The Arrest E-Book

Jonathan Lethem

• Herausgeber: Atlantic Books
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

The Arrest isn't post-apocalypse. It isn't a dystopia. It isn't a utopia. It's just what happens when much of what we take for granted - cars, guns, computers, and airplanes, for starters - stops working... Before The Arrest, Sandy Duplessis had a reasonably good life as a screenwriter in L.A. An old college friend and writing partner, the charismatic and malicious Peter Todbaum, had become one of the most powerful men in Hollywood. That didn't hurt. Now, post-Arrest, nothing is what it was. Sandy, who calls himself Journeyman, has landed in rural Maine. There he assists the butcher and delivers the food grown by his sister, Maddy, at her organic farm. But then Todbaum shows up in an extraordinary vehicle: a retrofitted tunnel-digger powered by a nuclear reactor. Todbaum has spent The Arrest smashing his way across a fragmented and phantasmagorical United States, trailing enmities all the way. Plopping back into the siblings' life with his usual odious panache, his motives are entirely unclear. Can it be that Todbaum wants to produce one more extravaganza? Whatever he's up to, it may fall to Journeyman to stop him. Written with unrepentant joy and shot through with just the right amount of contemporary dread, The Arrest is speculative fiction at its absolute finest.

Leseprobe

ALSO BY JONATHAN LETHEM

NOVELS

The Feral Detective

Gun, with Occasional Music

Amnesia Moon

As She Climbed Across the Table

Girl in Landscape

Motherless Brooklyn

The Fortress of Solitude

You Don’t Love Me Yet

Chronic City

Dissident Gardens

A Gambler’s Anatomy

NOVELLAS

This Shape We’re In

SHORT STORY COLLECTIONS

The Wall of the Sky, the Wall of the Eye

Kafka Americana (with Carter Scholz)

Men and Cartoons

How We Got Insipid

Lucky Alan and Other Stories

First published in the United States in 2020 by Ecco,an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd, New York.

Published in trade paperback in Great Britain in 2020 byAtlantic Books, an imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd.

Copyright © Jonathan Lethem, 2020

The moral right of Jonathan Lethem to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

“Atopia” from Atopia © 2019 by Sandra Simonds. Published by Wesleyan University Press and reprinted with permission.

Illustration on page 47 © DC Comics, from Superman’s Pal, Jimmy Olsen ISSUE: 133. Cover date: October, 1970, by Jack Kirby.

Illustration on page 290 courtesy of STUDIOCANAL Films Ltd. Photograph by John Brown.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Trade paperback ISBN: 978 1 83895 216 7

E-book ISBN: 978 1 83895 218 1

Printed in Great Britain

Atlantic Books

An imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd

Ormond House

26–27 Boswell Street

London

WC1N 3JZ

www.atlantic-books.co.uk

For Anna

When you think about it, mostly, a cage is air—

So what is there

to be afraid of?

A cage of air. Baudelaire said

Poe thought America was one giant cage.

To the poet, a nation is one big cage.

And isn’t the nation mostly filled with air?

Try to put a cage around your dream.

The cage escapes the dream.

I see it streak and stream.

—Sandra Simonds, Atopia

1.

FROST HEAVES

THIS ROAD IS LAID ON by the land’s dictation. A horse path once and again, it isn’t smoothed or straightened, routered through the hills. It climbs and collapses, adopts their shape. Here, you might not see something coming until it is upon you. Should there be word of a thing traveling furiously, fair enough. Be patient. What wends toward your town gets there when it will.

Do the hairs on your neck rise? Take a look. Much exists unseen. For instance, the crows in the canopy—you hear them, but can’t pick them out. Mostly, you’ll want to look where you’re going, watch your step, on the irregular, undermined asphalt. A scattering of—is it acorns? Buckshot shells? Not those, not anymore. Scat, perhaps. At the road edge, the low walls, piles of cleared fieldstone. The deer are back, or never were gone. A question of where your eye lands.

Beyond these towns, the road slaloms south, deep and crooked from the mainland, into the peninsula, then across two causeways, now derelict. Vein through the meat of the old land, the road finds its finish on the main street of the fishing enclave on the southernmost of the two islands dangling from the peninsula’s tip, into the Atlantic. A lobster town, its piers were for a half century partly overtaken by galleries and restaurants, a stand selling ice cream loaded in chocolate-dipped cones. Anyone might have gone there, just once, and complained about tourists. It’s a fishing village again. Two hours by horse or bicycle to the quarry towns.

