The Violent Century Read Online Free PDF Page A

here.
    Fogg sits down again. Looks winded. What would we do under the same circumstances? Is this the visit he’s been dreading, all this time? Spring doesn’t last forever – the first, and harshest, lesson we all learn.
    – Why? Fogg says. Whispers. Who are you? What do you want?
    The Old Man smiles.
    – I want to offer you a job, he says.

15. TRINITY COLLEGE 1936
    Grey fog rushes into the room. Clings to the furniture. Slinks about. Thickens like a cloud of ash. There’s fog everywhere. It chokes out the light. It obscures the blackboard, the empty desks. It hides both Fogg and the Old Man. A smokescreen. The sound of a chair scraping. Then nothing.
    The Old Man stands perfectly still. But smiling. Not pleasantly. We can’t see it, but we know it’s there. On his face. That motion of his head again, this way and that. Like he’s scenting something. Like he’s hunting.
    And liking it.
    Stealthy footsteps. Through the fog. The Old Man moves. With purpose. Like he can see perfectly clearly. The fog moves like a billowing screen, through openings we see snatches of images, the Old Man’s movement, his hand reaching out.
    See the half-open window. Fogg’s face. His hands on the windowsill. About to climb out.
    The Old Man’s hand. Landing on Fogg’s shoulder. A light touch, but Fogg doesn’t move. As though he’d just been frozen.
    – Call it back, the Old Man says. Softly. The words leave his mouth with a white cloud of condensation. The fog hangs in the air. I said, Call it back!
    Snatches in the fog reveal them in this frozen tableau. Fogg’s face white, bloodless. His eyes moving, restlessly. Trapped. The Old Man’s eyes unfathomable. His grip on Fogg’s shoulder. His fingers dark with blood, applying pressure.
    The fog begins to lighten. To withdraw. Sudden, blinding sunlight pours in from outside. Shafts of light like prison searchlights moving through the room, eradicating fog. The air clears. Noise returns from the outside. The sound of humming bees. Students laughing. The smell of cut grass, again. The fog fades gradually, reveals the empty desks, the chairs where no one sits. The blackboard. A piece of chalk broken in half.
    – I am going to release you now, the Old Man says. When I do, you will return to your seat. You will sit down. And you will pay attention.
    But Fogg is frozen still. Doesn’t speak. Maybe can’t. Maybe the Old Man knows it. Says, Yes? and seems satisfied. Removes his hand.
    Fogg, in motion. Like a trout released from a hook. Whirls around. Angry red patches on his white skin. Then stops, the Old Man watching him. Fogg walks back to the chair. Same chair, though he could pick any in the room. Sits down. Waits.
    – Very good, the Old Man says.
    He walks back to stand behind the reader’s desk. The blackboard behind him. As though he’s about to deliver a lecture.
    – You think I can’t see you, boy? he says. I can see each and every one of you, like bright pinpricks of light. Maybe not so bright, in your case …
    Laughs at his own joke. Fogg frowning. Caught. He must know, he thinks. But how?
    – You light up the map like beacons. I can see you, boy. I can see what you are, the Old Man says.
    – Please, Fogg says. Please.
    The Old Man tilts his head. Regards Fogg like a question.
    – What are you going to do to me?
    – I’m here to take you to a special school. For special people. People like you. Where you will be happy, the Old Man says.
    Fogg, wanting to believe. Hope in his eyes. How easily it’s taken away. But wants it to be true, so badly it hurts. Says, Really?
    – Of course not, boy, the Old Man says. Don’t be bloody stupid. I’m here to give you a job.
    What is Fogg thinking right then? Is he feeling relief? Confusion? Anger? It’s a lot to take in, this sudden shift in his life, in a way it is as great a divide as the moment the Vomacht wave hit him.
    – This isn’t an offer, the Old Man says. Maybe taking Fogg’s silence for obstinacy. It’s a