What is the Roman Republic Essay Example | Topics and Well Written Essays - 750 words

What is the Roman Republic - Essay Example This class of people controlled nearly all religious offices plus issued partum auctoritas (final assent) to some of the decisions passed by the Roman assemblies. The rich had more influence on politics at that time. However, in staying in a Roman Republic and still subjected to injustice just like the eras of Kings, the poorer Roman citizens were not happy with how the current government became ran. Due to unfair distribution of land and debts, the plebians (poorer Roman citizens) became prompted to form their own assemblies and withdraw from certain city-states. The plebians principal demands remained debt relief plus equitable distribution of conquered territory to Roman citizens. In 287 B.C., wealthier, land rich plebians managed to achieve political equality to the patricians with the Conflict of orders in place. Hence, there was a rebirth of the political system consisting of plebians and patricians, a power-sharing partnership which remained up to the late 1st century B.C. The Republic had a government running it. The government had three main parts: The consuls, the assemblies and the senate. Rome managed to grow and become a metroplolis consisting of a capital city and vast conquered territory. Roman Republic had provinciae (administered territories) outside Italy like Spain, Sicily, Sardinia, and many others. As the new government acquired more wealth, so did the Roman citizens benefit. The Republic had a strong Army in place responsible for winning many battles and acquiring new territories. With Roman soldiers winning more battles and getting rewarded more, they became more loyal to their generals than the state. During the same period, Rome became increasingly plagued by many slave uprisings since they were the majority and covered most lands. Between 135-71B.C., there were 3 ‘servile wars’ that involved slaves against the Roman state. The worst of them was the third and was under the command of Spartacus, a gladiator. Furthermore, in 91 BC, social war broke out over dissent between Rome and Italy. Italy often contributed men in Rome’s military campaigns but received no rewards for their help contributed to the social wars. This led to them breaking away from Rome and becoming independent. Romans started also to wage wars with their previous allies too, like Jugurtha. In 111BC to 104 BC, the Jugurthine war became fought between Jugurtha of North Africa and Rome. Jugurtha became finally captured through treachery instead of a battle. In addition, we also had the wars between the Romans and the Carthaginians. The second Punic war involved Hannibal, a Carthaginian that attacked Rome. This had much impact on the Romans since they could not defeat Hannibal for 15 years. The Rome mastered and improved their military warfare after endless attempts in fighting with the great commander. It became the tactful help of a Roman, Scipio Africanus, that attackeds Carthege capital leading to the defeat of Hannibal in the battle of Zama. Internal unrest reached its peak as evidenced by two civil wars caused by Lucius Cornelius Sulla, a consul in the beginning of 82 BC. The Roman army led by Sulla overthrew the Republic and paved way to the founding of the Roman Empire. The new wealth generated social break down and led to political turmoil, which eventually led to collapse of the Republic. In fact, they had issue of people trying to kill those in power in order to overthrow them. For instance, the first Catiline’s conspiracy occurred when Catiline intended to slaughter the new counsels on the day of election and name himself as head of office. In addition, Tiberius Gracchus got killed due to his stand to pass a law that would leave the rich

Photography Coursework Example | Topics and Well Written Essays - 1000 words

Photography - Coursework Example The image sensor featured in CMOS is smaller than the 22.3 mm Ãâ€" 11.49 mm area of the image in 35 mm full frame cameras (Guncheon 12), which results in a narrower view angle. The EOS 550D’s rear display is a 3-inch LCD widescreen and sports an aspect ratio display of 3:2. It has a standard definition 4:3 mode of aspect ratio that captures 640 Ãâ€" 480 pixel movies with fifty frames every second in PAL mode and 59.94 frames every second in NTSC mode (Guncheon 18). Moreover, shooting movies in VGA mode allows for an effective zoom of 7. With regards to exposure, the EOS 550D uses evaluating metering with more close to +/-5 values of exposure to choose from. This allows the camera to assess the position of the subject on the viewfinder and record the camera’s orientation, rear and front lighting conditions, and the general scene’s brightness. Based on this information, it will set the right exposure and adhere to the general 15-18% grey scale for white balance and metering (Guncheon 19). In general photography under natural light, this is the best setting because it is possible to tweak dark and light areas afterwards. The image output choices for this camera is RAW, JPEG, and RAW+JPEG and can capture thirty four fine/large JPEG or six RAW frames in a burst. The camera creates JPEG using 14-bit Analog-to-Digital conversion, which makes for better, and smoother color transition and 14-bit files to store RAW files (Guncheon 20). The camera also has various special features, including the inclusion of a stereo microphone jack and full HD movie recording (1080p) combined with exceptional still shooting. HDMI connection allows for HD playback of images and footage on HDTV, while one also has full control over shutter speeds and apertures (Guncheon 20). With regards to the camera lens being used, the Canon EF-S 18-55 mm IS, has an EF-S lens mount, and it is a mid to

Water Pollution In The Brunei River

Water Pollution In The Brunei River The questionnaire is aimed at retrieving information on the residents perception of water pollution in the Brunei River particularly in the water village. Since the purpose of the research is to understand how the residents of the different areas in the water village (Kampong Ayer) perceive water pollution in the Brunei River, the target population is the residents of the water village as they are the ones who live on the Brunei River. The questionnaire is divided into three sections which are as follows: Section A Residents Perception of Water Pollution in the Water Village, Section B Method of Waste Disposal and Section C Personal Particulars. Basically each of the different sections in the questionnaire form an integral part of the data needed to answer the aims set out for this project. Moreover, from the questions posed in the questionnaire, I will be able to examine the relationship between variables such as age, occupation and highest education attainment and the perception of water pollution. Certain questions are also aimed at finding out ways to improve the condition in the Brunei River. Apart from that, some closed questions are accompanied by open-ended questions so that I can outline the possible causal factors that lead to water pollution in the Brunei River. The inclusion of open-ended questions may indeed provide more information but they can be quite complex to categorize analyse. And the fact that most of the questions are closed questions means that it will be easier to ask, answer and analyse the, however this also means that ‘they can suffer from the bias of constraining the responses into certain categories (Parfitt, 2005, p.91). Since the case study for the project concentrates in the water village, the sampling strategy implemented here will be the stratified sampling. This strategy is preferred so that the households in the water village could be divided according to their location, that is, according to the different parts or villages in the whole water village itself. By using this method, consistent coverage is ensured (Lindsay, 1997, p.50). However, the problem with this is that certain villages may have fewer (or none at all) respondents than others and this leads us to the question of distribution of the respondents in the water village. For the purpose of the project, I am interested to know the perception of the population from the age of 12 years old onwards.   