Too far to go. Forget those lobstermen, who rarely appear. It’s the others, those on horseback, calling themselves the Cordon, who are essential to anticipate, defer to, avoid. They guard the south and west perimeters, the ways out by land. To escape this peninsula now, there’s only the sea. Not your thing. Stay with the road.

The rusted yellow highway warning sign reading FROST HEAVES presents a syntactic puzzle. A verb itself frozen. Was there one particular heave, a buckling in an otherwise smooth surface, that once dictated placement of the warning at this spot? The whole roadway surface is heaves now. Someone with a bullet to spare, long ago, shot the metal sign. Forever a surprise the bullet passed through, didn’t get stuck.

Maybe Frost is in fact a person, that poet we studied in high school. Frost heaves into the mind. His road diverged, ours doesn’t. Though, really, isn’t any road you could follow in either of two directions divergent enough to begin with?

2.

THE LAKE OF TIREDNESS

JOURNEYMAN WAS ON THE ROAD this day, north out from the village, to do one of his two regular jobs. Making rounds, by foot, because his bicycle needed repair. He wasn’t a horseman, though he could ride one in a pinch, he imagined. Had done it once or twice at summer camp, in the Poconos. It wasn’t as though much he’d learned in the first part of his life had turned out to be applicable in this, the second. This life wasn’t the one he thought he’d be living.

It was Journeyman’s job to visit the man who lived at the Lake of Tiredness. To bring the man food and other supplies, like candles and hand-spun dental floss. Though really it had proven easy enough just to leave packages at the top of the road; the prisoner would pace up and retrieve them. Prisoner of sorts. There was nothing keeping the man from continuing beyond that point, the juncture where the path to his lakeside cabin joined the peninsula’s main thoroughfare. Nothing besides a kind of agreement between the man and the town, that he should be exiled or retired there. The man, whose name was Jerome Kormentz, was quite elderly. Where would he go?

The road to the Lake of Tiredness was long overgrown, sprung grasses concealing the old gravel tire beds from the center and sides, an entirely successful comb-over. In the shade of dense foliage the air was cool and dry, on a hot bright day, outstanding in every way. Journeyman would remember this later. Some of the crows had followed him from the main road. Or maybe it was other crows. He wasn’t that dedicated a watcher of crows.

The path widened to a clearing. A lawn that had once long ago been diligently mowed now rippled with the same grasses that infilled the gravel beds, and voluntary saplings that would, if left untended, reclaim this land as woods. Everything here wanted to be woods. As a city child visiting New England he’d once taken the pastures, rimmed by dense trees, as a natural formation. A pleasing alternation of the dense and spare, the shadowed and sunlit. Now he’d come to understand that every cleared place in Maine recorded a massive human undertaking, likely by some eighteenth- or nineteenth-century farmer and his neighbors. A quiet war with the growth, once won, now mostly lost again.

At the bottom, the cabin on the shore, a dock extended a brief distance into the water. The Lake of Tiredness was actually a large pond, this had been explained to him once. A matter of outflow and inflow, or lack thereof.

Kormentz came up from the house. Kormentz did this every time, though there was no schedule to the visits, offering a hearty greeting: arms outthrust, hairy-knobbed wrists exposed from his kimono, extending for a handclasp. Charging uphill despite the fact that he was old and his visitor was, if not young, younger. Middle-aged. And despite the fact they’d then turn and descend together to the cabin.

When he saw Jerome Kormentz’s face, Journeyman had to adjust to how old Kormentz had gotten, though he’d known him only five years. The effect wore off quickly. Journeyman would later reflect on how he’d rehearsed this perception this particular day, with Kormentz, because he was to apply it just hours later to a different person, one he’d had no notion of ever seeing again.

3.

TIME AVERAGING

THAT WAS JOURNEYMAN’S NAME FOR it: Time Averaging. It wasn’t a complicated idea. A thing that happens when you first lay eyes on someone you’ve known a long time, but whom you only see intermittently. A thing you do to their faces, with your mind. Time Averaging could also happen if you knew a child, or a teenager—if they were your nephew or niece, say.

