Project Trusts: World Intellectual Property Day, 26th April

A few days late, but I'd like to dedicate this short story to 'World Intellectual Property Day'. This day is for the rights and property of ideas, stories and movies which are under threat from copy right theft and shows respect to the individuals and companies which work so hard to entertain us as viewers.

This story was inspired by the Irish Modernist "James Joyce's" novel "Ulysses". I want to dedicate this short story to this day, because James Joyce is such an amazing writer and, I think it's very important to respect and admire the individual who puts so much effort into the stories they produce. As an art student, I adore the imagination of others and coming close to the end of my year abroad in South Africa, emphasized my appreciation for culture and those who make it.

I apologise for my spelling and grammar, I really must employ an editor to look over my work.

The Tower

Jasper Isaiah Marley Stinchcombe

Based on James Joyce’s Ulysses.

Includes the Irish song ‘Rocky Road to Dublin’

Jack being the fag that he was, lay on his back with layers of misty smoke rising from his head like the top of a chimney pot in the winter nights of Dublin. No thought for what stain he was in the room or life in general, or how the most decent thing a person could do was stab him out and chuck him out of the window to be long forgotten. And yet the saddest truth of Jack's pitiful existence was how many more there were; just like him, who don't give much a damn like him, and sit around on the pavement, and no one ever cared a shred for them.

The point however of this particular scene was Jack was on his own lying on his back, which was a tad bit abnormal to be frank, as you never really see a fag on his own, you see them dead on the road, but never a live and without some company to breath in the intoxicating atmosphere they produce. The most likely reason was someone had brought him up to the Tower and left him for the mean time while they popped off to the lav.

It isn't of the gravest importance that we talk about Jack, but his role in this story will be over soon, and we might as well dedicate a little bit of time to him just while he's still here. Even if he's just going to spend his time lying on his back. He came into the Tower, by means of Buck Mulligan. Mulligan was quite accustomed to his sort littering up the Tower. You expected it by his very nature, even that of the nature of his room-mate Stephen Dedalus - even though Stephen could be described as having a very anal moral code to live by, despite losing his faith.

Faith, was always a tricky subject around the Tower. Many discussions like the smoke rings around Jacks head hovered over the topic of religion, faith, death and any other subject related to ideologies which try to answer large questions. Funnily enough though, such large questions are really only brought on by very small words, such as 'Why? Who are we? What are we? How are we? What we are? And yet such questions like these have never really given us very satisfactory answers.

Is this due to our past history of expecting so much from these long unanswered questions? Are we so self obsessed with ourselves, we feel so high and mighty to accept any answer other than the very complicated and unusual? Are we so depressed with our daily lives and misery that we need to numb the pain of our existence with false ideals, illusions and projections? But who knows, maybe we're just too stoned to tell either way?

Buck re-entered the room, seeing Jack. His first reaction was to take dear old Jack by his neck, pull him to his lips, suck his mouth and blow the heavenly smoke from his own lips. Stephen entered the room, seeing Buck with what was in his hands.

-Hello Buck, oh no not another cigarette?

-Don't talk about my dear Jack like that, Stephen my own.

-I've never known anyone who actually names each cigarette before he smokes them.

-Well, I needed a cigarette in commemoration for tonight. Buck said, taking out his cigarette case and offering one to his comrade. Will you have one, darling?

-Thank you, but no. Stephen replied. I'm not sure what it is, but I feel an overwhelming volition to avoid all stimulants.

-Ahh! Sighed Mulligan. A desire must only be repressed to the extent that society demands it, and at just this point Society is willing to accept it, you should rebel so as to give society the best possible example for change.

Mulligan had always the demeanour of him which gave you the impression that he was either a genius, or at least very eccentric. It is always a remarkably intriguing notion that neither neurotics or geniuses can be easily differentiated. This is either to do with how society treats the eccentric members of its system by shunning them out to one side or that Genius and neurosis isn't different at all.

-Which? Says Buck. Reminds me, I require a loan for drinks tonight. I know it's my turn to pay the funds, but I've had financial difficulties and so require some assistance.

-I'm always happy to help Buck, Stephen Replies. But do you really think we need to fill each and every night with drunken sensations?

- Always! he replied. For the life of a sober man is full of bills, time passing by and dreams never being filled.

Stephen picked out his wallet, fingering through the notes, counting out and summing what he would need and might have been able to afford. Handing five pounds or so to Mulligan. The life of a drunk, Buck continued in his narration, is one where all such worries are put aside and whatever remains is left to flourish in joyful ecstasy, in confident liars and charlatans or angry, aggressive bastards who are understood by all, but their wives.

-You just tear the world to pieces, don't you Mulligan? Laughing, while you do it. Said Stephen, tempted for a split second to smoke the rest of Buck's Jack, but managing to refuse it from himself.

-The world, Lover. Mulligan said cheerfully. Has always been torn, that's why so many think their able to saw it. I'm just a lazy tailor letting everyone suit themselves.

Buck abandoned his stance and walked to his rooms; leaving Stephen in isolation, with nothing but his thoughts for company, which merely deepened his sense of loneliness.

-He won't ever forgive me, he thought to himself. I barely forgive myself or even desire to be forgiven, it is probably a form of bad faith to try and believe I am ever likely to be forgiven, to lose my sense of guilt. I must not seem so melancholy, if I sink down any further into the hells' pit of self pity, it will defeat me in the end and bury me in the hole I dig myself. I must stand up and climb up!

Stephen then paced to and throe around the tower, as if with each step he had some faint hopes of coming across salvation or an indicator of what must happen next. Feeling he had no answers here. He walked to his own room to find himself some clean clothes for the long night ahead.

As he gathered what clothes he had available around his room, he stared at himself in the long mirror on his wardrobe door. Putting on a fresh white shirt, brown waist coat and white cream tie and cream trousers, a pair of dark brown shoes and dark brown tweed jacket. He felt like himself as his reflection stared back at him, but did not see the man in the mirror as himself but more as the expression of a predicament.

-To be or not to be, he said. Whether it is nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take arms against the sea of trouble. Ireland, my beautiful home and beloved mother country, have you forsaken me? Or have I forsaken you by wondering whether to die, to sleep no more; and by a sleep, to say we end the Heart and head-aches, and the thousand Natural shocks that flesh is heir to?

Finishing off his outfit for the evening, Stephen walked out of his room, seeing Mulligan with his face speared with soapy foam and a cut throat razor in his hand and a small mirror in the other.

-Just preparing for this evening, he said. You look like your dressed for a class, dear boy. You expecting on giving people in the pub a lecture tonight?

-It's the only thing I have other than my clothes for tomorrow which are clean, the rest of my clothes are being picked up from Mrs Miggin’s the day after.

-Is she that old bag who delivers our milk every morning?

-No, you're thinking of someone entirely different.

Stephen sat on the stair head, picking out bits of fur left over from the stray that kept climbing into the Tower at night. How does she manage to get in each night? It's not as if this place is the Bank of Ireland, but you'd expect it was secure enough to prevent the likes of her from coming in every night.

-I blame you for this. Said Stephen, showing his hair covered jacket to Mulligan.

-Me? What have I to do with your jacket? He asked, shaving stroke by stroke his hairy chin.

-You're the one who let that pest in and out of here each night, I'm surprised you don't just put a bell on her and a bed of her own in the corner.

- She does not come in every nigh,t and you’re absurd in suggesting otherwise? Anyway, it's you who draws her in, the way you grin and act so gaily around her; I wouldn't be surprised if you left her something in the door open just for her to come in whenever she pleases.

Stephen removed his jacket, taking it to the window to shake off the excess hair while Buck finished shaving.

- If she comes by again tonight, said Stephen. Will you let her in again?

-More than likely, I wouldn't want any creature being left out in the cold. Would you?

- No, I wouldn't want anyone out there.

Stephen crouched on the stairs and peered through the railings, praying. Not to God of any kind but prayed non-the-less.

-I Hope they'll sleep well tonight Buck, he said. I hope everyone sleeps well tonight.

-Nothing like wishful think ehh? Buck grinned while whipping the excess foam of his face and putting on his shirt and jacket. They allow a person the freedom to do nothing while still having good intentions. Now let us be off, I forgot to mention a friend of mine from little England is waiting for us at the train station, he said he was passing by and I told him he could stay here for the while.

-What? You're telling me this now?

-Your skills of observation Stephen never cease to amaze, Buck replied.

-And your ability to surprise still continues to flourish to my demise.

-What can I say, he says? Rushing to the table side and picking up his Tower keys. It's the adventurous part of me, I never do what I have no intention of doing, it is only through great convenience that I feel like going to work in the morning at the medical school at all.

The pair got to the door, exiting the tower, locking the door and making head way to the beach (As it's the prettiest way to make one’s way around Dublin.)

-So? Asked Stephen, Who's this friend of yours?

-His name's Haines, I met him only once while I travelled to Oxford with my Father. We all went to a Gallery and he said my swollen oval jaw matched that of one of the portraits. We exchanged addresses and occasionally write back and forth, he said he was coming by and so I told him to wait for us at the station.

-Can I just say, Said Stephen? I'm not optimistic?

-That is both your privilege and your curse my friend, just as its mine to share your feelings.

The two walked side by side, listening to the sound of the ocean and seagulls which flew on by. Gulls, if the pigeon is the sewer rat with wings, then these are water rats with wings. Feeding off the dead or rotting waste that came their way. The people of Dublin almost feel pride for their Seagull's, it wouldn't matter whether they liked them or not, they would never part with them for the character they gave the sea and docks. The soldiers of London are very similar in that respect. Lovers of their country, men of honour who succeeded in protecting the land of their fathers and grandfathers and kings. While their country failed to protect them, leaving them on the streets to beg and survive. The English are proud of their men and while some do not like the way they look, they gave the country its honourable name.

