(Part 4 of the Truths & Lies series, but can be read as a standalone. See A Reader's Guide to Truths and Lies.)

Dear Jack

We're a funny lot on the Dutchman. Funny-looking too, though that's not what I meant. Traitors and cowards every one. If you ever read this, Jack, I know what you'll say. "Most crews are funny-looking traitors and cowards, William. That's why we go to sea." But we can't lie to ourselves like the living can. We've proved our cowardice before God and man, and beyond all redemption.

We might bluster and bluff, but we've betrayed all that we claimed to care about, else we'd not be here. So we don't generally trouble with kindness or friendship. What's the use when none deserves it and none'll think better of you for a show of fine feeling? 'Tis too late for all that. Even the captain could no more face the ending of his life than he could the living of it, and don't he know we knows it!

But the navigator, Greenbeard, he's not so bad. Him and me, we help each other out now and again. Makes the unbearable bearable, you could say—not that we've any choice but to bear it either way. He don't have your way with charts, nor with words, but I'll wager he could teach even you a thing or two about deep sea currents, Jack. Best of all, Greeny can read and write.

Remember how you'd pen my letters to Peggy? Well, Greeny's penning this one to you. He's less cause than you to resent the work, but it takes courage of another kind, for the Captain don't like us speaking with the living. So, if you ever read this, Jack, raise a bottle to old Greenbeard.

G: Something strong, if you please, and plenty of it.

I won't ask forgiveness, Jack, but I owe you an apology. I wish there were a way to undo it, but there ain't. I saw from the start you were getting in deep, that it was more to you than it was to me. You were so alone in the world, for all your flash and your fierce talk. I saw, and I tried to let you be. But when you leaned in close and touched your fingertips to my lips, God help me, I couldn't hold back no more.

And after, coward and traitor that I am, I let it run on. I let you fall. I'd not courage enough to tell you how it must end. Perhaps I tried. Perhaps those letters to Peggy were my way to make you see, but my body was telling you different, I know that. I promised you Heaven and Earth, and I must have meant it as I said it.

Maybe it were myself I lied to, for you were a wonder Jack—more than enough to addle any man's brains. 'Tis all misty and faint now, but so bright and blazing then. Perhaps I truly did believe it would be enough.

At least I never tried to keep you all for myself—God knows I was tempted—for I knew you'd need other loves in time, and I both hoped and feared you'd find someone to take my place. But your heart was big enough for all at once, wasn't it? It even had a corner for young Will.

I never found a way to say so, but I was right proud of the way you took to the boy. Always told Pegs that, should something happen to me, she'd only to turn to you, for you'd not let Will nor her want for nothing. If she ever did, you'd troubles of your own by then, and by my doing. I blame none but myself for what befell.

Greeny says you won't be wanting talk of Peggy and Will. Like as not he's right, though you were always hard to predict, and never one for jealousy. I did love you, Jack. That should be said. You fair stole my heart away—that's what scared me so bad, for it weren't mine to lose.

I always meant to go back to them, you see. (Greeny's shaking his head, but how can I tell you I'm sorry unless I explain what I did?) I meant to be true to Peggy, truly I did. Whores in port don't rightly count, or so I told myself. 'Tis no matter if a man attends to his needs far from home with a pretty girl or boy he knows nothing about and will ne'er see again.

But you were something else, eh Jack? You were a disease that got into my blood, like the sea creatures that grow on me now.

G: Hard to predict you may be, Bill Turner's Jack, but I'll wager you won't care for the sound of that. Hear old Bill out, though, for he don't mean it badly. He's no charmer, I know, but there's a light in his eyes as he thinks of you.

I can see Greeny's been scribbling words I never said. "Just trying to keep you from putting your big foot in it, Bill Turner, you lummox," he says, and he'll not scratch it out. I must trust to your wits, Jack, to unravel my meaning.

Greeny may have a point at that. You told me often enough I was no good at love letters, eh? What I meant was you were like a part of myself that I'd lost and found again. I wanted to be with you all the time. I couldn't hold you close enough.

At first, I thought it would weaken with time, but it never did. Then I knew I was in terrible danger of betraying Peggy and the boy. I couldn't let that happen, Jack, so I had to finish with you. But I never could, of course, not in my head and heart.

