Read Online Green shadows, white whale v5 by Ray Bradbury - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ray Bradbury
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charged off with the hounds, buying. "Kid," said John, on the ground, "call two doctors. One for Lisa's throat, one for my backside. And get us up to bed." "Oh, no you don't!" said Ricki. "Not the same bed, of course." John smiled. The Reverend Mr. Hicks watched the horses and hounds diminish in the distance, then spoke to Lisa.
"Your husband asked a question. What . . . ?" "Are we married? Did you legally marry us?" The reverend searched his coat to turn some papers end over end. "No." He handed the papers to Lisa. "Not until you've both signed these."
Lisa blew her nose and said, "Does anyone have a pen?" Mr. Hicks patted his pockets and shook his head.
Back at the Royal Hibernian Hotel, the next morning I awoke early, for no reason except perhaps too much bad rather than good wine.
Then, for no reason, save intuition, I peered out at the constant, ever-falling, and eternal rain and thought I saw a lean man in a svelte raincoat, with no umbrella but a tweed Grafton Street cap pulled down over his iron-gray hair and hawk's nose, striding by so quickly I almost said his name. My mouth moved to whisper it.
I plunged into bed to drown in tides of coverlet until nine, when the phone rang twenty times, forcing me to reach out blindly to find the damned thing.
"You're up?" said Ricki's voice.
"No, still deep under."
"Shall I call later?"
"No, no. It sounds like you need to talk now."
"How did you guess? Well, here's the dope. In the confusion someone invited Heeber Finn's pub friends into the house, which was like a riot of hounds and horses. They rid the place of Tom's poor booze and overloaded on John's, vanquished the brandy, debilitated the sherry, and invited all the lords and ladies down to Finn's to improve the talk. Along the line, the Reverend Mr. Hicks vanished. We found him out in the stables just now. He's refused to get up unless we put him on the Belfast train. The cake was shaken down with the stove clinkers and removed as shale for the garden path. The horses, waiting last night, ran home alone. Some of the hounds are out in the stable, asleep with the reverend. I think I saw the fox at the kitchen door at dawn, lapping cream with the cats, who, seeing his exhaustion, let him. John is in bed writhing in pain or exercising. At least he has stopped shrieking descriptions of both. I will now go to sleep for the weekend. You are to rewrite the Whale Chase whether it needs chasing or not, says John. Lisa has pleaded, then demanded, air tickets for Rome and—oh, here she is."
"Hello," said a frail far voice.
"Lisa!" I called with false bravado.
"There's only one thing I want to say."
"Say it, Lisa."
She sneezed.
"Where—" she said and stopped. Then she finished it.
"Where's Tom?"
10
It was Christmas noon and I had been invited out to Courtown for a turkey dinner plus gift-giving; John had asked in a few huntsmen and their wives and Betty Malone, who took fine care of his horses, and a writer and his mistress from Paris. We had the turkey and gave all the gifts save one.
"Now," announced John, "for Ricki. The big event. Outside, everyone!"
We went outside, and at a fairly loud whistle from John, Betty came running around the side of the house leading a black mare with a Christmas wreath encircling its neck.
Ricki shouted with delight and embraced John and then the horse. John hefted her up into the saddle and she sat there, laughing with joy and petting the lovely beast.
"Okay," said John. "Go!"
Ricki gave the mare the peremptory kicks and took off, once around the front yard and then over a fence. On the way over and down, she fell off. We all yelled and ran forward. I had never seen anyone, in person, fall off a horse, so I groaned and felt kicked in the stomach.
John reached Ricki first and stood over her. He didn't touch her or help her to her feet. He didn't examine her legs or arms or body, he just leaned down at her and yelled, "You bitch, get back on that horse!"
Which froze us all in
"Your husband asked a question. What . . . ?" "Are we married? Did you legally marry us?" The reverend searched his coat to turn some papers end over end. "No." He handed the papers to Lisa. "Not until you've both signed these."
Lisa blew her nose and said, "Does anyone have a pen?" Mr. Hicks patted his pockets and shook his head.
Back at the Royal Hibernian Hotel, the next morning I awoke early, for no reason except perhaps too much bad rather than good wine.
Then, for no reason, save intuition, I peered out at the constant, ever-falling, and eternal rain and thought I saw a lean man in a svelte raincoat, with no umbrella but a tweed Grafton Street cap pulled down over his iron-gray hair and hawk's nose, striding by so quickly I almost said his name. My mouth moved to whisper it.
I plunged into bed to drown in tides of coverlet until nine, when the phone rang twenty times, forcing me to reach out blindly to find the damned thing.
"You're up?" said Ricki's voice.
"No, still deep under."
"Shall I call later?"
"No, no. It sounds like you need to talk now."
"How did you guess? Well, here's the dope. In the confusion someone invited Heeber Finn's pub friends into the house, which was like a riot of hounds and horses. They rid the place of Tom's poor booze and overloaded on John's, vanquished the brandy, debilitated the sherry, and invited all the lords and ladies down to Finn's to improve the talk. Along the line, the Reverend Mr. Hicks vanished. We found him out in the stables just now. He's refused to get up unless we put him on the Belfast train. The cake was shaken down with the stove clinkers and removed as shale for the garden path. The horses, waiting last night, ran home alone. Some of the hounds are out in the stable, asleep with the reverend. I think I saw the fox at the kitchen door at dawn, lapping cream with the cats, who, seeing his exhaustion, let him. John is in bed writhing in pain or exercising. At least he has stopped shrieking descriptions of both. I will now go to sleep for the weekend. You are to rewrite the Whale Chase whether it needs chasing or not, says John. Lisa has pleaded, then demanded, air tickets for Rome and—oh, here she is."
"Hello," said a frail far voice.
"Lisa!" I called with false bravado.
"There's only one thing I want to say."
"Say it, Lisa."
She sneezed.
"Where—" she said and stopped. Then she finished it.
"Where's Tom?"
10
It was Christmas noon and I had been invited out to Courtown for a turkey dinner plus gift-giving; John had asked in a few huntsmen and their wives and Betty Malone, who took fine care of his horses, and a writer and his mistress from Paris. We had the turkey and gave all the gifts save one.
"Now," announced John, "for Ricki. The big event. Outside, everyone!"
We went outside, and at a fairly loud whistle from John, Betty came running around the side of the house leading a black mare with a Christmas wreath encircling its neck.
Ricki shouted with delight and embraced John and then the horse. John hefted her up into the saddle and she sat there, laughing with joy and petting the lovely beast.
"Okay," said John. "Go!"
Ricki gave the mare the peremptory kicks and took off, once around the front yard and then over a fence. On the way over and down, she fell off. We all yelled and ran forward. I had never seen anyone, in person, fall off a horse, so I groaned and felt kicked in the stomach.
John reached Ricki first and stood over her. He didn't touch her or help her to her feet. He didn't examine her legs or arms or body, he just leaned down at her and yelled, "You bitch, get back on that horse!"
Which froze us all in
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