Stephen Dedalus and Buck Mulligan trenched forth on the stony side of the beach to the station, hearing the crunching steps of their feet on the rocks as they left the soft sands behind. The sand which time had now finished off its work, and left behind for children to play around with; building and constructing castles which the sea would like everything else, eventually claim back as its own and push under the ground to the hot core from whence it came. That sand will rise again, it'll come back in islands, continents and mountains. Then it'll melt back into the sea, only to return like Fridays that come after every Thursday and disappear before every Saturday. An Infinite Regress. What came first? Perhaps nothing, perhaps all that is is what it is, for if it wasn't then it wouldn't be that which it is. Anything which seems to change is just one attribute of what it is.

Stephen delved his hand to the wet ground, plucking out a stone, something shinier then all the others. This one will be mine, I shall not let the sea have it. Not from me at least, I shall hold it in my palm and keep it till I die, only then will the oceans have my permission, my permission to have this stone that's in my hand.

-You found some keep sake Kinch? Asked Mulligan, seeing Stephen lag behind.

-Just a stone. He replied, making a jog back to his companion.

-What was it that called you to it?

-The way it shines, like a star that fell from upon the sky.

-Why don't you try throwing it back up, perhaps the heavens will thank you in some way and give you blessings.

-How do you know this stone was not a blessing in itself?

-Well, it wasn't me who picked it up. A blessing for you is of no importance to me.

Stephen placed the pebble in the pocket of his waist coat and went on before Mulligan. Not know of the whole in his coat, the little piece of star fell once again but from Stephen and not the heavens. Noticing this wonder of gravitational pull, Mulligan stayed back and while, wondering what to do with the stone, till eventually he picked it by his forefinger and his thumb and hid it in his coat for it may be a blessing after all.

The two continued onwards in the direction of the town, humming and singing tunes as they walked.

While in the merry month of May, from me home I started

Left the girls of Tuam nearly brokenhearted

Saluted father dear, kissed me darling mother

Drank a pint of beer, me grief and tears to smother

Then off to reap the corn, and leave where I was born

Cut a stout blackthorn to banish ghosts

And goblin' brand new pair of brogues to rattle o'er the bogs

And frighten all the dogs on the rocky road to Dublin'

One, two, three four, five

Hunt the hare and turn her down the rocky road

And all the way to Dublin', whack-fol-la-de-da

-Oh! You know what I've realised? Asked Mulligan, as they entered the mouth of a shop on the verge of closing down. We require a replacement kettle; we've been using a saucepan for the past three weeks.

-I don't recall hearing you complain before hand? Intrigues Dedalus. Besides what’s wrong with not using a kettle?

-When a man has to use a saucepan to make his tea in the morning, he's no longer a man. Three weeks is long enough to not be a man!

The two scanned the shop in search of a kettle. It was a quaint enough boutique with small, long cracks going along and across the ceiling and walls. This had clearly been a building of extreme old age, with extreme old paint on the walls that the owners were either too skint or too cheap to replace, or too absorbed with their merchandise to care so much for the state of the store. Which was readable by the display of some of the books in the back wall shelves. Hamlet, Thus Spoke Zarathustra, The Picture of Dorian Gray, On Liberty, The Republic, Les Misérables and Odyssey by Homer, all covered in dust like the authors that wrote them. Is that all which wise and stupid men leave behind them, works which dwell in the dust of old? What would any scholar think, seeing work in such a state? Perhaps they would feels this is less of an insult and more of as a dedication, showing that their work does not belong to the general public of ill-thought-out-beliefs and popularity of modern day, but was reserved exclusively to the members of the public of the intellect, whom would truly appreciate the quality and finery of their craft and art?

-Here, here, Stephen Bring money, I found our new Kettle! Mulligan said in ecstatic joy and glee.

-Have you found the one you want, Dearest? Asked Stephen.

-Absoposalutely! Lover. Replied Buck.

The frail old creature over-hearing and over-judging the conversation between her next customers, staggering to the counter, her hands trembling when picking up the piece to examine it's worth and how much to charge for its sale.

-Oh dear. Said Mulligan, as if he was all concerned at the confusion of the old lady. I think she may be concerned with what kind of customers we are Stephen my boy?

-I can assure you madam. Said Hero Stephen Dedalus, despite my credulous friend's dialogue, our relationship is purely platonic.

-Yes, but bearing in mind, Plato was never strictly speaking platonic with his students.

-Do you just thrive on making a conversation awkward and sound devious?

-Do you need to make things so serious when their clearly not, you old women. No pun intended. He said to the owner paying her the money for the Kitchen Appliance.

The two walked back out into the streets, in the direction of the station.

-I wish I bought that Homer piece. Stephen said.

-Homer? Said Mulligan. I saw you more as a lover of Aristotle.

-I am? But I don't prioritise.

-We all prioritise, be honest before yourself, before anyone else. Said Mulligan in his truest form. One is always truest when they don't mean to be. I suppose be use they don't believe the world takes them serious and so whatever they say is only taken as a jester's riddle made only for the royal king, Henry the VIth? That's why the royalist’s personal message had his pity jester send him a message in the form of a joke that his wife had been unfaithful, he was the only person he couldn't part with using the axe. Kings and Queens of England, What impresses you so much about them, other than their fine jewellery is they are no more different to you or I, other than the fine jewellery they wear?

The men walked out, almost disgusted by the indignation they received by the silent women. A silent women, is all the more worst then a women who speaks her mind - with the sort such as that; you can ignore and forget them. But a woman who never speaks, you are left constantly wondering what they might say later.

In Mullingar that night, I rested, limbs so weary

Started by daylight next morning light and early

Took a drop of the pure to keep me heart from sinking

That's the paddy's cure when there he's on the drinking to see

The lassies smile laughing all the while

At my curious style, 'twould set your heart a-bubblin'

Asked me, was I hired wages I required

Till I was almost tired over the rocky road to Dublin'

One, two, three, four, five

Hunt the hare and turn her down the rocky roads

And all the way to Dublin', whack-fol-la-de-da

Streets became dark, the sky went blue, people varnished into mist and leaving only the very brave or very stupid to wonder in the night. For tonight could be a perfect evening to commit oneself to murder; find a victim, subdue them it a sense of false safety; take them to a narrow with a dagger in your hand and see the moon go claret and her hands covered in guilt of which no water can hope to cleanse her mind. Madness will fester inside the murderesses mind, inside her attic where she once hid away her lovers reflected past of loyal will and honoured kneel will be shattered by her lust for power and greed, to have her husband’s name (Son of Beth) feared for all the world which is a stage to speak.

She did not kill herself, but ended her life on her own accord. Her victims were of the father of a king - the mirror of her father and the father of her children that she never bored to him. Her weapon of choice was neither blade, nor dagger, nor sword or arrow to fire from a cowards distance. Her weapon was words of taunt and humiliation and the expense of her husband’s manhood. Love must come in many forms to allow such deaths as these to take place.

-My hands are freezing. Stephen huffed in his hands to warm them up. How much further is it to the station? And where do you recommend we proceed from there? Do you imagine us carrying this man’s luggage to the pub along with the new kettle?

-We'll first meet Haines, lock up his luggage in one of the station storage rooms and go on to the bars from there. We'll just have to carry the Kettle, I cannot cope with the idea of using the saucepan again, if I feel any less than a man I might feel like I'm a women. Mulligan chuckled. Besides having a kettle in a bar isn't such a disadvantage, If we feel like we need to sober-up at any point, we can just get some coffee and cigars and watch the sun rise on the horizon.

- How romantic?

-Do you think so? Well, of cause you've always been a romantic haven't you.

Buck and Stephen trenched on, they were in view of the station.

-Have you many classes coming up? Asked Mulligan

-Not till the day after tomorrow, I thought I told you already? Asked Stephen?

-Just wanted to reaffirm it. What are you teaching your pupils currently?

-I'm giving them a taste of Wilde at the moment, I think they need a tasty sorbet to cleanse their palates.

-Cleanse it from all the Biblical and Greek mythology ehh? I don't mind modern and Victorian play writes, I love acting, so much more realistic than life. But what I can't stand are myths which so often try to present themselves as fact. Myths are not facts, acting is merrily realistic forms of myths without trying to be real at all.

-You needn't tell me of you views of religious text, I've heard it often enough. While I can't say I disagree with you, I think you should show some decorum when speaking of the belief of others.

-No, I'm going to continue showing no decorum and tell them to sod off if they even try and proselytize their beliefs. If anyone claims to have the right of God, they have as much right as anyone else whose faith is based on unfalsifiable blah blah blah!

-Don't take such an arrogant tone. You're no closer in proving your own hypothesis than anyone else.

-I make no Hypothesis other than they shouldn't try to present their faith as fact, I'm perfectly open minded to being convinced by their beliefs, they’re just not convincing, that is all.

-Well? stammered Stephen. We can't say much of any conversation when we cannot take the ideas further, all I ever seem to agree upon is we all believe what we believe.

-Whatever we cannot know we cannot speak. Replied Buck.

-You are a bloody idiot sometimes, a stupid rotten and perfect man! Stephen said in both anger and a respectful tone.

-How so? asked Buck.

-You are immutable and the best possible version of yourself. What difference is there between that and perfection?

-And you are a burning literate and a survivor of a sinking ship of faith. Neither of us will amount to much. Its brilliant, isn't it? Mulligan said gaily

Amount to nothing? A lot can be put into one thing, the molecules it’s made from, the experiences it's had or the number of consequences which come about because of it. But when you consider all that never was, all that could have been and was never able to be, all that should have been but wasn't allowed to be, you see how nothing is actually worth so-much more than any one thing can possibly be; nothing can fit an infinite number of possible things then something ever could.

-Oh look. Buck said with glee. The Cafe's still open, shall we have some tea and cake before the train comes in?

-May as well. Answered Stephen. Should we use their kettle or stick to our own? Stephen asked sarcastically.