Oh, I know you thought what drove me away was the change in you, and there was some truth in that so I let you believe it. For I've never been drawn to a grown man before nor since, and it troubled me right enough, but only because it made manifest what I already feared: that my lust for you was stronger than nature and God. I tried to explain it to you once, but you laughed and took it for a compliment. That scared me worse than anything.

That was why I went with the lasses and lads on shore: not because I wanted them more than you, but because I wanted them less, and that made what I did with them less terrible, less wicked than the way I burned for you. Of course, I couldn't explain then. I wonder, will you understand now, or will it only hurt you more?

Greeny says to stop fretting and just say I always loved you best. I don't know about love, Jack but, for what it's worth, I wanted you more than I ever wanted anyone. I know my actions said different, but they lied. I always wanted you: from the first moment I saw you come up the gangplank to the day I signed with Davy and stopped wanting anyone at all.

G: Not bad that, from old Bill, eh? I trust you know its worth, Jack, for one as takes up with the likes of Bill Turner can't be a fool for honeyed words. You seem to have stuck by him through a deal of doubt and dither, so you must have seen his finer points, well hidden though they be.

This letter was meant to be an apology, so I'd best get on. Not for leaving you, Jack—I can't be sorry for that because it was the only thing, the right thing, to do—but for the manner of it. I'm sorry I lacked the strength to nip it in the bud and spare you the pain of parting, and sorriest of all for being too weak to finish it quick and clean. When I think on how we ended, the shame burns me still, even here in the depths where nothing burns, not love, nor hate, nor greed, nor envy.

There's naught Barbossa and Davy can do to me that I don't deserve. For neither of us said it, but I broke your heart, didn't I? Not once, but a dozen times—a thousand if you count all the moments we spent pretending I wasn't going to do it again.

Even that last, glorious cruise from Java across the Indian Ocean, out of reach of anything save the wind and the waves, and the maps in your head. For a while, it seemed the old wonder reborn, only sharper for we both knew it were the last gasp. At first, I thought you didn't know, for you had such a shine about you, so easy and carefree. But when the drink had a hold of you (which it did oftener and harder) you'd cling to me and whisper such things... I could never tell if you remembered them by daylight.

G: I told Bill you'd be wanting reminiscences of the good times, Jack, for 'tis clear the pair of you had plenty of those in your day, but he's set on misery, worse luck for all three of us. Sometimes, though—when I'm not holding a quill—he'll gaze out to something beyond the horizon; "It were good with Jack," or, "I miss Jack," he'll say of a sudden. Then he'll go glum and silent again.

Once we rounded the Cape, all I could think of was how to face Peggy when I couldn't stop wanting you. You'd promised to take me home, and you honoured that, but I could see how you slowed our passage northwards. Barbossa couldn't get us there fast enough and, in the end, I fell in with his plans for I couldn't bear to be so long a-losing you.

I promised I'd give you up by Table Bay, Dakar, Gibraltar... In the end, we were a good way across Biscay before I stopped sharing your bunk, and even then, I couldn't rightly get you out of my head. I prayed for purity, but I'd forgotten half the words. I asked Hawksmoor to help me read the Book, but it wouldn't stick.

So 'twas only fitting that I found Peggy and Will with a stranger the boy called "Uncle" Adam. He made himself scarce quick enough, but Pegs couldn't look me in the eye. The boy hid in the roof thatch and only came down when we made believe I'd gone.

I couldn't lie with her, Jack. With my own wife. I couldn't do it. The first night, I blamed anger over Adam. By the next, I understood it were a judgement on me, for when I prayed for forgiveness and called to mind how I'd sinned with you, I found my punishment lifted somewhat.

Before I left, I told Peggy I'd not been well, but that I'd be home more often now, and things'd be different. "Don't lie to me, William," were all she said.

"Canny lass," says Greenbeard. Cannier than me, leastways, for I believed it.

So I took the cutter back to St-Malo ahead of the rendezvous, and a shock it was to see you so pale and thin, and draped round Barbossa. I never asked how you came to lose another tooth or gain the black eye, but no doubt the empty bottles had a part in it.

For all your anger, you still waited for me to cross the bar back to you. I felt your eyes on me, the warmth of you beside me, wanting me to reach out and touch you. But I'd vowed this time would be different. I remembered the look in Peggy and Will's eyes and I prayed to God for strength.

