A bloated carcass of a dog lay lolled on bladderwrack. Before him the gunwale of a boat， sunk in sand. Un coche ensablé， Louis Veuillot called Gautier's prose. These heavy sands are language tide and wind have silted here. And there， the stoneheaps of dead builders， a warren of weasel rats. Hide gold there. Try it. You have some. Sands and stones. Heavy of the past. Sir Lout's toys. Mind you don't get one bang on the ear. I'm the bloody well gigant rolls all them bloody well boulders， bones for my steppingstones. Feefawfum. I zmellz de bloods odz an Iridzman.
A point， live dog， grew into sight running across the sweep of sand. Lord， is he going to attack me？ Respect his liberty. You will not be master of others or their slave. I have my stick. Sit tight. From farther away， walking shoreward across from the crested tide， figures， two. The two maries. They have tucked it safe among the bulrushes. Peekaboo. I see you. No， the dog. He is running back to them. Who？
Galleys of the Lochlanns ran here to beach， in quest of prey， their bloodbeaked prows riding low on a molten pewter sun. Danevikings， torcs of tomahawks aglitter on their breasts when Malachi wore the collar of gold. A school of turlehide whales stranded in hot noon， spouting， hobbling in the shallows. Then from the starving cagework city a horde of jerkined dwarfs， my people， with flayers' knives， running， scaling， hacking in green blubbery whalemeat. Famine， plague and slaughters. Their blood is in me， their lusts my waves. I moved among them on the frozen Liffey， that I， a changeling， among the spluttering resin fires. I spoke to no-one： none to me.
The dog's bark ran towards him， stopped， ran back. Dog of my enemy. I just simply stood pale， silent， bayed about. Terribilia meditans. A primrose doublet， fortune's knave， smiled on my fear. For that are you pining， the bark of their applause？ Pretenders： live their lives. The Bruce's brother， Thomas Fitzgerald， silken knight， Perkin Warbeck， York's false scion， in breeches of silk of whiterose ivory， wonder of a day， and Lambert Simnel， with a tail of nans and sutlers， a scullion crowned. All kings' sons. Paradise of pretenders then and now. He saved men from drowning and you shake at a cur's yelping. But the courtiers who mocked Guido in Or san Michele were in their own house. House of... We don't want any of your medieval abstrusiosities. Would you do what he did？ A boat would be near， a lifebuoy. Natürlich， put there for you. Would you or would you not？ The man that was drowned nine days ago off Maiden's rock. They are waiting for him now. The truth， spit it out. I would want to. I would try. I am not a strong swimmer. Water cold soft. When I put my face into it in the basin at Clongowes. Can't see！ Who's behind me？ Out quickly， quickly！ Do you see the tide flowing quickly in on all sides， sheeting the lows of sands quickly， shell cocoacoloured？ If I had land under my feet I want his life still to be his， mine to be mine. A drowning man. His human eyes scream to me out of horror of his death. I... With him together down... I could not save her. Waters： bitter death： lost.
A woman and a man. I see her skirties. Pinned up， I bet.
Their dog ambled about a bank of dwindling sand， trotting， sniffing on all sides. Looking for something lost in a past life. Suddenly he made off like a bounding hare， ears flung back， chasing the shadow of a lowskimming gull. The man's shrieked whistle struck his limp ears. He turned， bounded back， came nearer， trotted on twinkling shanks. On a field tenney a buck， trippant， proper， unattired. At the lacefringe of the tide he halted with stiff forehoofs， seawardpointed ears. His snout lifted barked at the wavenoise， herds of seamorse. They serpented towards his feet， curling， unfurling many crests， every ninth， breaking， plashing， from far， from farther out， waves and waves.
Cocklepickers. They waded a little way in the water and， stooping， soused their bags， and， lifting them again， waded out. The dog yelped running to them， reared up and pawed them， dropping on all fours， again reared up at them with mute bearish fawning. Unheeded he kept by them as they came towards the drier sand， a rag of wolf's tongue redpanting from his jaws. His speckled body ambled ahead of them and then loped off at a calf's gallop. The carcass lay on his path. He stopped， sniffed， stalked round it， brother， nosing closer， went round it， sniffing rapidly like a dog all over the dead dog's bedraggled fell. Dogskull， dogsniff， eyes on the ground， moves to one great goal. Ah， poor dogsbody. Here lies poor dogsbody's body.
-- Tatters！ Out of that， you mongrel.
The cry brought him skulking back to his master and a blunt bootless kick sent him unscathed across a spit of sand， crouched in flight. He slunk back in a curve. Doesn't see me. Along by the edge of the mole he lolloped， dawdled， smelt a rock and from under a cocked hindleg pissed against it. He trotted forward and， lifting his hindleg， pissed quick short at an unsmelt rock. The simple pleasures of the poor. His hindpaws then scattered sand： then his forepaws dabbled and delved. Something he buried there， his grandmother. He rooted in the sand， dabbling delving and stopped to listen to the air， scraped up the sand again with a fury of his claws， soon ceasing， a pard， a panther， got in spouse-breach， vulturing the dead.
After he woke me up last night same dream or was it？ Wait. Open hallway. Street of harlots. Remember. Haroun al Raschid. I am almosting it. That man led me， spoke. I was not afraid. The melon he had he held against my face. Smiled： creamfruit smell. That was the rule， said. In. Come. Red carpet spread. You will see who.