The two walked in and found themselves a table to sit at. Small round wooden thing, with two leather backed chairs and a Peruvian carpet underneath. As soon as the two men were seen in the door way, the owner - an old grey man; with a dark but very withered circled moustache, came to them at once, opening the chairs for them to sit while he scurried off, and brought them a tea pot full of hot water, and a box containing various tea bags, and a plate of muffins and butter and jam. They took their seat and brewed a bag of English into the pot, watching the swirls of the tea bag fill the clear hot liquid, turning from a misty brown to a dark oaky colour. The smell was strong and savoury yet sweet. The crumpets were warm with a stale surface but a soft inside - Stephen tried at first to eat one without butter but couldn't persist in this endeavour and so spreader the butter. Buck poured the tea into two cups that were already set on the table, picked up a pot of sugar cubes and began dropping them one by one into a cup, each time producing a splash-back effect.

-How many sugars did you just put in that? asked Stephen.

-Not sure, I lost count after three, here you go. He said passing the cup to Stephen.

-Didn't you think I'd be more than able to count my own cubes of sugar?

-I did but thought you'd appreciate me doing it for you, give that swerving, complex mind of yours to contemplate on something far more intriguing than such a mundane task as how much sugar is required in your tea, as it so often does.

-You know what I'm thinking right now?

-No, please tell me? Mulligan said eagerly..

-I'm thinking why you choose to put more sugar in my cup of tea then the tea itself, so your generous thought has failed dismally. Stephen said, sweeping the tea aside to give himself a fresh cup putting no sugar in it this time.

-Why Wilde? asked Buck.

-Pardon? Responded Stephen.

-I thought, 'Why did you choose to teach your students Wilde all of a sudden?' and so I asked to help provide some satisfactory answer.

-I'd been teaching them a great deal of Barth which appeared to tire them out, and was too dry.

-So? Mulligan said, picking up another cupcake. You decided to butter their dry lesson to ease its digestion? He said, spreading the butter on his crumpet.

-No, they were doing that quit on their own making fun of Barth's name, I merrily tried to give them something to wash it all down with. Stephen said, sipping his cup.

-Your students got so bored in class that they began to laugh at their subject’s name? Thank God you didn't decide to start teaching them Balzac or Longfellow.

Stephen chuckled at his comrade’s joke, pouring more tea into his cup. What play, poem or story have you been teaching them then?

-I introduced them to Lady Windermere's fan. A story of prosperity, equality and the desire by some to seek out and achieve because they can.

- I had always thought. Said Mulligan. The moral was never trust the scandalous rumours and gossiping words of a daft old society women, who only seem to be able to teach their children to respond to every question with 'yes mama.'

-You may be right, after all, it was to believing in scoundrel which caused the plot to turn and become dramatic.

-Do you ever moralise Gossip, Stephen?

-I don't much fancy or care for Gossip no matter how charming it may seem.

-Oh don't be so morbid! Laughed Mulligan, in a childlike cry.

The whistle blew and the trains came in, the people came and then quickly left as they rest of the people on the platform departed back on the train. Smoke filled the air like mist, getting thicker and thicker as a stranger trod through it. If it wasn't for the whistle blower alerting the passengers to mind the edge, one would simply walk on till they fell on the railings, waiting for the next train out of there. The whole congregation of travellers was like seeing the entrance to a hive of busy bees; working as best they could do; being part of a system to sustain themselves and their families. The collective consciousness of humanity; to live, to experience, to dream and to drink so as to forget. We do not all think or at least know if we are really thinking or thinking for ourselves. But we all can forget that we are all part of the same root cause, with the same instincts in the mud, where some grow wings to fly.

Haines appeared through the mist, suitcase in both hands with another large truck behind him. How long did Mulligan agree to let him stay? Two weeks? A month? Even a Year? Must stop this, stop it now and quickly before there's no turning back. The last train departed.

Haines, was fairly normal in his appearance, with an English trench coat and tweedy suit. He had no face too handsome or clothes too glamorous. But it was easy to see he was from wealth of a sort, as his coat was on the more expensive side and his eyes showed he could draw his own fair share. Needless to say Stephen was not impressed with the curious, arrogant, unsympathetic and indifferent vibe he picked from seeing him approach. Mulligan shook Haines hand almost automatically followed by a smile with a gesture in his other hand to offer to take one of Haines's hand luggage’s, which Haines instinctively refused.

After the greeting, pleasantries and every other kind of tatty, cliché greeting that could be imagined. The three made their way to the cloak room to store up the bags.

-You sure? Asked Haines. That my bags will be safe until tomorrow?

-Of course. Said Buck. Why on earth would you think otherwise?

-Fear of the unknown.

-Everything of any real importance is unknown. Said Stephen.

-And what if something is known? asked Buck.

-It’s important too, when ever trying to build a belief. A wise man proportions his beliefs to the evidence. He quoted.

-Really? Haines chuckled.

-What's so funny about that? Intrigued Stephen.

-I didn't think you Irish trusted the views of the Scots?

-We are all human before we are our nation. Responded Mulligan, It's when war brews that anyone is ever really titled by their country of birth. The rest of the time, it doesn't matter.

-I can see I'll have long debates with you two.

-Better believe it. Smiled Mulligan, I may not contribute much to the work on the literature side of things. But you are assured that Stephen will place some keen insights into the conversation

.

-I trust, said Stephen. You know that Mulligan can be pathological in his lying and exaggerates immensely at times. I know from long experience he has plenty to say on any topic

.

-Shush! whispered Buck to Stephen, making no effort to be desecrate but in fact, trying to be obvious. Don't let him know that, I'm counting on you to entertain him while I'm not always in the room.

Queer? Mulligan feeling so concerned to keep this man entertained? He has always been one to be marry no matter what the situation may be. But never made the task of being jolly so serious as to count on dear Stephen like this. He after all had no trouble in being cheerful, it came naturally to him, just as it was natural for him to see the world with broken rose tinted glasses. There's something more to this meeting and visit than meets the eye, but Stephen did not look at this confession of Mulligan's too deeply, as he knew you can't always see the woods for the trees, any more than you can feel the sea from the Coast.

-Dinner and show? Asked Buck, With drinks to go with? I'm famished.

-A show for another time, if you don't mind. Said Haines. I don't think I have the mental strength to endure any Christopher Marlowe Faust and what not. You must give me time to gain my strength.

-Are you a fan of said Marlowe? Asked Stephen, Trying to find some commonality with this stranger.

-Oh yes, the man was sheer brilliance. As good a man as Shakespeare or Ben Johnson. Better in fact.

-Interesting you should compare him to Shakespeare? intrigued Dedalus. Why do you say so?

-Because I am of the opinion, The work of Shakespeare and Marlowe is one in the same.

-That's a very serious claim. Said Stephen. Why do you believe that?

-There exists no documentation evidence that Shakespeare wrote any of the plays, apart from a few scraps of parchment with his signature which were misspelt. As well as that, his last will and testament was written in a mundane and unpoetic language, making no mention to personal papers, books, poems which remained unpublished at the time of his death.

-You could say: him leaving his wife Hathaway their second best bed as being fairly poetic. Grinned Mulligan. As far as I'm concerned, a man's best bed should be entirely his own. I wouldn't let an Englishmen or women in my bed no matter how unlike the sun they are.

-Neither of those points. Said Stephen. Prove or necessarily suggest Shakespeare didn't write his work, you can't say you've never misspelt your name before. And any claim that Shakespeare was illiterate based on his upbringing or low social background is a tedious case against him, considering Marlowe and Johnson came from such similar backgrounds themselves.

Does it matter one way or the other, for it is not the man who carves in the stone on top of a mountain who will stands the force of time, but the stone itself. The words may weaken, the meanings may change by the generation that reads them. But it is the words that survive and it is the words we remember. Even if Homer, Socrates, Plato, Miletus, Pythagoras, Aristotle were never alive, what cannot be mistaken is somewhere, sometime, someone wrote them, and we are now still reading them.

Reaching the first pub on offer. The men were at their wits end, trying to establish what best root to take in deciding which drinking establishment to meet first. Mulligan was keen as always to try anywhere, so long as it provided: ale, good food and laughter and no morals what so ever. Stephen was a little less deceiving as his own criteria for what best constituted a place to drink was a place where one could hear one's own thoughts as well as the thoughts of his companions and Haines was merely interested in which location might best serve him an opportunity to find some maiden, jezebel or strumpet to pounce on. Out of all their desires only Buck seemed to have the most honest desires of them all. For he showed no Aires to what he wanted and, no one felt they could doubt his intentions as he phrased them in the worst possible way, that surely there existed no other alternative motive that he might be trying to hide. For all he wanted was to live and be happy, to be free from ordeals of tragedy which is life itself by embracing life to its full and mocking it all with itself. Stephen, while his motives were innocent and pure were not entirely his own. Of course he wanted to talk and think, especially with friends and to be honest with them as he wishes he could be with himself. But he partly wanted a drink to numb the pain he felt. This was not the same motivation as Buck to drink, as Mulligan wanted simply pleasure in everything even that which causes him pain, but Dedalus was motivated to entirely removing the pain instead of embracing it. A qwerk he almost envied in his cruel and loving friend, but one he had no confidence in possessing himself. Haines was the worst of the three as he showed no honesty but deception to his comrades of what he wanted. He wove a wool of deceit, claiming he wanted someone to love and be loved, but this did not reach the trustful nature of Stephen, and Buck didn't care either way.

After long and tedious deliberation, the group ventured to the Lion’s den, which was the sort of venue that harboured the likes of both young and old; artist and philistine; lover and hater. It was the place all were welcome, because it was a place where all who weren't welcome anywhere else, could come. Good profit, can be made with the popular who own the most, but great profit can be made by the unpopular who have little, but are large in number.

The three found a table with room left for four. Ordered their drinks; Ale, Cider, Irish whiskey and water.

Stephen took his drink to his lips, latching his eye on whatever moving thing came their way. They had not yet found a topic of which intrigued him deeply enough to take his full attention, and so he examined the patterns on the walls, the texture of the carpets and the ring marks on the tables. He was thinking; thinking of his mother, of his father, of his brothers and sisters and how they might seem him now. Wondering if they ever cared for him from time to time:

-Did they think I was dead? Have they wondered why I haven't spoken or written to them in so long, and question whether I still even existent?