It worked like this: You saw them. They appeared shockingly old. Or in the case of the child, startlingly grown. You found time to wonder: Where did the time go? Am I old, too? Were they managing the same confusion, even as they smiled and said how great you look? Then you’d fix them in your mind, using Time Averaging. Your mind held a cache of earlier versions, and you’d merge them to make the person continuous with the earlier rendition. You located their beauty and unspoiledness, and smoothed it up into the picture. If the person was truly elderly, like Jerome Kormentz, you’d recuperate them, to a degree. If a teenager, you’d find the younger child still lurking in their face.

The persons for whom we perform the most remarkable acts of Time Averaging, Journeyman tended to think, were lovers, former and present. Of course. Lovers and siblings. In his present life, he found himself Time Averaging his sister nearly every day, despite the briefness of the intervals.

If you’d told Journeyman, before the Arrest, that he’d come to a life in which he saw his sister nearly every day, he’d have been bewildered at the suggestion.

Time Averaging wasn’t a difficult operation, in Journeyman’s view. In fact, it was impossible not to perform it. Journeyman supposed it was also a thing done to oneself in the mirror, though this seemed to cheapen the theory. He wasn’t interested in mirrors, these days. The striking thing wasn’t the Time Averaging itself, but the existence of the tiny interval in which it hadn’t yet occurred. That moment where we see things as they are.

Journeyman suspected we also did this to the world. It must be the case.

4.

THE PILLOW BOOK OF JEROME KORMENTZ

JOURNEYMAN WAS OF AVERAGE HEIGHT, but Kormentz made him feel tall. Kormentz had always reminded Journeyman of a fish-person, his eyes goggled, his perpetually smiling lips pursed, lower lip a valentine, his thin hair streamed almost invisibly back to cover his scalp. As Kormentz aged, this impression deepened, despite the effect of the Time Averaging. Maybe someday the resemblance would climax and he’d leap into the Lake of Tiredness, shiver into goldfish form, and vanish. Kormentz’s mystical bent made it seem possible.

“Good morning, Sandy!” Journeyman’s given name was Alexander Duplessis. Mostly these days he was called Sandy. His family nickname, it had been propagated locally by his sister, before he could intervene.

“Hello, Jerome.”

“Storyteller, tell me a story.” A standard provocation from Kormentz.

“I’m not your storyteller or anyone’s, Jerome.”

“No, you’re the butcher, now. Did you bring me a lean chop? A portion of somebody’s beloved lamb, named Freckle or Daisy?” He scurried alongside Journeyman as they moved toward his deck.

“I brought you some pig. Good enough for soup.”

“But what’s the pig’s name? A he- or a she-pig? Did you slaughter her yourself? Have you grown more accustomed to it? You know how I’m starved for names, Sandy. Something for my brain-soup. I can live without the people if you’ll just give me the names. Then I’ll invent the people for myself.”

“Here’s a story,” Journeyman said. “Ed Waltz got a tractor to move a few dozen yards across his field, using human waste mixed with the used oil from Mike Raritan’s deep fryer. He thinks that might be the recipe.” The people of the Cordon had functional motorcycles. Nobody knew the secret of their fuel, except that their rides smelled like shithouses.

“Ed and Mike, that’s a start. How about Sarah and Jennifer and Penny? How about Susan? What can you tell me about Susan? Has anyone new moved into the yurt?”

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about. If it’s the Susan I’m thinking of, she’s one of those who left.”

“Pity.”

“Here’s what I have for you.” Journeyman unslung his backpack, a relic of the before. It read TELLURIDE FILM FESTIVAL 2020 on the straps, though faded almost to illegibility. He’d gotten it as a freebie. There’d been a backpack like it, each full of Criterion Blu-rays and other swag, waiting in each guest’s hotel room. Had others been subsequently stained, as this one had, by rinsings in the blood of fresh-slaughtered ducks and sheep, or by lard-smeared mason jars of new-rendered pig parts, such as Journeyman unloaded now? He also fished out a rubber-banded bundle of carrots—he retrieved the rubber band for future use—and some loose spring onions and garlic scapes. “There’s a good soup to be had here,” he said. “Especially if you’ve been gathering mushrooms.”

