get over the absence of streets and buildings, and the endless green of trees and grass beyond the dump. The air he breathed was clearer, thinner, filled with strange smells of growth and decay. It was alien, and frightening. He made up his mind. He wanted concrete and asphalt and people , lots of people. "I've never been in a bare place like this. I want to go back to what I know. But I have no idea how to get there."
"That's easy. That way." The old man pointed away from the sun. "The big road's only a mile from here. But it's a long walk after that. Thirty mile, mebbe, if you're aiming back to the Mall. Don't know why anyone'd want to go there, though. Damned government." He leaned forward and spat into the fire. "Crooked bastards, every one of 'em, they did all this to us."
"I'd better go." Job stood up. With full sun the day was warm enough, but tonight could be as cold as last night. He was already tired, and he had no idea how far thirty miles might be. All he knew was that he needed to be back in familiar territory before it was dark.
Beyond that simple objective, he did not have the energy to force his mind.
* * *
The old man had been a poor judge.
From the dump to Bracewell Mansion it was only eighteen miles. That fact and two others saved Job: he was still wearing the solid shoes that had been provided for him in Bracewell Mansion when he was running errands for the professor; and the black-faced woman, in a final and fickle act of kindness, had filled a paper bag with molasses-dipped roast turnips before he left.
The walk was by far the longest that Job had ever made. He came to the entrance of the mansion in early dusk, swaying on blistered feet. He had slept little the previous night, and the second half of today's long trek through city outskirts had passed in a surrealist daze. He had seen strange mirages (or strange reality?) in the broad, potholed avenues, as he struggled up their long slopes and imagined Bracewell Mansion just over the brow of each hill. The parking lots of old shopping malls became rolling seas of black asphalt, dotted with shanty huts that swayed and swooped like wind-tossed paper boats. Abandoned warehouses flanked the roads, rising to cut off the dipping sun. At their broken windows he saw grinning faces, waving skeletal arms. They called and gestured, inviting him in. He shivered and looked straight ahead. Obsessively he had counted his steps, allowing himself a bite of food every thousand paces, a drink wherever he found running water. Sometimes he walked with his eyes closed. Once he had stopped to sit down for ten minutes, and knew when he continued that he must not do it again. If he did he would never get up.
Bracewell Mansion when he finally came to it was back to its old familiar appearance, with the double doors blocked off and the single entrance at the top of the broad stone steps.
And having come so far, Job did not know what to do. He was totally confused. When he was desperate and despairing in Cloak House just twenty-four hours earlier, the idea that the world was devoid of pity, mercy, and decency had hit him with the force of revelation. But the three people at the dump had shared food and drink with him, when it could not possibly benefit them. And Professor Buckler might have found Job useful to run errands, but surely there had been kindness, too, when Job had been picked starving off the street. He wanted to rely on that kindness now, but one thing held him back. Since leaving Bracewell Mansion he understood who really ran the place. And it was not the professor. No matter what Buckler might say or think, the true boss was Miss Magnolia. And Job was terrified by the idea of confronting her.
Increasing cold and the pain from his feet and chest at last forced him inside. He stole upstairs to the third floor and entered Professor Buckler's rooms. To Job's dismay there was no sign of him. This was the hour when he was normally in the brown armchair, drinking or
"That's easy. That way." The old man pointed away from the sun. "The big road's only a mile from here. But it's a long walk after that. Thirty mile, mebbe, if you're aiming back to the Mall. Don't know why anyone'd want to go there, though. Damned government." He leaned forward and spat into the fire. "Crooked bastards, every one of 'em, they did all this to us."
"I'd better go." Job stood up. With full sun the day was warm enough, but tonight could be as cold as last night. He was already tired, and he had no idea how far thirty miles might be. All he knew was that he needed to be back in familiar territory before it was dark.
Beyond that simple objective, he did not have the energy to force his mind.
* * *
The old man had been a poor judge.
From the dump to Bracewell Mansion it was only eighteen miles. That fact and two others saved Job: he was still wearing the solid shoes that had been provided for him in Bracewell Mansion when he was running errands for the professor; and the black-faced woman, in a final and fickle act of kindness, had filled a paper bag with molasses-dipped roast turnips before he left.
The walk was by far the longest that Job had ever made. He came to the entrance of the mansion in early dusk, swaying on blistered feet. He had slept little the previous night, and the second half of today's long trek through city outskirts had passed in a surrealist daze. He had seen strange mirages (or strange reality?) in the broad, potholed avenues, as he struggled up their long slopes and imagined Bracewell Mansion just over the brow of each hill. The parking lots of old shopping malls became rolling seas of black asphalt, dotted with shanty huts that swayed and swooped like wind-tossed paper boats. Abandoned warehouses flanked the roads, rising to cut off the dipping sun. At their broken windows he saw grinning faces, waving skeletal arms. They called and gestured, inviting him in. He shivered and looked straight ahead. Obsessively he had counted his steps, allowing himself a bite of food every thousand paces, a drink wherever he found running water. Sometimes he walked with his eyes closed. Once he had stopped to sit down for ten minutes, and knew when he continued that he must not do it again. If he did he would never get up.
Bracewell Mansion when he finally came to it was back to its old familiar appearance, with the double doors blocked off and the single entrance at the top of the broad stone steps.
And having come so far, Job did not know what to do. He was totally confused. When he was desperate and despairing in Cloak House just twenty-four hours earlier, the idea that the world was devoid of pity, mercy, and decency had hit him with the force of revelation. But the three people at the dump had shared food and drink with him, when it could not possibly benefit them. And Professor Buckler might have found Job useful to run errands, but surely there had been kindness, too, when Job had been picked starving off the street. He wanted to rely on that kindness now, but one thing held him back. Since leaving Bracewell Mansion he understood who really ran the place. And it was not the professor. No matter what Buckler might say or think, the true boss was Miss Magnolia. And Job was terrified by the idea of confronting her.
Increasing cold and the pain from his feet and chest at last forced him inside. He stole upstairs to the third floor and entered Professor Buckler's rooms. To Job's dismay there was no sign of him. This was the hour when he was normally in the brown armchair, drinking or
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