1 Returning Sails
Testing the newly installed SLAGG valves was not hard work, but it required constant attention. And it took time. A lot of time. Having spent the best part of his day checking how those valves responded to variations in pressure and temperature and whether these responses fell within the manufacturer’s specified ranges, Steton decided to take a long shower. He had been an evening-shower kind of person for as long as he could remember. The long-drawn-out duration of his ablutions, however, was a new habit – one he had picked up after relocating to the complex. It is possible that this ritual functioned as a way of marking the separation between his work hours and his personal time in his relatively new Icelandic life. Even if that was the case, the separation between his two lives – professional and personal – was never sharp or complete: regardless of how long his showers became, Steton could never cleanly step out of his engineering mindset. On this particular evening, for example, under a jet of naturally hot water, Steton busied himself with assessing the benefits of evening showers over morning showers. As he saw it, showering in the morning meant having to sleep in a bed that had previously been occupied by sub-optimally clean versions of yourself. That alone should dissuade anyone from doing it, he thought. A corollary to this idea was that the bed linen of an evening showerer would, on average, require less frequent cleaning compared with that of a morning showerer, which had the additional benefit of making the choice economical. Ruminating on these thoughts, Steton stepped out of the shower stall. The bathroom’s only concession to decor was the logo of the software company that owned the building painted in a light shade of grey on the wall opposite the entrance. The same logo was printed on the side of the generous cheques Steton had received over the last two months. Or was it three already?
Steton’s silent monologue continued in front of one of the washbasins. ‘One must concede, however, that the scenario in which every person is an evening showerer is a logistically nightmarish one: the demand for water and power would have a predictable climax at the end of each day, putting a strain on the infrastructure. In other words, if everyone who needed a shower always showered in the evening, the system providing resources to, say, the city, or even just a tall residential building, would be underused most of the time and then undergo a period of stress and potential scarcity in the same two or three hours each day. This would result in higher maintenance and repair costs, not to mention the fact that, in this hypothetical scenario, hiccups and failures would be far more likely to occur in the evening, increasing the risk of problems affecting a large portion of the population.’ In light of these ideas, he concluded that people’s differing preferences when it comes to showering might even be an evolutionary advantage for our species. Steton wiped the misty mirror clean with the palm of his hand, moved closer to its wet surface and examined both sides of his pale, unshaven face. ‘Godspeed, brave morning showerers!’ he said while mimicking a military salute.
Wearing a white T-shirt and tracksuit bottoms, he ambled out of the bathroom, his hair still wet from the shower. The corridor was roomy and clean, freshly painted in white and warmly lit by flat lamps mounted on the floor and ceiling. The ground floor of the complex consisted of a foyer with a still unmanned desk, a half-dozen of bedrooms (each with a private toilet), a staff bathroom and a common room. The rest of the building – or, to be precise, its two upper floors – were dedicated to an array of electronics that some would consider ‘every computer engineer’s wet dream’ regardless of their showering preferences. The complex had been completed a few weeks earlier and still smelled of plaster. It was commissioned by a Danish-American videogame company for the purpose of hosting the biggest and most advanced supercomputer on the planet. The complex was built less than a kilometre across the fjord from the airport serving Akureyri, one of the northernmost towns in Iceland. In this period, preceding the activation of the various server lobes, the building was practically unstaffed: no secretaries, no janitors, no maintenance team. In these days of pre-activation tests, Steton shared the Akureyri building with only one other human being: the lead engineer, Vamvera Zamdem, who, like Steton, was American.
The common room occupied by far the largest part of the ground floor. It was simple, with white walls and a grey floor; it featured a glass wall overlooking Eyja Fjord. Through it, one could also see the entirety of
Akureyri and a portion of what the map of the complex labelled a ‘sculpture garden’ – a space between the building and the water that was populated by two dozen metal statues with the appearance of large, ominous trees. Like the rest of the complex, the common room did not yet do a good job of making the staff feel welcome. The space was still awaiting more furniture, which was scheduled to arrive and be assembled next week. Currently, the room contained only a couple of tables, a few chairs and a fully automated kitchen. On the room’s walls, three posters in postplastic frames showed breath-taking aerial views of some of the new areas to be featured in the upcoming expansion of the company’s most popular videogame, the dark fantasy multiplayer online world of Tales of the One Reborn.
Steton walked from the corridor into the common room. He stopped by a table and yawning. Then he cleared his throat and vocalized, seemingly to no one in particular, ‘Hey, Buddy.’
‘Welcome back. How can I be of service?’ replied no one in particular after a soft buzz.
‘May I have a grilled cheese sandwich and fries, please? Also activate the hologame. Thank you!’
‘Any game in particular?’
‘Launch Returning Sails, please.’
‘Acknowledged. Your sandwich will be ready in less than three minutes.’
Before the disembodied voice had finished speaking, an animated hologram began to take shape in the space over the table next to where Steton was standing. Flat bright yellow and green polygons appeared in midair, fizzling in and out of existence and merging to form progressively more complicated shapes. Gradually, those shapes became a coherent three-dimensional representation – a relatively crudely rendered two-tone scene at sea. The hologram occupied a space that was roughly cubical and approximately a meter and a half on each side. One of the lower corners of the holographic projection was eerily distorted by the presence of a beer bottle that had been left on the table the previous evening.
This representation served as a thematic background for the game’s menu.
‘List the last games played,’ Steton commanded.
A dozen games, each labelled with a variety of information appeared in white letters hanging in the air, overlaying the holographic maritime vista.
‘The second-to-last game – load that one please.’
‘Coming up: Malta, Marsaxlokk Harbour, Steton G. vs Vamvera Z. – Steton on first pick. Time of day: 14.50. Weather seed: #D50913619. Session played on October 15, 2080.’
The generic seascape hologram dissolved back into simpler geometrical shapes, as new polygons appeared in the middle of the holographic space. A growing sphere. A planet. Our planet. As the representation progressively zoomed in and resolved, one could start to recognize the shapes of the continents formed by geometrical vectors and surfaces of bright yellow and green. The geometrical complexity grew exponentially as the view shifted towards the Mediterranean Sea. Before long, the island of Malta became the focus of the game’s holographic display. The game then zoomed in even closer, homing in initially on the island’s southern coast and finally on Marsaxlokk.