“There’s a book I need you to find for me, Sandy.”

“What book?”

“The Pillow Book of Sei Shōnagon. Ancient Japanese text, tenth or eleventh century, I think.”

“Pillow Book?” Journeyman didn’t like the sound of it. “Like that Doris Day movie, what’s it called? Oh, Pillow Talk.”

“Sandy, you’re a philistine. It’s one of the classic early literary texts. The author was a lady at the emperor’s court. She recorded her impressions toward the end of her life, with no expectation of publication. Or perhaps she had one sly eye on posterity. Years ago I memorized great swaths of it—alas, all gone now. I do recall it was broken into these marvelous categorical lists, like ‘Things that should be large,’ or ‘Things that give a pathetic impression,’ or ‘Things that make one nervous.’”

Jerome Kormentz aloft on one of his jags: this was a thing that made Journeyman nervous. It made him feel answerable, even if there was no one else around. He was bothered by Kormentz’s constant invocation of “Eastern” stuff. It was with Eastern stuff that Kormentz had beguiled the two teenage girls at Spodosol Ridge Farm. The actions that had led, eventually, to this cozy exile. Journeyman himself had a kind of tone deafness when it came to Eastern stuff, or at least to the Eastern stuff spouted by Westerners who fancied themselves enlightened. He did pine for sushi restaurants, and for Wong Kar-wai movies, and older Japanese samurai movies, by Kurosawa and Kobayashi. Some of these remained shelved, tantalizingly, at the town library, where he supposed he’d go soon, to try to find Kormentz his Pillow Book. Not that any of the local tinkerers had time or inclination to spare for rigging up a prototype bicycle-powered or human-waste-fueled DVD or Blu-ray player.

“I’m writing my own version,” he added into Journeyman’s silence. “The Pillow Book of Jerome Kormentz. It has the same odds of lasting as Sei Shōnagon’s, but you never know.”

“Does it rhyme?”

“No,” Kormentz said. “Why do you ask that?”

“Aren’t most things that last really some kind of song? Like The Odyssey? And they shot that Chuck Berry number out into space.” Talk with Kormentz often plumbed regions of bizarre fact Journeyman had no idea remained relocatable within him. “Never mind. What’s your Pillow Book about?”

“Read Sei Shōnagon’s before you bring it to me and you’ll understand. Just the purest impressions of life as it is lived, without apology.”

It was clear where this led. “I’ll take a look,” Journeyman said, sourly. He’d unpacked the last of the vegetables now, and the mason jar of goat milk yogurt his sister always set aside for Kormentz. Nothing kept him. Other days he might linger to talk, but not today.

“I was always a loving person,” Kormentz blithered. “Everyone knew that. I believed it was sweet and kind, a light I was spreading at the Farm. I love women, Sandy. I made them feel irresistible. Everyone knew I did a little touching, a hand at the small of the back—”

Journeyman had heard it before: the small of the back. Kormentz still luxuriated in his moment of disaster. This had been the cause, as much as his crime, of his removal to the Lake of Tiredness—the fact that he couldn’t quit talking about it.

5.

THE ARREST, SUCH AS JOURNEYMAN UNDERSTOOD IT

WITHOUT WARNING EXCEPT EVERY WARNING possible it had come: the Arrest. The collapse and partition and relocalization of everything, the familiar world, the world Journeyman had known his whole life.

The future, that is to say, announced itself. The future always already present but distributed unequally, like everything else—like bread, talent, sex, like peepal, neem, aloe, and those other plants that give off oxygen at night, like the rare spodosol-rich ground for which Journeyman’s sister’s farming collective was named. The Arrest produced itself as a now already past. Like a time capsule unearthed.

This was confusing. It should be confusing. Did Journeyman understand the world into which he’d been born—its premise, its parameters, its plot? No. So, why should he grasp how it had changed?

How even to say when the Arrest began? The question was when had it gained your attention. Plenty flew under the radar. Biodiversity halved? That made an impression, barely. Polar ice and Miami drowned? Terrible, yet also too big to take personally. One day Journeyman noticed reports of a new tick-borne disease. Once you’d been bitten, cow meat made your throat close up. No more American Wagyu tomahawk steak for two, black on the outside, red within. People joked uneasily. Were the new ticks an eco-terrorist hack? On television, someone said that the turning point had been when in 1986 the president had removed the solar panels from the White House. Then again, someone else said the turning point had been when St. Paul’s epistle had been delivered to the Romans and ignored. You could debate this shit forever.

