Read Online The Drop Edge of Yonder by Rudolph Wurlitzer - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Rudolph Wurlitzer
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directions he avoids boredom, which, I submit, is the biggest curse of all."
"Curse?" the Pole asked. "What curse? I don't know any curse.
Zebulon felt Delilah's hand on his knee. When he reached down, his hand closed over a slab of butter.
"Always we search for new gods," Hans said.
"Otherwise we are donkeys," Heinrich replied.
"Better new gods than old demons, or the hounds of hell," added the Pole.
"A man needs a target," Cox insisted. "Otherwise he faces chaos."
"Chaos," the Count reached for Delilah's hand, "the mother of creation."
The Count exchanged his plate for Delilah's, which had remained untouched. "Why else would we suffer the stagnation and boredom of a sea voyage?"
"When I was young I sleep on a dirt floor," the Finn said. "I am cold and lonely. Cossacks kill my mother and father. When I find gold I am buying a woman and making a big house. I am having walls inside walls and never open the door."
"And you, Mister Shook?" the journalist asked. "What do you think?"
"A man traps what he can and heads for high ground," Zebulon replied. "If he's lucky, he gets to do it again."
The Captain nodded. "In my world, when a sailor tacks before the wind in the middle of a storm, he makes a deal with nature. Either that, or he finds himself at the bottom of the sea." He looked over at Delilah. "My dear Lady, as the only woman among us, I am curious to know your opinion."
"I have no opinion," Delilah said. "I surrender to what is given.
Cox lifted his wineglass. "A toast to a wise woman."
The Count struck his fork against his glass. "A song! A song from Delilah!"
"Here! Here! Here!" the others chanted.
She shook her head, her eyes pleading with the Count.
"If not a song, at least a poem," the Count insisted.
"I have no poems," she said, looking down at her plate, "and I have no songs." Then she stood up and, not looking at anyone, left the cabin.
The rest of the meal was spent in distracted chatter: "Will there be rain -"; "So humid -"; "When do we reach the equator -"; "Do the Germans or the Belgians make the best potato pancakes -"; "I detest French opera. So inferior to the Italians -"; "You can't improve on the Greeks when it comes to fish -"; "But the French... their bouillabaisse... impeccable -"
No one except the Count paid any attention when Zebulon left the table.
ebulon was standing on the stern deck when the Count appeared, offering him a cigar. "Mexican, I'm sorry to say. Not up to Cuban standards."
"I never refuse a smoke," Zebulon replied, accepting the cigar.
"Such a melancholy overture," the Count remarked. "So different from the false promise of dawn. But then endings are usually more complex than beginnings, are they not...?"
He pointed towards the sun sinking over the horizon. "Look! There she goes. Like a wilted flower."
"Or a squashed tomato," Zebulon added.
"Or an Easter bonnet," the Count replied, surprised at Zebulon's use of metaphor.
"A thumb run over by a wagon wheel," Zebulon continued.
"A red sombrero," the Count replied.
"A smashed sweet potato."
"A splash of blood."
"So we agree," the Count said. "Everything, including nature, is impermanent, and you and I and everyone else are not what we appear to be."
"I wouldn't know about that," Zebulon said.
The Count pointed to a distant rainspout. "The banners of a retreating army?"
"Where is she?" Zebulon asked.
The Count shrugged, his eyes on the rainspout as it disappeared into darkness. "Waiting for me, I would assume. If not that, then perhaps she's jumped overboard. Leaving us with what, exactly? The remains of a great battle?"
Saluting Zebulon, he turned and went below
hat night Zebulon was woken by a sudden rain squall. Come closer, the wind and rain howled as the ship struggled over the waves, then shuddered and groaned into the troughs below; come closer to a realm where life and death are the same.
HE NEXT MORNING, AS ZEBULON PROWLED THE DECK hoping for a sighting of Delilah he was confronted by
"Curse?" the Pole asked. "What curse? I don't know any curse.
Zebulon felt Delilah's hand on his knee. When he reached down, his hand closed over a slab of butter.
"Always we search for new gods," Hans said.
"Otherwise we are donkeys," Heinrich replied.
"Better new gods than old demons, or the hounds of hell," added the Pole.
"A man needs a target," Cox insisted. "Otherwise he faces chaos."
"Chaos," the Count reached for Delilah's hand, "the mother of creation."
The Count exchanged his plate for Delilah's, which had remained untouched. "Why else would we suffer the stagnation and boredom of a sea voyage?"
"When I was young I sleep on a dirt floor," the Finn said. "I am cold and lonely. Cossacks kill my mother and father. When I find gold I am buying a woman and making a big house. I am having walls inside walls and never open the door."
"And you, Mister Shook?" the journalist asked. "What do you think?"
"A man traps what he can and heads for high ground," Zebulon replied. "If he's lucky, he gets to do it again."
The Captain nodded. "In my world, when a sailor tacks before the wind in the middle of a storm, he makes a deal with nature. Either that, or he finds himself at the bottom of the sea." He looked over at Delilah. "My dear Lady, as the only woman among us, I am curious to know your opinion."
"I have no opinion," Delilah said. "I surrender to what is given.
Cox lifted his wineglass. "A toast to a wise woman."
The Count struck his fork against his glass. "A song! A song from Delilah!"
"Here! Here! Here!" the others chanted.
She shook her head, her eyes pleading with the Count.
"If not a song, at least a poem," the Count insisted.
"I have no poems," she said, looking down at her plate, "and I have no songs." Then she stood up and, not looking at anyone, left the cabin.
The rest of the meal was spent in distracted chatter: "Will there be rain -"; "So humid -"; "When do we reach the equator -"; "Do the Germans or the Belgians make the best potato pancakes -"; "I detest French opera. So inferior to the Italians -"; "You can't improve on the Greeks when it comes to fish -"; "But the French... their bouillabaisse... impeccable -"
No one except the Count paid any attention when Zebulon left the table.
ebulon was standing on the stern deck when the Count appeared, offering him a cigar. "Mexican, I'm sorry to say. Not up to Cuban standards."
"I never refuse a smoke," Zebulon replied, accepting the cigar.
"Such a melancholy overture," the Count remarked. "So different from the false promise of dawn. But then endings are usually more complex than beginnings, are they not...?"
He pointed towards the sun sinking over the horizon. "Look! There she goes. Like a wilted flower."
"Or a squashed tomato," Zebulon added.
"Or an Easter bonnet," the Count replied, surprised at Zebulon's use of metaphor.
"A thumb run over by a wagon wheel," Zebulon continued.
"A red sombrero," the Count replied.
"A smashed sweet potato."
"A splash of blood."
"So we agree," the Count said. "Everything, including nature, is impermanent, and you and I and everyone else are not what we appear to be."
"I wouldn't know about that," Zebulon said.
The Count pointed to a distant rainspout. "The banners of a retreating army?"
"Where is she?" Zebulon asked.
The Count shrugged, his eyes on the rainspout as it disappeared into darkness. "Waiting for me, I would assume. If not that, then perhaps she's jumped overboard. Leaving us with what, exactly? The remains of a great battle?"
Saluting Zebulon, he turned and went below
hat night Zebulon was woken by a sudden rain squall. Come closer, the wind and rain howled as the ship struggled over the waves, then shuddered and groaned into the troughs below; come closer to a realm where life and death are the same.
HE NEXT MORNING, AS ZEBULON PROWLED THE DECK hoping for a sighting of Delilah he was confronted by
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