‘Cool,’ Steton commented unenthusiastically. ‘Please roll back 12 moves from the game’s end. Zoom in on all sailboats. South towards me.’
Buddy complied with his request almost instantly, allowing the game to populate, frame and rotate the harbour playfield in smooth transitions designed not to cause discomfort or disorientation in human players. About ten sailboats rendered in bright orange and blue were then clearly marked as the focal elements of the chosen view. An interface with values and symbols filled the top layer of the holographic space, reporting a slew of contextual information such as the direction and strength of the wind, air temperature and roughness of the sea. Each sailboat was similarly marked with information about its direction and relative speed, as well as the type and amount of cargo carried. A couple of lonely clouds occupied the middle layer of the game arena’s virtual volume.
‘This is perfect, thank you,’ commented Steton, as if talking to someone who could appreciate his expression of gratitude.
★
Dawn. Another day. Notwithstanding the long night of sleep, Steton woke up groggy, in a dark mood and without any motivation to do work. Every day on the job consisted of the regular repetition of the same few
procedures – subjecting a particular batch of valves first to ten percent and then to fifteen percent beyond the pressure threshold recommended by the manufacturer and then carrying out the same process at a higher SLAGG temperature. And then at an even higher temperature. Submitting an online report on the performance of each individual valve to HQ was the final step in this process. Again and again. Steton’s dwindling sense of purpose was somehow made more acute by his dislike of the complex –especially his bedroom. All rooms smelled of glue and plaster. His did too. On top of that, his bedroom had an east-facing and still curtain-less window that stretched from floor to ceiling. The window made the room too bright too early, and faced a modest two-lane road and an endless, rolling mass of grey clouds. Occasionally, when the weather cleared, it offered him a glimpse of the distant hills surrounding Lake Ljosavatn, which, about a month ago, had been emphatically presented to Steton as a popular outdoor destination. ‘Hardly a destination,’ he thought to himself while staring through the big window, ‘let alone a popular one.’ There was barely any tourism in Akureyri at this time of year.
Save for his actual presence, only a few traces of Steton could be identified in the otherwise pristine room – a sweater strewn on the floor, a mobile phone charger sticking out of a wall plug and a three-tone art print in a transparent frame on the bedside table. The framed picture was a graduation present from Steton’s brother, Bennart, and featured three images, three square vignettes. Each image captured a significant passage in the development of a minimal narrative of sorts:
• The first image (the leftmost one) depicted a scene on a country road, with grassy hills in the distant background. A strong, bare-chested man wearing tattered old trousers stood on the side of this country road. Next to him was an ancient-looking agricultural vehicle – a tractor perhaps? Both the man and the presumed tractor faced the same direction, with the windows of the latter drawn in a way that made it impossible to determine whether anyone was at the wheel. Ropy clouds of smoke originating from the tractor’s exhaust pipe denoted two things: first – that the tractor’s engine was running, and second – that a breeze was sweeping over the gentle hills of the depicted countryside. The man’s steely eyes appeared to be focused on a point in the distance that was not part of this first image.
• The vignette in the middle portrayed the same man running down the country road, his forward posture and sweaty brow casting a new light on the way he stood and stared in the first scene. Behind him, a few startled blackbirds were taking flight as the tractor, presumably gaining speed, raised a roaring trail of dust and smoke.
• The third square concluded the series in a way that could be considered somewhat abrupt. In this image, the tractor was visible in the background, with its bulky shape surrounded by a small crowd of cheerful people. In the foreground, at the centre of this last image, the man sat hunched, drenched in sweat and covering his face with his hands.
Steton often wondered whether this sequence originally featured more scenes than those pictured. If this was meant to be an allegory, wasn’t it missing some sort of cautionary ending? Who was the man, and why did he decide to race a tractor? A bet of sorts, perhaps?
I push against the backrest of my office chair, tilting it backwards for a good old stretch-and-yawn combo. Then, I turn toward the window of my office and stare outside for a few moments in thoughtless disinterest. It’s a sunny autumn afternoon. Still pretty damn hot for this time of the year. I sigh and turn my head back to my laptop screen, where the draft of Marija’s second chapter is patiently waiting for a few more minutes of my attention. This is shaping up to be an interesting piece of writing, I think to myself while staring at the virtual page. Somewhat funny, too. What about the three vignettes with the old tractor, though? Is this foreshadowing something? Could it be an oblique reference to something we watched together? Just then, an alert jiggling one of my browser tabs catches my eye. “NEW EMAIL,” it says. It might have been there for the past half hour, for all I know. Determined to leave the Met Office for the weekend with no unanswered messages in my inbox, I decide to save the rest of Marija’s story for later.
from: Robert Hogan <evening_snow@protonmail.com>
to: Carla Mikkelsen <carla.mikkelsen@um.edu.mt>
date: Oct 10, 2025, 15:21 subject: a friend in need (not a scam!)
It’s been a long time, dear C, hasn’t it? I hope this email finds you well (that is, temporarily ignoring the refugee crisis and the dismal international situation). Acknowledging the cognitive dissonance of the absurdity of continuing with ‘business as usual’ under the present circumstances, I am writing to you asking for help. Additionally, in case you didn’t sense it already, this is going to be a messy email (for which I apologize in advance). As a case in point, let me present you straight away with a second apology; this one is for still not having read your EAPS paper on the effects of ocean acidification. It’s been a busy
period (aren’t they all?). Not that you need me to tell you what it’s like to hold down a university post along with a job at the Met Office.
Malta seems to be still rather warm for this late in the year. Sad to see that a couple of stormfronts will spoil your weekend. Oh well, and how’s Maria?