But not on television, not any longer. Here the Arrest at last commanded Journeyman’s attention. He sat up and noticed the death of screens. They died not all at once, the screens, but in droves, like creatures of the warmed ocean, like those hundreds of manatees washing ashore the same day in Boca Grande who, just weeks before, Journeyman had found uncompelling, and deleted from his feed. He’d unfollowed the manatees. No hard feelings.

Television died first. Television contracted a hemorrhagic ailment, Ebola or some other flesh-melting thing. The channels bled, signals fused, across time as well as virtual space, a live Rod Serling Playhouse 90 teleplay broadcast from 1956 sputtering into last agonized life and expiring in the middle of episodes of season two of Big Little Lies. The Vietnam War came back, and Family Ties too. Until these boiled and melted along with the rest.

The Gmail, the texts and swipes and FaceTimes, the tweets and likes, these suffered colony collapse disorder. Each messenger could no longer chart its route to the hive, or returned only to languish in the hive, there to lose interest in its labors, whether worker or drone. All at once, the email quit producing honey.

So many other ecologies depended on the pollinations, the goings-between of the now-fatigued drones and workers. Without them, nothing worked. Air-conditioning units stalled, planes fell from the sky. The honey of emails and texts had been the glue holding the world together, it appeared. Now the smart devices all evidenced wasting disease. They had to be put out to a level pasture to let them graze out the last part of their lives. There they crumpled to their knees, starved, incapable of grazing.

People kept on swiping at the phones and mashing at the keyboards. Some tried giving the voice-activated devices mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Some proposed fixes or work-arounds. Those more mystically minded placed phones or remotes beneath their pillows at night or built shrines in which to surround their devices with crystals, hoping to spark them from their silence. Others, like Journeyman, merely kept glancing at the screens that had gone dark, and also sat periodically weeping. Some, like Journeyman, needed eventually to be given a mug of herbal tea while someone else hid their inert former electronic playthings.

A solar flare?

Eco-terror? Terror-terror? Species revenge? The Revolution?

Had Journeyman’s world jumped the shark?

The stars didn’t go out, one by one.

The U.S. wasn’t replaced with a next thing. It was replaced by wherever one happened to be. The place one happened to reside at the moment of the Arrest, which after a fitful start had come overnight. Did they even call it the Arrest elsewhere? Journeyman counseled himself to be done with such speculation. BE HERE NOW; WHEREVER YOU GO, THERE YOU ARE; ALL POLITICS ARE LOCAL: every bumper sticker had come true at once, even as the cars slumped sidelong from the roads to make way for other means of transit. Every tank seemed sugared by the same prankster, the gasoline turned to a thing that inched from the pump nozzles like molten flourless cake.

Guns worked for months, for nearly a year after the initial Arrest. Then died too, souring like milk. The bullets no longer even blew up if you shattered them with a hammer—Journeyman had seen it tried.

Goodbye to gasoline and bullets and to molten flourless cake. Goodbye to coffee. To bananas and Rihanna, to Father John Misty, to the Cloud, to news feeds full of distant core meltdowns, to manatees and flooded cities and other tragedies Journeyman had guiltily failed to mourn. Hello instead to solar dehydrators, rooftop rain collectors, to beans, kale, and winter squash. To composting toilets and humanure, to a killing cone, feather plucker, and evisceration knife. Say hello to chasing a screaming duck into a pond to drag back to the killing cone. To being the butcher’s sluice boy.

Had Journeyman known that barns were traditionally painted red to disguise the bloodstains? He hadn’t. Journeyman had been playing catch-up since the Arrest, cribbing from field guides, farmer’s almanacs, seed catalogs, old Michael Pollan paperbacks. Could he become a man of the soil in mid-life? No, he was too old a dog for that trick. The peninsula was choked with expert organic farmers, lured here by the locavore movement. His sister was one of them.

