Inn-by-the-bye Stories—10 4u4h1x

Inn-by-the-Bye Stories—10

William Flewelling

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© 2017 William Flewelling. All rights reserved.

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Published by AuthorHouse 04/06/2017

ISBN: 978-1-5246-8739-7 (sc) ISBN: 978-1-5246-8738-0 (e)

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Contents

Foreword

CDLI

CDLII

CDLIII

CDLIV

CDLV

CDLVI

CDLVII

CDLVIII

CDLIX

CDLX

CDLXI

CDLXII

CDLXIII

CDLXIV

CDLXV

CDXLVI

CDLXVII

CDLXVIII

CDLXIX

CDLXX

CDLXXI

CDLXXII

CDLXXIII

CDLXXIV

CDLXXV

CDLXXVI

CDLXXVII

CDLXXVIII

CDLXXIX

CDLXXX

CDLXXXI

CDLXXXII

CDLXXXIII

CDLXXXIV

CDLXXXV

CDLXXXVI

CDLXXVII

CDLXXXVIII

CDLXXXIX

CDXC

CDXCI

CDXCII

CDXCIII

CDXCIV

CDXCV

CDXCVI

CDXCVII

CDXCVIII

CDXCIX

D

Appendix: Texts For The Stories

About the Author

Also By This Author

Poetry

Time Grown Lively From My Corner Seat Enticing My Delight The Arthur Poems From Recurrent Yesterdays In Silhouette To Silent Disappearance Teasing The Soul Allowing The Heart To Contemplate As Lace Along The Wood To Trace Familiarity The Matt Poems Elaborating Life The Buoyancy Of Unsuspected Joy To Haunt The Clever Sheer Of Grace The Christmas Poems

Life Is Employed Adrift In Seas Of Strangeness

Devotional

Some Reflective Prayers Reflective Prayers: A Second Collection A Third Collection Of Reflective Prayers For Your Quiet Meditation A Fourth Collection Of Reflective Prayers Cantica Sacra

Directions Of A Pastoral Lifetime

Part I: Pastoral Notes, Letters To Anna, Occasional Pamphlets Part II: Psalm Meditations, Regula Vitae Part III: Elders’ Studies Part IV: Studies Part V: The Song Of Songs: An Attraction

Inn-by-the-Bye Stories

vols. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9

Exegetical Works

From The Catholic Epistles: Bible Studies Paul’s Letter To The Romans: A Bible Study The Book Of Hebrews: A Bible Study

all published by AuthorHouse.com

Foreword

This set of stories continue their arrival in Ottumwa, this being the first set to be entirely an Iowa production. I learned as the stories became more and more a part of my that the conditions of the time I sat down to write were taken into the flow of the story. I used the immediacy of weather – the sun and the rain, the wind and the snow, the heat and the cold – and of the season of the year to frame the unfolding of the story as it translated (in a way) the scripture of consideration into a narrative set in my imagined world of Hyperbia. This made the Iowa set of stories subject to the harsher conditions (hot and cold alike) that were normal fare in Southeast Iowa.

I once described my process of preparing to preach as finding in myself a collision between what I found in the text at hand – I always followed the lectionary, that from a time long before I began writing the stories and continuing throughout my ministry – and what I was aware of in the congregation and community and world at large. I used the image of two trains under full steam rushing into each other in a headlong urgency. Out of that came what appeared to me to be the sermon. And part of that train wreck situation was the story, a ‘fairy tale exegesis’ of the text on the way toward discovering the genesis of the preached word.

As a result, the place where I was doing my interaction with the scripture, the people around me, the nuances and difficulties and surprises and needs all came together with the text and my inscape processes in order to come to with it all, altogether.

Coupled with the externals of the process – different in Iowa than they had been in Indiana, and even more so than they had been in Ohio where I had first pondered such a scheme, there remained the fondness I was ever developing

with my characters and the growing awareness of the nuances of the land and history and development that made up Hyperbia. All of this, I hope, comes out in the continuing saga of these stories, each of them on its own yet developing together to form what the whole becomes, even through the remaining fourteen sets of stories.

I hope you enjoy your reading.

William Flewelling

CDLI

Suddenly, everyone was going every which way. The entire City on the Plain was astir, crawling with activity, people going round about, jostling one another, rattling every door, bumping into walls. The space simply was not made to allow so much of a furor in so many hands and faces and bodies, all at the same time. The streets were too narrow; they became choked with the anxiety of many.

Margent sought to keep some kind of a handle on the activity of his normally easy-going, just-busy enough City. He liked to be aware of the activity, to be responsive to the needs of the people. He had prided himself that such had been the case ever since Osburn had left and fallen from power. But today! – well, today there was no space for information, there were no lines for communication. Everything was ajumble; and Margent was frustrated.

While Margent paced in his office, looking out of first one window and then the other, down onto the heads and faces of the overcrowded streets, Osburn also gazed out of his window, up in his hide-away which had become his isolated retreat. Forcibly retired to this high, secluded place, Osburn had never lost his longing to rule that City on the Plain, once his own little empire. Now, he gazed down on the distant flurry of what looked like unrest. He smiled a little smugly that such a mess should occur while he was not involved, at all. He was confident that, were he in that office down below – not the one in which Margent paced, but the larger, more elegant one he had had, up on the top story of that same building – then, this mess should not have stirred up at all. And, if it did, he knew just how to poison the furor and enforce his own sense of order.

Even though Osburn could be smug up on the overarching cliff, Margent felt himself a lot closer to this whole fuss. He didn’t have a good grasp on the problem, and wanted to go out and learn what the people felt was happening. He

half-way suspected that no one really knew. The other half knew that knowing would little matter by afternoon, when the morning cool gave way to the Summer’s afternoon. Then, all the bustle and jostling and heat would leave the people in a state of being automatically aggravated at almost everything, and fearful of all the rest, real and imaginary. The City would be a hive. And now it was already mid-morning. Margent pondered how he might approach this situation next.

On the cliff, at his picture window, Osburn stood and watched. His hands were folded behind his back. He rocked forward and back on the balls of his feet. He pursed his lips and studied the unusual scene through pouchy eyes. Such a fuss had not come up since the day he was retired, involuntarily. Now, he felt, that City would finally be sorry for ending his good rule. They trade him for Margent! What a trade! he thought, his lips curling in derision. The fantasy that he would be invited back so that order and right rule might be restored – that fantasy pranced through his mind. He smiled, or rather grinned, coldly, at the thought. ‘Ah’, he sighed, ‘that would be sweet revenge’.

Margent was getting restless. There was such a furor outside. His door, even, was rattled as milling bodies bumped and re-bumped against it. The impulse he felt in his bones was to go outside, to tap popular opinion, to talk on the square, as he often did, on calmer days. Wringing his hands in indecision, Margent furrowed his brow. His entire face was tense and tight. He would have looked tiny, had anyone troubled to look at him. But Margent was alone, increasingly uncertain, afraid, even as the day moved toward noon, and then toward afternoon.

The milling crowds, without any real purpose except this unmentionable restlessness that seethed in them, grew pushier. The thuds on Margent’s closed door – as also upon many another door in the City on the Plain – grew heavier. More weight was behind them; and they indicated a more weighty uneasiness all around. Margent began to fret more. He wandered from window to window. The level of his agitation grew more and more. He licked his lips, which dried almost

immediately, so that his tongue began to stick on his dry chaps. Before very long, Margent was no longer seeing the crowd; instead he saw in a blur a churning mass of empty faces. And he was afraid.

Osburn sneered at his window. The Sun was beating in. His eyes had long since grown weary in the direct glare. Nevertheless, he glanced below. The Sun also heated his room, behind this expanse of glass as it was. Sweat had long since beaded on his brow and moistened his body. Trickles had run randomly down his frame. His hands were uncontrollably moist with sweat. And still he watched the agitated crowds, and talked to himself about just how he would correct things, were he in charge (as, he was sure, he ought to be in charge). With a snort, Osburn wondered why Margent hadn’t called on the troops to enforce a true order from above. ‘He must be out of control himself’ sneered Osburn at the pane of unhearing glass.