To come to the point (and to the subject of this email), I need to ask you a favour – a personal one, in a sense. To be more specific, this is the kind of personal favour that is also a professional one. I told you this was going to be confusing, didn’t I? Ok, so here’s the thing: Would you be so kind as to look into the ground-based data your office collected 11 days ago? I’m specifically interested in anything mildly unusual or worthy of a second look that happened on Monday, 29 September, from 11:40 to 12:00 CET.
Should your data diverge from what was predicted by the models in any significant way, could you please be so kind as to let me know at this email address? I’d prefer not to use my institutional email for this. You see, I’m trying to get to the bottom of something that will probably turn out to be very silly, and I’d rather not involve my employer at this point. Even less so as I am still in my probationary employment here at the University of Exeter. I know it’s nothing more than a formality at this point, but why take chances?
Well, dear Carla, I hope this makes sense to you and is not too much to ask. I can tell you more if you’re interested, but this email is already too long as it is. Will you lend an old friend a hand?
Additionally (and unrelatedly, but still on the topic of helping your old pal), would it be okay if I sent you an invitation to serve as external examiner on a doctoral dissertation that a student of ours will defend in the Spring session? If it’s okay with you, I could have an official request sent by our support officer early next week. In case you’re wondering, yes, it’s the same deal as the other time. For the dissertation, I would need you to send in a page or two of preliminary feedback and critical comments, and a couple of questions you intend to ask during the viva. Remuneration is also the same as last year, alas.
Write soon and enjoy the thunderstorm(s)!
B.
I read the email again—Bob at his finest. To quote a common university acquaintance, with friends like Robert, one does not need enemies. I take a deep breath. And then another. A moment later, I am browsing the Met Office database for the information Bob is interested in—a variety of meteorological data concerning Maltese weather in the late morning on September 29th. I download the entire dataset, watching the progress bar crawling forward with exasperating slowness. Judging by its pace, my chances of beating the rush-hour traffic aren’t looking so hot right now.
2 Evening Bell
Hamrun—a town that is just seven kilometers from my office. It’s almost dinnertime, and I’m on an overpass in Hamrun. Fuck. I tighten my grip on the steering wheel of our old Toyota Vitz, which is hopelessly stuck in traffic on the regional highway. The sun is setting over the flat-top buildings near the highway, and my softly spoken curses are lost in the low buzz of the car’s air conditioner. With little to do other than look around, I notice that blue and green tarpaulin tents now line the sides of the road and fill the spaces between the highway ramps. All sorts of temporary shelters started popping up after the refugee camp reached its occupancy limit in mid-September. By early October, both in this town and in Marsa, vacant urban lots became sprawling encampments of people without housing. Now, about two weeks later, makeshift housings occupy almost every bit of usable space under the highway. From where I am locked in an endless row of vehicles, I can see two vans from a non-profit organization parked next to one of the largest clusters of refugee tents. The volunteers are doling out hand sanitizer, bagged dinners, and bottled water.
By the time I make it home, the sun has set completely. I slam the door of my car a little too hard. It is so dark already. My mood starts to change as soon as I enter our maisonette and the sweet smell of homemade food washes over me. Rosemary, roasted garlic, potatoes. Marija stamps a big kiss on my face, her hair tied up in a hasty bun and still wet from her evening shower.
“Hi! I made a roast!”
“I can tell!” I say, making a valiant effort to smile. “It smells incredible. Thank you.”
She chortles and walks toward the kitchen.
“So, how was your day?” she asks without turning around.
We eat on the small table in the kitchen, but it still feels like a special occasion, with a candle between us and a fresh tablecloth instead of the usual placemats. Marija’s roast is delicious. While eating and talking, we finish a bottle of local white wine, cold from the fridge. To be completely fair, it’s not quite a full bottle; we already drank two glasses yesterday night on the couch. Technicalities notwithstanding, by the end of the meal, we are both tipsy and mellow. Marija gets up and puts on some music—a band she likes. Over our conversation, I think I hear the singer saying that he doesn’t trust a smelly mattress and that he can de-invent the wheel, but I am likely mishearing the lyrics. It doesn’t matter. I giggle at Marija’s recounting of her afternoon encounter with a particularly affectionate dog while she was out getting groceries. When it’s my turn to share a quirky anecdote from my day, I tell her about the email I received from Bob. I go as far as dramatically reciting one of its best passages, using my phone as a kind of teleprompter. Blame it on the wine. Marija doesn’t much care for Bob, I think, but she is amused. They must have met three times in total, and I guess something didn’t quite click. So be it. While finishing the last of my potato wedges, I tell her that I enjoyed what I’ve read of the second chapter of her science-fiction novella. I could even have finished it this afternoon if I hadn’t been distracted by Bob’s email, I add without thinking that this additional piece of information will not help make him more popular in Marija’s eyes.
I ate too much, but with no regrets. I get up to start clearing the table and kiss Marija on the forehead, then I collect the plates and stack them neatly in the sink. She moves to the living room and, just for a moment, I am in the kitchen. Standing alone in front of the faucet, I think back to the time when I lived by myself. Redaction: what I imagine is what it would be like if I had not met Marija. A different life, no doubt, possibly one with a cat or two camping out in an otherwise empty apartment. It is an oft-rehearsed projection that I entertained back when I was an aspiring academic—a life of marking assignments, overdue journal reviews, and late dinners eaten directly over a sink not unlike the one I am facing now. Part of that mental exercise involved imagining a future where the social and affective dimensions of my being would need to fit uncomfortably around the amount of traveling and relocating that I would have to do in pursuit of a career as an atmosphere scientist. The life I had in mind was not unlike those of some of my former supervisors and current senior colleagues. I think it was sheer luck that I met Marija, and even luckier to have met her when the capricious winds of my twenties and early thirties had calmed down and I had been offered a tenured position here in Malta.
Evening Bell 11
Marija and I moved here together from a flat we shared in the UK. She’s originally from here. We occasionally drive by the three-story house where she grew up.
I am still staring absently at the dirty plates when Marija walks back into the kitchen wearing her glasses. She opens the fridge, and takes out a small white plate.
“You know what time it is? It’s time for our Friday special!”