And only the local residents in the water village will receive the questionnaire. The basis of the respondents criteria is the fact that, the opinions of the local residents are needed as they are the one who interact with the environment and they have practically live there ever since they were born. There are no age categories yet in the questionnaire as it depends on the respondents that we can get. Age of the respondents will only be categorized once the minimum numbers of respondents have been identified. The minimum sample size for this study is 380 people. This is due to the fact that an estimated 39000 people live in the water village (Curtis, M.D., 2010). The sample size is obtained by using the Sample Size Calculator (CRS, 2010) which allows the user to enter the required confidence level, confidence interval and the population so that it could automatically calculate the needed sample size. For the purpose of this research, the confidence level was set to 95% with a confidence level of 5 and a population size of 39000. The resulting sample size required for this study was found to be 380 people. Identification of research participants is first done by making an appointment with each of the village leaders in different parts of the Brunei Water Village.   This is because, it is a normal procedure in Brunei to first discuss and ask for approval to conduct the survey from the village leaders as they can inform the residents about the survey first before actually going into the field and conducting the survey. In addition, the village leaders will have a list of the people living in their area and thus this could be used to randomly select the participants. However, since the participants must include people from different age groups such as students, working people as well as the elderly, the administering of the questionnaire will be done in different times of the day depending on who the identified participants are for that particular day. For instance, if the targeted group of the time is participants from the elderly age group, the survey will be conducted in the mornings. The best is to attend the early morning prayers in the village mosque to randomly pick a few participants. The best time to conduct the survey is on Fridays and Sundays where people do not have to go to work. And thus I can get access to identified participants who are working or are students. It is essential to get the perception residents of different age groups so that I can compare their views. Since illiteracy among the elderly may be present in the water village, the questionnaire would be administered by doing it face to face. This is to ensure that I can have a good feedback particularly in terms of the open-ended questions in the questionnaire. As stated by Cloke et al.(2007, p.133), one of the advantages of administering questions face to face is that it will enable the researcher to interpret the answer provided by the respondents easily. This is most likely due to the fact that for this method, all the respondents have to do is just tell the answer and the researcher will record it himself/herself in the questionnaire. This is particularly important there are a few open-ended questions here which may be left answered if it were up to the respondents to fill it in on their own. The answers collected for the open-ended questions are an essential part of the survey as it will have an influence in the identification process for the causal factors of water pollution in the Brunei River. Moreover, by administering the questionnaire face to face, I will be able to interact more with the research participants. The elderly people in the water village are normally more willing to help out in the survey if they were to be interviewed rather than filling in the questionnaire themselves. However, the reliability of the data obtained from this face to face method is entirely dependent on how well the interviewer (which is me) is able to interpret the responses given. References Cloke, P., Cook, I., Crang, P., Goodwin, M., Painter, J. and Philo, C. 2007. Practising Human Geography, London: Sage Publications. CRS (Creative Research Systems). 2010. Sample Size Calculator. Accessed on March 1st, 2010 from http://www.surveysystem.com/sscalc.htm Curtis, M.D. 2010. Bruneis Water Village. Accessed on March 1st, 2010 from http://lab.colorsmagazine.com/content/bruneis-water-village Lindsay, J.M. 1997. Techniques in Human Geography. London: Routledge. Parfitt, J. 2005. Questionnaire design and sampling, in Flowerdew, R. and Martin, D. (eds). Methods in Human Geography, pp. 78-109. Harlow: Pearson Education Ltd.

Sexual Assault is Never the Victim’s Fault :: Essays Papers

Sexual Assault is Never the Victim’s Fault I could see the fear in her eye, and could feel the pain in her trembling hands. I could sense her discomfort when she talked about the night. I had never known, and never would have guessed, that something happened to her at a party with kids I knew from my school. She told me first. She only told me. She spoke to me about how she can not be in a room with a stranger, or how she feels that part of her died that night. She explained that hugs didn’t feel good anymore, they felt intrusive. She explained that she won’t stay in a room with a male teacher if the other students leave. Every part of her life, she explained, has been changed. She wasn’t the same girl anymore, and she blamed herself for it. Even contemplating suicide, like many victims often do, seemed better than living with the memories. She was too afraid to talk to her parents, because she had drank a little the night of the incident; and too afraid to tell her friends, because they though t that the guy was cool. She didn’t trust anyone anymore, not even her old best guy friends. She had known him; they had been friends in junior high. She knew him†¦ Her story changed me. I would no longer wait for the issue of sexual assault to approach me. I would educate myself about it. I was going to help. I didn’t want to see anyone else have to feel the way my friend did. I joined the Sexual Assault Response Team, and began to fight back. The issue of sexual assault needs to be addressed openly so that everyone changes their current paradigms, or perspectives. People that believe that sexual assault can be prevented, is the victim’s responsibility, or is just miscommunication, are allowing perpetrators too much freedom. Sexual assault is always the perpetrators decision, thus never being the victim’s responsibility, or decision. This is a simple concept, but let me show you how presently we are not acting this way. It is all too likely that each one of us knows the victim of a sexual assault. One in four Colorado women and one in fourteen Colorado men have been the victim of a completed or attempted sexual assault.