I tried to explain it to you, but it only made matters worse, for instead of sweet promises, you began to mock my faith. You had a wicked way with words, and you were merciless. "How's the strength today, William? Pity to waste it on the ineffable." Do you remember that one?

Even in the good times, I never understood but half of what you said. When we still made each other happy, I'd ask you to explain. Generally, I was no wiser after, but I liked the care in your voice and the flutter of your hands as you tried to make me see. Now though, I knew you'd only befuddle me more.

I've still no notion what "ineffable" means, except it's something to do with God, so you meant I was wasted on Him. It sounded like blasphemy, but maybe 'twas only truth, for I've been little use to the Almighty, that's for sure.

I was still trying to work it out when you slipped your arms round me and whispered how you, yourself, at that moment, just happened to be quite unbelievably effable It made my head spin, but I only had to look at your face to know what you meant by effable. (Greeny's chuckling now for he thinks I don't know what word begins with eff, but you taught me to write it once, along with our names. Are you surprised I remember?)

G: I can see that would make his love letters short and to the point.

Had it been only lust—only the brush of your fingertips under my shirt as you tried to drown me in those tar-barrel eyes—I might have given in. But it was lust and blasphemy both and, though I couldn't always resist, I was more afraid, and I struggled harder than ever.

Most times, I had the strength to walk away, and you'd not follow, save for your fingertips. I don't know how you did it, but I'd feel them on my skin all day, even when you were at the other end of the ship, seemingly busy with navigation.

Oh, you could be sin itself, Jack, and sometimes all the strength in the world wasn't enough. That was another way I betrayed you, for if I'd only held out longer, you'd have cast me off in disgust, I'm sure. You were never a patient man. You were devilish cunning, however, and could make your small patience outlast my little strength.

Greeny says to give examples to show you what I mean. We've had so many misunderstandings, you and I, so I suppose it can't hurt to be clear. Perhaps you really didn't know how your hips swung slower and wider when you felt my eyes on you. I'm sure you knew exactly where to climb naked over the rail to splash me where I stood sweltering in my shirt and waistcoat, and how to bob up under me like a seal if I was fool enough to take a swim myself. No doubt you'd sooner forget the rum that left a gritty cast in the bottom of the cup and a heat in my britches that could smoulder for days.

G: I hope you'll not begrudge an old, dead navigator a taste of imagined pleasure. Unlike Bill here, I never had enough temptation when I was alive, so I couldn't resist spinning out his tale. Don't listen to him about the rum—it ain't his britches as needs powders, but his brains.

Each time you overcame me, the anger and shame helped me hold out longer till the next defeat. It was slow, and cruel to both of us, but I was winning. I couldn't like what it did to you, mind.

Oh, I'd seen you spiteful and bitter before, but not like this, not turning on your own crew. The whole ship was on edge with it. You almost lost them when you kept on south, right past the Caribbean and the treasure you'd spun such tales of. You gave the men some daft reason or other, but I knew: you were hoping that crossing the Line would carry me across that harbour bar and make me yours again.

When it didn't, you were the very Devil, Jack. Even Barbossa was afraid to catch your eye. That was when the talk of secret charts began. No-one said it aloud, but it was clear they wanted a way to find the treasure without you.

Some thought the chart was in your cabin, but those of us who'd sailed from India with you knew it'd only be in your head. 'Course, it was me they asked to get it for them.

Don't think I betrayed you so easily or so soon. "Trust Jack," I'd tell them, "for he knows where the treasure is and the best way to get to it. You'll see." I must've said it a dozen times. One day, Pintel put down the rope he was splicing and looked me in the eye.

"'Tis all very well for you to trust him, Bill," he said, "but we ain't all got the Captain's ballocks tied up in our bootstraps." He flicked the rope into a noose and cinched it tight around his thumb to show his meaning.

"Bootstrap Bill," someone jeered, and they all shuffled about and laughed the way men will when someone speaks what all've muttered in secret. I shrugged it off and hoped they'd forget in a few days, but I was Bootstrap Bill until Barbossa tied me to a cannon by those bootstraps—and a length of strong chain—so you could say the name stuck.

You were too smart to let on, but you must have figured some of it, at least, from the sly looks. Never did get used to hearing you use the name, though I knew 'twas only to draw the sting.

