Kenneth lay with eyes wide open upon the bed, his gaze fixed to the rotation of the ceiling fan’s blade so that it did not, all at once, merge into the other three, but remained apart from them—independent.

His girlfriend, Charlotte, had just curled up beside him, dressed in her almost translucent nightgown—her figure traced in the moonlight as she crossed the room toward the bed; a slim, petite frame of a woman, with modest, yet enchanting breasts.

“It’s awfully stuffy in here,” she said, her voice muffled against the pillows and sheets. “Did you turn the heat up?” She turned reflexively toward the thermostat.

“It’s not even on,” answered Kenneth smoothly.

Charlotte turned to Kenneth, a slight smirk about her mouth as he lay undaunted by the thick air. She climbed out of bed; the thermostat was off. She climbed back in.

“Quite mild for the early spring, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Kenneth said, his tone placid, “quite mild.”

Charlotte sighed; her sigh morphed into laughter as she turned over beneath the top sheet and straddled Kenneth at the waist.

Her curtain of hair shaded her eyes, but Kenneth could see her sweet, innocent smile in the moonlight—a smile of affection.

She sat up, parting her hair. “What’s gotten into you?”

She leaned closer to his face again, her hair falling behind her ears so that he could see her eyes now.

“It’s nothing,” Kenneth dismissed.

Her eyes widened and her mouth fell agape. “Come on! Quit being silly! What’s the matter with you?” She playfully slapped her hands on his chest.

Should he tell her? No, she’d find out soon enough. It would be over before she could do anything about it. How precious she was in this moment, he thought. How adorable. She knew nothing of what was to come. Ignorance is bliss, so he thought.

How could he obscure the truth?

“Do you remember that old man whom I rented from? He had the house with a second-floor apartment; that was when we were first going out, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” she said. “According to you, he lazed about all day. He was retired, sure, but… there was something… just… off about him. He was quite odd…”

“Yes,” Kenneth beamed. “People thought he was quite odd, indeed. But what if I told you that he was a genius among men?”

Charlotte grinned, casting a dazed side-eye glance and fidgeting with her hair.

“Really think about it. That old man, he knew. He knew he was at the end of the road. Every stake he had in securing his future? Futile. Every hope of holding on? It was pointless. Who’s to say he didn’t do everything he could? His retirement wasn’t just the end of his working days. No. It was his escape. His avenue to complete serenity. Complete freedom! So tell me, what care should he have for the future of others? What care?”

He leaned closer, his voice dropping.

“The way I see it, Charlotte… the only winning move in life is not to play at all.”

Kenneth grabbed her by the waist and raised his lips to hers. They kissed for a while and both fell back on the bed, their eyes meeting each other’s.

“B-but… I don’t understand,” Charlotte said, only now heeding the full weight of Kenneth’s words. “If the only winning move in life is to not play, then surely you must be surrendering it to someone who will. Why do you think it’s acceptable to lack a will to change?”

“Because change is an illusion. We only have a choice to make based on choices that have already been predetermined for us. If free will means that we are the ultimate source of our actions, then what is really ‘free’ in choosing our actions? They haven’t originated from us, therefore they’re not ours.”

Charlotte turned over flat on her back and placed her open palm on her forehead. “Ugh… it’s awfully hot in here, Kenneth. Really, I can’t bear it…”

“Come on,” Kenneth said, massaging her other arm. “Go to bed.”

“I can’t. I physically can’t. It’s too hot in here.”

“Take a melatonin. There’s some in the bathroom medicine cabinet.”

“Ugh,” Charlotte groaned as she rolled out of bed. Her supple bottom jiggled in her panties. She rifled through the medicine cabinet: cough syrup, fish oil pills, vitamin D, caffeine pills—no melatonin.

“I’ll have to go downstairs,” she said, exiting the bathroom. “There’s none up here. There must be a bottle in the downstairs bathroom.”

Kenneth suddenly leapt to his feet, nearly getting caught in the bedding and falling over as he pounced between Charlotte and the door.

“No…” he said. “Let me go. I’ll get them for you.”

Charlotte appeared agitated now and threw up her arms. “What is the matter with you, Kenneth? I’m not a cripple; I can get them myself.”

“Please don’t, Charlotte,” Kenneth pleaded with her. “Let me fetch them for you. Please.”

“Don’t even bother,” she said, crossing her arms. “I’m not even tired anymore. I can’t possibly sleep like this anyway,” she said, fanning her face.

“What will you do then?” Kenneth asked hesitantly.

“I-I don’t know. I’ll watch something on the TV downstairs if you’ll let me!”

“Charlotte,” Kenneth said mournfully. “I’m sorry.”

“Just go to bed, Kenneth,” she said. “You’ve had a long day.”

Opening the door, there was painted along the wall of the landing a red-orange light that appeared to flicker now and again. She walked farther down the stairs and came to the landing. A faint crackle and popping noise could be heard off to the right, where the foyer separated the living room from the office space. Descending further, she saw it: an immaculate blaze of fire scorching the office space, with thin tendrils of smoke crawling along the ceiling and walls. The office was just beneath their bedroom upstairs.

She stood there momentarily, as if time had come to a standstill. Suddenly, Kenneth reached out and snatched her by the arm, pulling her back upstairs. He dragged her into the bedroom, throwing her from his grip so that she nearly collided with the wooden trunk at the foot of the bed. He slammed the door shut and stood against it, his arms outstretched, his chest dropping and heaving.

“Kenneth,” Charlotte said. An air of dismay laced her voice. “What—what has happened to you?”

“I didn’t start the fire,” he firmly answered. “The electric in the office has always given us a problem, hasn’t it? It’s a pity the landlord hasn’t done anything to fix it after weeks of my complaining! So be it! This is what he wants—it’s what I want, too!”

All conviction and hostility left her at once. She could now smell the fire beneath them, felt the warmth of the flames licking the ceiling below. She almost thought she could see the smoke curl through the seams of the floorboards and carpeting.

“We… we have to get out, Kenneth! The house is on fire!” shrieked Charlotte in her affirmation of life. She rose and ran to the window facing the street. Throwing back the curtains, she hastily undid the latch and pushed the window open. At first, it wouldn’t budge, but her unparalleled strength prevailed. The fire department had just arrived; their sirens blared, and the red and white lights of the engines painted a kaleidoscope inside the bedroom.

“Come on, Kenneth, we have to go!” Charlotte persisted.

Kenneth stood motionless, only turning his head ever so slightly from side to side.

“No,” he said. “No, I can’t let you go. I won’t let you!” He darted toward her and pulled her back from the window, but she latched onto the curtains in a strange tug-of-war. The bracket holding the curtains eventually gave way, and she fell backward on top of him, knocking the wind from his lungs. She didn’t waste any time saving herself and quickly sprang to her feet.

A fireman from outside called out, “Is there anybody up there?”

She ran to the window, gesticulating her arms like some deranged lunatic. “Yes, yes!” she cried out hysterically.

“Bring the life net,” the lieutenant fireman instructed his underlings.

A circular disk of fabric was stretched out just beneath the window of the second-story bedroom by four other firemen.

“Jump! Jump!” the lieutenant cried out.

Charlotte looked back. Kenneth had risen, his eyebrows furrowed and his features almost hideous in the red and white strobe of light.

“Kenneth,” she cried out at last as he made his advance toward her.

She made the plummet like a barrel roll into the life net. The wind, in that moment, whipped past her ears in her descent. All other sounds were briefly mute.

“I’ve got you,” said the lieutenant, helping her from the net.

As she looked back at the window, the silhouette of Kenneth remained. Bright orange flames engulfed the room, and he suddenly grabbed at his head. His screams were momentary, then faded as he collapsed out of view.

She sobbed into the chest of the lieutenant fireman.

“We’ve got ourselves a smoking umbrella,” the lieutenant said solemnly.

“A foreigner and a park ranger?” The girl, Ms. Dorothy Grace, said in a voice that could stoke the temptations of any man, “It might as well be summer for you all the time...”

“Certainly, Ms. Grace,” her guide, Mr. Robert Morrow, replied. He led her into the motorboat, taking her small and delicate hand; her skin was soft and lacking any discernible texture compared to his meaty, calloused paw. He pulled the starter cord of the outboard motor, and it cranked and sputtered to life, expelling a thin cloud of black smoke from the exhaust.

They moved down the Belize River, weaving their way through the jungle and the exotic trees that lined the banks, accompanied by the calls of birds and other creatures from somewhere in the greenery.

“My,” Ms. Grace said, “How lovely is their song. What are those birds called?”

“That’s a yellow-headed amazon, Ms. Grace. They fetch a high price on the market back in Belize City. You’d love them—they make great pets.”

“I think I shall get one... only if Father approves,” she said, hanging her head in contemplation. “Do you think Father would approve?”

“I can’t imagine why he wouldn’t. Even then, a yellow-headed amazon could fetch a high price elsewhere; it would be a return on his investment if he decided to part with it.”

Ms. Grace nodded and played with the strings of her pith helmet. “You must convince Father to let me buy one of those birds, Mr. Morrow. I can’t leave Belize without a souvenir, after all.”

“A souvenir, you say?” Morrow exclaimed with a big, toothy smile. “Well, if it’s a souvenir you want, it’s a souvenir you’ll get.”

They rounded a cut bank and came to a shallow point bar on the opposite side of the meander, where they moored the boat. There was a clearing that led somewhere into the jungle.

“Watch your step, Ms. Grace, and keep an eye out for snakes!”

“Snakes!” Ms. Grace gasped. “Where are you taking me, Mr. Morrow?”