Dan-Erik Nilsson: A Research Paper

How truly complex and remarkable structures such as the human eye could evolve has almost always been one of the direst questions that have puzzled biologists around the world. We know that human sight relies on the ability of our eye to be able to form a clear and focused image on the retina. There are many researchers who have studied this issue, most of which who have suggested that prior to the evolution of the lens, there was a â€Å"regulatory link between two tiers of genres, those that would later become responsible for controlling lens development, and those that would help give the lens its special physical properties†¦it is†¦This combination of genes which appears to have then been selected in an early vertebrae during the evolution of its visual system, giving rise to the lens† (Current Biology, 2005). The history of research on this matter is long and extensive, and although there are really no evolutionary biologists known better than Charles Darwin, wh o stated that â€Å"To suppose that the eye, with all its inimitable contrivances for adjusting the focus to different distances, for admitting different amounts of light, and for the correction of spherical and chromatic aberration, could have been formed by natural selection, seems, I freely confess, absurd in the highest possible degree† (Ridley, 2004). There are also many other evolutionary biologists who must be taken into consideration here, one in particular to be referenced in this report, Dan-Erik Nilsson.When it comes to a subject such as evolutionary biology, there are plenty of critics and skeptics that are present in this regards. Through natural selection, there have been many very different types of eyes which have emerged in evolutionary history in general, and for instance Darwin, who was one of the first truly recognized, acknowledged from the start that â€Å"the eye would have been a difficult case for his new theory to explain. Difficult, but not impossi ble.Scientists have come up with scenarios through which the first eye-like structure, a light-sensitive pigmented spot on the skin, could have gone through changes and complexities to form the human eye, with its many parts and astounding abilities† (Evolution Library, 2007). Biologists in general use the range of less complex light sensitive structures that exist in living species today in order to come to hypotheses regarding the various evolutionary stages that eyes may have gone through over time.One evolutionary biologist in general who has sparked much controversy, especially regarding the issue of the evolution of the eye, is Dan-Erik Nilsson. I chose this individual to focus on for this assignment because he has been so renowned and recognized in terms of his contributions to this matter. Specifically, his major contribution to evolution was his demonstration that a primitive optical sense organ could â€Å"evolve into a complex human-like eye within a reasonable per iod (less than a million years) simply through small mutations and natural selection† (Nilsson, 1994). His demonstration involves discussing how the complex human eye could have possibly evolved through natural selection acting on certain and specific, small variations.He began with a simple patch of light sensitive cells, from which his model evolves until a clear image is produced as a result. Nilsson found that â€Å"eyes corresponding to every stage in this sequence have been found in existing living sequences. The existence of this range of less complex light-sensitive structures supports scientists’ hypotheses about how complex eyes like ours could evolve. The first animals with anything resembling an eye lived about 550 million years ago. And, according to one scientist’s calculations, only 364,000 years would have been needed for a camera-like eye to evolve from a light-sensitive patch† (Evolution Library, 2004).It was found from his discoveries th at every change had to confer at least some sort of survival advantage, regardless of how slight each change actually was. Eventually from this what Nilsson found was that eventually the light-sensitive spot evolved into a retina, which is the known term for the layer of cells and pigment at the back of the human eye. Then, â€Å"Over time a lens formed at the front of the eye. It could have arisen as a double-layered transplant tissue containing increasing amounts of liquid that gave it the convex curvature of the human eye† (Evolution Library, 2007).I agree with Nilsson’s views because he shows in all of his work how much time and consideration he has put into the matter and he has solid, concrete proof behind every one of his theories. His life in retrospect also solidifies him as an intelligent, reliable evolutionary biologist, and also his work involving Darwin’s theories, as Nilsson and fellow evolutionary biologists worked to basically disprove many of hi s known theories. In particular they simulated a model of the eye to find out how difficult evolution really is. Nilsson allowed the shape of the model eye to change at random, in steps of no more than 1% change at a time.â€Å"The model eye then evolved in the computer, with each new generation formed from the optically superior eyes in the previous generation; changes that made the optics worse were rejected, as selection would reject them in nature†¦The work illustrates the value of building models to test our institutions† (Ridley, 2004). Nilsson’s research has absolutely had a great and significant impact on the field of evolutionary biology because his theories have all been so new and innovative and incredibly sufficient of proving that there is in fact an evolution of the eye.Overall from this report we can conclude a number of things, in particular that over his life Dan-Erik Nilsson made some seriously significant contributions to the field through his w ork in the evolution of the eye theories, and this is not only on his own but in accompaniment with other evolutionary biologists as well.ReferencesCurrent Biology, Vol. 15, Pages 1684-1689, September 20, 2006. DOI10.1016/j.cub.2005.08.046Evolution Library. (2007). Evolution of the Eye. Retrieved September 21, 2007, fromhttp://www.pbs.org/wgbh/evolution/library/01/1/l_011_01.htmlNilsson, Dan-E. (1994). â€Å"Beware of Pseudo-Science: A Response to David Berlinkski’s Attackon my Calculation of how Long it Takes for an Eye to Evolve†. Talk Reason. Dan-Erik Nilsson: A Research Paper How truly complex and remarkable structures such as the human eye could evolve has almost always been one of the direst questions that have puzzled biologists around the world. We know that human sight relies on the ability of our eye to be able to form a clear and focused image on the retina. There are many researchers who have studied this issue, most of which who have suggested that prior to the evolution of the lens, there was a â€Å"regulatory link between two tiers of genres, those that would later become responsible for controlling lens development, and those that would help give the lens its special physical properties†¦it is†¦This combination of genes which