She means a large cannolo to share, which she buys from a Sicilian place in town. She puts the “Friday special” on the table and hugs me from behind and, at this point, I can barely hold back the tears. I take a big breath. We sit down at the table and I take another one, trying to focus on my half of the cannolo.
Marija says nothing for a while. Halfway through our dessert, she makes a sound. It is a groan muffled by a mouth full of sugary ricotta cheese, but one that still has the unmistakable tone of someone having just remembered something interesting. She hastily swallows and asks whether I have any comments or complaints about the draft of the second chapter. I repeat what I already told her— I still need read the last two pages, but I found it joyfully written and intriguing. I am looking forward to the next chapter, I say.
“Grazzi ħij!” she replies in jocular Maltese, “and you’d be happy to know that chapter three is almost ready!”
As we are on the topic, I ask her whether the main character’s tirade on evening showers vis-à-vis morning showers is a reference to our discussions on the matter. She covers her mouth as a chuckle erupts—of course it is.
“Also, what’s the deal with the picture with the three vignettes on the bedside table?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I was just wondering what that was about. One would not spend time describing that picture if it didn’t somehow hold some relevance to the plot, right?”
“Um, unless the author is a bit of a trickster who enjoys deceiving the poor reader. In any case, the vignette is not a red herring—it prefigures one of the key themes of the novella.”
12 Evening Bell
“Which is to say…?”
“Well, it’s a version of the tale of John Henry. You know, the folk hero.”
“John who?”
“John Henry. Okay, look, John Henry was—at least in some versions of his legend—an African American freedman who lived somewhere in the United States in the 19th century. His job consisted of hammering a steel rod into rock before there were power drills.”
“He would probably have loved Malta—there’s hammering and drilling going on all the time, here!”
“Yes, very funny. Ha-ha. Anyway, as the story has it, John’s quasi-mythical strength and skill were doomed to become obsolete because of the recent invention of a steam-powered rock drilling machine.”
“Is this one of those ‘man vs. machine’ kinds of things?”
“Precisely! So much so, in fact, that in the folktale they literally organize a race of sorts. Who can drill the fastest, John or the machine? But get this—unlike the trope you are referring to, John wins! In that story, mankind prevails.”
“We do?”
“Yeah! Well… sort of. John proves to be still more efficient than the drilling machine, only to die with the hammer in his hands as his heart gives out at the end of the race.”
“So, in a sense, the machines still win.”
“In a sense. And to answer your question about what the deal is with the vignettes, I am using a version of the folk tale to foreshadow the idea that technologies also give us new ways of asking the big questions. You know, the ones about the meaning and value of our lives.”
Marija casually rubs the place where her glasses touch the skin behind her ear. I pause and think for a moment.
“I see. Okay, maybe this is a stupid question, but the steam engine, or machine technology in general, can only be a threat to human dignity and
Evening Bell 13
self-worth if we understand our value in terms of labor efficiency, right?”
“Do you mean in the sense that machines can put us in an existential funk only if we see ourselves as mechanical devices too?”
“Right! I mean, even without getting into considerations of Henry Jones’ race and gender—”
“John Henry.”
“Yes, sorry. Even without opening that can of worms, isn’t it evident that a human being is much more than her productivity? We can feel and express emotions and artistic sensitivity. We are imaginative and brave, and we can pursue intellectual aspirations.”
“Sure, but you might want to concede that the significance we attribute to our lives depends on the context in which we live. Imagine,” Marija continues, “a world where machines could also have an inner emotional life, write novellas of their own, and autonomously accomplish mathematical proofs and political reforms. Would this capability of theirs make us feel less valuable?”
On the basis of what Marija just said, the character of Steton in her novella—who I am assuming is the protagonist—starts to make a little more sense to me. I guess he is human peg forced to fit into a machineshaped hole. Does she plan to make Steton obsolete?
“Take Iain M. Banks, for example,” Marija adds after a while, snapping me out of my thoughts. “He had some truly fascinating answers to the question of what kind of lives biological sentients will live after machines take over the political and logistical aspects of a post-scarcity civilization. In my story, I’m going for a far less hopeful take. I mean, supposing I can ever finish this mess of a text and further supposing a publisher will be stupid enough to take it on.”
“If you’re going for a hopeless perspective, that’s already the perfect attitude right there!”
“Ha! But really, qalbi, hardly anybody reads in this day and age, and book publishing is a dying industry.”
“And yet you are still writing.”
“Heh… At this point, I might as well get on with it,” she smiles, “like in that famous play.”
I grin back at her and nod confidently to mask the fact that I do not get the reference.
The window of the study on the second floor of our maisonette rattles a little. A gale is starting to pick up outside, and the weather reports confirm that a big storm front hit the island in the next couple of hours. The streetlights outside makes the room glow with a bright orange hue. I moved upstairs with the intention to send Bob a quick message as soon as the dishwasher started its crepuscular chant. I sit at my computer (the gaming rig that I also sometimes use for work when I’m at home) and extract the meteorological data I brought back from the office on an external drive. A quick survey of the data allows me to form a general idea of what happened in Malta during the time period Bob is interested in. I scan through some the main atmospheric chemistry indicators, and I scribble a few notes on a piece of paper. The window keeps rattling. Through it, I occasionally look outside. It hasn’t rained in a while, and a mixture of sand and dust is blowing down the street in front of our building. “Okay,” I say to myself, “here we go.”
from: Carla Mikkelsen <carla.mikkelsen@um.edu.mt>
to: Robert Hogan <evening_snow@protonmail.com> date: Oct 10, 2025, 21:20
subject: Re: a friend in need (not a scam!)
Hey Bob! How’s it going? It has indeed been a long time since our last exchange.
First of all, before I forget, I have a question re: serving as an external examiner for the University of Exeter. Do you know if it’s going to be possible for me to participate in the student’s doctoral defense online (i.e., the same format we used last year)? If so, of course you can count me in! I am happy to help as long as you’re happy with me not flying in. Remuneration was fine, don’t worry.