Morrow grinned and took her by the shoulder. “You said you wanted a souvenir, didn’t you?” he said, motioning with his other hand. Together, they walked the narrow path through the jungle, the leaves and vines reaching out and grazing them as they walked. Ms. Grace felt the uneasy displeasure of constantly checking herself for spiders in her long locks, which came down just beneath the breast of her button-down blouse, and for snakes at her exposed ankles.

“Surely, you must know how to treat a spider or snake bite, given your experience, Mr. Morrow?”

“Ms. Grace,” Mr. Morrow said flatly, “Do you take me for a fool? Of course I can! It’s real simple, as a matter of fact. You just suck the venom out,” he said, leaning in a little too close for comfort.

They walked a little further, and the path began to widen and straighten before they finally came to their destination: a large stone structure, something like a mausoleum, stood at the end of the path. The masonry was impressive, with a series of bas-reliefs adorning the facade.

“Is it marvelous, Ms. Grace?”

“It’s... beautiful,” she said with an exhalation. “What is it, exactly?”

“It’s an old native structure, supposedly a temple for sacrifice back in those days when that was the accepted norm. It’s been lost to time ever since, but I scouted it out and brought my men out here to clear a path for tourism.”

“Oh my...” Ms. Grace said, stepping forward and feeling the relief. She stepped into the threshold and peered inside; only blackness lay ahead.

“Don’t go inside!” Morrow snapped, seizing Ms. Grace by the wrist. “I—I don’t want you to get hurt, is all.”

“Well?” she said, waiting rather impatiently to see the inside.

“We can’t go in just yet,” Mr. Morrow said. “It’s too dark, and I don’t have a flashlight on me. I wouldn’t want you to get hurt. Wait here, and I’ll run back to the boat and fetch us some materials—I’ll make us a torch!”

Morrow ran back to the boat, wrapping the end of a sturdy stick with some loose, oiled rags he had lying around. He poured a little gasoline on the rag and lit it, creating a torch. The fire blazed bright and orange, and he smiled in its glow. He stuck the torch down into the ground and reached back into the boat, retrieving his revolver, tucking the weapon in his waistband. In the distance, opposite the point bar at the cut bank, a man peered through the vines and watched Mr. Morrow through a pair of binoculars.

“You’re back—what took you so long?” Ms. Grace said. “I was getting nervous.”

“No need to be nervous, Ms. Grace. Come,” he said, reaching out his hand. “Let’s us take a gander together, shall we?” She eyed his hand and hesitated a moment before taking it.

“These reliefs chronicle critical events in the culture of the Mayan civilization,” Mr. Morrow said, commenting on the specifics of each carving. “Not a single element has eroded this work for centuries. The dry, cool air beneath all this masonry has kept this work preserved for ages.”

“It’s wonderful,” Ms. Grace said, staring back at the curious Mayan faces and little figures.

He led her down further into the pit of the abandoned Mayan structure until they came to an antechamber with a large stone slab rising from the floor.

“This, Ms. Grace, is where the sacrifices were made,” Morrow said, a slight tinge of excitement dripping from his words.

“My... goodness... I—I think I might faint!” Ms. Grace said, breathing heavily and sniffling at the thought of all those sacrifices thousands of years ago.

“No, come now, Ms. Grace. It was a customary practice of the Mayans all those centuries ago. It’s over, I assure you.”

“I think... I ought to lie down...” Ms. Grace said.

“Of course, Ms. Grace, here,” he said, leading her toward the stone slab.

“You honestly expect me to lie on that... that... sacrificial altar!”

“It’s harmless, Ms. Grace. It’s part of the experience—imagine; you’ll get to tell all your friends back at school that you rested on an ancient Mayan sacrificial altar.”

“No she won’t.” A deep, disembodied voice echoed throughout the antechamber.

“Who was that?” Ms. Grace said, clutching Morrow closely. “Robert!”

“Who goes there?” Morrow said, holding his torch higher. “Show your face! This is Belizian state property!”

“Is it?” The voice now had a face. A tall man in a plantation-style hat, an army green vest, and white shirt and pants stepped forward. He carried a machete at his side.

“Drop your weapon!” Morrow said.

“Please...” The man tossed him a coin.

“I know to pay the fare, being that this is a tourist attraction and all,” the man said, his back turned to them as he curiously observed the reliefs on the wall.

“W-what about the trespassing fee? You trespassed on Belizean state property!”

The man turned, produced a money clip, and removed two hundred Belizean dollars, shoving the money into Mr. Morrow’s hand.

“Now then,” the man said, “tell me, what is it I’m exactly looking at?”

Morrow cleared his throat, “Well, these here depict the great Mayan kings receiving offerings from conquered tribes. You can see the bound prisoners, the priests, the gifts. It’s a very common scene in Mayan culture.”

The man studied the reliefs in silence for a moment, caressing his chin, “Is that what you tell the tourists?”

He stepped closer to the wall, running his fingers lightly along the carved stone. “What you’re actually looking at is a depiction of the Maya creation myth, specifically the actions of the Hero Twins, Hunahpu and Xbalanque. This panel here,” he said, pointing to a figure with what appeared to be fish-like features, “isn’t a conquered king. It’s one of the twins transforming into a catfish to retrieve the bones of their father from the underworld, Xibalba.”

Morrow’s torch flickered, casting dancing shadows across the stone.

“And this sequence,” the man continued, moving along the wall, “shows the ball game played against the lords of Xibalba. See the detail on the ball court markers and the death gods observing from above? The Maya didn’t carve random sacrificial scenes. All their reliefs told a specific story, usually tied to their cosmology, astronomy, or dynastic history.”

Ms. Grace’s eyes widened as she looked at the carvings with new understanding. “Then the altar... it’s not for sacrifices?”

“Oh, it might well be,” the man said, turning to face them. “But not in the way your guide might imagine. Bloodletting rituals were performed by royalty. Kings and queens drew blood from their tongues or genitals to commune with their ancestors and gods. They believed it sustained the cosmic order. The ‘victims’ on this altar,” he said, slapping the surface, “would have been the rulers themselves, offering their own blood.”

Morrow shifted uncomfortably, his torch lowering slightly. “And how would you know all this?”

The man smiled, chuckling a little, touching the brim of his hat, and stepped forward. “Let’s just say I’ve spent more time with people who know these stones than you’ve spent rehearsing your tour script, Mr. Morrow.” He flashed his Interpol badge—Thomas Harding, detective inspector. “You’re under arrest for the illicit excavation and theft of Mayan artifacts.”

They exited the stone structure to find the sky a dark gray. It looked like it would rain at any second.

“I appreciate your cooperation, Mr. Morrow,” Inspector Harding said. “You certainly make my job a whole lot—”

But before Harding could apprehend his wrists, Morrow pushed away from the inspector and seized Ms. Grace by the throat, pressing the barrel of his revolver against her head. She screamed and tried to free herself, but Morrow’s strength was too great for her to put up a fight.

“I won’t hurt the girl—I won’t, I tell you! As long as you let us leave, nobody has to get hurt!”

Inspector Harding turned and spat. “I’ve chased you from the banks of the Danube to the banks of the Belize River, Morrow. Are you forgetting that there’s an entire ocean between them? Do I need to teach you geography now, too? I can’t just let you go.”

“I’ve got no time for your lessons, Harding! You let me go and the girl lives!”

Harding hesitated, but finally drew his machete and pierced it into the ground. The blade swayed back and forth like a metronome.

Morrow pushed the girl away from him, his gun and eyes still fixed on Inspector Harding as he went to retrieve the machete.

A bad mistake, leaving your hostage free.

Harding lunged forward and delivered a square kick across Morrow’s jaw, the force of it knocking him backward and away from the machete. Inspector Harding quickly seized the weapon as Morrow scrambled back to his feet, wiping blood from his mouth.

“You bastard!” Morrow roared, squeezing off two hasty shots.

It all happened so fast. There was a blood-curdling scream as the machete made its silver arc. Morrow’s head soared through the air and landed at Ms. Grace’s feet. Then, only blackness.

Back in Belize City at the hotel, Ms. Grace slept next to a birdcage with a beautiful yellow-headed amazon that lulled her with its singing. Mr. Wylie Grace, her father, and Inspector Harding peered in on her through the door.

“I sincerely thank you for bringing my daughter to safety, Inspector Harding. If I knew she was running around with a reprobate in the city, I would’ve done what you did myself.”

Inspector Harding chuckled and lit a cigarette. “It’s just a shame I couldn’t get him booked alive. There are plenty more like him roaming the world; they’re all connected, all caught in the same web that leads back to someone bigger.” He let out a puff of smoke. “There’s always someone bigger...”

“I should think so,” Mr. Grace said, pouring from a decanter of wine into two glasses.

“You said you were a doctor by profession, Mr. Grace?” Inspector Harding asked.

“Yes, I am. I practiced medicine at the University of Virginia and work at the Walter Reed General Hospital in Washington, D.C.”

“A comfortable job, I’d reckon?”

“Why, yes—it’s paid for this vacation.”

Inspector Harding nodded and finished the last of his wine. “Well, I shouldn’t keep you any longer. I’ve work to return to.”

“Oh, but you must come back for dinner, sir. Please, I will treat you!” Mr. Grace insisted.

Inspector Harding smiled. “I thank you, Mr. Grace, but I’m to be posted in Mexico City by tomorrow. I’ll visit you the next time I find myself in Washington.”

“Please do,” Mr. Grace said, smiling. “And I thank you again, sir.”

