underground clouds. The landscape looked like certain sections of Cumberland sheâd seen once on a family mission of mercy to an ailing great-Âaunt near Coniston. (âNo rest for the Vicarâd,â her father had muttered.) But Ada couldnât figure out Doréâs sky under the earth, a sky that wasnât a heaven. It must be a holy mystery, to borrow a phrase from Cook. Or a damned mystery.
Twisting deep within the Lake Amniosis into which she had fallen, her mind flipped some page backward, to other illustrations she had seen. Because less pertinent, perhaps, to her effort of dying, they were less clearly apprehended. Some blotty woodcuts of The Rational Brutes; or Talking Animals, by Dorothy Kilner. The frontispiece from Goody Two-ÂShoes, published once upon a time at John Newberyâs shop. Though it more often served the cause of mirth, that greasy volume had been passed down through her motherâs family for the instruction of several generations already. One might live out an uplifting, book-Âlength life if one was lucky. Or out-Âlive one, if one was luckier. ( The Short Life and Inspiring Death of Ada Boyce: Presto to Finis, with Hand-Âtinted Woodcuts for Instruction and Delight, etc .)
The oldest picture Ada could recall was a representation of Noahâs Ark, on a page stained with oatmeal. Earlier than that she could not remember.
Drifting underwater, Ada felt as if she must have missed the Ark, along with the unicorns and behemoths and centaurs and other failed species. She was doomed to extinction any minute now. In the picture as she recalled it, bearded Noah looked like her reverend father, making no effort to notice his daughter flailing beneath the waves. Her mother was below-Âdecks with her chin in an Old Testament chalice of madeira. There was no Cook on board the Ark as far as Ada knew; Ireland hadnât been invented yet. She had a suspicion that Noahâs newborn infant son had trotted along on all fours and tripped up his big ungainly sister, making her sprawl and tumble overboard into the flood. Sororicide.
Then, to her surprise, she broke through.
But broke through what? It seemed, at least, to be the surface of the water. Perhaps more. As in the landscape by Doré, an impossible, outlandish sky lolled overhead with an unsettling suggestion of eternity.
She was naked. But she suspected she hadnât been made corporeally perfect in her plunge.
âI say,â called a voice, âI do hope youâre not drowning.â
She looked about for a boat, for Noah and his Ark, for Charon and his bark, anyone on duty. She saw no boat, but as she pivotedâÂhow much easier it was to move in water than on land!âÂshe discovered that she was close to a strand. A Âcouple of peculiar-Âlooking creatures were making their way along the beach, from left to right. A Walrus walking hand in hand with a laborer of some sort. A difficult thing to accomplish, given that walruses sport nothing approximating a hand. Still, there was no other way to put it. The human had some obscure tools of his trade poking from a pocket in his laborerâs leather apron.
Neither of them looked like Charon. Nor like Noah. Perhaps the human, who seemed to be a joiner, had learned shipbuilding from Noah, while the Walrus had survived the flood because, of course, walruses swim adequately enough.
âI may be drowning,â she called.
âPlease donât,â came a reply. They had stopped and were peering at her. The Walrus was speaking. âWe just saw a sign that said DROW NING IS FORBIDDEN AN D PUNISHABLE BY DEATH .â
âThe Queen is ruthless about misbehavior of that sort,â added his companion.
âIf one drowns, one canât then be put to death,â said Ada. She polliwogged nearer the shore, keeping her bare shoulders submerged.
âI donât know why you say that. One can drown oneâs sorrows in a flask of
Twisting deep within the Lake Amniosis into which she had fallen, her mind flipped some page backward, to other illustrations she had seen. Because less pertinent, perhaps, to her effort of dying, they were less clearly apprehended. Some blotty woodcuts of The Rational Brutes; or Talking Animals, by Dorothy Kilner. The frontispiece from Goody Two-ÂShoes, published once upon a time at John Newberyâs shop. Though it more often served the cause of mirth, that greasy volume had been passed down through her motherâs family for the instruction of several generations already. One might live out an uplifting, book-Âlength life if one was lucky. Or out-Âlive one, if one was luckier. ( The Short Life and Inspiring Death of Ada Boyce: Presto to Finis, with Hand-Âtinted Woodcuts for Instruction and Delight, etc .)
The oldest picture Ada could recall was a representation of Noahâs Ark, on a page stained with oatmeal. Earlier than that she could not remember.
Drifting underwater, Ada felt as if she must have missed the Ark, along with the unicorns and behemoths and centaurs and other failed species. She was doomed to extinction any minute now. In the picture as she recalled it, bearded Noah looked like her reverend father, making no effort to notice his daughter flailing beneath the waves. Her mother was below-Âdecks with her chin in an Old Testament chalice of madeira. There was no Cook on board the Ark as far as Ada knew; Ireland hadnât been invented yet. She had a suspicion that Noahâs newborn infant son had trotted along on all fours and tripped up his big ungainly sister, making her sprawl and tumble overboard into the flood. Sororicide.
Then, to her surprise, she broke through.
But broke through what? It seemed, at least, to be the surface of the water. Perhaps more. As in the landscape by Doré, an impossible, outlandish sky lolled overhead with an unsettling suggestion of eternity.
She was naked. But she suspected she hadnât been made corporeally perfect in her plunge.
âI say,â called a voice, âI do hope youâre not drowning.â
She looked about for a boat, for Noah and his Ark, for Charon and his bark, anyone on duty. She saw no boat, but as she pivotedâÂhow much easier it was to move in water than on land!âÂshe discovered that she was close to a strand. A Âcouple of peculiar-Âlooking creatures were making their way along the beach, from left to right. A Walrus walking hand in hand with a laborer of some sort. A difficult thing to accomplish, given that walruses sport nothing approximating a hand. Still, there was no other way to put it. The human had some obscure tools of his trade poking from a pocket in his laborerâs leather apron.
Neither of them looked like Charon. Nor like Noah. Perhaps the human, who seemed to be a joiner, had learned shipbuilding from Noah, while the Walrus had survived the flood because, of course, walruses swim adequately enough.
âI may be drowning,â she called.
âPlease donât,â came a reply. They had stopped and were peering at her. The Walrus was speaking. âWe just saw a sign that said DROW NING IS FORBIDDEN AN D PUNISHABLE BY DEATH .â
âThe Queen is ruthless about misbehavior of that sort,â added his companion.
âIf one drowns, one canât then be put to death,â said Ada. She polliwogged nearer the shore, keeping her bare shoulders submerged.
âI donât know why you say that. One can drown oneâs sorrows in a flask of
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