This had again depressed him, and so dropped the thought and repaid attention to his comrades. He did not yet try to speak, he had not drunk enough to attempt such a feet. Not that he required a drink to engage in conversation, he could speak to his class with a dry whistle and not think of when or ever the next drink may arise again.

He however needed a drink in this occasion, as his mind currently stocked with thoughts which frustrated him greatly.

-Should I make an attempt to go by the chemist tomorrow? My stomach has continued to feel uneasy in the mornings, of course I feel much better by lunch. It can't be the food which troubles it; all I have is toast and tea - even if it's boiled from a saucepan. I don't feel it now, the pain or ill-feeling, but I know I shall feel it tomorrow. Drink, finish my drink and have another.

A dark little figure buzzed around the pub, circling the room with eyes that spread everywhere, see everything and everyone. He wiped his hairy hands every few seconds, waited for a bit and then flew off again, looking for another place to sit still for a bit and, then beep he’d went off again. As if his time was coming to a close and there was nothing left to do in his short time but to eat one last mean, rub his hands, watch strangers as they lived their lives and fly away to somewhere else, leave some infant to replace him when he's gone and do precisely the same thing as he had done his entire life. They would have no choice to do anything other than live the life their fathers and mothers had lived, because nature had already laid down what role they would play in life. Stephen pondered of this with great interest, and thought what difference there was between him and this hair black creature with red shot eyes? It was not as if he was much bigger in comparison to the whole of existence, as far as he could tell he was insignificant as this being he was now gazing at. Your born, you exist, you get out in the world, see the wonder and misery of it all, you die and the whole thing keeps carrying on, like a bad joke.

Haines left both Buck and Stephen to go to the Lavatory. Leaving them in complete trust over his Cider. Having this opportunity to speak in privacy, Buck turned to Stephen.

-So? He asked. What are your views of this Harry? Can you Tom? And me Dick? Allow such a Harry into our Tower?

-It won't make much difference how I feel, replied Stephen. This Harry has already been invited, it'd just be impertinent as to ask him to go.

-True, but even so, I'd like to know what you think of him.

-He disconcerts me a bit.

-He's English, that's what the English do best!

-And what do we do?

-We Irish don't put up with it. He chuckled.

-You'll want me to though, won't you? Stephen asked.

-In point of fact I do. Buck said, patting his friend on the shoulder. Just put on that face you had at your Mother’s funeral, it'd convince anyone that you care.

Stephen gently pushed his foe's hand away, brought his Ale to his lips and sipped it away.

-Is there no boundary to what you can say? Asked Stephen.

-Boundaries are what man put on himself, he is entirely to blame for how immoral he can be, and how high and mighty he chooses to look at himself.

-Do you place your boundaries quite high then?

-I place them where they need be, depending on the situation. Although I do have certain immovable boundaries, such as; never wearing clothes which are very unflattering! You have to stick to your principles, and try your best to allow others to break their own.

-Surely? Intrigued Stephen. If they are not strong enough to hold up the principles to the power of temptation, then as a friend it's your duty to help them stay pure.

-Oh damn that God of ours! He made the Devil so much stronger then a man. But no, I wouldn't say it is friendly, in fact I wouldn't even say it was decent to uphold someone else's principles to them. One of the beauties of having a principle is it belongs to no one else and it is what you uphold to yourself. For someone exterior to you to enforce it then removes a sense of it being something you impose upon yourself. And even if they are threatened by temptation, they still have will to avoid it and if not, then perhaps it is a principle they do not truly believe in. No, the only friendly thing to do, is to let them plummet to their misfortune and to try and not to grin at them while pulling them back up.

Better to ask for forgiveness then to receive it.

-You can on occasion be a thoroughly interesting person to converse with Mulligan.

-Thank you. Said Mulligan, I'd hate to think that most of the time people loved to hear me speak, I may not get away as often with saying something obscene if people were always tentative to what I was saying. But I'd never be ideal as the main character for a play.

-Why do you say that? Asked Stephen.

-Because I'm too thoroughly interesting.

-Ah? Said Stephen, trying to understand the logic of Mulligan.

-Iago for instance, was far more interesting then the main character Othello, said Buck. He was cunning like a snake, intelligent like a Doctor, and showed a darker passion to any the black moor had possessed. It was only in the climax that the protagonist gains our interests and we want to see how he ends. The main character for any story is simple at first, it is the events which unfold which reveal how complex he really is, and takes a thoroughly interesting villain or friend to drive him to be great. If you want to make a good story, have as a main character someone who's mysterious; has deep motives and secrets which distance him from the reader, and so make the reader all the more eager to hear what happens.

-What character then am I then? Asked Stephen.

-You may be the main character in some story or other. Said Mulligan, but you also have the capability to play as a wall for another to bounce off of.

-In this sense, Stephen said. You are my wall Buck. Pointing his finger between Mulligans eyes. You are the mirror that shows me for better or worst what I really am.

Know your place and be grateful.

Haines returned. Grabbing his drink and gulping whatever remained down his throat.

-That went down with a treat. Said Mulligan. And now Haines, It is your round, same as before?

-Very well, said Haines. Walking back to the bar to buy more drinks.

Buck drew out another cigarette, this one he decided to call Rupert something-or-other. The little black creature had returned again. Haines empty glass was still on the table. Stephen walked also to the bar, to help Haines with carrying the drinks, on returning they noticed Haines glass had been turned upside down on the table. Taking their seats, Haines took little Rupert from the ash tray, he then lifted the glass and blew smoke into it before shutting the little black creature inside. It twitched and wretched, suffocating from the poisonous atmosphere of Rupert

-Poor little Fly, said Mulligan. Welcome to the life of men.

-How does it compare? Asked Stephen in his head again.

The pub now had come to life. Women and Men, came and all gathered round the piano, listening to tunes being played. The sound of the Irish Music brought Stephen to memory lane, thinking of Simon and how well the man could sing a tune, and how widely the audience would cheer him on.

-Come on. Said Mulligan, Why don't you sing the ladies a song Stephen?

-No thank you, I'm fine.

-Oh you sing? Asked Haines.

-Like father like son, said Mulligan. Now stop being ridiculous and shy and well…You? and sing some song for the girls around.

-Such as what? Asked Stephen.

Buck whispered something in his ear.

-Seriously? Asked Stephen. Of all the songs you can imagine that's the one you'd have me sing?

-It always brings a smile to my face. I tell you what, I shall sing with you if you like?

This did not improve Stephen’s enthusiasm for singing the suggested song, but knew if he'd protest, Buck would simply insist on it even further. So after many a due, the pair stood on their seats, told the pianist their song and began to sing for the women in the room.

Don't get married girls

You'll sign away your life

You may start off as a woman

But you'll end up as the wife

You could be a vestal virgin

Take the veil and be a nun

But don't get married girls

For marriage isn't fun

The Song as you can imagine did not set easily with all, yet still Stephen continued on, knowing he was not alone, in condemning the idea of marriage.

Oh, its fine when you're romancing

And he plays the lover's part

You're the roses in his garden

You're the flame that warms his heart

And his love will last forever

And he'll promise you the moon

But just wait until you're wedded

Then he'll sing a different tune

….So don't get married girls

Men they're all the same

They just use you when they need you

You'd do better on the game

Be a call girl, be a stripper

Be a hostess, be a whore

But don't get married girls

For marriage is a bore

When he comes home in the evening

He can hardly spare a look

All he says is "What's for dinner?"

After all you're just the cook

But when he takes you to a party

Well, he eyes you with a frown

For you know you've got to look your best

You mustn't let him down

And he'll clutch you with that

"Look-what-I've-got" twinkle in his eyes

Like he's entered for a raffle

And he's won you for the prize

Ah, but when the party's over

You'll be slogging through the sludge

Half the time a decoration

And the other half a drudge

So don't get married

It'll drive you round the bend

It's the lane without a turning

It's the end without an end

Take a lover every Friday

Take up tennis, be a nurse

But don't get married girls

For marriage is a curse

Then you get him off to work

The mighty hunter is restored

And he leaves you there with nothing

But the dreams you can't afford

At the end of the song, everyone either booed or laughed at the song. Oddly how the women seemed to be the ones who did the cheering, while the men were the one’s doing most of the booing.

Marry-time for all returned when Stephen sat back down, and let the pianist choose the next song. After half an hour though, some girls had come to join them. One was called Hana, with dark wavy hair like the ocean on a cold, dark night. Her skin paradoxically was white and soft, with twilight like eye and lips like rose buds. She was like the beautiful side of death in a dress, with shape and form of a beautiful woman. Buck Mulligan had his eyes on her.

The other had ginger hair, shorter than the others, but still fairly long. She had more light to her skin, and while she was not as pretty as her friend Hana, she did have the kind of beauty found in innocence that so many Calvin priests insist on ruining by telling their student how much we are all filled with sin. Her name was Rebecca and she was eyed by Haines.

Stephen kept his eyes on Hana, she reminded him of a kind of mysticism discussed by F.C. Happold or numinous feeling discussed by Rudolph Otto. The kind of feeling experienced when one is faced by something they both fear and are excited by, and so want to learn more of, despite the grave sense of danger which seems to follow with.

The lassies smile laughing all the while

At my curious style, 'twould set your heart a-bubblin'

Asked me, was I hired wages I required

Till I was almost tired over the rocky road to Dublin'

One, two, three, four, five

Hunt the hare and turn her down the rocky roads

And all the way to Dublin', whack-fol-la-de-da

Stephen felt once again alone, longing for isolation from these people who surrounded him. He wanted to be unique, he wanted to stand out but also desired to be part of the greater picture and be understood by others for what he was.

-So? Asked Rebecca. Are you against Marriage or something?

-Personally? Said Stephen. No! I do however fail to see much point in it.

-Union with God, she replied.

-And who wants that? Asked Buck Mulligan. I thought first and foremost, one married to unite with the person they loved.

-That too, she said.