That’s why Journeyman worked with the butcher, Augustus Cordell, sluicing bloody steel tables, retrieving offal and caul for Victoria’s sausage-making. Victoria’s creations—her summer sausage, her hard salami, her black pudding—were prized by the whole peninsula, but also used as barter with the people of the Cordon. As it turns out, therefore, Journeyman could wish he’d been carrying a packet of them in his Telluride Film Festival backpack five minutes later that same morning, after climbing the lake’s overgrown driveway, back to the main road.

6.

AN OLD FRIEND

AT FIRST JOURNEYMAN THOUGHT IT was bees or deerflies, a kind of humming, as he pushed out of the canopy, onto the sunmottled asphalt. He mistook the humming for the bee-loud glade. This day was still weirdly perfect. Journeyman, freed of Kormentz’s monologue, was interested to search for the book the prisoner had requested. It had caught his imagination. Journeyman had a little crush, too, on the woman who’d moved into the library—it made an excuse to visit there.

It wasn’t bees. A contingent from the Cordon was on the roadway. Their humming resolved into something more irregular, the guttering of their night-soil engines, as they approached. Journeyman distinguished the sound a minute before the riders appeared, hovering into view over the roadway’s contour. Two shit-Harleys. Behind them, two other men, on horseback. The four were an advance team for something else. Some stormhead rumbling farther back on the road.

Journeyman stood blinking as they dismounted. He knew one of the riders, who called himself Eke. Was this short for Ezekiel, or Ekediah, or some other longer name? Journeyman didn’t know. Eke might have been in his late twenties. His hair was slicked back and cut stylishly high on both sides, though he wore the stalactite beard of a Cordon elder.

“Mr. Duplessis.” It was the way of the Cordon to address members of Journeyman’s community formally, or mock-formally. Eke, for one, spoke with impunity to men decades older than himself, or at least to Journeyman. He picked his nose in front of Journeyman too—evidence, if needed, that the formality in his address was more mock than otherwise.

“Hello, Eke.”

“Just the man I wanted to see. Good piece of luck finding you on the road.”

“It’s good to see you too, Eke, but I wasn’t expecting you. I haven’t got anything.” Journeyman still, at this point, imagined this might concern sausage, or other supplies.

“This isn’t about nothing like that.”

“No?”

“You’re good with us, Mr. Duplessis. We wouldn’t ask for more than’s our fair share.”

“What can I do you for?”

“We got a strange one for you. Comes with you and your sister’s name attached. If your names hadn’t got mentioned, I doubt we’d be here.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Fellow came up our way in a kind of car.” He waved behind him, at the road. The other men on the stopped motorcycles, and the two horses, including Eke’s own, seemed to flicker their attention back the way they’d come as well, as if Eke had their sight lines tethered to his hand by invisible threads.

“A working car?”

Eke paused to shake his head, signifying something outside the box. “Not like one any of us ever seen. It’s big. Kind of an armored car. A supercar, I guess you’d say.” Later, Journeyman would reflect on how Eke’s nomenclature stuck: supercar. Perhaps the inevitable term. “He won’t come down from it, says he’ll talk to Sandy Duplessis or Madeleine Duplessis only. He also knew the name of your sister’s farm out there.”

“You couldn’t . . . get him out of his car?”

“Well, not if we didn’t dynamite him out of it. Which, I can tell you, we were prepared to do, until he began shouting your name down. Like I said, it’s been a puzzler. We’re not afraid of him, mind you. Some proposed turning him back the way he came, but others felt we wouldn’t mind taking a look at the operation of the thing, if we could get him down from it without dynamite. We thought you and your sister might want to at least give him a hearing before we made the call.”

“Down?” Journeyman couldn’t visualize this. Also, he was distracted by something he’d noticed: that two of the Cordon’s men bore bandages on their limbs. One, a thick hump of gauze at the juncture of his shoulder and neck. Had they been in some kind of battle? Were these wounds acquired in wrangling this supercar? Or should Journeyman take their tales of periodically invading hordes more seriously than he had?

“He’s seated up pretty high,” said Eke. “You’ll see.” He glanced over his shoulder. Now Journeyman heard it and saw it. Not the car itself, which remained around a few bends and below a few rises. Just the rumbling cloud it raised, on a still and sunny afternoon. Eke appeared a bit rattled by the thing he’d been trying to describe, that thing coming.