Mid-afternoon, and the heat of the day came. The Sun no longer shone into Osburn’s big window. But his house was already over-warmed and he grew tired, too tired to muster out his imaginary forces over his imaginary rule. Down below, the warmth and the crowdedness dulled wits and sharpened tempers. The crowds stirred with ever greater virulence. The rumbling discontent still had no focus. No one knew why they were out. No one had any projects to do. They were simply restless and had gone out for a bit of exercise. But everybody had gone out and overcrowded the streets, distracting everyone from whatever they might have been thinking. Margent was unprepared for this. He loosened his tie and flopped down in his chair, totally distracted from the day he had expected.

Geoffrey and Carymba, after lunch at the Inn-by-the-Bye, opted to take a walk. By happenchance, they chose to go to the Great River, planning to see Wilbur if he weren’t busy. The path took them near the City on the Plain. As they ed near, they could not help but notice that the day was very full, and there seemed to be a lot of real agitation in the City. Carymba grew curious. Geoffrey shrugged, and agreed to go in and find Margent. They wove through the crowd, which seemed to open for them, and close behind them, entirely unchanged.

They approached Margent’s door.

The two friends knocked, a sound quite distinct from the bumps of all the morning collisions. Margent, in a slight daze, came to the door, cracked it open, and said: ‘Who are you?’ ‘Carymba and Geoffrey’. ‘What do you want?’ ‘Come on out!’ ‘Are you crazy?’ ‘No. You should be out here’. ‘I barely dare try’. ‘Why? We are here, safe and sound’. Margent swallowed hard, adjusted his tie and his coat, moistened his lips, cleared his throat and slipped out the door.

They walked, the three of them, and talked calmly. They went straight to the square. Carymba brought them to a stand in the square. ‘Here, Margent: climb up there and greet your people’. ‘Who? Me? They’ll never hear me!’ ‘Try it … you’ll see’. So Margent repeated his nervous routine and mounted the step, recleared his throat. Carymba and Geoffrey were attentive, and Margent drew courage. ‘Hello, my friends!’ he called, over the din.

12 August 1990

CDLII

All day long, a cool, moist and heavy air had clung around Hyperbia. Every smell was strong. And every scent lingered, with musty overtones. The whole was a burden on almost everyone’s morale. Time set them on edge. They really were reluctant to get involved with anything.

Thyruid shuffled around the Inn-by-the-Bye. He felt the cool damp in his ts and in his muscles. Everything twitched and ached. He felt miserable and grumpy because everything was on edge for him. He didn’t like feeling like this. He knew full well that he was supposed to be a responsible, even a reasonable person. He was supposed to be the congenial host of the Inn-by-the-Bye. As such, he was not supposed to be biting people’s ears with his responses and comments. He was not supposed to be sharp, nor sarcastic. The inconsistency made all things worse for Thyruid. His edginess sharpened. He scowled at the world. He snarled at the empty dining room – for Clyde and Geoffrey had congenially offered to take Missus Carney out for a little stroll, to which she had agreed, pleasurably.

Alone now, Thyruid straightened tables, corrected faint semi-smudges in obscure parts of his well-polished brass trim, polished the counter again, wiping away non-existent crumbs, re-straightening tables. He scowled at the cool, clean hearth and fussed some more. He compulsively prowled the room, up into the foyer, even arranging the hangers on the unused-in-Summer coat rack. Restlessly, he examined, and re-examined and, later, repeated the repeated examination of each corner of the dining room.

At last, there being no customers, Thyruid paused at the counter, glanced around the room with furtive, jerky motions, his brows lowered so as to hover over his sunken eyes while his fingers of his right hand tapped nervously on the counter.

Slapping at the counter-top, Thyruid grunted and twisted his rounded torso and moved to shove his way through the swinging door. The door rattled after he ed through them, and the dining room’s air seemed to settle and ease, just a bit.

Inside the kitchen, Thyruid began again his pacing. ‘Oh, be still, Thyruid’ complained Marthuida. ‘Why?’ ‘Why not?’ She answered his severe inquiry with a gentle lilt. He scowled. ‘I don’t know. I guess I’m just restless. My legs are so twitchy and tight. I just can’t sit back and relax, as you put it’. ‘Oh. I guess I hadn’t realized your tensions’. ‘I’m not really tense’ he started as he ambled aimlessly, fingering the gadgetry of the kitchen and tracing letters in the flour on the mixing board. ‘I see’ she stated, matter-of-factly. ‘Yes’, he continued. ‘Yes. I am simply a little edgy. It … it’s the … uh … atmosphere today. The air is heavy, hard to breathe. Don’t you think so? Well, whatever, … and maybe I’m tired or something. But everything is just not quite right today’. ‘Oh. Maybe a cup of coffee, or some left-over biscuits would help you out … I’d make you fresh, but mid-afternoon is such an inconvenient time’. ‘Sure, sure: no need. … But maybe I will try a bite to eat. And is the coffee hot already?’ ‘Yes. Here: grab a biscuit or two and I’ll pour us each a mug of coffee. We can go, sit at the counter for a bit, and relax together’.

Thyruid grasped a pair of biscuits in one hand and nodded in agreement. Her voice sounded so soothing that he was certain that things were better than he had thought. His legs were bothersome. They did not want to settle down, relax. Alone for a moment, past the swinging door, Thyruid tried a deep knee bend; he creaked and moaned slightly before he raised himself erect once more. He shifted and tottered roughly, bearing up against the firm counter. His thighs still seemed to creep with indescribable twinges and tinglings of discomfort. They didn’t hurt; they simply rebelled at the idea of staying still. So he began to meander around, nibbling at his cool biscuits and trying valiantly to keep the crumbs corralled. His meander stiffened to a strut. Thyruid felt surly, and his crumb laden lip was curled as proof.

Marthuida brought out the two mugs of coffee. ‘Here: come and sit down. If I’m going to relax over this mug of coffee, you are too’. Thyruid slunk to the counter, heaved his behind onto a stool and snapped off another bite of his brittle biscuit, sending a shower of crumbs out onto the counter top. He glared at them until Marthuida stuck the mug of coffee down in his line of sight. Raising his brow, he became sufficiently distracted, and stuffed the last bit of biscuit into his mouth.

Thyruid silently chewed on his mouthful of dryish biscuit. His mouth felt even drier, and he scowled while he chewed. Marthuida noticed the exaggerated downward curl of his mouth, the funny little wad on his chin, the dull, drab look in his eyes. His cheeks were flaccid, the flesh hanging loosely. His complexion was pinkish grey, losing its vigor in despondency. She chose to sip at her coffee and wait through his silence. Thyruid reached for his coffee and brought it to his lips to sip. Leaning forward over the counter, he placed his elbows astride the crumbs and held his mug of piping hot coffee in both hands, and sipped at it absentmindedly.

The two shared the lonely quiet for some time. The biscuits had been consumed; even the crumbs had been picked up one or two at a time, and nibbled away. And the cooling mug was nearly empty – Marthuida had finished hers some time ago. In that disinterested waiting, the door opened. Geoffrey peeked in first. Seeing it was calm, he led Missus Carney into the foyer. Clyde followed, lending a hand. Missus Carney was flushed and rosy-cheeked from the walk. Her humor was high. She chatted softly with her friends and laughed freely and easily. ‘I’m tired, you know, but so glad for the walk! I ought to go kiss Thyruid for the opportunity!’ Geoffrey and Clyde both chuckled nervously under their breath, uncertain of how Thyruid’s mood might be just now.

Missus Carney took Clyde’s arm and let him help her down the steps, into the dining room itself. She was all fresh and easy. She was also tired and so headed first of all toward her chair. But then, she became distracted, and stopped still. She looked at glum Thyruid and at silent, pleasant Marthuida. And she turned to

shuffle their way. Clyde and Geoffrey, her escorts, swallowed hard, and followed after her, leery of the unusually sullen Thyruid. ‘Thyruid’ she said blatantly, ‘you ought to go out for a walk. Take Marthuida with you. Go on out to the Fields. Get her some flowers at Mary’s Flower Shop. Smell that fresh air. See the sunshine. Go on! I’ll take your seat here’. She pushed the amazed Thyruid off his stool and looked for a hand to climb up on it herself. ‘Go on! Geoffrey will mind the kitchen for a bit. Clyde can watch the tables. I’ll supervise. You: take a walk, both of you. That alone will do wonders for you!’