I need to try and keep this short. Marija is waiting for me to join her and watch an episode of Children. So, with regard to your needs— Yes, I am going to help you with that unexpected and quite frankly rather puzzling request. I brought home a comprehensive set of meteorological data for the interval you indicated, and I will check it over the next couple of days. As you already pointed out, we’re going to have two nice and thick storm fronts coming in this weekend,
which pretty much ensures that I am going to spend a lot of time in front of my computer. By the way, I could obviously be a lot more efficient at the task you’ve set me up for if you could tell me plain and simple what you want me to look for. I assume that your reticence is meant to avoid introducing bias into my analysis. Anyway, the fact that you are asking me to do it, already tells me that whatever it is you’re looking for has something related to atmospheric chemistry or solar radiation. In any case, I look forward to learning more about the alleged meteorological mystery that is bothering you to such a degree that you decided to reach out.:)
Okay, I need to wrap this up or I’ll be asleep before the end of the episode. A quick heads-up: I’ve already scanned through the local dataset for September 29th, which doesn’t seem in any way remarkable—no unusual features apart from the unseasonably high temperature, but even that is well within the uncertainty range of the predictive models. The atmospheric chemistry appears unexceptional at first glance, at least as far as I can tell from the main indicators. Of course, I will have to take a closer look and also consider trends and events that took shape a few hours before and after the interval you mentioned and blah blah blah…
Ok, so, you will hear from me in a day or two. Hope your curiosity is satisfied for now. I know mine isn’t, so let me know what’s up. Talk to you soon!
Byeeeeeee
Carla Mikkelsen, Ph.D., Associate Professor of Climate Science, Member of the Climate Research Group (formerly Malta Climate Team) L-Universita’ ta’ Malta - MALTA
I rush downstairs to join Marija on the couch, and we’re rolling. Tonight’s episode of Children marks a cruel turning point for two of the characters (a mother and daughter whom the series has followed from the first episode). It’s a riveting show, but it’s also very upsetting. Children deals with the Russian invasion of Ukraine in 2022. It’s excruciating stuff, but also beautiful in a peculiar way. We find it clever that, in the series, a character from one of the sub-plots sometimes shares a night in a shelter or in a metro station with another character from a parallel narrative thread. They don’t know each other and merely exchange
a few words or are shown silently standing behind each other in a line for food and water. Moments like those make the show feel lonely and at the same time choral, somehow. Regardless of my emotional investment in Children, and with seven minutes left until the end of the episode, I am positively falling asleep against Marija’s shoulder. That is until I’m startled awake by the deep, reverberating sound of a familiar bell. It’s the sound of the bell that summons undead creatures, causing them to rise from the ground—and also the email alert I use on my phone. What I mean to say is that it’s a sound effect taken from Syderoxylon Online, a fantasy multiplayer video game I play with some friends. I left my phone on the kitchen counter after acting out Bob’s email during dinner, forgetting to retrieve it and to turn it off. Although accidental, this amounts to a serious infringement of the weekend rules in this house. My apology to Marija consists of curling up into a little ball and burrowing my head against her side. She pets me affectionately without saying a word. The wind howls outside.
I only check my phone later, when getting ready for bed. I sit on the toilet and click on the nagging email notification. It is, of course, a message from Bob. I must acknowledge that, although I find him annoying at times, his messages are more interesting than the perimenopause supplement spam I keep receiving. A low bar, but still.
from: Robert Hogan <evening_snow@protonmail.com>
to: Carla Mikkelsen <carla.mikkelsen@um.edu.mt>
date: Oct 10, 2025, 22:26 subject: the clouds
Dear C, thank you for your quick and positive response and for already having gone through the data (however briefly). My reticence concerning the motives of my request for help were… Well, one of the aspects I considered was indeed trying not to influence your process, but mostly I did not want you to think your old friend had finally lost all his marbles. Heh… You know, one’s academic career also hinges on one’s reputation, and the fear of becoming a local joke deterred me from talking about this with my colleagues at the local Met Office or with other atmosphere scientists.
Before you ask, I did consider bringing up my questions and concerns in an informal setting, perhaps as light-hearted thought experiment or just for a laugh over some pints at the pub. But I decided against
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future of poverty and debt before him if he marries without a fortune. I can save him from all this. I am rich enough for both. Say that you will not stand in my way. I will remove the only obstacle in his path. I will give up everything. I will stay in this tedious land for his sake. He shall pursue any career he chooses. Think well what it is to rob such a man of his only chance of fortune and ease. For if he does not marry me, he will certainly marry you.”
Olivia sat upright in her chair completely dazed. She forgot to be indignant. For the first time the truth enunciated by Madame Koller came home to her. Pembroke was poor. He was extravagant. He was bent upon entering politics. Olivia had, as most women, a practical sympathy. She knew very well the horrors of poverty for such a man, and her portion would be but small.
Madame Koller, seeing that she had made her impression, waited —and after a while continued. Her voice was low and very sweet. She seemed pleading for Pembroke’s salvation.
“Pembroke, you know, is already deeply in debt. He cannot readily accommodate himself to the style of provincial living here. He would say all these things are trifles. I tell you, Olivia Berkeley, they are not trifles. They are second nature. Is it not cruel of God to make us so dependent on these wretched things? It was for these same wretched things that I endured torture for years—for money and clothes and carriages—just such things as that.”
Olivia by a great effort recovered herself.
“What you say is true, Madame Koller But I will not—how can you ask me such things about a man who has never—never”—she stopped at a loss to express her meaning, which implied a reproach at Madame Koller’s want of delicacy.
Madame Koller made a gesture of impatience.
“What are promises?” she cried. “Nevertheless, I want you to see that if you marry Pembroke it will be his ruin. It would be most wicked selfishness.”
“Madame Koller,” answered Olivia, rising, “I will not listen to any more.”
“I have nothing more to say,” responded Madame Koller, rising too, and drawing her cloak around her. “I did not expect more from you than conventional tolerance. Had you a heart you would have felt for me—for him—for yourself. Can you conceive of anything more noble, or more piteous than two women, one of whom must make a great sacrifice for the man they both love—come, you need not deny it, or lose your temper—because I see you have a temper.” Olivia’s air and manner did certainly indicate dangerous possibilities. “I repeat, of two women as we are, the one makes the sacrifice—the other feels it to the quick. You talk though like a boarding-school miss. You might have got all the phrases you have used out of a book of deportment.”