I still kept faith with you, Jack, for I knew you'd turn us north sooner or later. At last, you took us into Asuncion with talk of business to wrap up before we went after the treasure. None of us was fool enough to ask more, though 'twas plain your business took you no further than the taverns and whorehouses. I kept well out of it.

G: Bill's a caution, ain't he? Most of us don't get so miserable until after we're dead. He must've had his spark of hope though. We all did, for despair alone's not enough when the Captain asks you to sign.

Father Theodore came to me in the third church I prayed in, which seemed meaningful at the time. He knelt beside me in silence a long while. When he spoke, he used English, though his own language was Dutch and the locals spoke Spanish or heathen tongues. He took me into a little room to the side of the church—not the confession box—for he said he could see I was a protestant and I should talk to God whatever way I was used to. I did talk too, and he never spoke a word of blame.

Finally, he said, "You want to go home to your wife and child, William. You want to lead a better life, for you are unhappy with this sinful one. I see that in you clearly. So what holds you back?"

I talked of the sea, of freedom, but they were your words, Jack, not mine, and they rang hollow. So I said I had to provide for my family.

"And if God permits you to find this treasure, will you take it home and provide for them there?"

"I don't know..." God help me, Jack, it was all I could say!

He put his arms round me then, and I clung to him and wept like a child.

"What holds you back?" he asked again.

That's when I told him how it'd been between us, how the joy of being with you made me forget everything else for a while, how I'd tried and tried to end it, but always you drew me back and I lost myself again.

Father Theodore had a way of asking questions that led where he wanted to go, though I didn't see that then. Wasn't it strange, to be so drawn to a grown man when I had a pretty wife at home? Had this happened to me before, with anyone else? What was it about you that drew me? Did I want to look at you and be with you all the time? Did you come to me in dreams? Did it ease when I found release with you, or grow stronger? What were you like to look at? Your hair, your eyes, your skin? Were you a Christian? Had I ever heard you pray? What did you turn to in times of fear and danger? Had I noticed anything uncanny? Speaking strange tongues? Unusual abilities?

You know the answers as well as I did. When he'd heard them, he laid it all out for me, Jack, and I swear it seemed truth as he spoke, for it made sense of what vexed me. He said it was plain you'd been raised in ignorance of the Christian God. That you came—in part at least—from heathen folk with their own dark ways. (Which was no more than plain truth, though I'd never cared to think on it much.)

He knew a good deal about heathens, he told me, having spent many years bringing the Word of God to them, and he'd seen many strange things.

"Not all their gods are false, William," he said, "by which I mean they are no sham. The Evil One can work in many ways and appear in many forms. It's clear this man has cast a spell on you. But with Our Lord's help, you can cast it off."

He prayed with me a long time. He said it was permitted for me to take the Aztec treasure, but I should look on it as a gift from God to set me on the path to a Christian life: I must steal no more from God-fearing people, and go home to care for my family. And I must close up my eyes and ears and have nothing to do with you. He blessed me as I left him.

I failed in all of it, of course, but do you understand now, Jack? I believed I was saving my immortal soul! At the time, it seemed worth any price.

As I figure it now, my efforts were all for naught and Father Theodore was years too late. Anyhow, if there was any shred of my soul not already forfeit, I damned it when I betrayed you to Barbossa. I thought I was escaping God's judgement, but I look around me now, and I know all I did was speed my own way to Hell.

G: I like to look on the bright side myself: better to sail forever than burn, if those be the choices. You might want to think on that, Jack, when Bill delivers this and the other thing.

When we first sailed from Asuncion, I had no thought of harming you. All I wanted was to claim my share of the gold, go home, and never think of you again. Being a fool and a coward, I failed, and being a fool and a traitor, I blamed you.

Barbossa saw, and he began to tell me tales of Cornish witches from his childhood, and how he'd turned to pirating for lack of a father to guide his steps. For all his black heart, he knew his Bible, and had a knack for reading just the verses that scared me the worst. I never was much of a one for cleverness, and what wits I had were mazed with lust and fear and lack of sleep. I truly believed it was you what sent the sinful dreams by night, and the lustful imaginings by day, and that I'd know peace if I could only escape from you. But I needed the treasure, and for that, I had to stay on the Pearl.

You know how barnacles take hold of a keel: a few specks becoming a dragging weight, until at last there's naught be a lumpy mass of shells to mark a wreck. That's how betrayal grew in my heart. I can't say just when I knew I'd help Barbossa take the ship from you, but I slowly understood I was going to.