appears to have then been selected in an early vertebrae during the evolution of its visual system, giving rise to the lens† (Current Biology, 2005).The history of research on this matter is long and extensive, and although there are really no evolutionary biologists known better than Charles Darwin, who stated that â€Å"To suppose that the eye, with all its inimitable contrivances for adjusting the focus to different distances, for admitting different amounts of light, and for the correction of spherical and chromatic aberration, could have been formed by natural selection, seems, I freely confess, absurd in the highest possible degree† (Ridley, 2004). There are also many other evolutionary biologists who must be taken into consideration here, one in particular to be referenced in this report, Dan-Erik Nilsson.When it comes to a subject such as evolutionary biology, there are plenty of critics and skeptics that are present in this regards. Through natural selection, there have been many very different types of eyes which have emerged in evolutionary history in general, and for instance Darwin, who was one of the first truly recognized, acknowledged from the start that â€Å"the eye would have been a difficult case for his new theory to explain. Difficult, but not impossib le. Scientists have come up with scenarios through which the first eye-like structure, a light-sensitive pigmented spot on the skin, could have gone through changes and complexities to form the human eye, with its many parts and astounding abilities† (Evolution Library, 2007). Biologists in general use the range of less complex light sensitive structures that exist in living species today in order to come to hypotheses regarding the various evolutionary stages that eyes may have gone through over time.One evolutionary biologist in general who has sparked much controversy, especially regarding the issue of the evolution of the eye, is Dan-Erik Nilsson. I chose this individual to focus on for this assignment because he has been so renowned and recognized in terms of his contributions to this matter. Specifically, his major contribution to evolution was his demonstration that a primitive optical sense organ could â€Å"evolve into a complex human-like eye within a reasonable per iod (less than a million years) simply through small mutations and natural selection† (Nilsson, 1994). His demonstration involves discussing how the complex human eye could have possibly evolved through natural selection acting on certain and specific, small variations.He began with a simple patch of light sensitive cells, from which his model evolves until a clear image is produced as a result. Nilsson found that â€Å"eyes corresponding to every stage in this sequence have been found in existing living sequences. The existence of this range of less complex light-sensitive structures supports scientists’ hypotheses about how complex eyes like ours could evolve. The first animals with anything resembling an eye lived about 550 million years ago.And, according to one scientist’s calculations, only 364,000 years would have been needed for a camera-like eye to evolve from a light-sensitive patch† (Evolution Library, 2004). It was found from his discoveries th at every change had to confer at least some sort of survival advantage, regardless of how slight each change actually was. Eventually from this what Nilsson found was that eventually the light-sensitive spot evolved into a retina, which is the known term for the layer of cells and pigment at the back of the human eye. Then, â€Å"Over time a lens formed at the front of the eye. It could have arisen as a double-layered transplant tissue containing increasing amounts of liquid that gave it the convex curvature of the human eye† (Evolution Library, 2007).I agree with Nilsson’s views because he shows in all of his work how much time and consideration he has put into the matter and he has solid, concrete proof behind every one of his theories. His life in retrospect also solidifies him as an intelligent, reliable evolutionary biologist, and also his work involving Darwin’s theories, as Nilsson and fellow evolutionary biologists worked to basically disprove many of hi s known theories. In particular they simulated a model of the eye to find out how difficult evolution really is. Nilsson allowed the shape of the model eye to change at random, in steps of no more than 1% change at a time.â€Å"The model eye then evolved in the computer, with each new generation formed from the optically superior eyes in the previous generation; changes that made the optics worse were rejected, as selection would reject them in nature†¦The work illustrates the value of building models to test our institutions† (Ridley, 2004). Nilsson’s research has absolutely had a great and significant impact on the field of evolutionary biology because his theories have all been so new and innovative and incredibly sufficient of proving that there is in fact an evolution of the eye.Overall from this report we can conclude a number of things, in particular that over his life Dan-Erik Nilsson made some seriously significant contributions to the field through his w ork in the evolution of the eye theories, and this is not only on his own but in accompaniment with other evolutionary biologists as well.ReferencesCurrent Biology, Vol. 15, Pages 1684-1689, September 20, 2006. DOI10.1016/j.cub.2005.08.046Evolution Library. (2007). Evolution of the Eye. Retrieved September 21, 2007, fromhttp://www.pbs.org/wgbh/evolution/library/01/1/l_011_01.htmlNilsson, Dan-E. (1994). â€Å"Beware of Pseudo-Science: A Response to David Berlinkski’s Attackon my Calculation of how Long it Takes for an Eye to Evolve†. Talk Reason.Ridley, M. (2004). Evolution of the Eye. Retrieved September 21, 2007, fromhttp://www.blackwellpublishing.com/ridley/a-z/Evolution_of_the_eye.asp

Bag of Bones CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

At first the door wouldn't open. The knob turned under my hand so I knew it wasn't locked, but the rain seemed to have swelled the wood . . . or had something been shoved up against it? I drew back, crouched a little, and hit the door with my shoulder. This time there was some slight give. It was her. Sara. Standing on the other side of the door and trying to hold it shut against me. How could she do that? How, in God's name? She was a fucking ghost! I thought of the BAMM CONSTRUCTION pickup . . . and as if thought were conjuration I could almost see it out there at the end of Lane Forty-two, parked by the highway. The old ladies' sedan was behind it, and three or four other cars were now behind them. All of them with their windshield wipers flopping back and forth, their headlights cutting feeble cones through the downpour. They were lined up on the shoulder like cars at a yard sale. There was no yard sale here, only the old-timers sitting silently in their cars. Old-timers who were in the zone just like I was. Old-timers sending in the vibe. She was drawing on them. Stealing from them. She'd done the same with Devore and me too, of course. Many of the manifestations I'd experienced since