“I am as sincere as you are, Madame Koller,” answered Olivia, in a voice of restrained anger. “I cannot help it that I am more reserved. I could no more say what you have said—” here a deep flush came into Olivia’s face—“than I could commit murder.”
Madame Koller stood up, and as she did so, she sighed deeply. Olivia, for the first time, felt sorry for her.
“Women who love are foolish, desperate, suicidal—anything. I do not think that you could ever love.”
“Do you think that? I know better. I could love—but not like—not like—”
“Not like me?”
“Yes, since you have said it. Something—something—would hold me back from what you speak of so openly.”
“I always said you were as nearly without feeling as the rest of the people here. Elizabeth Pembroke is the only woman I know of, among all of us, that ever really loved. But see how curious it was with her. She defied her father’s curses—yet she did not have the nerve to marry the man she truly loved, because he happened to be an officer in the Union army, for fear the Peytons and the Coles, and the Lesters, and the rest of them, would have turned their backs on her at church. Bah!”
“I don’t think it was want of nerve on Elizabeth Pembroke’s part,” replied Olivia. “She was not born to be happy.”
“Nor was I,” cried Madame Koller, despondently
There was no more said for a minute or two. Then Madame Koller spoke again.
“Now you know what I feel. I don’t ask anything for myself—I only wish to show you that you will ruin Pembroke if you marry him.”
An angry light came into Olivia’s eyes. She stood up, straight and stern, and absolutely grew taller as she looked fixedly at Madame Koller.
“This is intolerable,” she said. “There is nothing—absolutely nothing—between Pembroke and me, and yet I am subjected to this cross-questioning.”
“You would complain a great deal more of it if there were anything between you,” answered Madame Koller, not without a glimpse of grotesque humor. “But now you know where I stand—and let me tell you, Olivia Berkeley, Pembroke is not guiltless toward me, however he would pretend it”—and without waiting for the angry reply on Olivia’s lips, she vanished through the open door.
All that evening, as Olivia sat with a book on her lap, not reading, but watching the flame on the broad hearth, she was turning over in her mind what Madame Koller had said. It had disturbed her very much. It had not raised Pembroke at all in her esteem. She begun, nevertheless, to think with pity over the wretchedness of his fate should he be condemned to poverty She fancied him harassed by debts, by Miles’ helplessness. Her tender heart filled with pity.
“Olivia, my love,” said the Colonel, emerging from behind his newspaper for a moment. “Pembroke means to try for the nomination to Congress—and Cave tells me he is pretty sure to get it. Great pity. A man who goes into public life without out a competence dooms himself to a dog’s life for the remainder of his days. It ruined Pembroke’s father thirty years ago.”
Olivia started. This was like an oracle answering her own thoughts.
She thought, with a little bitter smile that it did not require much generosity to give up a man on whom one had no claim, and laughed at the idea of a struggle. At all events she would forget it all. It was not so easy to forget though. The thought stayed with her, and went to bed with her, and rose with her next morning.
Meanwhile, alas, for Madame Koller. When she came out, she looked around in vain for the negro woman who had come with her. She was not to be seen. They had come by the path that led through the fields, which made it only a mile from The Beeches to Isleham, but in going back, she missed her way—and then being a little afraid of the negroes, she went “around the road,” as they called it. At the first gate, a man galloped out of the darkness. It was Pembroke. He recognized her at once, and got off his horse.
“You here,” he cried in surprise—“at this hour”—for it was well on to seven o’clock, and Madame Koller was not noted for her fondness for walking.
“Yes,” she answered.
“Is anything the matter at Isleham?” he asked—for she could not have come from anywhere else.
“Nothing at all,” she replied nervously. “I—I—went over to see Olivia Berkeley,” she added boldly.
Pembroke could say nothing. After a pause, Madame Koller burst out.
“Pembroke, that girl is made of iron. She cares nothing for you— for anybody but herself.”
“And did you find out any of those things by asking her?” he inquired.
The twilight was so upon them that Madame Koller could not well see Pembroke’s face, but she realized the tone of suppressed rage in his voice. She herself had a temper that was stormy, and it flamed out at that tone.
“Yes, I asked her Are you a man that you can reproach me with it?”
It is difficult for a man, if he is a gentleman, to express his wrath toward a woman. Pembroke was infuriated at the idea that Madame Koller should go to Olivia Berkeley and ask prying questions. He ground his teeth with wrath as he looked at Madame Koller standing before him, in the half light.
“What a price I have had to pay for folly,” he cried furiously. “A little damned love-making in a garden—” he was so savage that he was not choice of words and fell into profanity as men naturally do —“a half dozen notes and bouquets—Great God! Is there anything in that which should be a curse to a man’s whole life! And I love Olivia Berkeley. I could make her love me, but—but for you.”
His violence sobered Madame Koller at once.
“There was not much, certainly,” she responded calmly. “The love-making in the garden and the bouquets would have been little enough—but unfortunately hearts are so perverse. A great many are broken by such trifles. It was very amusing to you but not so amusing altogether to me.”
Pembroke began to be ashamed of himself. But he was still magnanimous enough not to tell her that she had taken a queer course about those things.
“I suppose I am to blame,” he said with sulky rage after a moment. “I’m willing to shoulder all the blame there is—but why should Olivia Berkeley be insulted and annoyed by this kind of thing? Do you think you will ever accomplish anything by—” he stopped and blushed both for himself and her.
“One thing is certain,” he continued. “After what you have said to Olivia Berkeley, questioning her about me, as you have admitted, I shall simply carry out my intention of asking her to marry me. She shall at least know the truth from me. But I think my chances are desperate. Pshaw! I have no chance at all. It’s rather grotesque, don’t you think, for a man to ask a woman to marry him when he
knows that she will throw him over and despise him from the bottom of her heart?”