Just as Inspector Harding donned his hat and proceeded to leave their room, he returned and placed a small wooden box on the table. “It’s a souvenir for your daughter. The Maya wore the bones of their defeated enemies as belt ornaments.”

Mr. Grace looked up, surprised, at Inspector Harding.

“Don’t worry. You have a medical license. You can keep it.”

The inspector exited. Mr. Grace sat alone, looking rather confused, before slowly opening the box: inside lay a perfectly cleaned mandible bone.

“Now and then we had a hope that if we lived and were good, God would permit us to be pirates.”

—MARK TWAIN

At Noon on the 23rd of April in the Year 1778, the American Sloop-of-War, the Ranger, sailed into the Soloway Firth, riding uneasily at Anchor off St. Mary’s Isle—a peninsula and the Ancient seat of the Douglas family, its sole inhabitants. The Isle was gloomily Shrouded in the dim Fog, as though it were the only Tract of Land within the peripheral Sight of a Sailor. As the Tide began to Ebb, flowing outward past Kirkcudbright Bay, toward the Irish Sea, a Boy—the young Thomas Douglas, Heir to the Earl of Selkirk—curiously stood in the Gardens of the Douglas Castle, peering through a Spyglass at the unheralded Vessel. Observing a Flag of Thirteen Red and White Stripes, with a Canton of Blue, and White Stars fluttering upon its Halyard, showing bravely like a Constellation—did the young Douglas then engage in the lighthearted and playful Equivocation of counting each Star, forestalling his Day’s Chores.

When reaching the Ninth Star, Thomas was seized by the Governess of his Family’s Estate and she swiftly whisked him away.

Captain John Paul Jones, in Command of the Ranger, collapsed his Spyglass and paced the Starboard Side of the Quarterdeck. To the Larboard Side, First Lieutenant Simpson and Lieutenant Wallingford watched the Captain’s restless Traipse, much like a Billiard-Ball in a Game of Cue.

“Pray, I reckon the Cap’n is yet undecided,” remarked Lieutenant Simpson, his Words laced with an Air of Vexation.

“It would seem,” replied Lieutenant Wallingford, “that the Captain is bound by Newton’s Third Law of Motion.”

A Pause. “Eh?” Simpson, brow furrowed.

“Why, ’tis purely Newtonian, the Captain’s Demeanor! Viz.—For every Action, there is an equal and opposite Reaction. The Douglas’s have proven as much.” Nodding his Pate sagely. His breath effusive with Alcohol.

“Speak plainly, Man,” Simpson, firm in rejoinder.

“Oh.” Wallingford, hurried. “I mean only to say that the Captain’s Hesitation springs from a Matter most Personal—”

“There.” Simpson interjected. “That suffices. If only you were Equally as Intelligent when Sober.” He rocked upon his Heels and cast his Gaze upon the Yard of the Spanker Sail as it sway’d gently in the Breeze.

“You know,” began Lieutenant Wallingford, “‘tis whispered that the Captain himself is a Bastard offspring of the Selkirks.”

“Argh!—Selkirks be damn’d! Curse your drunkenness! We have our Orders, by G—d!” And with that, Lieutenant Simpson storm’d off across the Quarterdeck toward the Captain, Lieutenant Wallingford following at length to his Heel.

The Manner in which they approached the Captain near provoked him to lay Hand upon his Sword. Still aggrieved by the Failure at Whitehaven—a Venture most Ill-shared—the Crew having grown reluctant to “destroy the Property of poor People,” as Lieutenant Wallingford had confessed after the Attack. Their Privateering exploits in the British Isles had thus far proved poorly, yielding but two Prizes of little worth: a pair of Fruit-Laden Vessels of ill-repute and the Lord Chatham, whose Hold contained only a Hundred Hogsheads of English Porter—enough, the Captain fancied, to quiet a Crew already simmering with Discontent, yet sufficient also, in his Folly, to sustain the Drunken Rage of those Undisciplined Matelots who now despised him the more for it.

“Your Orders, Sir?” Lieutenant Simpson inquired with ease.

The Captain drew himself upright, his Breast heaving with a weary Sigh. “I have resolved to go Ashore. Lieutenant Wallingford and Master Cullam shall attend me. Lieutenant Simpson, you will remain Aboard with Lieutenant Meijer and Lieutenant Hall. We take Thirty of our Men ashore.”

“Aye, Sir,” replied Simpson, who no sooner withdrew to the Main Deck to help muster the Raiding Party—In Truth, Lieutenant Simpson seethed with silent Indignation. As First Lieutenant of the Ranger, he sustained a bitter Conviction that the Captain had slighted him—a Belief that had festered since their Landfall in France, when he had expected to assume Command of the Ship. Their Relationship had become a Fraught, with frequent Disputes over Matters of Leadership and private Quarrels that strained both of the Men’s patience.

Before long, two Longboats were lowered from the Ranger, and Thirty of her Motley Crew rowed toward the Docks of Douglas Castle.

“G—d strike me dead,” muttered Lieutenant Simpson, “for I wish that they capsized,” his Voice dry as he watched the Boats pull for Land.

As the Longboats hauled for Shore, the Raiding Party, led by Lieutenant Walligford and Master Cullam, were first to set upon the Docks. Like Dogs, the Disreputable Gaggle of Men, some bearded, tattooed, and one-eyed, armed with Cutlasses, Dirks, and Flintlocks, picked their way to the Castle, with Lieutenant Wallingford, and Master Cullam at their Head.

“Put your backs into it, men!” Shouted Captain Jones as his Longboat lazily pulled to shore.

Wallingford, Cullam and their Party picked their way up to Douglas Castle, ransacking the Gardens lined with Boxwood, until they stood before the Great Door—Majestickal, yet strangely Unassuming.

Master Cullam beat upon the Door with the Pommel of his Cutlass, near splitting the Oak with his blows.

“Open this Door, damn your Eyes!” bellowed Master Cullam. “David!” he roared, turning to the party, “Where is David?”

David Freeman, who at Whitehaven had spoiled the Attack by slipping from the Crew to knock upon every Door in Marlborough Street, warning the townsfolk of the coming Conflagration. He was thrust forward through the Ranks of Men, and answering the Master’s summons, said: “Aye, Sir?”

“You’ve shown Talent for Door-Knocking, have you not? Well then—to it! And D—l take ye if ye don’t!”

David Freeman obeyed, hastily rapping his Knuckles against the Great Door, much to the amusement of the crew.

Within, Countess Selkirk, fraught with Child and but lately risen from her Breakfast, spoke calmly: “Daniel, pray, see who is outside.”

“‘Tis Pirates, Madam! Pirates, I say!” shrieked the Governess. “Was Providence alone that spared Young Thomas when I found him spying on their ship!”

“Now, now, Clarissa,” said Countess Selkirk, her Voice measured though the Knocking which echoed through the Hall. “Calm yourself. Daniel, if you would, please?”

“At once, My Lady,” replied Daniel, making his Bow before approaching the Door.

“State your Business?” he called through the Door.

Master Cullam, thrusting David Freeman aside, shouted: “Open this Door! We’ve come for the Earl! Hand him over—and swiftly! May G—d have Mercy on ye!”

Daniel, maintaining his Customary Composure and Gentleman’s Demeanor, replied: “The Earl is not home, sir. If you Gentlemen be a Press-Gang from the Royal Navy, I fear you’ll find no Seamen here to press.”

“The Earl is not at Home?” David Freeman repeated with careless Disregard.

“He is not, Sir,” Daniel maintained with Composure. At this, David broke from the Crew, shoved past Master Cullam, and scurried back toward the Docks to bear Tidings to the Captain.

The Captain’s Longboat had but made Landfall, its Raiders mounting the Docks. Upon hearing of the Earl’s Absence, Captain Jones resolved to retreat to the Longboat, where he feigned to submit to the news, knowing full well the mutinous air that Lingered among the Crew.

“Inform Lieutenant Wallingford and Master Cullam that no Men are to enter the House. We must not depart without some Token of our Visit. If they should procure an Object of Worth, that shall suffice.”

“Aye, Sir,” David acknowledged, then hurried back to the Raiding Party with all Haste and informed the Officers, who were still barr’d at the entrance.

“Argh!” roared Master Cullam, beating the door once more, “I know well what needs Pressing, you Impudent little—”

“Enough, Master Cullam,” interposed Lieutenant Wallingford. “Sir,” he continued mildly, “we are no Men of the Royal Navy, but Free Sailors of the Continental Navy—Americans all.”

“Americans?” David repeated, the unfamiliar Demonym first confounding him, breaking through his usual Reserve.

Then, no sooner had Countess Selkirk emerged from the Breakfast Room to investigate the Confusion herself.

“What ever is this Disturbance about, Daniel?" inquired Countess Selkirk.

“‘Tis the Americans, My Lady.”

Having briefly parted the Drapes to observe the Cutlass and Pistol-wielding Crew did her Mouth fell agape, momentarily, before she swiftly regained her Composure. Upon opening the Door, she beheld Lieutenant Wallingford and Master Cullam in the threshold, in their Full Dress Uniforms, flanked by Thirty rough Seamen who stood in uneasy Repose, their Eyes naturally drawn to her Bosom.

“Good Day, Madam,” said Lieutenant Wallingford, removing his Tricorn. “My name is Lt. Samuel Wallingford, and this is my subordinate, Mstr. David Cullam. Might I and my Subordinate, Master Cullam. May we enter?”

“Y-Yes, please” she answered abruptly, scarcely considering her Decision, and gestured them entry. They removed to the Drawing Room where their Discourse continued.