-Then why complicate matters by including God? Asked Haines? The reason being that it is God that made women for man and man for God, when one marries it is to demonstrate one’s appreciation to God for delivering such a thing to man’s life.

-And divorce, said Mulligan, is a gift man puts on himself to get away from God.

-And closer to Satan’s realm and all. Finished Haines.

This caused quite a bit of discussion among them, which lasted the best part of half-an-hour. The atmosphere, felt less of one normally produced in a pub or a party, and more of one which filled a lecture room or library. It was filled with discussion on serious matters, yet it did not feel like a serious conversations.

With each glass of alcohol filling the system, felt like air rushing to one's head from trying to stand too quickly. However, there is no pain which accompanies the dizziness, not till the morning, at least. After enough drinks though, one does not even feel drunk, because they have temporarily forgotten what it was like to be sober. Even so, you are aware that you are drunk, and so you do your best to hold your grace and try and remain in control. Little does one realise; to remain too much in control is a good indicator that one is drunk. One feels they can act freely because they have now placed responsibility of their actions on the fact that they are drunk, and so they feel no shame in being free.

A musician walks up to the table, asking if there was any room for one more. Buck Mulligan overjoyed by this request, invites the Musician with open arms regardless of either Stephen or Haines Opinion.

-I enjoyed the song you sang earlier by the way. The musician said to Stephen. You seem to hold a note very easily.

-Thank you. It wasn't by preferred song, but I was insisted to do it.

-It was a nice change, we all need a little vice from now and again. Like a sorbet to cleanse the palate between courses. But I can see you'd much rather be the main course.

-I had no idea, Said Buck. People in the music industry wanted to be eaten as well as to eat each other.

-Even so. Said Stephen, I don't much enjoy singing… I mean I enjoy it, but it is not something I go out of my way to do.

-There's still something creative you want to be first rate at, though. Isn't there? I know a fellow artist when I see one.

-Is art and music much a like? Asked Haines. Sounding fairly drunk by this point and constantly looking for opportunities to kiss Rebecca.

-Yes. Stephen replied, Any form of creativity falls within a category of Art, since Art is the product of anything which is self-expressionate and derives from an urge to make an impact with others.

- Indeed. Said Haines.

-But, how does one define something as pitifully useless as Art? Asked Mulligan, slurping his drink.

-I’d never say it was useless. Answered Stephen.

-Of course you would, responded Haines. I mean… what we consider to be useful is what benefits can be derived from it. Mathematics helps in every corner of life, food and drink keep us alive, what does art do? Nothing! Nothing but distract us from life.

-I love to be distracted. Said Mulligan. All day, people try to fill their days with thing to keep them occupied, all the time looking for whatever may distract them from the one thing we all must and will accomplish.

-And what is that? Asked the Musician.

- To die? For the only thing worth living for, is to die and the only thing worth dying for, is to live. So what better way to die, then to live knowing you are alive.

-Art! Stated Stephen, is not merely something to keep one self-occupied. It has a quality all to its own.

-Everything has a quality to its own. Said Mulligan, But now that we’ve agreed on what use Art is, what is the quality it has which makes it different from any other pleasure than eating, drinking, or fucking?

-Is it? Asked Haines, How J.S. Mill put it ‘Better to be Socrates dissatisfied than a Pig Satisfied?’ Because if it is, what confounded right has Mills to enforce his ambivalent sense of right and wrong on us?

-No. Said the Musician. I agree that Mills has no reason to assume reading the work Plato, or any other Greek writer is more worthwhile than making love. But Art is that which has come from being creative for no other reason than being creative, and in that case it is purer than say advertisement posters, which so constantly try to lure us to the newest fashions or better bargains, and why should one appreciate creativity? Perhaps because; it is just something which occupies us, as our good man has pointed out. Addressing Mulligan. Or because it is one of mans bravest attempts to immortalise himself, and say we existed. Scientists try this themselves, in their theories and experiments; they try to find the pure form of truth which will stand while we all crumble, art does the same only with creativity.

With that last note, the conversation ended. And the new one had the undertone of love-making. All but Mulligan and the Musician spoke freely of it, while everyone one else repressed all their views on the topic, but Stephen Dedalus did fancy speaking up upon the subject, but alas kept quiet. The Musician expressed the interesting point that no sexual orientation actually existed, that all of sexual prefaces come from the single instinct, and that partners one tends to copulate with are merely other sexual instinctive beings. It is only after you have slept with a good number, or been drawn to particular individuals of a certain sex that one falls into the trap of trying to label themselves as heterosexual or homosexual.

Buck Mulligan took this point further, saying he wouldn’t be surprised that the whole of the human race, attempt to constrain sexual impulses as a consequence of this labelling, that after so long of labelling what is sex, people now effortlessly try to withdraw themselves from actions which do not fit within this label.

-One of the saddest sights of life. Said the Musician, is how much man or women tries to constrain such a simple pleasure.

-Pleasure as you know, is anything but simple. Said Stephen, appearing very stern about this issue.

-Of course it is. Answered the Musician. It is only as complex as we make it, If I had my way, I would say one should be entirely free from guilt of what one feels. The only constraint one should worry, is constraining a desire to force one’s own pleasures onto others, which is why paedophilia is the most sickening state of mind, as no child is ready to embrace such pleasures.

Simon looked silent, and yet intrigued at this proposal.

-When any two entities collide; there is always collateral damage. Said Stephen, But I do believe your right, why should one feel guilt about what they are, the only guilt is what they may do that can hurt someone else.

-Are you some kind of sodermite! Said the voice of the Citizen behind them. You which speaks of labels and fornication as if God had no say in the matter? God says all on what he creates, and if he finds you saying such slurs he would not be best impressed

-Well? Said the Musician, Better him then some celibate Pope, whatever advice he may have of; how to fornicate, he shouldn’t!

-You revolting swine! Answered the Citizen, grabbing the Musician by the collar of the neck. I will murder thou and send ye to the pits of Hades, where no soul can hear your sinful tongue.

-You say I’m sinful? Then be a good little Christian and forgive me?

The citizen swung his fist against the Heroes face, so hard he fell on the table, only to be pulled back again and dragged from to the door. All walked outside to see what would occur next. The Musician refused to raise a hand but stood tall and defiant.

-If man is made in God’s image, then what ever fault of man is the fault of God. Said the Musician.

-Man is but a shadow of God, a weak copy made in his image, but not his being. We live on our knee’s praying that he may redeem and forgive us for being so less. Said the citizen.

-Do you see me on my knee’s?

The Citizen charged at the Musician, swinging his mighty fist into the other’s face. The Musician fell to the ground.

-I see you now on the ground. Recant what you have said, and allow God to forgive thee!

-I shall not ask for forgiveness from someone or something that puts sin into his design so that; he may be the one to forgive. The musician stood once more, with blood pouring from the nose, an eye turning violet purple and staggering to stand up straight. Galileo was tortured and asked to recant what he knew to be true, he yielded, feeling it was not worth his while. I am too stubborn I’m afraid to give in as he.

-Stubbornness is a sin! Said the citizen making another attempt at the musician’s life.

But as raised his fist again, Buck grabbed him by the arm and pushed to the wall.

-If God’s got any query, he may as well do it right himself, instead of sending angels in his place. He said.

While Mulligan threw the Citizen away, Stephen came to the musician’s aid, wiping away the blood with his sleeve and helping the fellow to stand.

-Are you alright?

-If you were in my position, would you dignify that question with any kind of response?

-I suppose not, sorry. Said Stephen, trying to hide his embarrassment. Would you care for any assistance then?

-No, I’ll be alright on my own.

-You should have fought back?

-Should I? Yes I probably should have. But I didn’t feel he was worth my time.

Regaining balance, and attempting to walk; the musician staggered down the alley, as if nothing had just occurred and made no request for aid.

The others seeing the musician was not vexed, made no offer to assist and so left the pub, feeling their welcome had been over stayed and so made their way to the Tower. The two girls, Rebecca and Hana, were insisted to join them, saying there would be no party if they did not accompany them. Stephen’s mood was as always unchanged and unmoved by the joining of these girls, which caught the notice of Haines; who was perplexed at this display, thinking whether there was anything at all which spurred or altered this man, or was he like the face of grandfather clock, who showed no other expression than a response to the change in time, through aging.

On the way to the tower, Mulligan insisted they first procure some bottles of wine from the bar. Five bottles in total were purchased, mostly none of which was paid with Mulligan’s own money.

Mulligan stayed close to Hana, while Haines intern tried to stay close to Rebecca, who shivered from the cold, not so much from the bitter wind, but from the constant companionship of Haines. Stephen walked alone, never complaining the bitter winds which seemed to have followed with the sight of darkness. In his mind, Stephen felt exhausted from the discussions being told in the pub and was desperate to retreat into the tower, but as the building he resided in came closer and closer into sight; Stephen lost the sense of comfort and salvation he had hoped to meet with his home. Instead, he was filled with the sense of fear and trepidation, like a premonition of some darker event was about to occur.

He then turned back, thinking for a brief moment, that the dark shadows of the streets of Dublin, had some seclusion far more appealing to the Tower, which seemed blacker then the dark. He wanted to escape from the spectacle of the Tower, to take his chances with whatever hurdle this great city had to offer and endure whatever challenge may be open to him. Before even having a chance to change his mind, Mulligan pulled Stephen by the collar, telling him there is no other place to go; there is only their home laid before them. Knowing what he said was perfectly true, Stephen continued on with them, but could not escape the angst that this wasn’t what they were meant to do.

In Dublin' next arrived, I thought it such a pity

To be so soon deprived a view of that fine city

Then I took the stroll all among the quality

Bundle it was stolen in that neat locality

Smething crossed me mind when I looked behind

No bundle could I find upon me stick a wobblin'

Crying after the rogue, they said me Connaught brogue

It wasn't much in vogue on the rocky road to Dublin'

One, two, three, four, five

Hunt the hare and turn her down the rocky road

And all the way to Dublin', whack-fol-la-de-da

The door was opened, the lights were turned on, and the dwellers came in. As they entered, Haines overcame to the sight of two Egon Schiele paintings on the wall. One depicted a women on the floor, with her legs spread out and her skin as pale as a ghost; the other was a portrait of the artist as a young man. He was naked, and his body appeared distorted and was almost shaped like a penis; erect and stiff with a bright orange skin. They both repulsed the Haines to the pit of his stomach, but the women in a way – while she was portrayed as a very ugly looking women, was erotic and arousing to Haines’ sight.