I didn't tell him straight off. Perhaps a part of me still wanted to stop, still remembered all the times we scraped barnacles off the Pearl and made her smooth and beautiful again.

I'd already betrayed you in my heart, but I held back from the doing of it until the day you threw my Bible overboard. I can see now it was a bad moment to ask you to read to me, and the passage was ill-chosen. (I had some foolish notion of showing you the error of your ways, I think, as well as freeing myself of my promises to you, which was but poor use of the Holy Book.) Like as not, it owed something to my talks with Barbossa—anyway, I was foolish enough to act on it, and for that I ask your pardon.

G: I wonder what Bill took for his theme: magic, devils, sodomy, the evils of strong drink?

You won't need me to tell you how you played into Barbossa's hands when you lost your temper: it scared most of us bad to see a Bible so abused.

I think I still half-hoped to save you, to persuade you to trade the map for your life. Barbossa told me he'd let you stay if you gave up all claim to the Pearl. Perhaps he only said it to ease my conscience, or perhaps it weren't only my lust for you that he shared, but my fool's hope also.

None of it mattered in the end, for your mouth was on me before I could speak, and I was too weak. You were like a starving man, or a drowning one, and you thought I'd thrown you a lifeline. I couldn't bear to put my hands on you, but it weren't disgust—as you thought. It were shame.

Right at the end, I put my arms round you one last time, letting you think I was taking pity on you and pretending a fondness I didn't feel. It were pretence alright, but the fondness were real.

You pulled away from me after. I'd never seen you cry like that, so silent and closed to me. You were admitting defeat, I think, but I pressed on with the part Barbossa taught me.

I forget the words I said—some nonsense about needing you to trust me with your secrets—but I remember your answer. You looked at me black and cold as Hell's deepest dungeon. "So that's it, is it, William? You want a treasure map."

I knew there was still a chance to stop what I'd begun, but I stood there and let it flow away. Then you turned suddenly, with a flourish that tugged at my heart, for I'd nigh on forgotten you had such grace, or graciousness, or some other thing I don't have words for. You had words, though, Jack: "Then I shall make you one!" Like a king granting a favour to a subject.

I watched you shuffle the mess on your desk, scarce daring to believe it could be so easy. When you told me to take my shirt off and lie on your bunk, I thought it no more than one of your fancies and a small price to pay for the key to freedom.

Then you came to me with your ink and quill and I knew something was up. I think I tried to stand, but you stopped me with a look. You held out your hands and I saw that what I'd taken for ink was your jar of black kohl.

You said you'd not draw your chart on paper because it were only for me. (You could have made a paper one and then burnt it, of course. We both knew that.) The deal was clear: if I wanted a map, I had to give you my naked body to draw it on. You were truly a devil then, Jack—one I'd made myself, but no less devilish for that.

I twisted my fingers into the sheets and tried to think only of gold for Peggy and Will while you ran your kohl brush over my skin. Your chart spanned from my throat to my thighs. To be fair, you did no more than was needed for the map-drawing, but you used your fingers to smooth a path for your brush, and your hair couldn't help but trail behind them. What burned the most were your eyes—they seemed to eat up every inch of me.

G: Throat to thighs, eh? I'll wager I can guess where you put the treasure.

At first, I thought you did it only to torment me or please yourself (and no doubt both played their part) but I saw something in your face that I hadn't seen in months. It weren't shining and easy no more, but it were still beautiful. My slow mind took years to track your flying-fish thoughts, but you were saying goodbye, weren't you, Jack? You were storing me in the strange, miraculous part of your mind that keeps your maps.

I'll wager now, you've only to think of the Isla da Muerta to see my body clearer than I can picture it myself. Clearer than if I stood before you, changed as I am by time and the sea.

Your way with maps was one thing about you what never scared me, for all it were stranger than anything. It's a comfort, somehow, to think my old self is stowed along with all your currents, shoals, and anchorages. Perhaps one day you'll describe me to young William—leaving out the shameful parts, I hope.

You went to the washbowl for a cloth to wipe it off. When you turned, I was opening the door to Barbossa.

