John Connolly - Samuel Johnson vs. the Devil 01 The Gates

The Divine Comedy is not funny, but its not supposed to be, despite its name. In Dantes time, a comedy meant a work that reflected a belief in an ordered universe. Also, serious books were written in Latin, and Dante wrote in a new language: Italian. Some of Shakespeares comedies are funny, though, but not if youre being forced to study them in school. In school, everything Shakespeare wrote starts to seem like a tragedy, even the ones that arent tragedies, which is a bit unfortunate, but thats just because of the way theyre taught. Stick with them. In later life, people will be impressed that you can quote Shakespeare, and you will sound very intelligent. Its harder to quote trigonometry, or quadratic equations, and not half as romantic.

Okay, back to Lewis Carrolls brandy and water problem. Mathematically speaking, the answer is that there will be just as much brandy in the water as there is water in the brandy, so both mixtures will be the same. Butand this is where your head may start to achewhen equal quantities of water and alcohol are mixed, the sum of them is more compact than their parts because the brandy penetrates the spaces between the water molecules, and the water penetrates the spaces between the brandy molecules, a bit like the way two matching pieces of a jigsaw puzzle fit together so that they occupy less space than if you just laid the same pieces side by side. In other words, the mixture becomes more concentrated, so if you add 50 spoonfuls of water and 50 spoonfuls of brandy, you actually end up with about 98 spoonfuls of the mixture in total. Adding a spoonful of brandy to 50 spoonfuls of water will give you less than 51 spoonfuls of the mixture, because, like we said earlier, its more concentrated. If you take a spoonful from that mixture, it will leave less than 50 spoonfuls in the cup. Then, if you add that spoonful from the concentrated mixture to the cup of brandy, it means that theres more brandy in the brandy cup than there is more water in the water cup. I warned you

Mrs. Abernathy did not like the smell of Earth. Her demonic senses made her acutely sensitive to all pleasant scents, so that she was even aware that the Milky Way itself smelled bad to her. Actually, astronomers who were recently sifting through thousands of signals from Sagittarius B2, a big dust cloud at the center of our galaxy, found a substance there called ethyl formate, which is the chemical responsible for the flavor of raspberries, and the smell of rum, the drink popular with pirates. Therefore, our galaxy tastes a bit of raspberries and smells of rum, which is nice.

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This book is a work of fiction. names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright 2009 by John Connolly

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Designed by Meghan Day Healey

Manufactured in the United States of America

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Connolly, John, 1968

The gates : a novel / by John Connolly.

p. cm.

1. BoysFiction. 2. Good and evilFiction. 3. SatanismFiction. 4. PhysicsFiction. I. Title.

PR6053.O48645G38 2009

823.914dc21 2009031069

ISBN 978-1-4391-7263-6
ISBN 978-1-4391-7305-3 (ebook)

O N THE NIGHT IN question, Mr. Abernathy answered the door to find a small figure dressed in a white sheet standing on his porch. The sheet had two holes cut into it at eye level so that the small figure could walk around without bumping into things, a precaution that seemed wise given that the small figure was also wearing rather thick glasses. The glasses were balanced on its nose, outside the sheet, giving it the appearance of a shortsighted, and not terribly frightening, ghost. A mismatched pair of sneakers, the left blue, the right red, poked out from the bottom of the sheet.

In its left hand, the figure held an empty bucket. From its right stretched a dog leash, ending at a red collar that encircled the neck of a little dachshund. The dachshund stared up at Mr. Abernathy with what Mr. Abernathy felt was a troubling degree of self-awareness. If he hadnt known better, Mr. Abernathy might have taken the view that this was a dog that knew it was a dog, and wasnt very happy about it, all things considered. Equally, the dog also appeared to know that Mr. Abernathy was not a dog (for, in general, dogs view humans as just large dogs that have learned the neat trick of walking on two legs, which only impresses dogs for a short period of time). This suggested to Mr. Abernathy that here was a decidedly smart dog indeedfreakishly so. There was something disapproving in the way the dog was staring at Mr. Abernathy. Mr. Abernathy sensed that the dog was not terribly keen on him, and he found himself feeling both annoyed, and slightly depressed, that he had somehow disappointed the animal.

Mr. Abernathy looked from the dog to the small figure, then back again, as though unsure as to which one of them was going to speak.

Trick or treat, said the small figure eventually, from beneath the sheet.

Mr. Abernathys face betrayed utter bafflement.

What? said Mr. Abernathy.

Trick or treat, the small figure repeated.

Mr. Abernathys mouth opened once, then closed again. He looked like a fish having an afterthought. He appeared to grow even more confused. He glanced at his watch, and checked the date, wondering if he had somehow lost a few days between hearing the doorbell ring and opening the door.

Its only October the twenty-eighth, he said.

I know, said the small figure. I thought Id get a head start on everyone else.

What? said Mr. Abernathy again.

What? said the small figure.

Why are you saying what? said Mr. Abernathy. I just said what.

I know. Why?

Why what?

My question exactly, said the small figure.

Who are you? asked Mr. Abernathy. His head was starting to hurt.

Im a ghost, said the small figure, then added, a little uncertainly, Boo?

No, not What are you? Who are you?

Oh. The small figure removed the glasses and lifted up its sheet, revealing a pale boy of perhaps eleven, with wispy blond hair and very blue eyes. Im Samuel Johnson. I live in number 501. And this is Boswell, he added, indicating the dachshund by raising his leash.

Mr. Abernathy, who was new to the town, nodded, as though this piece of information had suddenly confirmed all of his suspicions. Upon hearing its name spoken, the dog shuffled its bottom on Mr. Abernathys porch and gave a bow. Mr. Abernathy regarded it suspiciously.