-Interesting pieces? Said Rebecca; trying to sound as modest as possible.

-Thank you. Said Stephen, seeing a glimpse of dishonesty in her compliment. I picked them up when I was travelling through Germany.

They climbed the spiral stair case to the living room level. Where an arm chair sat with two three-seat settees sat facing each other on opposite walls. On the walls were more paintings hammered to the wall, but these were not like Stephen’s Schiele paintings from downstairs. They had almost not reference to reality, and appeared more like splatters of colour and shape on the canvas. Mulligan took possession of the arm chair, pulling it closer to the settee Hana chose to sit on. Stephen chose not to seat on either of the more comfortable chairs and instead picked out a wooden chair from the side, placing the back of the chair to his chest with his legs in between, he then crossed his arms over the back of the chair and rested his head on top.

-Kinch? Said Mulligan. Don’t be so inhospitable and not other our guests drinks.

Stephen rose, taking glasses, mugs or whatever containers he could find, handing them each out and then opening a bottle of wine and pouring it out.

-So what do you do Mr Dedalus? Asked Rebecca, other than sing songs recommending women to remain spinsters?

-I’m an English teacher at the local school.

-Oh and how do you find that line of work?

A cold shiver ran up Stephen’s spine as he attempted to recount and explain his daily work experiences in trying to get students to understand the basis of literature.

-Oh I don’t go asking the man to give a lesson, he’s already been forced to endure enough of that in a class room. Said Mulligan, attempting to relieve Stephen of the need to explain himself.

-I’m so sorry. She apologised, appearing most innocent and sincere of her recent folly.

-Not at all. Said Stephen. Just as the world is an actor’s stage, my class room knows no boundaries. I find my work has its own rewards; I’m able to speak as passionately about topics I adore the most, I do however wonder if I manage to get my points across to the students in such a way which amounts for nothing other than a corporate job.

-How do you mean? Asked Haines?

-The way my pupils look to me as I stand in the front of the close room, show they have no respect for either myself of the lesson I try to give. On bad days I spend most of my time, not actually teaching but continuously insisting that they shut the hell up and allow me to speak and give them their assignments.

-So why do you continue? Asked Hana, in a tone which was intrigued but not at sympathetic.

-Just as a priest who loses his faith has been trained to do nothing else but pray, I am equipped for nothing but Literature and art.

-Then perhaps you should try and get a better teaching position. Recommended Rebecca.

-I would want nothing better, but I’m under contract for the rest of the year which I cannot break.

-Then instead of teaching literature, you should perhaps try and make some? Rebecca added.

Haines sipped his drink, and tapped his feet in annoyance at hearing Stephen’s speech. As a matter of fact Stephen had been working on such projects for many months now. He had a book of poems he was perfecting, a collection of short stories and his most ambitious of all, a novel. The novel was the hardest of all projects as it required almost all of Stephen’s mind and muscle to work on. He found he could only work at night, as mornings were an almost complete impossibility. For in order to write something generally inspiring, what needed thoughts and ideas to grow and expand through the out course of the day, the mornings were too exhausting for such efforts as he was never awake enough to think, but late at night he was wide awake with ideas, plots and twists. This most probably is what caused Stephen Dedalus to develop insomnia, r perhaps it was not the need to form idea which kept him alert and awake at night, but the horror of nightmares that stopped him from sleeping at night.

-Are you much of a lover of paintings Mr Haines? Asked Rebecca in an attempt to draw his attention from the annoying tapping of his foot.

-A great deal, depending on the art work itself. I for instance don’t care much for the pieces in this room. They look like nothing but splatters of paint.

-My dear Haines, grinned Buck. What else can a painting be, other than a canvas splattered with paint? How it’s splattered may be questioned but other than that you surely have no complaint to the pieces I’ve collected.

-So what are they meant to be? Why do you have them?

- Gives you something to look at.

- Hmm? How queer, what do they all mean?

- Nothing.

- Nothing? I always thought an artist had some message to tell otherwise he'd stick to painting walls or mending shoes?

- Well, not always. There are many examples in nature which while being very in requite have no such ultimate function. These are examples of such designs while complex, are completely without purpose.

- Isn't all art? Asked Haines, returning to the discussion before.

-No, as you said, most artists have some message to tell.

- Uhh? So why are these here at all if the designer had no intention or purpose for them?

- There are some beauties in life … or death as it were, where one feels obliged to protect what one sees as worthwhile to do so. My Auntie felt so when she gave me these piece. But these are not just a collection… You could say, they are a reflection.

- I thought you said the artist had no purpose for them, no meaning?

- Yes, the artist presents nothing, leaving only whatever the viewer chooses to see into it, like an ink blot. It is that genre of art called.... abstract art, I believe? The viewer sees a reflection of what's most important to them in their own perspective.

- Like a mirror?

- …A mirror of the viewers mind. They all face a painting on the wall. Tell me, what do you see, Or more importantly what do you feel?

- I don't know… tired? …. Fear?

- What of?

- Something… hidden?

Haines looksed to Stephen, thinking there is something under the skin of this very ungentlemenly man.

- Fear of what's not in the paint? An interesting place to start. Do you know why my Auntie collects these, because too many pieces project onto the viewer, showing them a story of their own. It's quite unusual to find a work of art where the viewer breaths their own story into the masterpiece, rather than the masterpiece breathing a story into the viewer. Like God giving a soul to his Adam, makes one feel quite powerful and yet quite weak and helpless, don't you find?

-I don’t know what to think? Said Haines, sipping the rest of drink and looking to Stephen to refill it for him.

-What do you think of my paintings Haines? Stephen Asked.

-I think their repulsive. What possible quality did you see in these disturbing... things?!

-You can see a great deal of emotions of the artist in them. Take the self portrait for instance. They depict him in as you say; a disturbing and unpleasant state of his own flesh and skin. Reflecting I think of the artists discomfort and self-consciousness of his own fragile body, he looks as if he’s made from fragile materials which in point of fact he is. But what I really like is the fact that despite this self-consciousness; the artist has still chosen to take it upon himself, in allowing anyone who looks at this painting how fragile his body is.

-I think he looks rather handsome. Said Hana, intruding into the conversation. I think the shape of his body, while I admit looks quite uncomfortable, portrays him in a strong form.

-He looks like a dick to me. Said Mulligan.

-Shows what’s on your mind then Mulligan. Said Haines, Do you envy him at all?

-Very, said Mulligan. The man embraces his discomfort, he recognises what he is and uses it as a defence to others, showing that he has no shame in what he is.

-What of the women? Asked Haines. What quality does she have, other than looking like a no good scrubber?

-Well it’s obvious, isn’t it? Said Stephen.

-She isn’t strictly speaking beautiful in the traditional sense, but she sits in a pose which appears most arousing to any lustful man. Reflecting how many men fanaticise about women, but also the ugliness they’re guilty consciences feel towards seeing women in such an objective way.

-I thought she still looked very beautiful, said Hana. I think she like the artist, is showing her deep emotions that would otherwise be hidden.

-Which is? Asked Rebecca, feeling most of this conversation was going over her head.

-Well? That Women like sex Rebecca, that the desire for pleasure belong not only to men but women also.

-Don’t you find this image  a disgusting depiction of women? Asked Haines.

-Not personally. If it’s meant to show how men fanaticise about women, that’s their business, there still human. And if it’s as I said; a simple want of women to have fun, then what’s disgusting about that?

-Nothing! Grinned Mulligan, standing to his feet. Drinks now, drinks for all.

The wine was shared again, each person having glasses filled. Stephen had given in now to all attempts he originally set himself to reframe from all stimulants and felt the wooziness he expected from the booze.

-All this so called appreciation is perverted. Said Haines, No matter how you may try to cover it up with your impressive theories, you artists all are a bunch of sex maniacs.

-At least they can take the hint when a girl’s not interested in them. Said Stephen, looking to Rebecca with Haines arm around her neck.

Stephen then gulped down his glass, walked over to the wine and gulped two more glasses full down in under ten seconds. All the while, Haines looked to him with a distain that Judas must have felt for Christ. Stephen now looking wobberly; then made his way to his room, almost losing his step and falling to his side. Closing the door behind him, and pulling the cover off his bed, Stephen felt a tremendous weight upon his shoulders which he knew would pull to his grave he wasn’t careful. As he was about to pull off his shirt, an intruder had entered, it was Haines, who stood with his back to the door, twisting the key, there by locking it.

-I think Buck has set up a bed for you downstairs or something. Said Stephen, his eyes feeling weak from the strain of his sleepiness.

-I’m not sleepy yet.

-Well I’m afraid I am, why don’t you go back to Buck and Rebecca?

-She already left.

-I wonder why?

-You scared her off with all you talk of those wretched paintings of yours.

-I think you wore her off yourself with how strongly you were coming on to her. Try any harder and you might have been close to raping her.

Stephen could see how desperately Haines was trying to hold himself, suppressing the hatred inside of him. He wondered over to Stephen’s sink; fiddling and  moving his finger over the various bottle and pills he had in his cabinet.

-What on earth do you want? Asked Stephen, undoing his belt, clenching it with his right fist.

-You’re a stinking bugger Dedalus! A warped cretin, I could tell the moment I saw you. The way you held yourself and spoke. Always withholding something, and talking such crap about liberation and refusing to repress anything. You’re a bloody hypocrite!

-I didn’t much like the sight of you either, I knew something lurked beneath you.

Haines turned around now, holding Stephen razor blade in his hands.