“Now then,” she exhaled sharply, “I insist upon an Explanation for this Outrageous Invasion of our Privacy. What do you Men want?”

“My Lady,” began Lieutenant Wallingford, smoothly, “I most Sincerely apologize for the Disturbance. I have Orders from my Captain, Mr. John Paul Jones, advised himself by Mister Benjamin Franklin, Envoy at the Court of Versailles in Paris, to take your Husband, the Earl, into our Custody. You are doubtless aware of the Hostilities between America and Great Britain. We mean to employ the Earl as Leverage in London, you see, to secure the Release of American Prisoners captured at Sea.”

“My Husband is not at Home,” she stated curtly, implying that even were he Present, he would never surrender himself to such a mangy Band of Uncouth Sailors.

Lieutenant Wallingford paused for a moment, then with a Smile replied: “It matters not, My Lady,” he cast his Gaze upward to the Ceiling, detecting a faint Cascade of Footfalls from the Upper Chambers—in Truth, it was the Maidservants restraining Young Thomas, the Boy’s Ear pressed flush against the Floorboards as he listened to every Word of the Conversation below. “His Son is at Home, of that I’ve no Doubt. We shall have him Instead.”

At this Proposition, Countess Selkirk drew herself up to her full Height, her Bosom swelling, Arms akimbo, and pouting, declared: “You will have to kill me before you take my Son!”

Lieutenant Wallingford entreated her for Composure, vowing no Harm should befall any within the Household. Thus pacified, she ushered the Men into the Breakfast Parlor, proffering the Family’s Silver-Tea Plate as Renumeration in lieu of the Earl’s absence. She summoned her Maids from their Upstairs refuge, who served Whiskey to the Sailors milling about in the Gardens.

As the Hour progressed, what began as strained Hospitality devolved into something resembling Gin Lane. The Crewmen, now emboldened under the spell of Alcholick Reverie, wandered the Halls at will—much to the consternation of Daniel, the Butler, whose frantic Vigilance alone preserved the Family’s Georgian Treasures from disappearing into their Thieving Hands. The Maids, whose pleasure the Sailors would doubtless have preferred, proved more effective than poor Daniel in keeping the Men at bay.

Over wine, Lieutenant Wallingford and Master Cullam ingratiated Countess Selkirk’s forbearance through a succession of Toasts, which seemed endless.

“My Lady,” said Lieutenant Wallingford, “A Toast to your Health and to your Unborn Child.” Raising his Glass, he threw back his Nob and took a hearty Swig, then regarded his Hostess with widened Eyes. “I declare, ‘tis exceptional! Do you not agree?" Here he elbowed Master Cullam. “Surely among the finest you’ve tasted?”

Master Cullam chuckled and nodded. “‘Tis fine, Madam. Though I'll warrant these Climes don’t favor Vineyards?"

“Indeed not,” she replied, replenishing their Glasses, “the Grapes were harvested in the Vendée, in the Loire Valley.”

“A French Wine!” exclaimed Lieutenant Wallingford. “Then let us drink to France, and to the Health to her People!”

And so with each Glass spent, a new Toast was ventured:

“To Scottish Soil—so generous to unbid Guests!”

“To Whitehaven’s charr’d Ships—and the Ass who spared the Town!”

“To the Ranger—where Defeat wears the garb of Honor!”

“To Privateering—where the Pirates of today become the Patriots of tomorrow!”

“To the Earl’s absence—may it teach Humility to scheming Men!”

“To the Douglases’ Silver—may it purchase Forgiveness in Ale!”

“To King George—may his Reign outlast our Evasion!”

“To Countess Selkirk’s Fortitude—may it shame the Furies!”

“To young Thomas Douglas—may he prove a Gentleman!”

“To Captain Jones—may his Boldness ever outstrip his Judgment!”

And whilst this Transaction unfolded, a coarse Homespun Sack was fetched by Clarissa, the Governess, and the Maidservants. Daniel, in a moment of Genius, saw fit to fill it near entirely with Coal, allowing but a Quarter of its Contents for the Silver Tea-Plate.

“A Toast,” Lieutenant Wallingford at last proclaimed, raising his Glass, “to the Continental Navy!” And with that, he quaffed its Contents in one Mighty Swallow.

The Crew made their Leisurely Exit, bearing their Questionable Plunder, and embarked upon the Longboats, pulling for the Ranger with unseemly Haste.

Aboard the Ranger, the Crew staggered about in Drunken Disarray, their Footfalls heavy upon the Quarterdeck as they Resumed their Duties. Lieutenant Simpson, vexed by this Display of Indiscipline, was summoned to the Wardroom, where their so-called Prize was unveiled.

“Where is the Bloody Earl?” Lieutenant Simpson thundered, his Voice piercing the Stagnant Air that Lingered inside.

“The Earl was not at Home,” Captain Jones admitted with feigned Resignation. “His Wife, the Countess Selkirk, saw fit to part with her Household Silver,” and motioned for the Sack.

The Sack was upended upon the Table, the Silver Tea-Plate clattering against the polished Wood—followed by a Deluge of Coal, which spilled forth in a Cascade of Vantablack, a Void decanting upon the table.

The Officers stood Transfixed, their Shock rendering them Statuesque. Lieutenant Simpson’s Head snapped back, and he mustered a Laugh—Mirthless, swelling in Volume until it filled the Cabin. He walked to the Table, seized a Lump of Coal, and turned it over in his Hand.

“Silver... aye—but the Bulk of it is... Coal—” And with a sweep of his Arm, he sent the Coal flying from the Table, the Pieces striking the Bulkhead and shattering into Dust and tiny Shards.

Ranger, Brest, 8th May, 1778

Madam—

It cannot be too much lamented that in the Profession of Arms, the Officer of fine Feelings, and of real Sensibility, should be under the Necessity of winking at any Action of Persons under his Command, which his Heart cannot approve—but the Reflection is doubly severe when he finds himself Obliged, in Appearance, to countenance such Action by his Authority.

This hard Case was mine when on the 23rd of April last I landed on St Mary’s Isle. Knowing Lord Selkirk’s Interest with his King, and esteeming as I do his private Character; I wished to make him the happy Instrument of alleviating the Horrors of hopeless Captivity, when the Brave are overpowered and made Prisoners of War.

It was perhaps fortunate for you Madam that he was from Home; for it was my Intention to have taken him on board the Ranger, and to have detained him till thro’ his Means, a general and fair Exchange of Prisoners, as well in Europe as in America had been effected.

When I was informed by some Men whom I met at Landing, that his Lordship was absent; I walked back to my Boat determining to leave the Island: by the Way, however, some Officers who were with me could not forbear expressing their Discontent; observing that in America no Delicacy was shown by the English; who took away all sorts of moveable Property, setting Fire not only to Towns and to Houses of the Rich without Distinction; but not even sparing the wretched Hamlets and Milch Cows of the Poor and helpless at the Approach of an inclement Winter. That Party had been with me, as Volunteers, the same Morning at Whitehaven; some Complaisance therefore was their Due. I had but a Moment to think how I might gratify them, and at the same Time do your Ladyship the least Injury. I charged the Two Officers to permit none of the Seamen to enter the House, or to hurt anything about it—To treat you, Madam, with the utmost Respect—to accept of the Plate which was offered—and to come away without making a Search or demanding anything else.

I am induced to believe that I was punctually Obeyed; since I am informed that the Plate which they brought away is far short of the Inventory which accompanied it. I have gratified my Men; and when the Plate is sold, I shall become the Purchaser, and I will gratify my own Feelings by restoring it to you, by such Conveyance as you shall be pleased to direct.

Had the Earl been on board the Ranger the following Evening he would have seen the awful Pomp and dreadful Carnage of a Sea Engagement, both affording ample Subject for the Pencil, as well as melancholy Reflection for the contemplative Mind. Humanity starts back from such Scenes of Horror, and cannot but execrate the vile Promoters of this detested War.

For They, ‘twas THEY unsheath’d the ruthless Blade, And Heav’n shall ask the Havock it has made. The British Ship of War, Drake, mounting 20 Guns, with more than her full Complement of Officers and Men, besides a Number of Volunteers, came out from Carrickfergus, in order to attack and take the American Continental Ship of War, Ranger, of 18 Guns and short of her Complement of Officers and Men. The Ships met, and the Advantage was disputed with great Fortitude on each Side for an Hour and Five Minutes, when the gallant Commander of the Drake fell, and Victory declared in favor of the Ranger. His amiable Lieutenant lay mortally wounded besides near forty of the inferior Officers and Crew killed and wounded. A melancholy Demonstration of the Uncertainty of human Prospects, and of the sad Reverse of Fortune which an Hour can produce. I buried them in a spacious Grave, with the Honors due to the Memory of the Brave.

Tho’ I have drawn my Sword in the present generous Struggle for the Rights of Men; yet I am not in Arms as an American, nor am I in pursuit of Riches. My Fortune is liberal enough, having no Wife nor Family, and having lived long enough to know that Riches cannot ensure Happiness. I profess myself a Citizen of the World, totally unfettered by the little mean Distinctions of Climate or of Country, which diminish the Benevolence of the Heart and set Bounds to Philanthropy. Before this War begun I had at an early Time of Life, withdrawn from the Sea Service, in favor of “calm Contemplation and Poetic Ease.” I have sacrificed not only my favorite Scheme of Life, but the softer Affections of the Heart and my Prospects of Domestic Happiness—And I am ready to sacrifice Life also with Cheerfulness—if that Forfeiture could restore Peace and Goodwill among Mankind.