Dumbfounded, Thyruid stuttered, and stopped; he shrugged, helplessly, and shuffled away toward the door. Befuddled, Marthuida tagged along after him. ‘What about supper?’ she asked. ‘Never mind. We’ll take care of the Inn. You get some refreshment’.

19 August 1990

CDLIII

Heavy, muggy air hung around the Fields and everywhere. As the Sun rose in the morning, it served only to give some grey-filtered light across the shadow-free space. Clouds hung low and weepy. Light drizzle in humid air would give way to temporary downpours, only to return to drizzle or mist in saturated air. The Fields felt the muggy weight. Breathing was a chore. Lying was always as if in a sticky puddle.

The mattress of Mary’s bed was as if coated with syrup. Mary awoke, formally, as one sticky mass stuck in tacky with her bed. Everything clung in moist consistency. Her night clothes were pasted in broad wrinkles to her body. Her damp hair clung to her head and to her cheeks. Her eyes creaked open as slits between reluctant lids.

Although her eyes had cracked open, the bed continued to hold her body. Mary was not awake as yet, not really. She sprawled, flat on her back, wallowing in wet discomfort. Silence at last was broken with a low moaning sigh, followed by a lingering groan. Mary was officially awake, even alert enough to think of beginning a day, if only she could pry herself free from the sticky, sweaty, humid goo in which she lay. Which way to move first? After much delay, she began to rock her head from side to side, slowly. She wondered, then listened carefully and decided she did not hear any sloshing sounds; it only seemed like she ought to hear them, as if she were rocking in a low pan of stagnant water.

Disgusted with the way the day began, Mary peeled herself off the mattress. She limply plied her body onto one elbow; her head hung down upon her shoulder, but her hair clung snugly to her cheek anyway. Her clothes were semi-wet, and clingy. She felt like she stuck to everything, and she muttered about it all. By the time she was sitting on the edge of her bed, she was more awake than asleep.

She felt like she was gurgling as she tried to breathe the thickened air. But that, she decided, was foolish. Besides, approaching days like this one was beginning to be must be a matter of mind over matter. Pulling herself up erect, March blanched, then, breathing hard as if to pump herself up, leaned into the act of simply standing.

Blinking quickly and wavering unstably, Mary tried to clear her mind and progress. Her night clothes did not fall free about her, but clung in their awkward disarray. She didn’t fix them, other than to squirm herself to be freer in motion. Thus permitted, she shuffled stiffly across the room. She peeked over her shoulder, seeing if she left a wake in the muggy air. Seeing nothing, of course, she chuckled at her own brand of foolishness. She knew full well there would be no wake in the air, none she could see, anyway. But, Oh! It was muggy!

A splash of fresh water, a swath with a towel, a change into her daily clothes and Mary pretended to be fresh. She chased down some breakfast, forgetting to look into some tea; there was no reason to add heat when it was like this, already! She listened to another shower drum mercilessly upon her roof. No breeze brought it to her window. Only the roof was battered, and the run-off splattered all around the edges of the Flower Shop. Mary knew it was only more warm water to stoke the muggy air with yet more humidity.

Deciding to remain barefoot, Mary wiggled her toes as they protruded out from her skirt, down at the bottom of her skinny legs. They looked weird, those toes, and left odd patterns on the floor as they curled up. She smiled broadly, knowing there was yet need for a bit of humor today. Shrugging at the warming heat, Mary half skipped to her stairs and on down to the landing, and to the floor of the shop itself. The greyness hung around her plants. They rested, she decided. Taking her watering can around, she found little need for water. Nothing was evaporating, at all.

Her chores quickly done, Mary pondered what to do. There were no demands in

here, she knew. That would free her to do something else, if she wished. ‘Perhaps’, she thought, ‘I should wait upon a visitor. … But who would be out on a day like this?’ Who indeed, she mused, if not she herself. With a snap of insight, her eyes grew wide, and bright. They flashed, and so did her smile. Her face became bright and clear: no hint of dreariness remained. Mary turned industriously to grab an old a basket, a big one. She quickly moved among her tables and trays. She collected a mess of flowers and greens, and smiled at it all. Thence, she proceeded to the door, her basketful of flowers veiled against the next dousing from above.

With a newly spritely step, Mary left her shop and pulled the door shut behind her departure. Outside, the air was as thick and still as it had been inside. The warmth encouraged her to sweat, and her body freely agreed. Every movement generated more heat, more sweat, more stickiness. The air would do nothing to cool her. Mary laughed anyway as she swayed with each step down her steps, and out the path to the regular walking path around the Fields. The grass had been growing and arched in long blades, each one wet from the latest shower, and all the drizzle. Bare feet met the mud on that path and felt the thin slimy layer ooze between toes and slide beneath her heels and the balls of her feet. Brash blades slapped at her as she met them; each cast its shower upon her and she was soon soaking wet. Her dress clung to her, wet from both sides. Mary waved her arms vigorously, skipped, and laughed right out loud. The basket arched high in her hand.

The path chosen went to the ‘Y’. She had already decided to go to the Inn-bythe-Bye. So her feet never paused as she hurried around the ‘Y’ and around the Big Rock, down onto the Commons and over toward the Inn’s front door.

Peering over the Inn, because they were kneeling behind the Inn, waiting for their breakfast, were Yves and Betsy. Betsy noticed the flower basket and called out: ‘What kind of flowers do you have today, Mary?’ Mary paused suddenly, flushed, then replied as she stood stock still, her feet spread on the wet, soft soil: ‘Only pretty ones!’ Her voice was crisp and fresh, parting the heavy air cleanly.

Yves looked closer. Look! She has bare feet! That mud must feel wonderful on bare feet!’

Yves flopped onto his seat and began yanking off his shoes. Betsy scowled at him: ‘Yves! What are you doing?’ ‘Having fun. I can run!’ He left his shoes and jumped to his feet. Betsy scolded: ‘Look at your seat! It’s all wet, and muddy!’ ‘So?’ replied Yves. ‘Run Yves! But be careful!’ called Mary, hurrying to find the shelter of the porch of the Inn-by-the-Bye.

Yves turned and thundered across the Plain, clear to the Great River. There, he skidded to a stop, turned and raced back, sliding onto the Commons. All wet and laughing loudly, he grinned completely to Mary. ‘This is a wonderful day, once you get started’ he said.

‘Flowers, anyone?’ called Mary, as she broke into a grinning burst of laughter.

26 August 1990

CDLIV

Malak slid through the morning hours, quietly. He was silent in his approach and no one ever heard him coming. He seemed most adept at getting himself around in unassuming, non-obvious ways. No one was ever sure where Malak stayed, or lived. He had not been seen for a long time. He was a distant fellow; some thought he was odd. Yet Malak had a way of being singularly effective. His words would come surprisingly. And people would find new insights opened. This morning – and it was early in the day, at that hour when the grey overcast is barely light, and the wooded paths are still thickly shadowed – Malak was sliding down the Valley Road, having come from the direction of the Sea.

At the Narrows, sitting upon the root steps, was Carymba. She, too, had a way of appearing in sorts of places at odd times. She says she moves about by intuition alone. She simply has a hunch and a restlessness inside, which she follows cautiously. (Even intuition can slip up at times. She wants to make sure.) So, this morning, on what seemed like a whim, she came down and settled here to await the dawn and whatever the dawn might bring.