The Bosun took me below, and they held me down while Pintel and Rags did their best to copy it onto paper. They were more scared than me, I think, for 'twas no easy task and they knew they'd not a tenth of your skill. Poor Rags' hand trembled so, he kept dropping his quill, and Pintel, who was poking me with rulers and dividers, was talking nonsense to steady him, or distract the Bosun: I'm not sure which.

I was hurt, Jack, and angry and ashamed, for the bully boys had their sport with me. They picked out some lines with dagger points, making out they was helping Rags and Pint. That gave them the idea of adding lines of red, mermaids, and monsters. Your placing of the treasure didn't help.

G: I knew it! Well don't that make us both wicked buggers? Bill's too coy to give details, more's the pity.

It took a long time, and I could hear what they were doing to you up on deck, so I know you had it worse than me and I've no right to complain.

I was afraid to see you again—afraid to find they'd destroyed you, or perhaps that they hadn't. Anyway, I hid myself down in the orlop and they left me alone until Barbossa sent for me at the end.

I know I said unspeakable things. I don't rightly remember them now and I hope you don't neither. If you do, Jack, then I'm sorry. I saw what a terrible thing I'd done—half saw it leastways, for I was still fool enough to think I could save myself by destroying you.

When we sailed away, I spat over the rail towards your island and never once looked back. Didn't stop me seeing it in dreams, night after night.

Even Barbossa was uneasy, for he'd not seen the strength in you till then. He brightened up when they made him Captain, of course. They left me as Second Mate, out of shame perhaps, or a kind of loyalty—who knows? Anyway, Captain Barbossa were strung tight as a weather shroud in a gale until we had the treasure on board. After, he was cock-a-hoop.

If ever any man on that ship was a devil, Jack, it were him. He come to me one day waving a leather pouch. "An advance on your share, Bill, me lad," he said, grinning like a shark. "Thirty pieces of gold. It ought to be silver, of course, but a God-fearing man such as yourself will perceive the symbolism nonetheless."

Don't laugh, Jack. You know he never meant to liken you to Our Lord, and no more do I. He was calling me Judas, which was only truth. Every night in my cabin, I counted those medallions and cursed myself for each one. I'd told myself I was doing this for Peggy and Will, but how could I go back to them now, tainted as I was?

We began to feel the curse soon after, though none spoke of it at first. They thought it was your doing to begin with, that you'd bewitched us all. Even went back to the island to give your bones a decent burial (that or burn you alive—don't think they'd rightly decided which). When they could find no sign of you, they truly believed you were a sorcerer. Barbossa had a hard time of it, but he mastered them in the end and led us to Mexico to learn more of Cortez and the curse.

In some ways, it were easier on me, although I was the only one you'd not damned, for I knew I deserved to be cursed. That was why, when we found out about the medallions, I sent one in a packet to Will, so Barbossa would never break the spell. Should have thought of the trouble it might bring, but I was too slow, as usual.

Perhaps you did cast a spell on me, at that. It makes as much sense as anything, though I know you never meant me ill. It was all my doing, Jack, and what's happened since is no worse than I deserve. I'm only sorry you had to suffer too, though at least you escaped the curse, and for that, I'm truly glad. Glad too that you killed Barbossa and got the Pearl back.

Perhaps those heathen gods really do smile on you. I hope so, Jack, for you're going to need more than human cunning this time. I'm sorry to be the one to bring you doom—again—but someone else would have done it if not me. I wanted the chance to see you, to tell you I'm sorry. Don't take it ill.

However it turns out, I trust you'll not take my sins out on the boy, for he and Peggy were blameless. I made a poor job of helping them myself, so—though I've no right to ask—I hope you'll do what you can, Jack, in memory of the good times.

William Turner, Able Seaman.

G: He's a silly old bugger, is Bill. Spilled what's left of his guts out over that letter, he did; kept me writing for hours, and stood duty for me more times than I can keep track of. But when he finally got his chance to deliver it (for 'twas none other than Jack Sparrow he were moping for, and you can be sure the Captain picked Bill when it came Sparrow's time for the Black Spot), could he do it? Coward and traitor indeed, but so are we all. So are we all.

I don't like to keep such a thing on board for the Captain to find, and I don't care to destroy it neither, so I'll set it in a bottle and trust it to the sea. Current hereabouts should take it in the right general direction, though Jack Sparrow'll need the help of those heathen gods alright if he's to live long enough to read it.


The End