As the Feelings of your gentle Bosom cannot but be congenial with mine—let me entreat you Madam to use your soft persuasive Arts with your Husband to endeavor to stop this Cruel and destructive War, in which Britain can never succeed. Heaven can never countenance the barbarous and unmanly Practices of the Britons in America, which Savages would Blush at; and which if not discontinued will soon be retaliated in Britain by a justly enraged People. Should you fail in this, (for I am persuaded you will attempt it; and who can resist the Power of such an Advocate?) Your Endeavors to effect a general Exchange of Prisoners, will be an Act of Humanity, which will afford you golden Feelings on a Death bed.

I hope this cruel Contest will soon be closed; but should it continue, I wage no War with the Fair. I acknowledge their Power, and bend before it with profound Submission; let not therefore the amiable Countess of Selkirk regard me as an Enemy. I am ambitious of her Esteem and Friendship, and would do anything consistent with my Duty to merit it.

The Honor of a Line from your Hand in Answer to this will lay me under a very singular Obligation; and if I can render you any acceptable Service in France or elsewhere, I hope you see into my Character so far as to command me without the least Grain of Reserve. I wish to know exactly the Behavior of my People, as I determine to punish them if they have exceeded their Liberty.

I have the Honor to be with much Esteem and with profound Respect, Madam,

Your most Obedient and most humble Servant

—Jno P Jones

Several Years had elapsed since the Raid upon Douglas Castle by the Crew of the Ranger. The American Republic had Won her Independence. The Earl, ever consumed by Rage and wounded Pride at the Affront, the Silver Tea-Plate having been the subject of protracted Legal Proceedings, never fully recovered from the Indignity visited upon his Household.

“And to think I once pledged my support to the American Cause!” proclaimed the Earl, Lord Dunbar Douglas, seated at the Head of the Table. “Folly! These Americans are but Rogues—Villains, I say! What Rights and Liberties we cherish as Englishmen have been swept away—lost in the Undertow upon those Rebellious Shores!”

“Pray, my Dear,” interposed Countess Selkirk, her Voice measured yet firm, “our Young Thomas was spared, and consider what Fate might have befallen you had you been at Home? You might have perished in that engagement with the Drake! ‘Twas Providence itself that spared you abroad that Day. The Silver is but Penance to what is Afforded by our Flesh and Blood.”

“Bah!—” Lord Douglas scoffed. “‘Tis the Principle that galls me! Those Brigands violated the Sanctity of our Home!”

The Argument, protracting and Fruitless, was interrupted by the Clatter of Hooves and the Rumble of Carriage-Wheels outside. The Coachman’s cry of “Ho!” pierced the air, followed by the Stamping and Neighing of Horses brought to a sudden Halt against their Reins. A Royal Mail Coach, resplendent in Black and Scarlet, had drawn up beyond the Gardens, and a Figure crowned with a Black Hat adorned with a Gold Band, clad in an Elaborate Coat of Scarlet with Azure Lapels, picked his way through the boxwood hedges of the garden.

Countess Selkirk hastened to the Door and received the Postman, who removed his Hat and said, “G’day, Madam. A Parcel for your Ladyship,” proffering a Bundle wrapped in Brown Paper. With a murmured “Thank you, sir,” and a curtsy, she bore the Package to the Breakfast Room, where she laid it upon the Table and tore away the Wrapping, revealing within the very Tea-Plate stolen by the Crew of the Ranger, the Tea-Leaves from that April Morning still clinging to the surface, a reminder of a day when Yankee Doodle tread upon Old Albion’s shores.

The following entry was discovered in an abandoned home in New Zealand in 1980.

A darkened gradient stretched across the sky on this innumerable day. The whistle reverberated throughout the network of trenches; its tinny resolve linked other whistles in an invisible, yet audible web. Soon, a great wall of men would emerge from their earthen pits; picking their way through lines of barbed wire, and slogging across a living, crying ground—this, the creation of industrial warfare.

It was a relief to emerge from that First Battle of Passchendaele in October of ‘17 physically unscathed, but I assure you, wounds—psychic—have endured since. We were indeed demoralized by the mud, both the Allies and the Germans alike. A lad of my division once compared the mud to an enormous octopus; watching, waiting for its victim to arrive. When it did, it threw its slobbering tentacles at him, blinding him, closing him in, and burying him alive. So to was our fate sealed in a maelstrom of bullets and howling shells, so too was our fate sealed in the mud itself.

This we were reminded of daily. If not in the form of a disappearance, then certainly in the smell of the air. Like a ravaged cemetery, the soil was rancid with decaying corpses. The fallen men had been returned to nature, sealed into the Earth by a coffin lid of mud. Theirs was a fate that cheated the very honor of warfare. To die without dealing a blow to the enemy, consumed by the ground, wrestling against the Earth itself.

I am one of those fortunate souls who escaped this fate, but I question my escape ever since the day I trotted out into no man’s land. Since my return home, I feel as though I have crossed into a composite world—a doubling of another reality. The people are oblivious to our service as if it never happened, much less are cognizant of the ultimate sacrifice of those who laid down their lives for King and Country. What is the world that I have returned to? Is it different from the world beyond the mud? Or is it, in these days of careful contemplation, like the mud itself—consuming souls in their depletion?

Subscribe now

In the fell clutch of circumstance,

I have not winced nor cried aloud.

Under the bludgeonings of chance

My head is bloody, but unbowed.

—William Ernest Henley, Invictus

Unexpectedly and with a tremendous peal, the bomb had detonated along a teeming promenade café. The dense column of smoke sprawled high into the evening sky—some great blossoming on this cruel April day, followed by a shower of glass, the shards glistening in their descent. Streaks of bright, arterial blood coursed like water through the gaps in the masonry. The pedestrians scattered, not without their departing cries and shrieks of terror, the hurried pitter-patter of soles smacking against the stone footpath, fading to a relative silence. Those who stayed behind were among the dead, the injured, the Good Samaritans, the morbidly curious.

Stephen Whitlock was amongst the many injured. And though the most morbidly curious person at the scene, he struggled to view the carnage. His vision blurred, and his head throbbed as he reeled in and out of consciousness. He toiled against the pain as he desperately tried to stand, but a piece of a wrought-iron chair leg lodged into his calf forbade him. At the far end of the promenade, the distant trill of the police whistle and the various shouts of commands broke the silence.

“There he is!” The shout from the all too familiar voice of Gouverneur Howe. Joined by a cadre of men dressed in overcoats, their collars turned upwards, donning bowler hats shifted forward to further conceal their visage, they apprehensively pitched on their heels. “Never mind your damn police cordon—let me through!” Pushing past the police line without a struggle, Gouverneur appeared at Stephen’s side. Tearing a blood-smeared tablecloth in two and using the smaller piece as a tourniquet, he would temporarily mend his wound. Helping him stand, they quickly absconded from the scene.

The tobacco smoke curled like ghostly serpents through the dimming twilight, its presence a fitting prelude to the tumult within the hallowed halls of the Friends of the Polis, a meeting room nestled in some dank cellar in the city, known colloquially under the appellation, the Consulate. The nerve-riling debates raged on, their echoes penetrating the uneasy darkness that cloaked the night. Within, fervent shouts matched with shaking fists, punctuating the air as order was tenuously maintained by members desperate to uphold decorum. From an ornately carved mahogany chair, elevated slightly upon a daïs, sat Gouverneur Howe, the designated Captain of the Friends. Presiding over the maelstrom, Gouverneur lounged disparagingly in the chair, his elbow resting on the armrest, chin propped in his palm, his gaze vacant and weary. The ceaseless parley seemed to chase its own tail, like some sick cur, reaching no conclusion, until at last, Gouverneur struck his fist like a judicial gavel upon the armrest.

“Silence!” He commanded with an explosive boom in his voice. Order was swiftly regained, and with fiery orbs, he surveyed the assembled gaggle. The members, with furrowed eyebrows and blinking eyes like children chastened by paternal authority, sank back in their seats.

“We are not some… futile group of bickering ideologues or partisans—we are men of virtue!” To which his voice rang with resonance.

“I will not permit this quorum to devolve any further into these petty and ridiculous debates. You want that, go to Whitehall, or Matignon, or Wilhelmstrasse.” He briefly paused, “The question will be put to a vote, those in favor, say ‘aye,’ those opposed, ‘nay.’”

“If I am guilty,” Consul Reginald Darby interjected, rising from his seat like a shoot of grass trampled in the wild lowlands of the debate floor, “then I am guilty of having obeyed a law this body deemed constituent, born of the indelible virtue we share. These laws, we call them such, but I would venture that they are equally a part of our moral constitutions. Outside, the liberal order prevails—those countless and idle droves of individuals lacking innate virtue. Here, these laws are our own, we make them—they are not made by others!”

“Here-here!”

“Consul Darby will resume his seat!” Gouverneur had issued. A slight tinge of exhausted annoyance, as he had heard it all before. “And on that point, this quorum will determine whether those who had once gleamed with virtue are soon dimming right before our own eyes.” To which he received boisterous laughter.

“And furthermore,” Reginald continued, undeterred by Gouverneur’s authority, “This quorum must levy a moral declaration whether my virtue has wanned, a precedent in its own right—of whether I resorted to tactful and impotent rage against a fellow compatriot!”

“Enough! We will resume our standard procedure, the question being whether Consul Reginald Darby is guilty of attempted murder against the life of Consul Stephen Whitlock at the DuSáare café district.”