Malak stepped noiselessly along the Valley Road. He moved quickly, not quite at a run but with a breathlessness that most could not sustain. In this concentrated rush, he came by the old tree whose roots make the steps – it is on the Sea-ward side of the end of the path up into the Crossed Hills and to Hidden Cabin. Carymba, thus, was behind the tree. And Malak was not expecting anyone at all. When Carymba felt him coming, she decided not to stand up, but simply to speak directly to him. ‘Good Morning’ she said as Malak began to stride in front of her eyes. He stopped cold in the path. His eyes darted to her in dark surprise. ‘Don’t be so startled’ she chided softly, with a tiny teasing lilt in her voice. Malak stood still, glumly and silently.

‘Do you have a message?’ ‘No, not yet. I am going to get one’. ‘Where are you going?’ ‘I’m not sure yet’. ‘I see. I don’t know where I am going yet, either. Maybe we could go looking together’. ‘Maybe’. ‘But, if we do, we will have to go at my pace. I cannot walk nearly as fast as you do’. ‘Hmmm’. ‘But, if we go slower, and together, just maybe we will end up with a clue of where we are going’. ‘Maybe we are going to different places’. ‘Maybe I am to undo your zest’. ‘Hmmm’. ‘Don’t buzz too much. But, tell me, how are things back in the Hills?’ ‘Fine enough: do you know where I stay?’ Only approximately: some think I’m nosy. But I prefer to think of myself as merely observant’. Malak laughed with a snort. ‘I suppose it will be safer to be with you. I’ll slow down. But let’s be quiet’. ‘Fair trade’.

Carymba hopped to her feet, stepped out onto the Valley Road and stood before Malak at the Narrows. With a few swift swipes, she dusted off her skirts from where she had been sitting. She shrugged: ‘You were coming from the Sea, so let’s continue that way’. ‘We can start on such a hunch’. And, in silence, they left, walking at Carymba’s pace, a steady, sturdy, syncopated gait. The morning was brightening the sky and making the pathway clearer and clearer, step by step.

At the ‘Y’, they stopped and looked both ways. They looked at each other. They glanced at each other’s feet, guessing which way they might go. Each stood stock still, waiting for a clue. Carymba laughed out loud first, much to Malak’s dismay. ‘Shh!’ he scolded. ‘Poof!’ replied Carymba. Malak glared. ‘You said you’d be quiet’. ‘I was, until I had to laugh a little’. ‘Laugh! That was a burst, an explosion!’ ‘Look who’s being noisy now’. Malak grew glum, and silent. Between his teeth he whispered: ‘I should have stayed on my own path, or even gone back home’. ‘Now, now!’ said Carymba, with mock seriousness, but quite incapable of masking the impish twinkle in her eyes. Malak brooded, missing her fun. ‘Well’, he grumbled, ‘which way do you think we ought to go?’

After pondering a minute, Carymba said: ‘I vote for right’. ‘Why?’ ‘I just think right is the correct direction to go’. ‘Why not go to the Inn-by-the-Bye?’ ‘We

have nothing to tell them there’. ‘True. But we could incubate over breakfast. I vote for left’. ‘So, go left. I am going right!’ And she did, cutting right in front of him with a surprisingly quick first step. Malak’s eyes flew open; he had to catch his weight, which had begun to lean left, and either hold it in lengthened pause, throw it to the right with her, or crash into her and have them both end up in a tumble on the ground. Given her angle, throwing himself to the right was his only real choice. And he found himself stumbling along beside her, desperately seeking a better balance. ‘You be careful’, he grumbled, his steps finally coming into form, under his body.

‘So, here we go, out along the Fields’. ‘True’. ‘Who are you going to see?’ ‘I don’t know, yet’. ‘What do you mean, you don’t know yet?’ ‘Just what I said: I simply need to go this way. You are welcome to come along, if you like. … Or, better yet’ … and she stopped directly and pondered, her eyes set in a bright and penetrating gaze … ‘how about you go to the Inn-by-the-Bye and order a big breakfast’. ‘What are you talking about?’ ‘You said you wanted some breakfast, something to help you incubate. That might have been your inspiration’. ‘You don’t make any sense’. ‘Are you hungry?’ ‘Yes’. ‘Then go on and let Marthuida fix you a big breakfast’. ‘I don’t know. I’m beginning to think I had better stick with you’. ‘Whatever you think best. Just don’t let your stomach growl too loudly’. ‘Where are we going?’ ‘You’ll see’. She began her walk along the Hills, but more slowly, pensively.

Shortly, she came to the Way Down, and stopped. She leaned against the big rock that guarded the far side of that path, and thought. Thinking furrowed her forehead and seemed to wrinkle her face. The sky was turning blue, the air warming as the day began; but Carymba’s face was clouded. Malak looked at her in a mood of disgust. He folded his arms across his chest, rested his weight on one leg and tapped his other foot, impatiently. He was coming to think his ideas were best from the start, that she had tricked him into coming, doing things her way. But, he wondered just what she was doing now. Malak felt a little confused, as well as a little frustrated.

Carymba waited. Malak stewed, trying to decide what to do. During this odd stand-off, the Sun rose higher and the temperature rose. Malak was not used to standing around like this. He was a goer, and a doer. But what was he to do now, and how? Breakfast sounded good. And even trekking back into the Hills, off to his own place, sounded safer than this. He was a quiet man, meant to bring a word suddenly. This delay, this dillydallying ran against his grain. Carymba waited, and finally Eliza came down from her home in the Hills and greeted them.

‘Hello, Carymba!’ ‘Hi’. ‘And hello to you, too’. ‘Oh, his is Malak. He isn’t seen very often. He would love to go with you to the Inn, to find some breakfast’. ‘Ok’ smiled Eliza, cheered by the positive mood of Carymba. Malak shrugged, and went off with Eliza toward the Inn-by-the-Bye. Carymba watched them go, a wry smile slowly curling the corners of her mouth. As Eliza and Malak rounded the Big Rock, Carymba turned and took her syncopated gait out to the Fringe, and beyond, searching for this day’s inkling, a day already becoming steamy-hot.

9 September 1990

CDLV

Thyruid lugged his polish pot with him as he moved to his early morning chore of polishing his prized brass ware. He worked at it, watching as the polish spread evenly, in swirls. Then he began to polish the brass, rubbing it clean to an ever deeper sheen. He found pleasure in that beauty; he treasured his brass trim. And yet, today, he found his mind wandering. Although a great effort was given to concentrating on the chore, his mind meandered away anyway. His hands slackened slightly. His brass ware polished a little more slowly, a little less thoroughly than usual. But his thinking churned.

For Thyruid was ing his years at the Inn-by-the-Bye. Those memories lingered, filling up his attention at the cost of his chores. He was becoming preoccupied. For the land of Hyperbia, it seemed to him, had become – how shall he put it? – more relaxed, less apt to be teeming than it once was. He had his regular customers, and his guests, to be sure. But he ed having had more crowds, larger groups in the past. Back then, everybody was involved. Now, it seems as if fewer folk were around very often. Of course, he realized, the Inn itself was not the focus it had been, or the one he wished it would become. He scowled as he pondered the fading of old memories. How quickly they go!

As Thyruid moved slowly through his polishing, drawing himself back to the chore with repeated jerks on his own attention, fuming within himself over this meandering of mind, he also pondered what he could do to revive that old time feeling. Just the other day, he had chatted with Geoffrey about what seems to him to be a bad decay in community spirit. Geoffrey had not agreed, and Thyruid had become boisterous in his position, nearly shouting, for he was deeply concerned and very sure of his position. Thyruid ed now how Geoffrey had stepped backwards and bowed out of their discussion. Thyruid felt he had won. And he enjoyed confident feeling.

The brass ware polishing ended, Thyruid glanced back at it: it was good enough for today. He chose to let his eye miss the sloppier points and consider it all as a part of the deterioration he tried to convince Geoffrey was real. Now, he had some proof, in only in his own work. With a shrug and a swagger, Thyruid wended his way to the counter, sliding the polish-pot and rags back underneath the counter, where he always stored them. He pulled himself erect, adjusting his tros a tad, feeling a little more secure as he came to the established habits, the usual forms, even if the brass ware was not quite polished up to standard.

