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Updated: June 6, 2025
Then we'll go together maybe at Christmas." "O.K.," Oliver said. "Daddy won't care; he never liked Rupert." "Good man." Oliver took a long shower, standing under hot water, hearing snatches of Jennifer's voice as she talked on the phone. He dried himself with one of her thick white towels and received a vigorous hug when he stepped into the kitchen.
Sunday afternoon, Emma lay contentedly in her playpen near the new stove while a fire burned and Oliver watched the Patriots lose another one. Jennifer had driven in to The Conservancy for a couple of hours. Woof was outside. Verdi was curled by a window. The stove had cost a bundle, but it was worth it, Oliver thought. They charged it on one of Jennifer's credit cards. "Da Da." "Yes, Emma."
Oliver felt Jennifer's foot on his; he stopped staring and struck his drum three times. "Yes," Bogdolf said, spreading his arms approvingly. "The power!" He looked upward and staggered back several steps. He looked again at Oliver and made a commanding motion with the stick. Oliver struck the drum three times. "Gaia, " Bogdolf said. Oliver felt a pat on his arm.
At sight of us, or else because he would not take the water at full speed, the horse reared, pawed the air, and fell clumsily, carrying his skilless rider with him. We picked the black up and soused him in the stream till he found his tongue; and the first wagging of that useful member gave us news to fire the blood in our veins in Jennifer's and mine, at any rate.
"Wait 'til you meet my sister." Jennifer's face fell. "Just kidding," Oliver said. "To hell with it. Why don't we have our own Thanksgiving?" "Would they be upset?" "Not really. I can go another time maybe over the holidays. We don't get along all that well, but I like her daughter, Heather. I like being 'Uncle Ollie. " "Already, I'm a disruptive influence," Jennifer said.
But this deep sleep that crept upon me as I lay in the pirogue, listening to the tinkling drip from Jennifer's paddle, was not of healthful weariness; and when I came awake from it there was a dim and troubled vista of vague and broken dreams to measure off the longest night I could ever remember. The place of this awakening was a burrow in the earth.
"Yes," George said, following him. Oliver looked down the driveway and focused on a man walking slowly toward the house. The man smiled when he was closer. "You must be Oliver. Ah, yes." "I am. I remember you from somewhere." "Ba, ba, boom," the man said and twirled around. "Bogdolf!" "Eric Hallston, actually. I'm an old friend of Jennifer's." "You look so much younger," Oliver said.
From these unsatisfactory reflections William Jennifer's voice, prefaced by a warning cough, recalled him. "Making any long stay in these parts, sir?" he enquired. And when Tom explained that a few hours from now would witness the termination of his visit, and that, in all probability, many years of absence from England lay ahead "Indeed, indeed, to be sure.
"I said we'd come down at Christmas." "O.K.," Oliver said. "Jesus!" "What's the matter?" "He dropped it," Oliver said. "You're back nice and early." "We had a big breakfast around nine. I left right after. What do you think of 'Emma' as a name?" "No!" Jennifer's face fell. "Not another one! Get him out of there!" "Oliver . . ." "Yes Emma," he said. "I like it. Why Emma?"
"A long time ago," Bogdolf began, "in the time of the Water People . . ." He paced back and forth as he told the story. His voice rose and fell. He was on the verge of tears. He laughed. He whispered. Threatened. Trembled. Finally: "And that is how the little drum saved the Water People." He looked at Oliver. Jennifer's foot pressed down.
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