The bandaged Stephen Whitlock sat unreflective amid the clamor of shouts that emanated throughout the meeting hall, shouts of ‘ayes’ and ‘nays’ clashing against one another in some demented chorus. It was clear through this thunderous imputation that the ‘ayes’ had gained a powerful resonance. Soon, they merged into a unanimous affirmation, drowning the hushed and weakening ‘nays’ into oblivion.

“The ‘ayes’ have it, the ‘ayes’ have it!” Gouverneur announced, concluding the vote.

“The question now will come to the punishment.”

“Death!” The call rang out, surreal in its timbre, as if a disembodied voice from the floor of the hall had issued the command. The hall fell silent, heads turned to see who ordered the plea, but none could identify its origin.

“Death! Death! Death!” became the knell that echoed throughout the hall in a sinister unison.

Stephen, struggling against his injury, desperately tried to stand himself up upon his crutch. “Give me a hand! You there, give me a hand—damn you! Anybody?” He hastily pleaded of his colleagues, but they had all fallen into a state of tribal blood lust, with spittle trailing down their mouths, their eyes widening with a maddening glare.

“The question will be put to a vote!” Gouverneur shouted, his bellicose voice cutting through the chants, “Consul Reginald Darby having been found guilty of attempted murder against the life of Consul Stephen Whitlock, shall be sentenced to death! Those in favor, say—”

“‘Aye!’” The shouts resounding throughout the hall, sealing Reginald’s fate.

“The ‘ayes’ have it,” Gouverneur, pointing with eyes like daggers, “the ‘ayes’ have it.”

Two guards flanking the Captain’s mahogany chair descended upon the helpless Reginald with the grim precision of an automaton springing into action. Clad in trench coats of a brutal gray hue, their peaked caps bearing the insignia of the Friends of the Polis. Beneath the short brim of their hats, their visage was statuesque, as if carved into the face of a cliff, erasing all sense of will as they loomed with a terminal edge.

As Reginald was dragged from the hall amidst cries of jubilation, the narrow corridor outside had consumed them. Stephen, hobbling on his crutch, descended from the seated perches. He followed behind as best as his bandaged leg would allow.

“Wait!” Stephen desperately pleaded, but to no avail. He saw in Reginald’s gait the resigned steps of acceptance, a wearied embrace of his fate as he was courted down the narrow corridor. With a sharp turn at the end, they exited. Stephen, still trailing their path, quickly shifted along. As he turned the corner, the door was slowly closing shut. He thrust his crutch to stop the door, the wooden end snapping under the pinch, tumbling forward into a scant courtyard hemmed between a foreboding edifice. Above, the city lights coalesced into a murky glow visible through the narrow shaft.

Reginald knelt in the center, a martyr upon this sacrificial altar of virtue, his head turning slightly with a look of indifferent ratification. The death knell was delivered as a single shot withdrew from each of the guards’ Webley revolvers, the echoes reverberating through the tight space. Without a word, the guards holstered their weapons across their chests, and absquatulated through the opposite door.

Stephen, prostrate upon the cobblestone floor, propped himself up on his forearms, as Reginald’s body lay bleeding out on its side, the eyes open, and yet staring into nothing, the mouth agape, forever gasping for breath.

The Chief Inspector sat patiently outside the office of the Assistant Commissioner. Inside the busy hallway of the precinct, he watched and listened as a network of information streamed in from the telegrams, quickly dispatched on foot by itinerant receivers for other officers in the great chain of the Metropolitan Police Service. He watched like a cat would with acuity, following the receivers’ every move, his large eyes beaming under his custodian helmet, his thick whisker-like mustache covering his upper lip.

The door to the Assistant Commissioner’s office fell ajar, “Damn it, Pienaert,” the Assistant Commissioner said, arms akimbo, “if only you had as much interest in your observations outside the precinct as you do inside, we we might actually catch one of these bomb throwers.” He said, leaning into the threshold of his office before disappearing inside.

Chief Inspector Pienaert, clumsily gathering his portfolio report, tapped the folder’s contents against the bench until the paper’s were meticulously straightened. Entering the Assistant Commissioner’s office, he took to adjusting his helmet, which sat rather large and awkward upon his head before deciding to remove it completely, holding the helmet to his breast.

The Assistant Commissioner was already seated, his hands crossed upon his desk, glowering at the seeming buffoonery of the Chief Inspector.

“Mornin’ Mr. Simms. I do apologize for the inconvenience,” Chief Inspector Pienaert said.

“Yes,” Assistant Commissioner Simms let in with a passive nasal inflection, “what do we have today?”

The Chief Inspector stepped forward and presented the the folder to the Assistant Commissioner. He begrudgingly leafed through its contents, licking the tip of his finger as he turned the pages.

“It’s nothing we didn’t already expect, sir,” the Chief Inspector retorted. “Unidentified members of the Friends of the Polis, from what we could gather.”

“Yes, I see,” the Assistant Commissioner said, merely looking at the pages instead of reading them, “that’s the problem, Pienaert. I need new information. ‘The Friends of the Polis’, yes, but who are they? What do they stand for? And more importantly, where are they located?”

“We’re still trying to piece all of that together, sir. We do have some new information to answer at least one of your questions; there, read that paragraph.”

The Assistant Commissioner reclined in his seat and read the newly added paragraph in an audible whisper, “‘…Friends of the Polis… reacting against the cosmopolitanism that has reduced the perfectibility of mankind…?’”

The Chief Inspector cleared his throat, “Virtue, sir. It is what they are referring to in the latter section.”

The Assistant Commissioner raised his eyes from the report, “Virtue? Well, that is new, isn’t it?” The Assistant Commissioner pushed away from the desk, his hands gripping the lapels of his coat in careful contemplation as he leaned back in his seat.

“Anarchist,” the Assistant Commissioner blurted out. “Yes, anarchist—I will file all case material concerning the Friends under anarchist activity.” The Assistant Commissioner quickly stamped the folder in red ink like an irate librarian.

“Ahem, sir… from what we gathered, it would be rather paradoxical to consider the group anarchistic, but it wouldn’t technically be considered incorrect either.”

The Assistant Commissioner dropped the stamp back into its holder with a thud. He looked up from his desk, his hands crossed, “There’s your bloody paradox, Pienaert,” He said phlegmatically.

“I mean only to relate the specifics of their philosophy.” The Chief Inspector indicated.

The Assistant Commissioner’s eyes wandered, “Go on, but spare me the details.”

“The Friends are ardent supporters of the philosophy of Jean-Jacques Rousseau’s theories. If you give that report a thorough read, you’ll discover that. They probably have staked out some abandoned hall in the city to profess their beliefs. At its core, the Friends wish to establish a virtuous society, a society that is self-governing, but the notion of self-government itself is predicated, they believe, on the moral character of the individual. It is their militancy—these bombing campaigns—which are reactions against a society they see as morally corrupt, with all its artificial desires which makes modern society miserable and immoral.”

“You have certainly done your homework, Chief Inspector.” The Assistant Commissioner remarked.

“Not me alone, sir. My unit has diligently assisted in our report.”

“Yes, but you should give yourself more credit, Pienaert. You always were very keen at heading the research aspect of your position,” the Assistant Commissioner argued. He rose from his desk, “After all, it was you who wrote up the report on The Society of the Black Skulls. Nasty bunch of fellows—something right out of Esquemling, and yet we find ourselves on land and an entire ocean away from the West Indies.

The Chief Inspector smirked, “Yes, well, was it not Robespierre who detested ‘impotent terror?’ We have on our hands terror with virtue.”

“Save the history lesson, Pienaert. Any man willing to kill innocent civilians lacks all the virtue that could ever be bestowed upon him. Now then,” he said, his hands crossed behind his back, “all we need is a location.” He starred attentively at the map of the city, “Mull around the DuSáare café district; cover a radius of 30 kilometers from the blast site, moving south from Port Marrin to the north at the intersection of Cross Street.”

The breeze off the River Marrin was bitter in the early April. It would not be long before the summer would arrive in the city, and such a cool breeze would not only be welcomed, but most desired. Mr. Whitlock and his fiancée, Ms. Constance Blythe, took their seats near the river’s edge at a small table. Ungainly was his composure, as he fidgeted about, adjusting his seated posture with each gust of wind. Ms. Blythe, her cheek resting in her dainty, thin hands, smiling from one side of her mouth and continuously blinking. What the Americans would call a Gibson girl in dress and attitude.

“Well,” Mr. Whitlock muttered, tightening his woolen coat around his frame.

“We didn’t have to come here, you know?” Her attentive and loving gaze like a rope ceasing to slacken around Mr. Whitlock.

“Yes, but we are here,” He was quick to retort, concentrating on the flow of the river.

She slowly averted her eyes, contemplating the easy flow of the river, “Yes, it is nice here in the summer, but terribly brisk in early spring. You could go skinny dipping a-ways down, but that doesn’t stop some of the young lasses from take a dip here where all the café patrons can see them.”

“Y-yes… quite right…”

She returned her eyes upon Mr. Whitlock, “Something’s wrong with you,” she said with assurance. “You should have listened to the doctor and stayed in the hospital for a few more days.”

Mr. Whitlock laughed at the proposition, “Nonsense, dear. What good would a few more days in the hospital do me? I’m quite alright—I couldn’t possibly miss work.”

“Where did it happen?” She inquired plaintively.

Mr. Whitlock, statuesque, turned rigidly in his seat, “Down there,” pointing with a solitary finger, “at the opposite end, not far from the thoroughfare.”

Ms. Blythe shook her head, “Madness. This city has fallen into madness. As if the anarchists weren’t bad enough, these new ‘Friends’ insist upon the ‘perfectibility of mankind’—tossing bombs into innocent crowds. I don’t see a difference no matter how they decorate their cause.”