coming back had likely been created from my own psychic energy. It was amusing when you thought of it. Or maybe ‘terrifying' was the word I was actually looking for. ‘Jo, help me,' I said in the pouring rain. Lightning flashed, turning the torrents a bright brief silver. ‘If you ever loved me, help me now.' I drew back and hit the door again. This time there was no resistance at all and I went hurtling in, catching my shin on the jamb and falling to my knees. I held onto the lantern, though. There was a moment of silence. In it I felt forces and presences gathering themselves. In that moment nothing seemed to move, although behind me, in the woods Jo had loved to ramble with me or without me the rain continued to fall and the wind continued to howl, a merciless gardener pruning its way through the trees that were dead and almost dead, doing the work of ten gentler years in one turbulent hour. Then the door slammed shut and it began. I saw everything in the glow of the flashlight, which I had turned on without even realizing it, but at first I didn't know exactly what I was seeing, other than the destruction by poltergeist of my wife's beloved crafts and treasures. The framed afghan square tore itself off the wall and flew from one side of the studio to the other, the black oak frame breaking apart. The heads popped off the dolls poking out of the baby collages like champagne corks at a party. The hanging light-globe shattered, showering me with fragments of glass. A wind began to blow a cold one and was quickly joined and whirled into a cyclone by one which was warmer, almost hot. They rolled past me as if in imitation of the larger storm outside. The Sara Laughs head on the bookcase, the one which appeared to be constructed of toothpicks and lollipop sticks, exploded in a cloud of wood-splinters. The kayak paddle leaning against the wall rose into the air, rowed furiously at nothing, then launched itself at me like a spear. I threw myself flat on the green rag rug to avoid it, and felt bits of broken glass from the shattered light-globe cut into the palm of my hand as I came down. I felt something else, as well a ridge of something beneath the rug. The paddle hit the far wall hard enough to split into two pieces. Now the banjo my wife had never been able to master rose in the air, revolved twice, and played a bright rattle of notes that were out of tune but nonetheless unmistakable wish I was in the land of cotton, old times there are not forgotten. The phrase ended with a vicious BLUNK! that broke all five strings. The banjo whirled itself a third time, its bright steel fittings reflecting fishscale runs of light on the study walls, and then beat itself to death against the floor, the drum shattering and the tuning pegs snapping off like teeth. The sound of moving air began to how do I express this? to focus somehow, until it wasn't the sound of air but the sound of voices panting, unearthly voices full of fury. They would have screamed if they'd had vocal cords to scream with. Dusty air swirled up in the beam of my flashlight, making helix shapes that danced together, then reeled apart again. For just a moment I heard Sara's snarling, smoke-broken voice: ‘Git out, bitch! You git on out! This ain't none of yours ‘ And then a curious insubstantial thud, as if air had collided with air. This was followed by a rushing wind-tunnel shriek that I recognized: I'd heard it in the middle of the night. Jo was screaming. Sara was hurting her, Sara was punishing her for presuming to interfere, and Jo was screaming. ‘No!' I shouted, getting to my feet. ‘Leave her alone! Leave her be!' I advanced into the room, swinging the lantern in front of my face as if I could beat her away with it. Stoppered bottles stormed past me some contained dried flowers, some carefully sectioned mushrooms, some woods-herbs. They shattered against the far wall with a brittle xylophone sound. None of them struck me; it was as if an unseen hand guided them away. Then Jo's rolltop desk rose into the air. It must have weighed at least four hundred pounds with its drawers loaded as they were, but it floated like a feather, nodding first one way and then dipping the other in the opposing currents of air. Jo screamed again, this time in anger rather than pain, and I staggered backward against the closed door with a feeling that I had been scooped hollow. Sara wasn't the only one who could steal the energy of the living, it appeared. White semeny stuff ectoplasm, I guess spilled from the desk's pigeonholes in a dozen little streams, and the desk suddenly launched itself across the room. It flew almost too fast to follow with the eye. Anyone standing in front of it would have been smashed flat There was a head-splitting shriek of protest and agony Sara this time, I knew it was and then the desk struck the wall, breaking through it and letting in the rain and the wind. The rolltop snapped loose of its slot and hung like a jointed tongue. All the drawers shot out. Spools of thread, skeins of yarn, little flora/fauna identification books and woods guides, thimbles, notebooks, knitting needles, dried-up Magic Markers Jo's early remains, Ki might have called them. They flew everywhere l ike bones and bits of hair cruelly scattered from a disinterred coffin. ‘Stop it,' I croaked. ‘Stop it, both of you. That's enough.' But there was no need to tell them. Except for the furious beat of the storm, I was alone in the ruins of my wife's studio. The battle was over. At least for the time being. I knelt and doubled up the green rag rug, carefully folding into it as much of the shattered glass from the light as I could. Beneath it was a trapdoor giving on a triangular storage area created by the slope of the land as it dropped toward the lake. The ridge I'd felt was one of the trap's hinges. I had known about this area and had meant to check it for the owls. Then things began to happen and I'd forgotten. There was a recessed ring in the trapdoor. I grabbed it, ready for more resistance, but it swung up easily. The smell that wafted up froze me in my tracks. Not damp decay, at least not at first, but Red Jo's favorite perfume. It hung around me for a moment and then it was gone. What replaced it was the smell of rain, roots, and wet earth. Not pleasant, but I had smelled far worse down by the lake near that damned birch tree. I shone my light down three steep steps. I could see a squat shape that turned out to be an old toilet I could vaguely remember Bill and Kenny Auster putting it under here back in 1990 or '91. There were steel boxes filing cabinet drawers, actually wrapped in plastic and stacked up on pallets. Old records and papers. An eight-track tape player wrapped in a plastic bag. An old VCR next to it, in another one. And over in the corner I sat down, hung my legs over, and felt something touch the ankle I had turned in the lake. I shone my light between my knees and for one moment saw a young black kid. Not the one drowned in the lake, though this one was older and quite a lot bigger. Twelve, maybe fourteen. The drowned boy had been no more than eight. This one bared his teeth at me