Adam was marching about excitedly, waving his hands in the air.
“There’ll be no end to the fun we can have,” he said. “There’ll be exploring and everything. I ’spect I can soon get the ole jungles to grow again.”
“But—but who—who’ll do the, you know, all the cooking and washing and suchlike?” quavered Brian.
“No one’ll have to do any of that stuff,” said Adam. “You can have all the food you like, loads of chips, fried onion rings, anything you like. An’ never have to wear any new clothes or have a bath if you don’t want to or anything. Or go to school or anything. Or do anything you don’t want to do, ever again. It’ll be wicked!”
THE MOON CAME UP over the Kookamundi Hills. It was very bright tonight.
Johnny Two Bones sat in the red basin of the desert. It was a sacred place, where two ancestral rocks, formed in the Dreamtime, lay as they had since the beginning. Johnny Two Bones’ walkabout was coming to an end. His cheeks and chest were smeared with red ochre, and he was singing an old song, a sort of singing map of the hills, and he was drawing patterns in the dust with his spear.
He had not eaten for two days; he had not slept. He was approaching a trance state, making him one with the Bush, putting him into communion with his ancestors.
He was nearly there.
Nearly …
He blinked. Looked around wonderingly.
“Excuse me, dear boy,” he said to himself, out loud, in precise, enunciated tones. “But have you any idea where I am?”
“Who said that?” said Johnny Two Bones.
His mouth opened. “I did.”
Johnny scratched, thoughtfully. “I take it you’re one of me ancestors, then, mate?”
“Oh. Indubitably, dear boy. Quite indubitably. In a manner of speaking. Now, to get back to my original question. Where am I?”
“Only if you’re one of my ancestors,” continued Johnny Two Bones, “why are you talking like a poofter?”
“Ah. Australia,” said Johnny Two Bones’ mouth, pronouncing the word as though it would have to be properly disinfected before he said it again. “Oh dear. Well, thank you anyway.”
“Hello? Hello?” said Johnny Two Bones.
He sat in the sand, and he waited, and he waited, but he didn’t reply.
Aziraphale had moved on.
CITRON DEUX-CHEVAUX was tonton macoute, a traveling houngan:41 he had a satchel over his shoulder, containing magical plants, medicinal plants, bits of wild cat, black candles, a powder derived chiefly from the skin of a certain dried fish, a dead centipede, a half-bottle of Chivas Regal, ten Rothmans, and a copy of What’s On In Haiti.
He hefted the knife, and, with an experienced slicing motion, cut the head from a black cockerel. Blood washed over his right hand.
“Loa ride me,” he intoned. “Gros Bon Ange come to me.”
“Where am I?” he said.
“Is that my Gros Bon Ange?” he asked himself.
“I think that’s a rather personal question,” he replied. “I mean, as these things go. But one tries, as it were. One does one’s best.”
Citron found one of his hands reaching for the cockerel.
“Rather unsanitary place to do your cooking, don’t you think? Out here in the jungle. Having a barbecue, are we? What kind of place is this?”
“Haitian,” he answered.
“Damn! Nowhere near. Still, could be worse. Ah, I must be on my way. Be good.”
And Citron Deux-Chevaux was alone in his head.
“Loas be buggered,” he muttered to himself. He stared into nothing for a while, and then reached for the satchel and its bottle of Chivas Regal. There are at least two ways to turn someone into a zombie. He was going to take the easiest.
The surf was loud on the beaches. The palms shook.
A storm was coming.
THE LIGHTS WENT UP. The Power Cable (Nebraska) Evangelical Choir launched into “Jesus Is the Telephone Repairman on the Switchboard of My Life,” and almost drowned out the sound of the rising wind.
Marvin O. Bagman adjusted his tie, checked his grin in the mirror, patted the bottom of his personal assistant (Miss Cindi Kellerhals, Penthouse Pet of the Month three years ago last July; but she had put that all behind her when she got Career), and he walked out onto the studio floor.
Jesus won’t cut you off before you’re through
With him you won’t never get a crossed line,
And when your bill comes it’ll all be properly itemized
He’s the telephone repairman on the switchboard of my life,
the choir sang. Marvin was fond of that song. He had written it himself.
Other songs he had written included: “Happy Mister Jesus,”