“The police will sort them out,” Mr. Whitlock leveled. His intonation was marked with an air comparable to matters discussed exclusively by savants. Dismissive he was in continuing to entertain the reports, and yet authoritative in his need to set the narrative straight—to pull it from the muddied waters of sensational journalism.

“I would refrain from reading what the papers report any further, dear,” he said with paternalistic condescension, “The perfectibility of mankind, ah! What a compelling narrative compared to the pseudo-proletarian theories of the anarchists, no? What happens when your average passer-by picks up the recent issue of the tabloid and reads rubbish like that, eh? Why, of course they’ll laugh! No better than the utopianism of the anarchists!”

He leaned in, and moderated his voice to an unwavering pitch, “But, I’d venture that there’s something more truly anarchist about the Friends than the anarchists ever were. ‘Human perfectibility’— virtue! Rousseau—a man virtually battling the whole edifice of the Enlightenment project! What would the anarchist’s say of them then? I’d wager they’d say, ‘pff—virtue? Balderdash! ‘Tis restraining like a shackle clapped ‘round the ankles! We must liberate ourselves from virtue itself!”

Ms. Blythe, softly, “Do you mean to say—”

“Yes, dear! The Friends are more viable a force to be reckoned with! How could you compete against virtue, my love?” Taking her hands in his, “Look at what the world has come to. The masses have given themselves over to their pleasures: itinerants hopping from station to station, ever roaming, in search of some fleeting indulgence—the decadency of the flâneur!”

Mr. Whitlock’s vision soon became a blur. Over the river on the opposite side of the bank, soaring across the sky within the clouds, a composite of the city reeled into his view. Scaffolding was erected on high as columns of marble and limestone shot up, just scratching the the heavens—a facsimile of the Greco-Roman architectural tradition.

The sonorous bellow of a steam-liner, now sailing through the estuary of the River Marrin, interrupted Mr. Whitlock’s imagination.

“You talk as if you—”

“No,” He said, throwing back his drink, “Too busy with the upkeep of the store.”

The steam-liner, having just concluded the final leg of its voyage, rested briefly at Port Marrin, now teeming with the next wave of eager passengers preparing to mount the gangplank. A detonation thundered through the deep, as a great eruption of water soon followed, throttling the vessel with such ferocity that onlookers witnessed the ship lifting clear from the river itself. The vessel, swiftly keeling to its side, began to take on water. Onboard, passengers scrambled along the deck, their frantic movements resembling a grotesque Punch and Judy show from land.

The would-be suspect known to the Chief Inspector by his pseudonym “Mr. E,” led the pursuing officers on a frantic chase through the labyrinthine alleyways of the DuSáare café district.

“We’re not after you, lad!” The Chief Inspector’s voice cut through the dismal air with desperate urgency. The unexpected declaration, piercing the dense atmosphere, caused Mr. E to slowly turn his head, revealing his gaunt profile to the Chief Inspector and his entourage of officers. Mr. E, a thin, lanky figure of man, his poor posture accentuating his peculiar appearance. There was a fierce glint in his eye, a spark of defiance that belied his frail frame. His coat, with the collar turned up, framed his scared, oily-skinned visage, topped with a mop of unruly black hair. An eye-patch covered his left eye, lending to a mystery since last the Chief Inspector saw him.

“You’ve gotten worse,” the Chief Inspector uttered, an air of breathlessness in his tone. He removed his leather gloves, and approaching Mr. E, took his chin in his thumb and pointer-finger, turning his head to face him completely.

“Still playing with that pneumatic device of yours, aren’t you?” The Chief Inspector whispered.

“If just one of you even try to detain me, I’ll squeeze this,” he hissed, revealing a small rubber bulb in his pocket, tethered to a tube that snaked through the arm of his coat, “and you’ll all be pasted against the wall!”

The Chief Inspector smirked. “Still playing with silane, aren’t you?”

“Yes!” Mr. E breathed, his tone dripping with the fervor of a mad inventor. “With just a single squeeze, the silane mixes with the oxygen in these airtight glass tubes,” caressing his chest with a perverse satisfaction, “and a simultaneous gas flame ignites the mixture. The blast is over before you even know it.” He narrowed his gaze suspiciously. “Why do you ask? How do you know of my use of silane?”

The Chief Inspector turned to his officers, waving a dismissive hand below his waist.

“But sir!” a young officer protested.

“That’s an order! Now clear out—all of you!”

The officers, their faces marked with confusion and dismay, slowly backed through the alley, leaving the Chief Inspector alone with the enigmatic Mr. E.

“Who’s your informant, then?” Mr. E slyly remarked, his visage contorting like a grotesque mask of unstiched flesh.

The Chief Inspector tilted his head, a bemused smile playing on his lips. “A man with an understanding of your cause—perhaps even sympathetic, dare I say.”

“Ideology, philosophy—poh! I learned to stop worrying like all those flâneurs in the Black Skulls and the Friends and love the bomb! It was truly the bomb that fascinated me. Liberation, virtue—what a trifle! Now then, old chap, who is it?”

The Chief Inspector struck a match and lit his pipe, the smoke curling around him like a conspirator’s whisper. “Even a man without a motive still has a motive. You’re a nihilist.”

“I am an explosionist!” Mr. E declared with manic glee. “I live for the bomb—its design, its placement, its detonation! The blast, the reverberation, the blood, the debris, the cries! Ah, yes! The cries!”

“Yes, he did tell me you were of such a disposition.”

“I know him?” Mr. E’s voice quivered with a mix of curiosity and dread.

“It would be negligent if my intelligence failed me.”

“Who?” Mr. E lashed out, his voice sharp as a lit fuse.

The Chief Inspector’s smile stretched to the snapping point, his eyes twinkling with mischief. He took long, contemplative puffs from his pipe, studying the agitated bomber. “You—you’re trying to set me up!” Mr. E balled his opposite hand into a fist, his knuckles white with tension. “You want me to come clean, but I will not tell!”

“It’s true,” the Chief Inspector said, his voice calm and unreflective. “I am offering my allegiance to the Friends from the shadows, if you understand. A Chief Inspector of the Metropolitan Police, in your service—now, that would be something, wouldn’t it?”

“It’s almost too good to be true—no, I cannot trust you to meet at our headquarters. We’ll have to meet somewhere undisclosed. If you are so sure of yourself, we’ll meet here again, tonight.”

“Consider it a deal,” the Chief Inspector extended a receiving hand, but Mr. E recoiled, eying him with contempt. He jostled through the fog of the alley like a hunchback, his gait a testament to the injuries sustained from his own infernal creations. The Chief Inspector watched him abscond, then turned and walked in the opposite direction, his steps measured and purposeful. He paused at the edge of the alley. Facing south, he observed the River Marrin. The ship continued to billow with smoke, and the air was thick with distant cries and shouts, a ode of chaos that played out against the foggy sky.

Standing shoulder to shoulder, Stephen and Constance lock arms as they shuffle through the packed and anxious streets following an evacuation order, drifting east along the DuSáare café district. Behind them, they leave the promenade. Metallic pangs of strain emanate from the sinking steam liner, its groans echoing through the foggy evening like some behemoth, fathoms beneath the ocean. A steam pumper, escorted in the opposite direction, lumbers past like some mechanical circus elephant.

With every few steps, Constance tightens her grip on Stephen’s arm, a lifeline in the chaos. Hobbling on his crutch, he inadvertently pulls away to maintain his balance, though never entirely escaping her grasp.

“Stephen,” Constance said, her voice fragile and wavering, “w-we have to move—to the countryside—it’s not safe here anymore!”

“Come now, Constance,” Stephen consoles her, his tone a resuscitation to her frayed nerves, “the business—”

“Oh, forget your business!” She snaps, “At least in the country, you’ll be able to build your bombs in peace!” Her voice fell, her desperation maddening in the menace of their surroundings. Stephen looked into Constance’s eyes, seeing the reflection of his own unease. He inadvertently squeezed her arm tighter, causing her to shriek in pain. The surrounding pedestrians eyed Stephen curiously, and he felt the awkward weight of their stares; their silent judgment, eyes piercing the fabric of his resolve.

Hastily, they courted off into an alleyway to avoid any further attention. Stephen, pleading, as Constance stood rigid against the wall, “What’s the matter with you? Do you want a mob to descend upon the both of us, Connie? Is that what you want?”

For Constance, her feminine intuition pieced together a pattern she knew all too well; that whenever she caught Stephen’s bluff, he would refer to her as Connie. Tears began to stream from her eyes, “Look at these people, Stephen. It’s like it doesn’t even affect them—the bloodshed, the cries—it’s like they don’t even recognize the terror anymore!” She wept into Stephen’s chest, “It’s your fault,” softly, her muffled conviction, “You and your Friends!” She exclaimed, woefully beating against his chest, desperately trying to wrestle free from Stephen’s grasp. He loomed over her, pinning her left hand against the wall as he balanced on his crutch. They both wrestled with each other’s right hand as Constance tried to break free.

Gradually, and with great exertion, Stephen overtook her, seizing her by her small frame, and hurtling further through the alley. They disappeared into the lingering fog, reappearing on the north side of the DuSáare café district; the wide and empty thoroughfare a stark contrast to the mulling droves moving up from the east-side. The air was thick with the scent of impending rain, and the evening seemed to hold its breath. Stephen’s grip on Constance was firm, yet his conscience wavered; the silence bearing witness to their struggle.