and hissed like a cat. There were no pupils in his eyes; like those of the boy in the lake, his eyes were entirely white, like the eyes of a statue. And he was shaking his head. Don't come down here, white man. Let the dead rest in peace. ‘But you're not at peace,' I said, and shone the light full on him. I had a momentary glimpse of a truly hideous thing. I could see through him, but I could also see into him: the rotting remains of his tongue in his mouth, his eyes in their sockets, his brain simmering like a spoiled egg in its case of skull. Then he was gone, and there was nothing but one of those swirling dust-helixes. I went down, holding the lantern raised. Below it, nests of shadows rocked and seemed to reach upward. The storage area (it was really no more than a glorified crawlspace) had been floored with wooden pallets, just to keep stuff off the ground. Now water ran beneath these in a steady river, and enough of the earth had eroded to make even crawling unsteady work. The smell of perfume was entirely gone. What had replaced it was a nasty riverbottom smell and unlikely given the conditions, I know, but it was there the faint, sullen smell of ash and fire. I saw what I'd come for almost at once. Jo's mail-order owls, the ones she had taken delivery of herself in November of 1993, were in the northeast corner, where there were only about two feet between the sloped pallet flooring and the underside of the studio. Gorry, but they looked real, Bill had said, and Gorry if he wasn't right: in the bright glow of the lantern they looked like birds first swaddled, then suffocated in clear plastic. Their eyes were bright wedding rings circling wide black pupils. Their plastic feathers were painted the dark green of pine nee-dies, their bellies a shade of dirty orange-white. I crawled toward them over the squelching, shifting pallets, the glow of the lantern bobbing back and forth between them, trying not to wonder if that boy was behind me, creeping in pursuit. When I got to the owls, I raised my head without thinking and thudded it against the insulation which ran beneath the studio floor. Thump once for yes, twice for no, asshole, I thought. I hooked my fingers into the plastic which wrapped the owls and pulled them toward me. I wanted to be out of here. The sensation of water running just beneath me was strange and unpleasant. So was the smell of fire, which seemed stronger now in spite of the damp. Suppose the studio was burning? Suppose Sara had somehow set it alight? I'd roast down here even while the storm's muddy runoff was soaking my legs and belly. One of the owls stood on a plastic base, I saw the better to set him on your deck or stoop to scare the crows, my dear but the base the other should have been attached to was missing. I backed toward the trapdoor, holding the lantern in one hand and dragging the plastic sack of owls in the other, wincing each time thunder cannonaded over my head. I'd only gotten a little way when the damp tape holding the plastic gave way. The owl missing its base tilted slowly toward me, its black-gold eyes staring raptly into my own. A swirl of air. A faint, comforting whiff of Red perfume. I pulled the owl out by the hornlike tufts growing from its forehead and turned it upside down. Where it had once been attached to its plastic base there were now only two pegs with a hollow space between them. Inside the hole was a small tin box that I recognized even before I reached into the owl's belly and chivvied it out. I shone the lantern on its front, knowing what I'd see: JO'S NOTIONS, written in old-fashioned gilt script. She had found the box in an antiques barn somewhere. I looked at it, my heart beating hard. Thunder boomed overhead. The trapdoor stood open, but I had forgotten about going up. I had forgotten about everything but the tin box I held in my hand, a box roughly the size of a cigar box but not quite as deep. I spread my hand over the cover and pulled it off. There was a strew of folded papers lying on top of a pair of steno books, the wirebound ones I keep around for notes and character lists. These had been rubber-banded together. On top of everything else was a shiny black square. Until I picked it up and held it close to the side of the lantern, I didn't realize it was a photo negative. Ghostly, reversed and faintly orange, I saw Jo in her gray two-piece bathing suit. She was standing on the swimming float with her hands behind her head. ‘Jo,' I said, and then couldn't say anything else. My throat had closed up with tears. I held the negative for a moment, not wanting to lose contact with it, then put it back in the box with the papers and steno books. This stuff was why she had come to Sara in July of 1994; to gather it up and hide it as well as she could. She had taken the owls off the deck (Frank had heard the door out there bang) and had carried them out here. I could almost see her prying the base off one owl and stuffing the tin box up its plastic wazoo, wrapping both of them in plastic, then dragging them down here, all while her brother sat smoking Marlboros and feeling the vibrations. The bad vibrations. I doubted if I would ever know all the reasons why she'd done it, or what her frame of mind had been . . . but she had almost certainly believed I'd find my own way down here eventually. Why else had she left the negative? The loose papers were mostly photocopied press clippings from the Castle Rock Call and from the Weekly News, the paper which had apparently preceded the Call. The dates were marked on each in my wife's neat, firm hand. The oldest clipping was from 1865, and was headed ANOTHER HOME SAFE. The returnee was one Jared Devore, age thirty-two. Suddenly I understood one of the things that had puzzled me: the generations which didn't seem to match up. A Sara Tidwell song came to mind as I crouched there on the pallets with my lantern shining down on that old-timey type. It was the ditty that went The old folks do it and the young folks, too / And the old folks show the young folks just what to do . . . By the time Sara and the Red-Tops showed up in Castle County and settled on what became known as Tidwell's Meadow, Jared Devore would have been sixty-seven or -eight. Old but still hale. A veteran of the Civil War. The sort of older man younger men might look up to. And Sara's song was right the old folks show the young folks just what to do. What exactly had they done? The clippings about Sara and the Red-Tops didn't tell. I only skimmed them, anyway, but the overall tone shook me, just the same. I'd describe it as unfailing genial contempt. The Red-Tops were ‘our Southern blackbirds' and ‘our rhythmic darkies.' They were ‘full of dusky good-nature.' Sara herself was ‘a marvelous figure of a Negro woman with broad nose, full lips, and noble brow' who ‘fascinated men-folk and women-folk alike with her animal high spirits, flashing smile, and raucous laugh.' They were, God keep us and save us, reviews. Good ones, if you didn't mind being called full of dusky good-nature. I shuffled through them quickly, looking for anything about the circumstances under which ‘our