Farewell Summer ~ Ray Bradbury - Marimarister

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
It was such a day that all the doors stood open and all the window sashes had been up
since dawn. No one could stay in, everyone was out, nobody would die, everyone would live
forever. It was more spring than farewell summer, more Eden than Illinois. During the night a
rain had come to quench the heat, and in the morning, with the clouds hastened off, each tree in
all the yards gave off a separate and private rain if you shook it in passing.
Quartermain, out of bed and whirring through the house in hand-propelled trajectories,
again found that odd thing, a smile, on his mouth.
He kicked the kitchen door wide and flung himself, eyes glittering, the smile pinned to
his thin lips, into the presence of his servants and—
The cake.
―Good morning, Mr. Cal,‖ said the cook.
The cake stood like a magnificent Alp upon the kitchen table. To the odors of morning
were added the smells of snow upon a white mountain, the aroma of frosted blossoms and
candied roses, of petal pink candles and translucent icing. There it was, like a distant hill in a
dream of the future, the cake as white as noon clouds, the cake in the shape of collected years,
each candle ready for the lighting and blowing out.
―That,‖ he whispered, ―oh, my God, that will do it! Take it down to the ravine. Get.‖
The housekeeper and the gardener picked up the white mountain. The cook led the way,
opening the door.
They carried it out the door and down the porch and across the garden.
Who could resist a sweet thing like that, a dream? thought
Quartermain.
―Watch it! ‖
The housekeeper slipped on the dew-wet grass.
Quartermain shut his eyes.
―No, God, no!‖
When he opened his eyes again, the servants were still marching steadily, perspiring,