Judge Taylor was saying something. “You have no standing, and if you had then your case would be moot.” Dimly, I saw Atticus pushing papers from the table into his briefcase. He snapped it shut, went to the court reporter and said something, nodded to Mr. Banker, and then went to Uncle Sam and whispered something to him. Atticus put his hand on Sam’s shoulder as he whispered. Atticus took his coat off the back of his chair and pulled it over his shoulder. Then he left the courtroom, but not by his usual exit. He must have wanted to go home the short way, because he walked quickly down the middle aisle toward the south exit. I followed the top of his head as he made his way to the door.
It was Jem’s turn to cry. His face was streaked with angry tears as we made our way through the cheerful crowd. “It ain’t right,” he muttered, all the way to the corner of the square where we found Atticus waiting. Atticus was standing under the street light looking as though nothing had happened: his vest was buttoned, his collar and tie were neatly in place, his watch-chain glistened, he was his impassive self again.
“It ain’t right, Atticus,” said Jem.
“No son. We should have sued before damage had occurred.”
The land seemed full of sniffing and cackling and sly noises, but there was no sound of truth or dissent. Far above the capitol building in the West the night-sky was still dim and pale. There, peeping among the cloud-wrack above a dark tor high up in the mountains, Pepe saw a white star twinkle for a while. The beauty of it smote his heart, as he looked up out of the forsaken land, and hope returned to him. For like a shaft, clear and cold, the thought pierced him that in the end the Sniffer was only a small and passing thing: there was a light and high beauty for ever beyond its reach. His song in the capitol had been defiance rather than hope; for then he was thinking of himself. Now, for a moment, his own fate, and even his master’s, ceased to trouble him. He crawled back into the brambles and laid himself by the founding documents, and putting away all fear he cast himself into a deep untroubled sleep.
Before long, washed and refreshed, the winners were seated at the table, two on each side, while at either end sat Melania and the Donald. It was a long and merry meal. Though the winners ate, as only famished winners can eat, there was no lack. The drink in their drinking-bowls seemed to be clear cold water, yet it went to their hearts like wine and set free their voices. The guests became suddenly aware that they were singing merrily, as if it was easier and more natural than talking.
But still she was there, who was there before Soros, and before the first stone of Rockefeller; and she served none but herself, drinking the blood of Wealth and Men, bloated and grown fat with endless brooding on her feasts, weaving webs of shadow; for all living things were her food, and her vomit darkness.
On two chairs beneath the bole of the tree and canopied by a living bough there sat, side by side, Donald and Melania. Very tall they were, and the Lady no less tall than the President; and they were grave and beautiful. They were clad wholly in white; and the hair of the President was of deep gold, and the hair of the Lady Melania was of hazel long and bright; but no sign of age was upon them, unless it were in the depths of their eyes; for these were keen as lances in the starlight, and yet profound, the wells of deep memory.
In the wild lands beyond Win there were mysterious wanderers. The Win-folk called them Autists, and knew nothing of their origin. They were taller and darker than the Men of Win and were believed to have strange powers of sight and hearing, and to understand the languages of beasts and birds.
The budget reached the bridge. President Trump stood in the middle of the span, holding on a pen in his left hand, but in his other hand the veto gleamed, cold and white. His enemy halted again, facing him, and the shadow about it reached out like two vast wings. It raised the aid, and the treasury whined and creaked. Money fells from its nostrils. But Trump stood firm. "You cannot pass," he said. The congress stood still, and a dead silence fell. "I am a servant of the U.S. people, wielder of the flame of freedom. You cannot pass. The dark media will not avail you, arm of Soros. Go back to the Shadow! You cannot pass."
But Kayleigh went forth from the House, and the light of her eyes was quenched, and it seemed to her people that she had become cold and grey as nightfall in winter that comes without a star. Then she said farewell to Trump, and to her employees, and to all whom she had loved; and she went out from the city of D.C. and passed away to the land of binders, and dwelt there alone under the fading trees until winter came.
DEATH!