Southern blackbirds' had left. I found nothing. What I found instead was a clipping from the Call marked July 19th (go down nineteen, I thought), 1933. The headline read VETERAN GUIDE, CARETAKER, CANNOT SAVE DAUGHTER. According to the story, Fred Dean had been fighting the wildfires in the eastern part of the TR with two hundred other men when the wind had suddenly changed, menacing the north end of the lake, which had previously been considered safe. At that time a great many local people had kept fishing and hunting camps up there (this much I knew myself). The community had had a general store and an actual name, Halo Bay. Fred's wife, Hilda, was there with the Dean twins, William and Carla, age three, while her husband was off eating smoke. A good many other wives and kids were in Halo Bay, as well. The fires had come fast when the wind changed, the paper said ‘like marching explosions.' They jumped the only firebreak the men had left in that direction and headed for the far end of the lake. At Halo Bay there were no men to take charge, and apparently no women able or willing to do so. They panicked instead, racing to load their cars with children and camp possessions, clogging the one road out with their vehicles. Eventually one of the old cars or trucks broke down and as the fires roared closer, running through woods that hadn't seen rain since late April, the women who'd waited found their way out blocked. The volunteer firefighters came to the rescue in time, but when Fred Dean got to his wife, one of a party of women trying to push a balky stalled Ford coupe out of the road, he made a terrible discovery. Billy lay on the floor in the back of the car, fast asleep, but Carla was missing. Hilda had gotten them both in, all right they had been on the back seat, holding hands just as they always did. But at some point, after her brother had crawled onto the floor and dozed off and while Hilda was stuffing a few last items into the trunk, Carla must have remembered a toy or a doll and returned to the cottage to get it. While she was doing that, her mother had gotten into their old Desoto and driven away without rechecking the babies. Carla Dean was either still in the cottage at Halo Bay or making her way up the road on foot. Either way the fires would run her down. The road was too narrow to get a vehicle turned around and too blocked to get one of those pointed in the right direction through the crush. So Fred Dean, hero that he was, set off on the run toward the smoke-blackened horizon, where bright ribbons of orange had already begun to shine through. The wind-driven fire had crowned and raced to meet him like a lover. I knelt on the pallets, reading this by the glow of my lantern, and all at once the smell of fire and burning intensified. I coughed . . . and then the cough was choked off by the iron taste of water in my mouth and throat. Once again, this time kneeling in the storage area beneath my wife's studio, I felt as if I were drowning. Once again I leaned forward and retched up nothing but a little spit. I turned and saw the lake. The loons were screaming on its hazy surface, making their way toward me in a line, beating their wings against the water as they came. The blue of the sky had been blotted out. The air smelled of charcoal and gunpowder. Ash had begun to sift down from the sky. The eastern verge of Dark Score was in flames, and I could hear occasional muffled reports as hollow trees exploded. They sounded like depth charges. I looked down, wanting to break free of this vision, knowing that in another moment or two it wouldn't be anything so distant as a vision but as real as the trip Kyra and I had made to the Fryeburg Fair. Instead of a plastic owl with gold-ringed eyes, I was looking at a child with bright blue ones. She was sitting on a picnic table, holding out her chubby arms and crying. I saw her as clearly as I saw my own face in the mirror each morning when I shaved. I saw she was about Kyra's age but much plumper, and her hair is black instead of blonde. Her hair is the shade her brother's will remain until it finally begins to go gray in the impossibly distant summer of 1998, a year she will never see unless someone gets her out of this hell. She wears a white dress and red knee-stockings and she holds her arms out to me, calling Daddy, Daddy. I start toward her and then there is a blast of organized heat that tears me apart for a moment I am the ghost here, I realize, and Fred Dean has just run right through me. Daddy, she cries, but to him, not me. Daddy! and she hugs him, unmindful of the soot smearing her white silk dress and her chubby face as he kisses her and more soot begins to fall and the loons beat their way in toward shore, seeming to weep in shrill lamentation. Daddy the fire is coming! she cries as he scoops her into his arms. I know, be brave, he says. We're gonna be all right, sugarplum, but you have to be brave. The fire isn't just coming,' it has come. The entire east end of Halo Bay is inflames and now they're moving this way, eating one by one the little cabins where the men like to lay up drunk in hunting season and ice-fishing season. Behind Al LeRoux's, the washing Marguerite hung out that morning is in flames, pants and dresses and underwear burning on lines which are themselves strings of fire. Leaves and bark shower down,' a burning ember touches Carla's neck and she shrieks with pain. Fred slaps it away as he carries her down the slope of land to the water. Don't do it! I scream. I know all this is beyond my power to change, but I scream at him anyway, try to change it anyway. Fight it! For Christ's sake, fight it! Daddy, who is that man? Carla asks, and points at me as the green-shingled roof of the Dean place catches fire. Fred glances toward where she is pointing, and in his face I see a spasm of guilt. He knows what he's doing, that's the terrible thing way down deep he knows exactly what he is doing here at Halo Bay where The Street ends. He knows and he's afraid that someone will witness his work. But he sees nothing. Or does he? There is a momentary doubtful widening of the eyes as if he does spy something a dancing helix of air, perhaps. Or does feel me? Is that it? Does he feel a momentary cold draft in all this heat? One that feels like protesting hands, hands that would restrain if they only had substance? Then he looks away,' then he is wading into the water beside the Deans' stub of a dock. Fred! I scream. For God's sake, man, look at her! Do you think your wife put her in a white silk dress by accident? Is that anyone's idea of a play-dress? Daddy, why are we going in the water? she asks. To get away from the fire, sugarplum. Daddy, I can't swim! You won't have to, he replies, and what a chill I feel at that! Because it's no lie she won't have to swim, not now, not ever. And at least Fred's way will be more merciful than Normal Auster's when Normal's turn comes more merciful than the squalling handpump, the gallons of freezing water. Her white dress floats around her like a lily. Her red stockings shimmer in the water. She hugs his neck tightly and now they are among