“That I must decline to discuss with you,” quietly answered Madam Koller. She was indeed quiet, for at last—and in an instant, she realized that she must forever give up Pembroke. All that long journey was for nothing—all those months of wretched loneliness, of still more wretched hopes and fears, were in vain. She heard Pembroke saying:
“You had best let me see you home. It is too late for you to be out alone.”
“You will not,” she replied. “I will not permit you, after what you have said, to go one step with me.”
Pembroke felt thoroughly ashamed. It was one of the incidents of his association with Madame Koller and Ahlberg that they always made him say and do things he was ashamed of. In short, they demoralized him. He had been betrayed by temper and by circumstances into things that were utterly against his self-respect— like this ebullition of rage against a woman. In the plenitude of his remorse he was humble to the last degree.
“May I,” he asked—“may I, at least accompany you to your own grounds? It is really not safe for you.”
Madame Koller turned upon him and stamped her foot.
“No, no—always no. Do you think there is any danger on earth from which I would accept your protection? Go to Olivia Berkeley. She would marry you in your poverty if it suited her whim, and be a millstone around your neck. Go to her, I say.”
Pembroke watched her figure disappearing in the dusk along the faint white line of the road. He stood still with his horse’s bridle in his hand, turning over bitter things in his mind. He thought he would not go to Isleham that night. He was depressed and conscience-stricken, and in no lover-like mood. He mounted his horse and rode slowly back to Malvern.
CHAPTER XIII.
O of the drawbacks of Arcadia is that everybody knows everybody else’s business—and the possibility of this added to Pembroke’s extreme mortification. He thought with dread of the Colonel’s elaborate pretense of knowing nothing whatever about the affair, Mrs. Peyton’s sly rallying, Mr. Cole’s sentimental condolence— it was all very exasperating. But solely to Olivia’s tact and good sense both escaped this. Not one soul was the wiser. Olivia, however she felt, and however skillfully she might avoid meeting Pembroke alone, was apparently so easy, so natural and selfpossessed, that it put Pembroke on his mettle. Together they managed to hoodwink the whole county about their private affairs— even Colonel Berkeley, who, if he suspected anything, was afraid to let on, and Miles, whose devotion to Olivia became stronger every day.
Luckily for Pembroke, he could plunge into the heat of his canvass. After he had lost Olivia, the conviction of her value came to him with overpowering force. There was no girl like her. She did not protest and talk about her emotions and analyze them as some women did—Madame Koller, for example—but Pembroke knew there was “more to her,” as Cave said, “than a dozen Eliza Peytons.” Perhaps Cave suspected something, but Pembroke knew he had nothing to fear from his friend’s manly reticence. But to have lost Olivia Berkeley! Pembroke sometimes wondered at himself—at the way in which this loss grew upon him, instead of diminishing with time, as the case usually is with disappointments. Yet all this time he was riding from place to place, speaking, corresponding, as eager to win his election as if he were the happiest of accepted lovers—more so, in fact.
And then, there was that Ahlberg affair to trouble him. Like all the men of his race and generation, he firmly believed there were some cases in which blood must be shed—but a roadside quarrel, in which
nothing but personal dislike figured, did not come under that head. Pembroke was fully alive to the folly and wickedness of fighting Ahlberg under the circumstances—but it was now impossible for him to recede. He could only hope and pray that something would turn up to prevent a meeting so indefinitely fixed. But if Ahlberg’s going away were the only thing to count upon, that seemed far enough out of the question, for he stayed on and on at the village tavern, playing cards with young Hibbs and one or two frequenters of the place, riding over to play Madame Koller’s accompaniments, fishing for invitations to dine at Isleham—in short, doing everything that a man of his nature and education could do to kill time. Pembroke could not but think that Ahlberg’s persistence could only mean that he was really and truly waiting for his revenge. So there were a good many things to trouble the “white man’s candidate,” who was to make such a thorough and brilliant canvass, and whose readiness, cheerfulness and indomitable spirit was everywhere remarked upon.
One night, as Pembroke was riding home after a hard day’s work in the upper part of the county, and was just entering the long straggling village street, his horse began to limp painfully. Pembroke dismounted, and found his trusty sorrel had cast a shoe,—a nail had entered his foot, and there was a job for the blacksmith. He led the horse to the blacksmith’s shop, which was still open, although it was past seven o’clock, and on the promise of having the damage repaired in half an hour, walked over to the village tavern.
It was in September, and the air was chilly. The landlord ushered him into what was called the “card room”—the only place there was a fire. A cheery blaze leaped up the wide old-fashioned chimney, and by the light of kerosene lamps, Pembroke saw a card party at a round table in the corner. It was Ahlberg, young Hibbs, his political opponent, and two or three other idle young men of the county.
According to the provincial etiquette, Pembroke was invited to join the game, which he courteously declined on the ground that he was much fatigued and was only waiting for the blacksmith to put his horse’s shoe on before starting for home. The game then proceeded.
Pembroke felt awkward and ill at ease. He knew he was in the way, as the loud laughter from Hibbs and his friends, and Ahlberg’s subdued chuckle had ceased when he came in. They played seriously—it was écarté, a game that Ahlberg had just taught his postulants. Young Hibbs had a huge roll of bills on the table before him, which he somewhat ostentatiously displayed in the presence of his opponent, whose lack of bills was notorious. Also, Pembroke felt that his presence induced young Hibbs to bet more recklessly than ever, as a kind of bravado—and Ahlberg always won, when the stake was worth any thing.
The waiting seemed interminable to Pembroke seated in front of the fire. The conversation related solely to the game. Presently Pembroke started slightly. Ahlberg was giving them some general views on the subject of écarté. Pembroke himself was a good player, and he had never heard this scheme of playing advocated.
Over the mantel was an old-fashioned mirror, tilted forward. Although his back was to the players, Pembroke could see every motion reflected in the glass. He saw Hibbs lose three times running in fifteen minutes.