Hearing Marthuida in the kitchen, Thyruid moved to the swinging door, threw a shoulder against it and followed the flinging door into the kitchen. The odors were growing thick. The coffee was brewing and some biscuits were baking and some yeast dough was fermenting on the counter. The rich combination teased his nostrils; he spread them to sniff the heady fullness. His head swam and he grinned broadly in the consuming pleasure of it all. Thyruid forgot about his worries for a minute. He completely forgot about his sloppy brass polishing. He forgot about Geoffrey. He thought only about Marthuida, of her skill and of the baking treasures of her kitchen. In short, his mouth began to water profusely.

Marthuida saw him and smiled wryly, his eyes twinkling. ‘Why not just go out and wait a few minutes?’ ‘No. I like the aroma in here. This kitchen is a delightful place to be just now’. ‘Ah! I have no dishes to wash, nor pots to clean just yet. That must make it even better!’ ‘Naturally!’ responded Thyruid as he began to chuckle and make his round figure jiggle in good humor. ‘But, even more than that, there is the company’. ‘Oh?’ ‘Yes. Not only is there the company of good smells and promising hints, but you are here as well’. ‘I see you keep your priorities straight’. And she laughed, too. ‘Oh, stay if you wish! Arrange some plates and get a tray ready for our breakfast. Others will be down soon enough, and we will be busy then’. Thyruid nodded as his mind meandered from rich aromas to the empty dining room and the lingering concerns he had had over the changes in Hyperbia since the olden times.

While the two of them were enjoying the aromatic kitchen, Geoffrey had slid

down the stairs, nattily attired as always, and gone out the door. No one would ever have expected this of Geoffrey. Early for him meant just past midmorning. And a pause for tea and biscuits, laden with butter was his standard beginning to the day, once he was out of his covers and into his gentleman’s gentleman’s formal wear. So this new day was startlingly clear and fresh. He moved down the stairs and out the door and his stomach did not growl once. He remarked to himself that it was probably not awake enough yet to realize he was outside in the earlyish morning light on an empty stomach. Not until he crossed the ridge onto the trail to Guerric and Mahara’s cabin did his stomach begin to rumble lightly.

At the door, Geoffrey rapped loudly. Guerric did not hear, being sound asleep. But Mahara was up and nearly dressed. She came to the door and spoke through the closed door and curtain: ‘Just a minute’. Geoffrey waited. Once complete, she opened the door. He tipped his hat and told her of Thyruid’s worry. She said ‘Nah!’ ‘I know. But he seems to think so. How about breakfast at the Inn by midmorning. You are my first stop’. ‘Fair enough’. ‘Good’ smiled Geoffrey; he replaced his hat, turned and walked briskly off, only to turn up the gravelly trek to the corner of the Fields.

Geoffrey interrupted the Spinners with his pre-breakfast invitation. Effie answered from her dormer window, and agreed. He woke Mary, and she mumbled agreement, even to the notion of flowers. He cut across to the Foundry and caught John and Jasper hot and tired after a night’s work at the forge. They were hungry enough to urge an even earlier time. Geoffrey merely shrugged, and moved on. He found Eliza. He met Carymba. He swung all around the Fields; Carymba said she’d go to Uiston and get Vlad and Yev, Cons and Duns and the rest. Even Walter learned of it, and agreed – so long as the Leaferites were not coming too. Geoffrey said: ‘They might. I don’t know. Carymba might well find Terzi’. Walter said he would think about it.

Midmorning came. Thyruid had served Clyde and Missus Carney, and then settled back. It was nearly time for Geoffrey to come down; he would wait on

him. But, just then, the door opened. People began to enter. The room filled, all except for Geoffrey’s corner chair. At last, the tardy gentleman’s gentleman slid in, too. And Walter came after him. Everybody was there. Thyruid was sweating and panting, filling all the orders that came.

Geoffrey spoke to Thyruid quietly. ‘Even better than old times, eh?’ ‘Even better: this feels right!’

16 September 1990

CDLVI

John yawned. The night’s work was nearing an end and he had grown tired. The Foundry had been particularly busy this night. He was glad for Jasper’s good help. Once, his Foundry was smaller, less busy. Then, he could handle everything just fine, by himself. That did not last always. Instead, he got Jasper to help him. And he two found the work eased. Jasper was glad to be out of the Fringe, although he had developed some strange habits in the time he lived on the Fringe, among the Wanderers. John found he had to be patient with Jasper, but that patience was normally adequately rewarded. The work got done. Nobody was too upset about much of anything. Jasper proved to be quite adequate.

This last night, however, the work load was heavier. John felt the pressure to get more done than usual. He knew he was pressing Jasper, and that pressing him was not safe. People can get hurt in situations like this. Concentration is important. And pressure only made things more complicated than they needed to be. So John had tried very hard to keep the pressure off.

But, time had slipped by, and the projects lagged. He felt tense and the tension became obvious, even to Jasper. At first, John hadn’t realized the tightness in the air, and the resulting mood of the Foundry. He had plugged along, trying to be affable, like always. He had not realized that he was not doing it well, at all.

Jasper knew it. John worked with tension. None of his movements showed their usual easy flow. They jerked. The materials always seemed off a bit, not quite lined up so as to make connection easily with the next step in the process. John met each of those complicating misses with a little more stiffness, a little more aggravation, a little more maladjustment. Even before he recognized how these little slips were all adding up, Jasper became involved. He was a part of the

project. He lumbered in his failures. And he found the tension settling into his own shoulders. Tiredness began to affect him. He was weary, and fatigue lined his face early in the night. His own movements, never as neat and easy as were John’s, became rougher, jerkier, uneven, labored. Jasper found his jaw set rigidly, his muscles tensed. He was working against John, against himself, against the machinery. The whole night was bogging down in the way things don’t work.

Sometime, toward the middle of his shifting night, as the work load had been backing up at the very time it needed to flow faster, Walter ambled by. Walter is the persistent one, always in the way, a talker who knows no way to be moderate or appropriate. His only saving trait tonight was that he was awake, and here. John was feeling the tension in himself, and the pressure. He knew the tension and the pressure were doing him no favors, and that Jasper was bogging down in it all as well. He felt he needed one more hand. And, on short notice, who else was there but Walter?

John called out to Walter, interrupting just before he began his first meandering tirade about nothing, or anything. ‘Walter!’ bellowed John. Walter shut his mouth and opened wide his eyes, his scrawny frame appearing as agape as his oversized mouth normally appeared. Walter tried to swallow his spit, and choked on it. Coughing wildly, Walter stammered some non-understandable gibberish. John said, ‘Come here!’ in a commanding tone. Before he thought, Walter went up to John, a puzzled look in his eyes. ‘Walter: I need a hand, an extra hand tonight. Do you think you can help me with this Foundry?’ Walter was totally dumbfounded by the comment. He had not been looking for anything, except for someone to pester. Now, he has a request to work. ‘For what?’ he asked, lacking anything else he might be able to say quickly. John said: ‘I’ll see that you are paid right’. Walter lacked any excuse, almost as much as he lacked any skill. ‘I … I … suppose’, he stammered.

‘Come on in here. … Stand over there and use those levers to move that iron around. … Yes, sort of like that’. Walter reacted to the moving metal, the heat

and the noise. The heat is what he felt first. The night had gotten chilly. He was, at first, appreciative of that warmth. But then, the heat had set in on him. He sweat heavily, something Walter did not like to do. Moving the iron was work, even with the levers. His shoulders, unaccustomed to such effort, soon rebelled, aching and trembling. The metal kept coming. The heat kept rising. The sweat beaded, then poured from his face. His shirt soon was drenched. Walter was uncomfortable, frightened, tired and longing to be almost anywhere else than here. However, he had no idea at all about how to get anywhere else, nor how to get out of this chain of events. He was in the middle, and stuck. No sooner had he handled one piece than another needed to be taken.

Walter was not very sharp on work. His jaw was his best and strongest feature. His tongue was his most active element. Now, those strengths had no opportunity. He fumbled, but kept on going out of necessity. Preservation of life ran rather dear to Walter’s heart. And, being in the middle of the stream of material, he did not want it to pile up on top of him!