the fleeing loons,' the loons spank the water with their powerful wings, churning up curds of jam and staring at the man and the girl with their distraught red eyes. The air is heavy with smoke and the sky is gone. I stagger after them, wading I can feel the cold of the water, although I don't splash and leave no wake. The eastern and northern edges of the lake are both on fire now there is a burning crescent around us as Fred Dean wades deeper with his daughter, carrying her as if to some baptismal rite. And still he tells himself he is trying to save her, only to save her, just as all her life Hilda will tell herself that the child just wandered back to the cottage to look for a toy, that she was not left behind on purpose, left in her white dress and red stockings to be found by her father, who once did something unspeakable. This is the past, th is is the Land of Ago, and here the sins of the fathers are visited on the children, even unto the seventh generation, which is not yet. He takes her deeper and she begins to scream. Her screams mingle with the screams of the loons until he stops the sound with a kiss upon her terrified mouth. ‘Love you, Daddy loves his sugarplum,' he says, and then lowers her. It is to be a full-immersion baptism, then, except there is no shorebank choir singing ‘Shall We Gather at the River' and no one shouting Hallelujah! and he is not letting her come back up. She struggles furiously in the white bloom of her sacrificial dress, and after a moment he cannot bear to watch her,' he looks across the lake instead, to the west where the fire hasn't yet touched (and never will), to the west where skies are still blue. Ash sifts around him like black rain and the tears pour out of his eyes and as she struggles furiously beneath his hands, trying to free herself from his drowning grip, he tells himself It was an accident, just a terrible accident, I took her out in the lake because it was the only place I could take her, the on ly place left, and she panicked, she started to struggle, she was all wet and all slippery and I lost my good hold on her and then I lost any hold on her and then I forget I'm a ghost. I scream ‘Kia! Hold on, Ki!' and dive. I reach her, I see her terrified face, her bulging blue eyes, her rosebud of a mouth which is trailing a silver line of bubbles toward the surface where Fred stands in water up to his neck, holding her down while he tells himself over and over that he was trying to save her, it was the only way, he was trying to save her, it was the only way. I reach for her, again and again I reach for her, my child, my daughter, my Kia (they are all Kia, the boys as well as the girls, all my daughter), and each time my arms go through her. Worse oh, far worse is that now she is reaching for ‘me', her dappled arms floating out, begging for rescue. Her groping hands melt through mine. I cannot touch, because now I am the ghost. I am the ghost and as her struggles weaken I realize that I can't I can't oh I couldn't breathe I was drowning. I doubled over, opened my mouth, and this time a great spew of lake-water came out, soaking the plastic owl which lay on the pallet by my knees. I hugged the JO'S NOTIONS box to my chest, not wanting the contents to get wet, and the movement triggered another retch. This time cold water poured from my nose as well as my mouth. I dragged in a deep breath, then coughed it out. ‘This has got to end,' I said, but of course this was the end, one way or the other. Because Kyra was last. I climbed up the steps to the studio and sat on the littered floor to get my breath. Outside, the thunder boomed and the rain fell, but I thought the storm had passed its peak of fury. Or maybe I only hoped. I rested with my legs hanging down through the trap there were no more ghosts here to touch my ankles, I don't know how I knew that but I did and stripped off the rubber bands holding the steno notebooks together. I opened the first one, paged through it, and saw it was almost filled with Jo's handwriting and a number of folded typed sheets (Courier type, of course), single-spaced: the fruit of all those clandestine trips down to the TR during 1993 and 1994. Fragmentary notes, for the most part, and transcriptions of tapes which might still be down below me in the storage space somewhere. Tucked away with the VCR or the eight-track player, perhaps. But I didn't need them. When the time came if the time came I was sure I'd find most of the story here. What had happened, who had done it, how it was covered up. Right now I didn't care. Right now I only wanted to make sure that Kyra was safe and stayed safe. There was only one way to do that. Lye stille. I attempted to slip the rubber bands around the steno books again, and the one I hadn't looked at slipped out of my wet hand and fell to the floor. A torn slip of green paper fell out. I picked it up and saw this: For a moment I came out of that strange and heightened awareness I'd been living in; the world fell back into its accustomed dimensions. But the colors were all too strong, somehow, objects too emphatically present. I felt like a battlefield soldier suddenly illuminated by a ghastly white flare, one that shows everything. My father's people had come from The Neck, I had been right about that much; my great-grandfather according to this was James Noonan, and he had never shit in the same pit as Jared Devore. Max Devore had either been lying when he said that to Mattie . . . or misinformed . . . or simply confused, the way folks often get confused when they reach their eighties. Even a fellow like Devore, who had stayed mostly sharp, wouldn't have been exempt from the occasional nick in his edge. And he hadn't been that far off at that. Because, according to this little scratch of a chart, my great-grandfather had had an older sister, Bridget. And Bridget had married Benton Auster. My finger dropped down a line, to Harry Auster. Born of Benton and Bridget Noonan Auster in the year 1885. ‘Christ Jesus,' I whispered. ‘Kenny Auster's grandfather was my granduncle. And he was one of them. Whatever they did, Harry Auster was one of them. That's the connection.' I thought of Kyra with sudden sharp terror. She had been up at the house by herself for nearly an hour. How could I have been so stupid? Anyone could have come in while I was under the studio. Sara could have used anyone to I realized that wasn't true. The murderers and the child victims had all been linked by blood, and now that blood had thinned, that river had almost reached the sea. There was Bill Dean, but he was staying well away from Sara Laughs. There was Kenny Auster, but Kenny had taken himself and his family off to Taxachusetts. And Ki's closest blood relations mother, father, grandfather were all dead. Only I was left. Only I was blood. Only I could do it. Unless I bolted back up to the house as fast as I could, slipping and sliding my way along the soaked path, desperate to make sure she was all right. I didn't think Sara could hurt Kyra herself, no matter how much of that old-timer vibe she had to draw on . . . but what if I was wrong? What if I was wrong?