Pembroke’s sight was keen. He fixed it on the glass and a curious look came into his dark face. Once he made a slight movement as if to rise, but sat still. A second time he half rose and sat down again—nobody in the room had seen the motion. Then, without the slightest warning, he suddenly took three strides over to the card table and, reaching over, seized Ahlberg by the collar, and lifted him bodily up from the table into a standing position.
“Produce that king of spades,” he said.
If he had shot Ahlberg no greater surprise could have been created. Hibbs jumped up, dashing the cards and money in a heap on the floor, and nearly upsetting the table. One of his companions grabbed the lamp to save it.
Ahlberg turned a deathly color, and made some inarticulate effort to be heard, and tried to wrest himself from Pembroke’s grasp. But it was in vain. Pembroke shook him slightly, but never relaxed his hold.
“The king of spades, I say.”
Without a word Ahlberg reached down, and from some unknown depths produced the card. He was no coward, but he was overmastered physically and mentally. He knew in an instant that Pembroke had seen it all, and there was no shadow of escape for him.
Pembroke let go of Ahlberg’s collar, and, taking out a white handkerchief, wiped his hands carefully. Ahlberg had sunk back, panting, in a chair. The grip of a hand like Pembroke’s in the neighborhood of the wind-pipe is calculated to shorten the breath.
Hibbs looked dazed, from one to the other, and then to the floor, where the cards had fallen. The one damning card lay on the table.
“I saw it twice before this, in the glass,” said Pembroke to Hibbs. “Each time I tried to catch him, but he did it so well I couldn’t. But the last time it was perfectly plain,—you see. I could see under the table in the glass. You had better pick up your money, Hibbs.”
At this, Ahlberg spoke up.
“All of it is Monsieur Hibbs’,” he said with elaborate politeness, recovering his breath a little, “except two fifty-dollar notes, which are mine.”
Pembroke picked out the two fifty-dollar notes and dashed them in Ahlberg’s face, who very cleverly caught them and put them in his pocket.
“Mr. Pembroke,” said Hibbs, stammering and blushing, “I—I— hope you won’t say anything about this, sir. It would ruin me—I don’t mean in the canvass, for I tell you truly, sir, I hope you’ll be elected, and if it wasn’t for the party, I’d give up the fight now. But my mother, sir, don’t approve—don’t approve of playing for money—and—”
“You are perfectly safe,” answered Pembroke, “and quite right in your idea of duty to your party, and your dislike to wound your mother is creditable. But as for this dog, he must leave this county at once.”
Ahlberg said not a word. He did not lack mere physical courage, but cheating at cards was, to him, the most heinous offense of which he could be convicted. He had been caught—it was the fortune of war—there was nothing to be said or done. At least, it happened in this out-of-the-way corner of the world, where it could never be known to anybody—for he did not count his acquaintances in the country as anybody, unless—perhaps—Madame Koller. At that he grew pale for the first time. He really wanted Madame Koller’s money. But, in fact, he was somewhat dazed by Pembroke’s way of settling the trouble. It really shocked his ethics to see one gentleman punish another as if he were a bargeman or a coal heaver. These extraordinary Anglo-Saxons! But one thing was plain with him—if he did not remain perfectly quiescent Pembroke was quite capable of throwing him bodily out of the window—and if he had lost his honor, as he called it, there was no reason why he shouldn’t save his bones.
Pembroke, however, although he would have sworn that nothing Ahlberg could do in the way of rascality could surprise him, was as yet amazed, astounded, and almost puzzled by the promptness with which Ahlberg acquiesced in the status which Pembroke established. Ahlberg made no protest of innocence—he did not bluster, or grow desperate, or break down hysterically, as even a very bad man might under the circumstances. He simply saw that if he said anything, he might feel the weight of Pembroke’s arm. Nothing that he could have said or done was as convincing of his thorough moral obtuseness as the way in which he accepted his own exposure.
Just then the landlord opened the door “Mr Pembroke, your horse is at the door. It’s going to be a mighty bad night though— there’s a cloud coming up. You’d better stay and join them gentlemen in their game.”
“No, I thank you,” replied Pembroke, and turning to Ahlberg. “Of course, after what has passed, it is out of the question that I should fight you. Good God! I’d just as soon think of fighting a jail bird! Don’t take too long to get out of this county. Good night, Mr. Hibbs—good night—good night.”
Hibbs accompanied him out, and stood by him while he mounted.
“Mr. Pembroke,” he said, holding his hat in his hand, “I’m very much obliged for what you have done for me, and what you have promised. I promise you I’ll never touch a card for money again as long as I live.”
“And don’t touch a card at all with such an infernal rascal as Ahlberg,” answered Pembroke, altogether forgetting sundry agreeable games he had enjoyed with Ahlberg in Paris, and even in that very county—but it had been a good while ago, and Ahlberg had not tried any tricks on him.
This relieved Pembroke of a load of care—the folly of that quarrel was luckily escaped. But he debated seriously with himself whether he ought not to tell Madame Koller of Ahlberg’s behavior, that she might be on her guard against him. In a day or two he heard, what did not surprise him, that Ahlberg was about to leave the country— but at the same time that Madame Koller and her mother were to leave The Beeches rather suddenly. Mrs. Peyton met him in the road, and stopped her carriage to tell him about Eliza Peyton’s consummate folly in allowing that Ahlberg to stick to her like a burr— they actually intended crossing in the same steamer. That determined Pembroke. He rode over to The Beeches, and sitting face to face with Madame Koller in her drawing-room, told her the whole story. Pembroke was somewhat shocked to observe how little she seemed shocked at Ahlberg’s conduct. It was certainly very bad, but—but—she had known him for so long. Pembroke was amazed and disgusted. As he was going, after a brief and very business-like visit, Madame Koller remarked, “And it is so strange about Louis. The very day after it happened, he was notified of his appointment as First Secretary in the Russian diplomatic service—or rather his reappointment, for he was in it ten years—and he has come into an excellent property—quite a fortune in fact for a first secretary.” Pembroke rode back home slowly and thoughtfully. He had never before realized how totally wanting Madame Koller was in integrity of mind. Olivia Berkeley now—