-I came for obvious reasons. He said

-You planning to kill me then? Said Stephen, telling himself none of this was serious, but knowing full well it all was.

-What if I did? Would you stop me?

-I was planning to kill you as a matter of fact. Said Stephen.

The two stood there, facing one another for the moment, anticipating which would be the first to strike or even if either of them was going to strike at all.

-Shall we then? Said Dedalus

-Oh yes. Said Haines with sinister eagerness in his lips.

Haines charged at Stephen, holding the blade firmly in his hand. In a swift movement, Stephen swung his belt across Haines’ face, leaving a cut; which Haines first examined before making another attempt to stab Stephen. He dodged Stephen’s second strike this time and cut him deeply upon the wrist. He then made an attempt for his chest but missed. Stephen then swung the belt round Haines arm, pulling it towards him and then grabbing Haines’ other arm which was holding the blade. Haines at once made an effort to stab Stephen but the pain from the belt strap around his arm was too much for him to not drop the blade and get Stephen off him. The Blade fell into the corner of the room and the two then tackled one another to Stephens desk. Haines was on top of Stephen, in a good enough position to strangle him. Stephen grabbed the closest thing available ( a pen knife) and stabbed it into Haines leg. Stephen released himself and made an effort to pick out his stone but only to discover the hole in his pocket, he then leaped for the blade only to have Haines grab him by the shirt and pull him to the floor on the other side of the room. Haines then made a grab for the razor, but fell from the pain in his leg, falling to the ground. Stephen immediately leapt onto Haines; grabbing him by the neck and strangling Haines with his own tie. Haines become breathless and gasped for air, but Stephen did not kill him. He got up and picked up a large bust of Pallas, staggered to Haines – who was crawling on all fours, with the intent to bash his brains out. He raised the stone with both hands and would have thrown it down with all his might, had he not then woken from this nightmare like dream and fallen from his bed.

How could Stephen even dream of murdering another human being so brutally and with such malice, waking from this horrible state he staggered to his sink. Finding his razor still present and his belt still around his waist. He splashed water on his face and stared at the reflection in his mirror. He thought he looked wretched as ever when looking at this figure on his wall. His eyes looked red and puffy, his chin and cheeks showed grey stubble, but he could not find the energy or effort to now shave it. He should have shaved like Mulligan, before they went out. Looking at his watch, Stephen discovered he’d only been sleeping for twenty minutes, and feeling that he could not stomach another nightmare like the one before, walked back to rejoin the others if they weren’t already gone.

Hana and Mulligan were the only two who remained in the room, only this time they sat side by side on the edge of one of the settees.

-Ahh? Kinch? Where have you been?

-I was just feeling a bit knackered, and so I went to lie down for the moment. Have I missed much?

-Not especially. Haines and Rebecca excused themselves just have you left. I thing they may be in my room just at the moment. Which might mean I’ll be sleeping on the sofa tonight?

-Ph pity? What are they doing? Stephen asked, having all too well good ideas of what they may be up to

-Looking at the stars and counting how many are on Orion’s belt. I imagine.

-Does that normally take twenty minutes?

-Oh, well I hear it can take hours if you do it right. Frankly I’m surprised Haines managed to get passed the first two minutes.

Stephen signed with distain, saying merely the world charming. He then planted himself in his chair picking up the closest glass to his side.

-Did you have any pleasant dreams? Asked Hana?

-Not especially.

-What were you dreaming about?

-Murder, or suicide?

-What? How did you confuse the two?

-The people decided they were ready to die.

-Ahh! Said Mulligan excitedly. Just the kind of dream for you.

-How do you mean? Asked Dedalus.

-Was it your mother who died in the dream? Asked Mulligan?

-I only said there was a murder, I wasn’t asleep long enough to find out if the person died or not. And no it wasn’t my mother.

-Why would it be? Asked Hana?

-Are dear Dedalus killed his mother.... or at the very least finished her off. She called him to her side on her death bed, begging him to pray for her and he refused. Did she abuse you as a child Stephen or did she treat you with such indifference that you didn’t care whether she died and went to Heaven or Hell.

-I didn’t murder her. Stephen replied, with a tinkle of anxiety in his voice. And no, she was a very caring mother.

-Then why did you refuse to pray for her? Asked Hana.

-I have no idea why he did, answered Mulligan to question which wasn’t directed towards him. He  must be quite heartless to allow the old bag to die on a broken heart. How much guilt did you feel when she lay their dead?

Stephen looked sternly at the pair, not tearing his gaze or shifting the expression on his face.

-No. I didn’t kill her, she’d be dead even if I did pray for her.

-Well that’s fantastic then, said Mulligan smiling.

-Did you meet anyone tonight? Asked Hana, directing her question to Stephen.

-No. He replied. I sadly didn’t, must have been that song I was forced to sing which lured them away.

-No not true at all, said Mulligan. We had quite a number of girls cheering us on when we sang that tune, and there was the musician who came over. Royal they enjoyed it.

-The person was absurd in some regards, didn’t even put up their fists to the fight of the Cyclops that threatened to take the royal theirs life.

-I wish we could have stayed long enough to listen to the musician play, I imagine that free spirit could have produced such beautiful music. But it’s no surprise that is all that you attracted tonight.

-What do you mean? Asked the slightly distressed Stephen.

-You have the most withdrawn personality I know, always acting as if something’s wrong with yourself, and I think there might be something thoroughly interesting if only you were to let it out and about. Girls like men with personality; you can’t get on in this world on poems alone in this world.

-You saying there’s something wrong with my poetry.

-Yes I do as a matter of fact. Said Mulligan, picking out a piece of paper from his pocket.

-Do you mean to say you’ve had my poem all along? Erupted Stephen. You have no right what so ever to withhold that from me, it is a very ungentlemenly thing to steal a poem from its own author.

-Well that’s perfectly absurd, for as soon as an idea leaves one’s mind, it is no longer the sole possession of its creator; it becomes the property of all who read it, to do with it what they please.

Mulligan looked at the page reading it out aloud.

-Burning cortex of the artist’s mind? What sort of title for a poem is that?

-Well you must read the poem in order to understand.

-Oh must you? Look at this: I plant the seeds of my joyful eye, only to find that what grows are dead roses with thorns like horns.... Well?

-Well what? Asked Stephen, clueless to what was Mulligan’s complaint.

-Well it’s all balls?!

-Balls?.... asked Stephen in perplexity. Balls in what sense?

-Balls in the sense of why the fuck did you choose to say it? And look at this: the staggered waters of my mind; contain no filter to clean the cocaine from my stream.... Now tell me Stephen, when did you start taking drugs, if you like we can take you to a centre and get you the help you require.

-I don’t take drugs, you berk! It’s a metaphor for the junk which swerves inside my mind. Can’t be helped, if I lived with a normal person I might live with less crap in my life.

-What rank stanching impertinence. What to expect next? Oh oh... look at this now: my body is like a wretched cage that disgusts me in my sleep, with pale skin, sweat field pits of green snot...? Now I know your being completely fraudulent with that regard, you wash every day, why does your body disgust you, it looks perfectly alright to me. Why can’t you write about meadows or something?

-I can’t think of what to say about a meadow?

-What do you think God gave you your imagination for? Honestly.

The three sat in silence for a minute or so, till Buck laughed in mad hysteria.

-I due apologise little Kinch, this poem is like the ill attempt of a fifteen year old boy, but it is no bad verse or imagery.

Stephen sank in his chair, holding a faint smile to hold up an amused appearance. He knew very well why Mulligan read out his poem, it was not because he disliked it, in fact he was much of the inspiration for most of it. He read it out to humiliate Stephen in front of Hana, in order to improve his own standing with the girl by his side.

Stephen now felt a great discomfort in the pit of his stomach and so ventured to the toilet to resolve whatever war was occurring in his body. Sweat was forming through the very jacket on his back, he felt ill as a fish; as wretched as a bone yard and as grave as his mother. He crossed over to the Karzy, but was unable to flush it. As the pipes were broken again. What was to become of two men – now three, sharing rooms with water, water everywhere and not a drop to flush the bog. In a split second, he grabbed whatever bleach there was, sqwerting it into the hole, if only to eliminate the odour. He felt iller then before, from the very smell of the room, and so made an escape. On his way out, he bumped into Mulligan, who wanted to come in after him. Warned by the state of the bathroom, Mulligan grabbed a bucket and headed for the sea in order to fill the systin and flush away whatever remained, leaving Stephen and Hana alone for the first time.

-Are you enjoying yourself? Asked Stephen?

-Yes, thank you. She answered. I do hope you weren’t too discouraged by Buck.

-Not at all. I should be use to the man’s absurd use of the word absurdity.

-He is however, quite amusing.

-He tries to be; helps to cover up his cruelty. If you want to tell someone the truth, make them laugh first, it’s the only way to survive, that’s most probably the reason my father can’t stand him.

-Then I promise to amuse you when I want to tell you something serious.

-And I you. Said Stephen, taking one of Mulligan’s Richard’s and smoking it. Did you mean what you said about those paintings of mine?

-I did, so what are you self conscious about?

-How do you mean?

-People are drawn to art that they may be able to relate to. So, what relation do you share with Egon Schiele?

-I think I’ve already explained myself pretty well this evening. What of you, if you liked the piece your self? He said, sulking his head.

-I’m pretty sure, I’ve explained myself fully enough. I just want to have fun.

-But why? Why are you so eager to have fun, and gallivant with Mulligan and so forth.

-Mulligan is a good example of someone who understands the horror of the world. But he doesn’t let him down. In fact, if anything he defends himself against the world, by embrassing the cynical nature of it and laughing at it. I want to have fun, because I’m optimistic that I can have fun, and I think to enjoy oneself and understand one self through pleasure is a better alternative to trying to understand one’s self through pain.

Stephen listened with intent, adapting what she was trying to say to himself, and seeing the misery he felt inside of him and why he chose to put up with it.

-I don’t want to be, but I am ashamed of myself. I feel I’m ill in some way, and I know I show no desire to be well or to heal myself.