“Control yourself, Connie!” Stephen demanded. “My friends are no more than my associates—business partners and customers! They are not those that would commit such heinous acts. What would ever make you think of such a thing?”

“Last night, on the parlor,” Constance retaliated, “You were reading a copy of The Light! The police reports cite The Light as a newsletter of correspondence among the Friends of the Polis! You can’t just go to any old bookstore throughout the city and pick up a copy without first being declared a member!”

“We deal in books and publications of all types, Connie. It’s not out of the ordinary for such a publication to turn up in our store.”

“The issue was addressed to you—or better yet, your secret name—whoever you are!” Constance retorted.

“It was mailed to me from an associate, who received it from someone else, who also received it from someone else!” Stephen returned.

“Really?” Constance said, “if you are so sure of yourself, why are you named as one of their authors?” Tearing from her jacket, Constance produced the very issue of The Light in question, earmarked to a page titled: ‘A Monstrance of Virtue: Theories Regarding the Properties of Exothermicity and Relevant Experiences.’”

Stephen gazed at the passage, his eyes darted across the page, before shamelessly tearing up the issue of The Light and stuffing it deep into the pocket of his trousers. There was a certain reticence about his movements, as if they were being secretly observed. The rasping, descending voice of Mr. E paralyzed the couple.

“Mr. Whitlock,” Mr. E said, enunciating the consonants with a chilling precision. His eyes were hidden beneath a cloaked hood, revealing only his damp mouth and chin. His unnerving smile displayed cracked and decaying teeth, a grotesque contrast in their company.

“And this would be your bride, I take it?” Taking her hand loosely in his, caressing her palm with his fingers, a gesture equally sinister as it was intimate. There was a brief and yet tense pause in their exchange.

“Not here,” Stephen whispered under his breath, “not now!”

Mr. E bore a garish smile and let out a laugh that echoed through the empty thoroughfare. “No! Certainly not,” he said, his forwardness tempered. “Tonight—on the western side of the alley,” he pointed with a solitary finger before slowly vanishing into the fog once more.

“Who was that, Stephen?” Constance asked softly, her hysterics quelled by the enigmatic encounter.

“A regular customer is all,” Stephen replied in like manner. They began to stroll along the thoroughfare. He gazed out into the fog, his tone ameliorating Constance’s worries. “He’s purchased quite a bit of our paraphernalia and wears over the years.”

“Oh—will you meet him tonight? Don’t meet him—not tonight,” Constance pleaded, resting her head on Stephen’s arm.

“An old customer is all. He wants me to deliver something he’d rather not be seen receiving in public.” Stephen’s voice was steady, but as they removed from the thoroughfare, his eyes betrayed a flicker of doubt as they peeled through the thick, enveloping mist.

Chief Inspector Pienaert sauntered down the alley, his movements firm and with the rigidity of a man on assignment, returning to rendezvous where he and Mr. E had met earlier in the evening. Upon reaching the spot, he found himself alone. The alley was empty, void of Mr. E or any other member of the Friends. He clasped his hands firmly behind his back, rocking on his heels as he circled in place, watching the vapor of his breath dissipate in the brightly illuminating gas lamps.

From within the shadows, a cacophony of concentrated footsteps suddenly arose, converging upon the Chief Inspector. Panic surged through him, and in an instant, he braced himself, ready to counter what he now perceived as an imminent trap.

“Come now, calm yourself,” said Gouverneur Howe, flanked by his retinue of guards, including the enigmatic Mr. E and the somber Stephen Whitlock. His voice was cold and methodical as he introduced himself, his position within the Friends, and their subversive activities.

“I understand you’ve already made the acquaintance of Mr. E, our esteemed bomber. And this is Stephen Whitlock, our resident chemist, formerly of City University.”

Stephen and the Chief Inspector exchanged brief nods, an acknowledgment fraught with tension.

“Now, I must admit, Mr. Pienaert, the proposition of serving as an informant, however interesting, begs the question—why?”

Clearing his throat, the Chief Inspector began, “The Metropolitan Police has been steadfast in its efforts to infiltrate the Friends of the Polis. I was tasked with gathering intelligence and reporting my findings. Your group is remarkably adept at covering its tracks. To be frank, I found some... room for agreement, you might say.”

Gouverneur smiled, a paternal smile somewhat tinged with condescension. “Yes, we believe the human condition can be elevated. Our duty is to present society with a mirror, to reflect their degeneracy back at them. Our tactics, dramatic as they are, are but a mirror—an explosive manifestation of our cause. The question remains: will you see your reflection in the bomb?”

The Chief Inspector nervously laughed, his eyes flitting across the faces of the assembly, meeting only stern, unyielding gazes. “Well, I—I—I don't think I am quite... qualified to play with bombs, sir.”

“It is part of the initiation, sir,” Mr. E said mockingly.

“But—but I am to be an informant. What is this about an initiation?”

“Mr. Pienaert, you truly are a fool,” Gouverneur flatly declared. “You hail from the Continent, do you not?”

“I do.”

“I thought so. It is unwise, nay, unvirtuous, to trust you outright. You undoubtedly have ties to Amsterdam, Brussels, Paris, Berlin... You may be at a point in your career where you are having second thoughts, but even then, there was a first; your oath of loyalty and duty as an officer of the Metropolitan Police. You may remain in your position as Chief Inspector, but you must first prove that you can be a Friend.”

With the Gouverneur’s ultimatum issued, Mr. E thrust a metal canister into the Chief Inspector’s chest. The object was heavy and sinister, with a curious gauge affixed to the top, a crude amalgamation of recycled parts and materials. The Chief Inspector struggled to hold it, feeling its weight like an anchor, forever weighing him down.

They paced through the shadows of the night. The streets were but a lull, echoing with the degeneracy of the city—the bawling cries of drunkards, the aimless wanderings of the homeless, and other dregs of society who remained invisible by the day, yet reigned supreme on this lunar side of time. The group halted at a corner, peering down a narrow street. From a doorway, light spilled outside, illuminating three men, swaying on their feet, utterly inebriated and muttering expletives to themselves. A barmaid appeared in the threshold, her figure silhouetted by the light as syncopated piano chords rang out. There was a motherly air about her movements; her arms akimbo, the maternal wagging of her finger in reprimand, the curt pivot and traipse indoors, for she had more productive business to attend to.

“Look at these people,” Gouverneur whispered, crouching low and out of sight. “Malignant—the whole lot of them,” he paused, continuing to observe their drunken maneuvers with haunting precision. “That is your target. Place the bomb as close to the pub as you can. We’ll blow out the entire façade—give them a scare, if they survive it... quickly now!”

With reluctance, the Chief Inspector stepped into the narrow street, advancing with an awkward waddle to his gait, the bomb trailing in his right hand. A drunkard, upon noticing the Chief Inspector, stopped his stumbling and gaily smiled. His was a smile that transcended the moment—innocent, yet without direction. So concentrated was the Chief Inspector on this smile that he tripped over himself, constrained by the bomb’s weight. He fell into an all-consuming explosion—the blast illuminating the street briefly before a cloud of debris quenched the light.

Without a moment’s hesitation, the Friends vanished from the scene, weaving through the network of shadows in their escape.

“Stupid, stupid fool!” Gouverneur exclaimed. “It’s a surprise he managed to rise through the ranks, that poor bugger!”

A nervous pang, like a spasm, coursed through Stephen’s frame—a chronic symptom from the bombing of the DuSáare café district. Having been in this state before, he struggled with his thoughts. Like the Chief Inspector, he too had initially been loyal to a cause, but his new loyalties were in question. Struggling to keep up with the group, a guard helped him along, and they disappeared into the coldness of the night.

“We are utterly dismayed by the loss of Chief Inspector Pienaert,” Assistant Commissioner Simms said, closing the file on the late Chief Inspector’s report. Turning, he placed the folder into his file cabinet.

“A loss of one is a loss to all, sir,” the newly appointed Chief Inspector Gascoigne replied solemnly.

The Assistant Commissioner turned again, facing the new appointee. He sat with his hands crossed upon his desk, and looking down, he nodded in agreement. “It’s a funny thing, isn’t it?”

The Chief Inspector tilted his head and raised an eyebrow.

“This police force is steadfast on bringing law and order to the city. Our officers work tirelessly each day to ensure its safety. We share a kind of brotherhood with one another. Naturally, we oppose the terror brought on by these so-called Friends, and they too oppose our opposition. Would it be unwise of me to say that perhaps neither of us are correct? That we are forever locked into a cat and mouse chase—that our claims are nothing more than the popular claims of the people? If this call to ‘virtue’ continues to resonate with the people, as it does, perhaps the Friends will have a regime over this city. Perhaps we’ll find ourselves in the place the Friends are in now.”

“Nonsense, Commissioner Simms,” the Chief Inspector replied. “We carry the full weight of the law, singular and indivisible, and wield the truncheon to enforce it. Their bombs are cowardly—attacking passenger liners, cafés, pubs, public centers... They can get away with these attacks because the human mind is compromised in these environments—it’s the least expected place to be blown to smithereens! It shall forever be the duty of the law, and those who enforce it, to raise the people’s vigilance. Only then, shall you have change.”

“Yes, yes,” the Assistant Commissioner said dismissively, “you may spare me the details next time.”

“Very well,” the Chief Inspector said. He bowed his head and exited the Assistant Commissioner’s office. In silence now, the Assistant Commissioner sat still. After a moment, he returned to the file cabinet and retrieved Chief Inspector Pienaert’s report. He produced a copy of The Light contained within. He read it diligently, but with a watchful eye, peering regularly should his door fall ajar.