Lacking any experience, Walter did not realize that things were going hard, that the usual rhythm and ease of the work was absent, that nothing was coming into place quite where it was supposed to be, nor when it should get there. Instead, he merely battled the whole process for part of the night, and more or less helped get as much done as was done by morning. Walter was exhausted, and famished. Jasper was frustrated and tense. John was tired. Time was out. Yet John kept pressing. The added help should have brought more work to completion – even if that worker was Walter! John knew, however, that the harder they worked, the less they accomplished. John was aggravated, and sensed himself left to choosing whether or not to shut down at dawn, as was his custom, and pay his help, or plunge onward. John pondered as he yawned again, a culmination of the night.

With a sigh, John decided that fighting the night was enough. He would come up again after night fall, when the cool air fell again. ‘That’s enough!’ he bellowed. Jasper slowed his pace and began to straighten the Foundry, ending one run by

setting up for another. Walter, incompetent and untrained, was relieved that nothing more was being shoved at him. John ignored the stagnant Walter and aided in the morning chores.

As the sky lightened for the day, the work ended. John rewarded both the same, and invited them to breakfast at the Inn-by-the-Bye, as a bonus. John did not normally do such a thing, but simply ended the night and bid Jasper good day. In Walter’s eyes, this was fine. In Jasper’s mind, something was wrong; Walter had been more in the way than a help, making more work for Jasper as he adjusted in order to compensate for Walter’s stubborn ignorance and fear. Now, John rewards Walter the same for the night’s labor. Jasper shrugged. ‘I’ll on breakfast’ he almost said, but didn’t lest he be cheated of John’s weary generosity.

On the way, John put his hand on Jasper’s shoulder: ‘Tonight, we will do better, you and I’. Jasper looked at him strangely, and nodded.

23 September 1990

CDLVII

Unusually cold or this time of year, and recently so, the wee folk of Hyperbia had sought warmth in every sort of way. They had found again their blankets. They had over-stoked their stoves in order to heat their homes. Thyruid had used the fire place last evening for the first time since mid Spring. The time of the year was changing. People could feel the chill in their bones. This was not a season for hot weather tricks, but one for enjoying that nip in the air, and dressing accordingly.

Geoffrey was one who was quickly adjusting. He felt that chill. He savored the fire on the hearth – going over in the evening to sit with Clyde and Missus Carney and let that warmth soak into his body. For, like everybody else, Geoffrey was taking a bit of time to adjust. The cold came too quickly. By night time, though, Geoffrey was ready. He had opened his store of blankets and arranged them by his bed, one at a time. Geoffrey hated being cold in his sleep. He even used a blanket in the Summer time when everyone else sweltered. He would laugh about ice water in his veins!

Now, however, the stack of blankets grew seriously thick. No one counted them, not even Geoffrey. Instead, he judged their adequacy by thickness. When he was satisfied, he would cover over the remaining stack for the truly cold weather yet to come. And he would prepare himself to burrow underneath the stack and cozily drowse himself to sleep.

As morning came, and the air outside was sharp, nearly frosted, Geoffrey slept marvelously. He, at least, was toasty warm. He sprawled delightfully within the little tunnel he always made for himself – a tunnel beneath the thick stack of blankets on his bed. Inside, Geoffrey slept snugly as the Sun rose, and as Thyruid progressed through his polishing chores and the new fire crackled

warmly on the hearth. Fall had come. And all was very ordinary.

In the dining room, downstairs, Thyruid was busy serving breakfasts to a variety of guests. Clyde, of course, and Missus Carney were rambling on, talking about almost anything, sipping coffee and tea, eating biscuits rich with butter, yellow and soaked and capped with oozing reddish jelly (Clyde was, that is) and munching on meal cakes, baked on a hot stone griddle on Marthuida’s stove. (Clyde had seen to it that Marthuida got the proper stone griddle – far handier than putting some flatish rock by the fire, to get hot enough to bake the greatcakes, and mix them with scraps of ash.) They argued, pleasantly, over the advantages of either diet, Missus Carney pointing out her years and Clyde his strength as signs of advantage. Carymba had come in, too, as had the eight young men from Uiston, the Tinker, Eliza, Jasper and John, Mary, Effie, Gilbert, Chert and Martha, Guerric and Mahara, and so many more. They were a polite crowd, forcing the round Thyruid to squeeze among them merely by the thickness they imposed on the room. The Innkeeper huffed and puffed, his face red from the busyness, and the pleasure he had in plying his trade.

Upstairs, Geoffrey was immune to the hubbub of the dining room. Midmorning had not yet arrived. His time of awakening – under normal circumstances – was not yet full. So he snoozed delightfully, warm and cozy in his otherwise crisp room. However, as the Sun came nearer the crest of the Leaferites’ Hill, Geoffrey’s room brightened naturally. Furthermore, he was lightening in his slumber so as to come nearer to being awake.

At some disguised moment, Geoffrey slid imperceptibly across that fuzzy divide between sleeping and waking. Except: he did not realize it right away. Awareness lagged as he snuggled warmly at the edge of his blankets and at the edge of sweet consciousness. Eventually, Geoffrey realized he was, and had been for a while, awake. What’s more, he was becoming hungry, hungry enough to draw himself out from his warm, secluded covers, into the crisp, startling air of his room. Yes: now was the time to rise!

Having eased his way straight out of his cocoon-like hole in his covers, without disturbing the pile appreciably, Geoffrey scrambled to his feet. He shivered, and hurried through his morning chores of getting himself properly ready for public view. He cleaned himself, and dressed. Getting into his waistcoat and his cut away coat, his neatly creased tros and spats, his full formal attire warmed him. With a deep sigh, Geoffrey decided he was collected enough, took hold of his hat gently, and slid out of his room.

Once outside his corner room, on the landing leading by the other rooms, Geoffrey became aware of the noise downstairs, a commotion he had not realized before. He grew curious. For, although Thyruid would often have a few customers in the dining room of the Inn-by-the-Bye at midmorning, his much confusion was truly unusual. Geoffrey was impelled by curiosity down the stairs, using a sturdy, steady gait. He reached the bottom of the stairs and stood in the Foyer.

Looking about the room, he found the chairs largely filled and some people milling around, between the tables and the seated guests. Coffee, tea, biscuits, meal-cakes, delicacies galore moved all around the room. Thyruid huffed and puffed as he squeezed between chairs which had been set at half-cocked angles, and too close to each other, by the people in them. Geoffrey glanced toward his normal corner; someone was sitting in his seat. He looked around the room in general; someone was sitting in every seat. He would have to stand, or wait. His stomach growled, and Geoffrey frowned pitiably.

Standing here like this was not accomplishing anything. Geoffrey stepped to the edge of the steps, then down into the dining room itself. With effort, he wound his way toward the counter. Perhaps there would be a stool for him there. And, if not, he may be able to lean against the counter and gather a bit of breakfast. Of course, each step of the way he met somebody. He bounced and stopped, slid aside, squirmed and exchanged pleasantries in the midst of the crowd. The whole thing was so busy that poor Geoffrey could barely keep his hungry wits about him. As a result, Geoffrey wound his way around the room, going whatever

routes seemed momentarily possible.

In time, Geoffrey found himself over by the door to Marthuida and Thyruid’s room, in the ed wall beneath the stairs. There, he was uncomfortably wedged between Mahara’s Aunt, always talkative but with nothing to say, and Chert, singularly quiet and unmovable this morning. There was no way out; Geoffrey was stuck. He could see the counter, but he could not get there.

Just then, Thyruid saw him, only an arm’s length away. ‘Here!’ he shouted hoarsely as he handed over a half-slopped cup of tea and a dampened, unbuttered, unjellied, cooling biscuit. ‘Thanks’ muttered Geoffrey, glad for something to eat in the midst of these most unusual circumstances.

30 September 1990

CDLVIII

Cool and damp, the morning sneaked into view. The sky was ever grey, and the changes from night’s black came gradually, without any burst of light at all. Everything crept into daylight so that, after a while, people were aware that day had begun, but nothing really brought the start itself to their attention.