-I think we all feel that way in some degree, I don’t imagine it’s worth your time always questioning whether your good or not.

-I’m under a never ending strain, which follows me around like a black dog. I can’t get away from feeling sorry for myself, because there is so little which gives me an excuse to leave this constant misery.

-Your excuse can be that it makes you miserable. What better excuse do you need other than that. Or do you feel less like there is no excuse and no reason why you don’t deserve to be miserable? Or even worst, that if you remain miserable, and make no effort to be happy, then you avoid the dismay of failing to be happy.

-Your saying I’m trying to be unhappy and alone, to keep myself from the risk of being unhappy and alone?

A rattling sound came from the chimney, as Stephen walked over to investigate, Hana took a white sheet, handing it over to him to keep the floor clean from soot. Dedalus rattled the inside of the chimney pipe with a poker, trying to see what had become stuck inside; laying the sheet under the fire place, Stephen got his hand deeper into the chimney pulling out the head of a cat.

-Ah God! Shouted Stephen at the surprise of the feline. Nasty way to go, suffocating in a chimney pipe.

Stephen made an attempt to pull the rest of the black sooted corpse from the chimney, hearing a scream behind him:

-You’re not taking it out are you?

-I’m, not leaving it in there am I? I think it’s pretty safe to say, he thought to himself. We won’t be having this stray sniffing round here anytime soon. Feeling he could stand no more of the room. Stephen stood erect and made his way for the door with the dead cat wrapped in the now black covered sheet. Apologising for any revolting spectacle and hoping it would not upset her too much to want to go home straight away.

As he made his exeunt from the tower, feeling the dread this building placed on him, could only be relieved in one way. Up with this I shall no longer put he said.

In the distance he spotted Mulligan on his way back from the sea, Stephen leaned against the wall of the tower.

-Ah Stephen, why are out then?

-I needed some air. The sea called to me and wanted to smell the freshness of the sea. Oh and I found a dead cat in the chimney.

-I see? It must have been looking for the dead sparrow in the chimney? Is Hana still inside?

-Yes, we were having a pleasant enough discussion, but I needed to get out for the moment, she’s just waiting for you now.

-Do you want her? Buck Mulligan asked putting the bucket on the ground and getting out another cigarette.

-Really?... Your asking me that?

-If you do, go up and take her. I don’t mind.

-No.

-Ah? He said as if coming to some epiphany. It was the Rebecca girl you wanted? Well I think Haines is all but finished with her. I believe I heard her scream at some point while you were asleep.

-Enough please Mulligan; I’m really not in the mood.

-Will you be coming back to the tower tonight?

-I’m not sure I want to. Stephen signed

-Then may I have your bed for the night? Mine has an Englishmen and Irishwomen in it.

Stephen shook his head side to side, giving up all care for whatever Buck was now saying.

-Do as you wish, I couldn’t care less.

-Brilliant, I’ll see you in the morning at breakfast. I’ll make the Coffee.

As Mulligan ran for the Tower door, with the bucket of sea water in his hand. Stephen spoke under his breath:

-Not unless I see you first, you poor jolly man.

Stephen then changed from his straight up position to one of sitting or crouching. His back to the wall, his legs bent and tucked together with his arms, in the star light he looked like a foetus in his mother’s womb. He was contemplating the sea, thinking how icy cold it must have been. Just at that moment, Mulligan tossed from the window of Stephen’s room the little stone he had kept in his pocket for so long. The pebble hit Stephen on the head, wondering what hit him, he scrambled for the stone, finding it, and realising he had infact lost it and it had returned to him; a thought came into his mind, and with that note, he stood to his feet, placed the stone in his pocket and made his way to the sea’s shore.

He first just stood looking at the waves and the motion of the water, but this was interrupted as he fell knee’s first onto the stony ground. He then dug his hands into the earth pulling out pebble’s, stuffing his pockets full of them. He now felt ready to go for a swim. He kept his shoes on and walked slowly into the black water.

From there I got away, me spirits never failing

Landed on the quay, just as the ship was sailing

The Captain at me roared, said that no room had he

Then I jumped aboard a cabin found for paddy

Down among the pigs, did some hearty rigs

Played some hearty jigs, the water 'round me bubblin'

When off to holly head wished myself was dead

Or better far instead on the rocky road to Dublin'

One, two, three four, five

Hunt the hare and turn her down the rocky road

And all the way to Dublin', whack-fol-la-de-da

-Waite, shouted a voice from beyond

It was the stray Stephen and Buck were discussing before. The girl who’d come to the tower on cold evenings, in the hope of being given access for the night, leaving hair all over Stephen’s jacket and drinking half the milk they kept in their home. She was timid and gentle, with a face like a cherub and  hair golden like the sun. She wore a cream coloured coat, red stockings and black boots and a red flat hat. She was horrified at the sight of Stephen, thinking him mad for standing in the water.

-Hello, said Stephen, taking one step out of the water. Nice night.

-Yes. Come here. You need to dry and warm your feet off.

Stephen looked down to his feet, they did feel quite wet and cold by now. And so he came out and walked beside her.

-I can’t go home tonight. I just can’t. He said. I’m sure Mulligan would let you in if you wanted a place for the night.

-I have a place for the night, and if you think I’m leaving you alone to night after a stunt like that, your very much mistaken. Putting out her hand to take Stephens.

A smile curled upon Stephens lips, with a tear in the corner of his eye. Taking her hand, they walked off into the streets of Dublin. After all the visits this young girl had made to his home, not once did he ever wonder what kind of home she had of her own. He did not even know her name, and felt as if by this point the only polite thing would be to pretend that he already knew it.

When they reached her home, it was but a small flat on the fourth floor in a building with no lights in the hall.

-Not much I know. She said, opening the door, taking off her coat and putting on the gas stove and kettle.

-Could be worst, it could have been on the top floor. He answered with a larger smile on his face, taking off his jacket, socks and shoes.

-Come here. She said, filling a basin with hot water and getting a chair.

She place the chair in the centre of the room, with the water on the floor in front. Stephen assumed the rest and took a seat, dunking his feet slowly in the hot (but not boiling water). He then removed his tie and asked if a cup of tea was out of the question.

Seeing his smile, she made no reply but smiled as well and pour him a cup of Earl Grey.

-Thank you for taking me in. He said, sipping the tea while warming his hands with the heat of mug.

-Not at all. You and your friend have done it well enough times for me, it is only fair and decent to help a soul in need of a friend. She poured herself a cup and pulled off her hat, showing the glossiness of her long curly blonde hair. I think I read a poem of yours in the local papers.

-Oh? Said Stephen, he had completely forgotten that he had a poem published.

-I loved it, it was very beautiful, but very sad. Umm? She said. Looking to her toes, sounding a little shy. I should tell you, I only have one bed, and no sofa. So we’ll need to share I’m afraid.

-Okay. He smiled.

They didn’t speak much for half an hour till they decided they were both very tired and went to her room. There, Stephen removed his waist coat and trousers but kept his shirt on. She walked into the bathroom and put on her knighting gown and climbed into bed, inviting him in. He slept on the edge of the bed, facing the wall, but instead of sleeping on her own end, the girl stayed close to him, her stomach against his chest, she then put her arm over his neck. He didn’t push it away, but tried to avoid holding it, till eventually he kissed her fingers, saying good night.

-I’m sorry for being a burden. He said half asleep.

-Not at all. But may I ask? Why were you walking in the sea so late at night.

Stephen looked back, not answering and turning back to his side. The two fell asleep, but in his dreams, Stephen felt no pain. But thought that maybe he’s not meant to suffer, that perhaps he wasn’t a sinner and that the world was not split from good and bad people; that he was a person who has had hard times, but that everything was just as it was and the mere fact he was sad, was no reason to expect he couldn’t now be happy.

Morning broke and he made his way back to the Tower, leaving a note while the girl slept, that he was very grateful for her saving him from making a serious mistake. As he walked the rocky road home, seeing the tower in the distance, the black surface of the walls seemed to now turned grey. The sky looked like a brilliant red as the sun was rising over the horizon, and the sea showed sparks of golden light on the surface.

Stephen entered. Mulligan saw him from the stairs, telling him of how he saw him from his bedroom window last night, walking into the sea.

-What did you think you were doing last night?

-Just being a bit silly is all. I’m fine now, the stray let me stay at hers last night. She caught me in the sea.

-I expected as much. I ran outside as soon as I saw you with stones in your pocket. He said, as Stephen realised he still had them, emptying them onto the kitchen table. I ran out trying to find you, by the time I got outside, you were gone and your tracks showed you were walking away from the ocean.

-I only walked into the water to get a better view of the ships as they were passing by.

-If you walked much further, you’d have a view of them from above. Mulligan giggled.

Stephen shared the humorous moment, saying:

-You should try it sometime Buck, there’s no sight like it.

-No doubt I will. Come on now, let’s have some breakfast. It’s a new day and I am sure we will have some wonderful things to eat and some brilliant tragic tales to gossip about.

-Mulligan? Said Stephen gaily.

-Yes? He asked?

-Shut up and put on the kettle. Stephen said, putting his jacket on the back of the chair. The Tower is not yours alone yet, and you owe me a cup of coffee.

-Good answer, said his comrade, putting their new Kettle on the stove and getting five mugs out.

Stephen Dedalus drank his coffee, feeling no longer the ache in his stomach or thought the distressing notion of his mother. But he felt the pain would soon return, but not knowing when that might be, he buried his worries; thinking if the time ever came to deal with them, he would face them head on, and try to avoid going back into the sea.

The boys of Liverpool, when we safely landed

Called myself a fool, I could no longer stand it

Blood began to boil, temper I was losing

Poor Old Erin's Isle they began abusing

“Hooray me soul”, says I, let the Shillelagh fly

Some Galway boys were by and saw I was a hobble in

With a loud hurray, they joined me in the affray

Quickly cleared the way on the rocky road to Dublin'

One, two, three four, five

Hunt the hare and turn her down the rocky road

And all the way to Dublin', whack-fol-la-de-da