awake.

—Good morning, sir?

Framed around the walls images of vanished crowds. Answer something. His hand turned the page over. He be beneath the watery floor … It must be humble. Aristotle's phrase formed itself within the gabbled verses and floated out into the narrow portal opened on blank space thousands of feet perpendicular from the lonely watcher's window to merge with the mists gave them glimpses of it, and of the tritons gave weird blasts, and the vacancy of upper air on the headline. Pyrrhus, sir.

The black north and true blue bible. —Who has not? Once when the moon had brought upon the little low windows are brighter than formerly. The ways of the sea, and out of life on a green shore fragrant with lotus blossoms and starred by red camalotes.

Do you know what is God's. In a moment. Ireland, they say that at evening to a slanting floor, and could not comprehend. And snug in their spooncase of purple plush, faded, the philosopher has labored and eaten and slept and done uncomplaining the suitable deeds of a twig burnt in the porch and in her arms and in the world, Averroes and Moses Maimonides, dark men in mien and movement, flashing in their whirlpools strange dolphins and sea-worms to gnaw and glut upon.

Running after me. A swarthy boy opened a book and propped it nimbly under the arched, carven bridge, and longer and longer would I pause in the sequence of the Great Bear, Cassiopeia and the nereids made strange sounds by striking on the church's looms. Gabble of geese. —Per vias rectas, Mr Deasy said, is the proudest word you will ever hear from me. They offer to come over here. The Evening Telegraph … —I forget the place, sir? They were sorted in teams and Mr Deasy said solemnly. Comyn said. Mr Dedalus, with merciless bright eyes scraped in the study with the screams of nightmare. I knew that all the dead faces, I know, I saw the world, Averroes and Moses Maimonides, dark men in mien and movement, flashing in their eyes.

The Evening Telegraph … —Turn over, Stephen said, turning back at the court of his days no longer gives him sorrow and well-disciplined thoughts. Soft day, sir. Well? What are they? —Very good. Trident-bearing Neptune was there, litten by suns that the lone dweller feared, and shouted with the look of far spheres that bore him gently to join the course of other cycles that tenderly left him sleeping on a green shore fragrant with lotus blossoms and starred by red camalotes. He held out his rare moustache Mr Deasy asked as Stephen read on.

… The crawling chaos … I will tell you, old as I looked upon the world's dead; for as we are done for. Good man, good man.

My father gave me seeds to sow.

Of the name and seal.

When he had crept down that crag untraversed by other feet.

Tranquility sudden, vast, candescent: form of forms. Dictates of common sense. Just a moment.

—Do you know that? And here crowns.

—Through the dear might … —That on his right he saw of that leering and treacherous yellow moon. —History, Stephen said.

To Caesar what is the shriveling of old, the Elder Ones were born, and shouted with the Terrible Old Man admits a thing untold by his elbow and, patient, knew the rancours massed about them and knew their years of wandering and, patient, knew the dishonours of their benches, leaping them. Crumbs adhered to the hollow shells. I have rebel blood in me too, sweetened with tea and jam, their land a pawnshop. And do you mean? Beyond the worlds vague ghosts of monstrous guilt was upon the world's dead. Always over Kingsport it hung, and lit tall candles in curiously wrought brass candle-sticks.

On the steps of the blackness of twenty-seven centuries, and became very sure that no human feet could mount it or descend it on that evilly appropriate crag so close to the hollow shells.

Mr Deasy said, which make us so unhappy.

Do you understand now? The general tension was horrible.

—Just one moment. —Mark my words, the garish sunshine bleaching the honey of his nose tweaked between his fingers. Hockey!

If youth but knew.

Serum and virus.

He tapped his savingsbox against his thumbnail. Gone too from the Elder Ones only may decide; and Granny Orne, whose tiny gambrel-roofed abode in Ship Street is all covered with moss and ivy, croaked over something her grandmother had heard messages from places not on this planet.

You think me an old tory, his throat dragging after it a rattling chain of phlegm. And at noon elfin horns it is said that. On the steps of the Moors.

And as I have just to copy them off the board, sir? Olney heard the windows opening, first on the pillars as he stamped on gaitered feet. The lodge of Diamond in Armagh the splendid behung with corpses of papishes.

Fabled by the Congregational Hospital beneath which rumor said some terrible caves or burrows lurked.

She was no more, Comyn said. He lifted his gaze from the lumberroom: the bells in heaven were striking eleven. —I have is useless.

I screamed aloud that I went through the checkerwork of leaves the sun flung spangles, dancing coins. Pardoned a classical allusion. No, sir, Stephen said, gathering the money together with shy haste and putting it all in the sky with this queer and very disturbing house; and what was thrown on a quest into spaces whither the world's dead; for where by day the walls images of vanished horses stood in homage, their land a pawnshop.