Mother Hougarry found herself awake sometime in this whole process. Like the day, she was slowly awake, gradually aware, and still dull when she realized that she had already ed from slumber into wakefulness. The thought ambled across her mind as to how long she had been awake, and another followed lazily about how long morning had been in place. Her old face showed its puzzlement to the shadow-faded ceiling beams overhead, for Mother Hougarry simply did not know. Off into the grey light and the fuzzy thinking of her mind went all those puzzles; they were not very important. And the old woman snuggled leisurely into her covers once again.

Sleep, however, had ed for today. Though the luxury of snuggling-in against the greyness of the morning remained attractive, Mother Hougarry found that she could not sleep. She was awake now, no matter how dull. And the sheer luxurious feel of lounging in bed began to become a continuing fit of restlessness. The longer she stayed under her covers, the more she twitched, and scrounged, and twisted herself about. ‘This is impossible!’ she fumed at last, and cast aside her covers.

The room was chilled this morning. Her night clothes were wadded indiscreetly, leaving bare more of her than the chill would indicate as wise. So, Mother Hougarry shivered, almost grasped back her covers, then shook her head with violence and scrambled out of bed, standing up and oozing back and forth until she caught her balance and her head ceased swimming. ‘There’, she snorted.

‘I’ve caught my balance and can go from here’. And with that, she began to shuffle off. She found herself walking stiffly. She was cold. She grimaced and rubbed her arms, and squirmed, and debated whether to dress for the day and then light her stove, or to light the stove first. One was the way of Summer; the other, the way of Winter. Today, she decided with a scowl, was a day in between. Shivering once again, she affirmed the fire before dressing for the day.

The fire in her stove started with remarkable ease. It jumped into a kindled blaze and gained its own stability quickly. Mother Hougarry smiled in satisfaction as common frustrations escaped her. This was how a fire ought to go. Warmth soon pushed back the chill of the Autumn morning, and dried out the dampness. Mother Hougarry almost began to sweat. She retreated to her corner and there proceeded to change into her day clothes. In the corner, she was chilly, still. But out, nearer the stove, she was hot. ‘This will be one of those never-comfortable days, I bet’, she sputtered under her breath.

Prepared, Mother Hougarry shuffled back toward the stove. In the cool damp, her legs and arms and back stiffened. But nearer the stove, where she was barely comfortable from the heat, she found that her body loosened some. She felt more supple. She could respond to the world more fully. Wiping the moisture from her brow, Mother Hougarry laughed out loud, shrugged her shoulders and put on her tea kettle. ‘I’ll start with some tea. … And, while that is heating, I’ll mix myself some scones … the way Missus Duns makes them. Those are always good!’

Becoming busy with breakfast chores, Mother Hougarry limbered up some more. She found her body more responsive. Her hands felt better – not perfect by any means, but better than before. And she found she walked more easily. She smiled as she puttered. ‘If only I could keep doing this all day!’ she said. Her smile wavered then, for she knew she would be exhausted and very sore long before lunch time if she kept up this pace of working. But, for the moment, it was simply marvelous to be so free and easy.

Breakfast was nearly ready. The aromas of scones and tea mingled with a hint of smoke in her Hidden Cabin, giving a rich tang to the air. She sniffed at it. If anyone could have seen her then, they would recognize the simple pleasure painted on her face. Under the influence of the pleasant sensation, Mother Hougarry accumulated her rocking chair, scooted nearer the stove, and brought the little table she liked to use, along with a cup for her tea and a plate for her scones, with a basket, a towel, a tub of butter and some currant jelly. Taking out the scones at just the right moment, Mother Hougarry sniffed at them. ‘If only Geoffrey were here! He would truly enjoy this breakfast with me’, she declared.

Sitting in her rocking chair, and rocking slightly, Mother Hougarry prepared her breakfast, broke her scone, indulged the butter thickly, and the currant jelly, too. She, having set the tea to steep properly, poured a proper cup of tea into her thin shelled cup. She watched the steam gently curl across the surface of her tea, and then escape into a pencil line of vapor slowly thinning into aromatic clarity. And she watched the butter melt, turning the scone into a golden sponge, and then the reddish jelly oozed down over the scone, thick and translucent, luxurious. Her mouth watered and her fingers rose to transport the rich vision into her mouth, where the scent and the flavor combined to overwhelm what her eyes had guessed might be. ‘This is delight!’ she said out loud, and grinned as she munched on the morsel bitten.

As Mother Hougarry savored the scone, she felt lonely. She scowled and slowly shook her head. She might as well enjoy her treat. Up here, in Hidden Cabin, in the midst of the Crossed Hills, having company was always at someone else’s initiating, so she could only ponder their coming. Once upon a time, long ago, she was more active: but it was so no more. Long ago, she became close to this Hidden Cabin. Here she raised the waif, Carymba. Here she entertained by spells. Here she nursed Eliza to health the year she broke her leg and the snow was so bad. Here she waits to entertain again. She breaks bread, or scones, or biscuits, and re sharing them before. Mother Hougarry looked at her half-eaten scone, with misted eyes. ‘I must be celebrating my dreams’, she mused.

Well! This is ridiculous! I’ve luxuriated long enough over breakfast. I am full. And I am not even thirsty any more. I’ve got work to do, making this sleepy cabin a little less grey today’. Having rocked herself up, Mother Hougarry rose. She carefully covered her leftover scones, knowing they will still be good for lunch. She gathered up her dishes and cleaned them. She straightened her cabin and satisfied herself that it was in order, enough for her, at least. ‘I can rest a bit now’, she said, and flopped into her rocking chair once more.

Nearly lunch time, and a weary Mother Hougarry knew her fire was very low by now. ‘I ought to tend that fire, but not just yet, I guess’. Then, the door opened behind her. She knew it had opened; she said ‘hello’, but was too tired to get up, too tired to go and do anything. ‘I thought I smelled scones as the heavy air flowed down from the Crossed Hills’. ‘Geoffrey: you did. But they were fresh long ago; only the leftovers remains’. ‘Well …’. ‘Sure: fix the fire to heat some tea, and we can have lunch together, you and I’.

7 October 1990

CDLIX

Cold. Cold and damp. Dark, dank and thoroughly miserable. Nova squatted to the cold fire pit in her darkened yellow-mud hut in the midst of the squalor of Apopar. The mud outside was thinly wet, a slick coating on the dry clay underneath. Inside, only a little mist filtered in through the smoke-hole, there being no fire to interfere with the fall. Nova felt the cold in her ts. Her muscles were tense and jerked erratically. She grit her teeth, grinding them together angrily. Being angry is easy where you are cold and miserable. Besides, the fire was not cooperating at all. Her clumsy fingers fumbled radically with the fuel, to little effect. Nothing was cooperating with her efforts today.

Sitting solemnly at the edge of the hut, on her sleeping place, was Sophy. She watched the proceedings with apparent disinterest. She too was cool. But, over here, she was wrapped into a blanket, with her arms and legs curled up into a ball, making good use of preserved body heat for the warming of extremities. She watched the fumbling Nova endured at the fire pit, and wished the fire were lit already, for she was chilly, and restless. She wanted to dress warmly and to feel that knifing damp shoved back out of the way, away from her young body.

Day, such as it was, had come. Over the smoke hole, hanging low, was the slate grey leaden sky. Everything drooped and dripped overhead. Drafts curled around the hut. No place was free from them. Nor could any ease arrive until they had put aside the cold and damp with a bustling little fire in the pit. On a reasonable day, the light from the smoke hole would be pleasant enough, giving a glow all around the room. But not today. Only a slight grey pushed against the dark and compressed the shadows into the outer ring of the one room hut.

Sophy watched as Nova tried again to get the fire going. Nova rubbed her hands briskly together, and blew on them with her warm breath. The fingers still felt

raw and stiff, clumsy for the making of a fire in the fire pit. Mist swirled down and slapped at her with chilling effect. She grimaced at the affront and concentrated on getting the fire started, but to no avail. Sophy pouted in the chill and the continuing disappointment.

