Limekiller!

At the door the poor were waiting; well, one of the poor was waiting: one of the Town’s official, i.e. tolerated, beggars; very ancient of days. You had to be very ancient of days to qualify for the free bed-and-breakfast at the Christian Armv Hostel for Elderly Men; but the funds for the Christian Army Hostel’s dole did not extend beyond bed-and-breakfast; automatically, Limekiller gave him a coin; was politely thanked. And the old, old man, who had evidently been looking in, said to Limekiller, in a tone of wonder, “Dat lee mahn, you know7, sah, he fright w’only fi parrot.”

Yes (thought Limekiller), he certainly was “fright for parrots” Why? Who could say why. Some men were afraid of heights. Or depths. Some were terrified of spiders. Or the dark. Some feared capital, and some feared labor. Some were afraid there was a God and some were afraid there wasn’t. The fright of one w as of life and the fright of the other one was of death. Some people fright in bush, fright fi bobboon,fi tiger, fi wild hog, fi jungle.

Wee Willy Wiggins was onlv fright for parrots.

It was less than a figure of speech to say that, until the stroke of ten, Limekiller was at loose ends, for Limekiller’s ends were never as loose as some people’s. Perhaps he might want solitude and quiet, if so, he did not loaf listlessly, he went where he knew he could find it. Some went to find it in one of the local cathedrals (small as King Town was, it had no less than three of these; of course, they were small, too), but, although Limekiller was not a scoffer, thinking there more to the lines Mock on, mock on, Voltaire, Rousseau / Mock on, mock on, tis all in vain: / You throw the sand into the wind / And the wind but blows it back again… or however it went. than mere rhyme: still Limekiller did not usually go to a cathedral if he wanted solitude or quiet… or, as was usual, both: he went to the National Library. This was, he sometimes amused himself (rather easily, perhaps) by thinking that this was a Constitutional Library, just as the Monarchy was a Constitutional Monarchy. Nationals in general liked the idea of having both, but liked neither much to bother with, nor much be bothered by, either. So there was never any chance of crowd or noise at the National Library. He spent some while there, now browsing, now reading: mostly in old books about the country (there were few new ones).

He spent some time, after that, resuming the Great Bronze Nails Quest; the Quest for the Numinous Nails, one might call it; again, one might not. He thought it would be a good thing to have some bronze nails handy for his boat: Bronze does not rust. And the more the local hardware shop keepers shook their heads and announced, in a variety of accents, that There Was Nothing Like That, the more he persisted in seeking That.

But, today, as every day: no bronze nails.

Oh well.

He caught the late afternoon opening of the Swing Bridge, which opened twice a day without toll charged of boats too high to pass under; for those willing to pay toll, the Captains — they were all officially Captains; the titles had been granted in lieu of a rise in pay — were willing to bend to their capstan as times a day as might be. But it did not open often for such spend thrift passage. Idly he looked about the small crowd which always gathered whenever the Swing Bridge swung, he noticed how the Black Baywomen tied their kerchiefs back at the nape of the neck, while the Black Arawack women folded theirs over the ears and fastened them (kerchiefs, not ears) beneath the chin — older women, that is: Young of either, no. No kerchiefs need apply; plastic curlers in public: yes; kerchiefs: no. He could not imagine Bathsheba in one, for instance, although at least the older of the two aunties she’d found it essential to be calling on right now almost surely would be wearing one. Bathsheba -

Someone very near at hand just then said to someone else, “Look me crosses! Look me troubles!”. this last brought tojack’s mind how, his first day in the country, tarrying a while in some shade in Lime Walk Town, seeing one after another the freight-and- passenger trucks booming down the Northern Highway with proud and lofty titles painted on their sides (for they had names, like stagecoaches and railroad trains): The Nation Builder, The Great Central American, Royal Oak, Pride of Hidalgo, and so on: there, lurching slowly and oh so painfully in their dust: a four-wheeled handcart with unmatched sides and wobbly wheels, laboriously pushed by hand (and arms, back, and legs): on its side in straggling letters its name, God Sees Me Sorrow. Bathsheba -