The River of No Return

how. His library was at her disposal, but if she asked for anything particular from London, any new book of verse or a specific novel or collection of essays, he would invariably arrive home with a book about the Antipodes or the western wildernesses of America. “Read that out to your old ancestor,” he would say, and slump down in his armchair, light a cigarillo, and watch her through the smoke as she flipped between the pages, reading aloud descriptions of wild savages and mountain lions.
    Occasionally he would get her to write a composition to him. “Call this one ‘Little Girls Must Never Lie,’” he said once, when she was ten or eleven. “Two hundred words by tomorrow afternoon.”
    The next day she stood up before him and read her composition aloud. “Ahem!” She cleared her throat. “‘Little Girls Must Always Lie,’ by Julia Percy.”
    He guffawed. “Minx!”
    She curtsied and continued: “‘Little girls must always lie. Their grandfathers are such great bullies that lying is their only hope of survival. If a grandfather asks, “Did you eat the last of the mincemeat pies, little girl?” the little girl who truthfully answers, “Yes, Grandpapa, I did,” will then have to endure hours of storming rage as Grandfather vents his spleen upon her. But the little girl who says, forthrightly and without a quiver, “No, Grandpapa, you ate the last of the mincemeat pies and have simply forgotten it,” will need only wait two hours before her grandfather has bullied the poor cook into making a new batch. And then she may eat them all again, just as she did yesterday.’”
    At this, Grandfather gathered her up, kissed her, and told her she was a pearl beyond price. “But that was not two hundred words, my little kangaroo. It was only a hundred and eighteen.”
    “How can you tell that, Grandfather? I knew it but hoped you wouldn’t notice.”
    “Oh, it is just a trick I have. I wager you have it, too. Let’s see. I shall give you a composition, shall I? I have not prepared one, so it will have to be something from my memory. Listen, but do not try to count my words. Don’t even think about counting. Just listen. Are you ready?”
    “Yes.”
    “Let me see. I must think of something. Just a moment.” Grandfather searched his memory with an exaggerated rolling of his eyes and scratching of his head.
    Julia laughed.
    “All right, yes,” Grandfather said. He flexed his hands and cleared his throat. “Listen to this.” He began, speaking quickly: “‘The history of all hitherto existing society is the history of class struggles. Freeman and slave, patrician and plebeian, lord and serf, guild-master and journeyman, in a word, oppressor and oppressed, stood in constant opposition to one another, carried on an uninterrupted, now hidden, now open fight, a fight that each time ended, either in a revolutionary reconstitution of society at large, or in the common ruin of the contending classes.’” Grandfather stopped and looked at Julia. “Now then, how many words was that?”
    “But what does it mean?”
    “What does it mean? Why, nothing! At least, not yet. Don’t worry about that. How many words long was it? Come, I know you know.”
    “Seventy-one.”
    “Exactly so! You see, you can do it, too.” His eyes were suddenly sad, and he hugged her again, tightly. Then he set her from him and patted her cheek. “Now. Run away. I have things to do.”
    Julia went away puzzled. The words he had recited transfixed her as she listened, the blood rushing at the base of her head. When he was finished she knew exactly how many words he had spoken, as if she had counted as they ticked along. But she hadn’t counted. After that she could always do it, if she wanted to. She never did want to. It was a useless trick.
    A useless trick. Counting words without counting them, solving stupid puzzles quickly . . . that was nonsense. When she had a very real talent. And no training. No knowledge. Had he really not known that she could manipulate time, just like him?
    Julia blinked, and was surprised to realize that she had tears in her eyes. One fell on the pristine binding of Blackdown’s book. She wiped it, and then her eyes.
    The book sat in her lap, innocent-looking.
    The last poem. That was the one Blackdown had recommended. The last shall be first. She had to start her education too late and backward in every way. She held the book close to the candlelight and opened it at the back, flipping