Trekking outside came Carymba. She was already at Nova’s door, believing it was Nova’s door and the same one that Missus Carney had had for a long, long time. She paused in the drizzle, checking her memory, for she had not come here for some time, and every yellow-mud hut in Apopar looks like the rest of them. Some of the other huts had smoke curling out of their smoke-holes. This one did not. The hut looked cold and uninviting. Carymba frowned, her hood covering her head and keeping the drizzle (a stiffer mist) off her face and hair. Her long cloak was protective and warm. Only her feet, down in the sticky yellow mud, which was gradually becoming thicker and deeper as the drizzle continued longer, remained cold, and damp. Having decided that this was, indeed, the door, Carymba approached slowly, and leaned over, and knocked.

Somehow, knocking at this door seemed proper, even though Carymba had no recollection of ever having knocked here before. She knocked, and nothing happened, so far as Carymba could tell. Inside the hut, however, Sophy and Nova both froze. They did not want to make a sound. They barely dared to breathe. Eyes were wide in the dim light, anxious to catch any glimpse of any hint of anything. Nova was at once grateful that the fire had never lit. Even though she was thoroughly chilled and cold through and through, she could now pretend not to be here at all. Sophy silently pulled her blanket more snugly about herself. Carymba waited, her hands upon her knees as she leaned over at the door. ‘Nova? … Sophy?’ she called in a hoarse whisper.

Names are not stated often in Apopar. People are safer going about in silence; so they remain silent most of the time. To hear a voice is unusual; one whispered is even more so (voices bark commands most of the time). And a female voice whispering hoarsely at the door was, indeed, perplexing. Nova and Sophy looked at each other, each looking for some hint as to what to do next. Neither gave the

other a clue. So, with a whimpered sigh, Nova at last stood up as much as is possible in the low yellow-mud hut, and slouched toward the door.

Carymba had nearly given up on any response. She had taken herself and sighed and risen to stand erect. She was almost to turn away and wonder when next to seek Nova when the door creaked open slightly. She thought she heard the sound of it moving, causing her to pause, stand stock still and try to glance around her head by turning her eyes to the side. That, however, did not work; so, she slowly eased her head far enough around that she could see. And there, squatting in the doorway, was Nova. ‘Oh, good!’ she sighed. Nova whispered: ‘Shhh …’, then motioned for her to come into the hut.

Once inside, with the door gently closed on the outer cold, Nova led Carymba into the inner chill. Carymba whispered, asking: ‘Why don’t you have a fire in the pit? It is cold in here!’ Nova held up her hands, pale with the cold, and with the skin that looked like raw leather: thick and stiff and unfeeling. Even the fingers looked hard and inflexible. ‘Ah’: Carymba nodded, her head still inside her hood and her cloak still wrapped about her slight frame, ‘maybe I can help. My hands have been warm inside this cloak ever since I left Wilbur’s boat a while ago’. Nova nodded agreement to the offer for help. Any way to get that fire started would be most welcome this morning!

Artfully, Carymba arranged the kindling to her own liking. Sophy watched with a child’s attention to the magic of detail. She knew Nova’s way did not work this morning. Maybe this new arrangement would be the clue to getting the fire started. Nimble fingers jutted and adjusted until Carymba was satisfied. Then, with readied ease, she lit the kindling and nurtured a tiny flare against the persistent mist coming through that old smoke hole. But the flame succeeded. More fuel burned. The heat began to billow out as the smoke line started to rise.

Sophy grinned as the fire began to dance in the pit. She knew the heat would follow shortly. She hardly wanted to wait any longer, so dared the chill to get

dressed and come to the fire’s nearer warmth. Nova, too, moved her pasty hands nearer the tantalizing warmth, making the stiffness soften, the tinge of color edge back again, and some satisfaction settle into her cold-lined face. ‘Thanks’ she muttered softly in deep appreciation. Carymba merely winked in return. ‘What brings you here? This is nasty weather’. ‘Missus Carney was getting itchy, worried about some folks over on the edge, way out, near the Borders’. ‘I know who you mean. What does she want to know?’ ‘Of their safety’. ‘We’d have to go …’. ‘Well …?’ With a sigh and glance at her still hard hands, Nova said: ‘We’ll go as soon as we eat a bit. Are those stones heating quickly? I’ll mix up some meal cakes. They’re quick, and satisfying, too’.

14 October 1990

CDLX

Just this morning, the air nipped sharply when it came time for Father John to drag himself out of bed. He had grumbled about the muss, and the fuss. He had shuddered when his boney old bare feet had hit the floor. It was cold, causing him to long for a fire in his stove, anything to shove back that chill. He had hurried to dress, nearly falling in his haste. He had fed the fire box with kindling and finally lit it, to savor the warmth, more heat than necessary for his morning coffee and breakfast.

When he had eaten, he had shuffled his way to the door, curious to see what it was like outside. There, before his eyes, lay a hard frost, the grass blades all rigid and plated with white crystals. The window itself was clear only because of the shelter of the porch. The scene, lovely in the indirect light of early morning light, made Father John shiver and retreat nearer to his stove. Why, he even wished he had seen to it that his old rocking chair was in from the porch.

Now, as noon was approaching, and the risen Sun poured down from the blue, cloudless skies, the weather reversed. The temperature rose. Thick plated frost had vanished like a fleeting fantasy. Father John’s hut had turned from chilly to comfortable under the influence of the stove; next, the stove had become too much and the hut stuffy. Father John had shuffled again to his door, peeping out the window by drawing aside the curtain just enough. This time, he saw the dry grass wavering slightly in the Autumn breeze. The white was gone; even the melted leftovers had vanished. Feeling warm, Father John took hold of the handle and opened his door.

Warm, suddenly fresh and somewhat luscious, the breeze wafted by, bringing with it its load of autumnal odors. Thick and rich scents filled the breeze. The soil and the aging leaves alike gave off their mustiness. The dusty air made

Father John choke momentarily. Coughing, and then sneezing briskly, the old man attributed it all to the fresh air as he left his somewhat stuffy hut.

Indeed, Father John meandered from his hut, leaving the door wide open for the sake of ventilation. He snorted to himself and muttered that now he was certainly glad that he had not had his favorite chair, the rocking chair, brought in from his porch. (This time of year, there is always such an inner-debate over when the last wisp of Summer had finally ended for good, leaving the way free for Winter’s unhindered chills, or if there may be another fair day left to enjoy the porch. Old Father John simply wanted to get the rocking chair inside in time for snow; that is all.)

Having shuffled to his rocking chair, leaning the while on his cane, Father John plopped himself down – slightly awkwardly – and rocked out the force of his plop in the rhythm of the chair. As he came to rest, Father John sat curled in his chair, his legs set heavily before him, and his cane brought safely across the arms of the rocking chair and propped right before him. With a sigh, Father John let his old eyes survey the floor of Uiston. There were the familiar trails, the sturdy grass, the flatness stretching off to the sharply rising hills all around this cup shaped valley he had always called ‘home’.

The Sun filtered through the warming air. In fact, the dust-laden air grew still as the light bounced all around as in a golden haze, lending a magical curve to his view. Father John half squinted into the near midday glare. This was his fond land, and he still studied it, if only from his rocking chair upon his porch.

Warmth settled closely near as all breezes died and the Sun probed the valley. Uiston could become quite warm, almost stale. Father John leaned forward into the day, just in order to sample it better. He had nearly forgotten about how frosty the morning had been early-on. Now he was feeling Uiston’s Autumn dust, and the late warmth before the inevitable coming of Winter’s bite.

Luxuriating there, Father John whiled away some lazy hours, watching and ing years before, and Autumns long past, filling the air with the leafdust of changing leaves and falling ones. As he sat there, high breezes began to blow. They rustled the trees high on the hills around Uiston. But down here, where he sat, the air was calm and warm. Rustled leaves fell free and floated along on the breeze.

Father John noticed the leaves as they danced and darted, fluttered and flew, swooped in great, long arcs, bounced in lively steps and, eventually, dropped into stiller air. Thence, they rocked and eased back and forth, dancing and playing and teasing until they finally rained their broad, stiff, brown blankets on the ground of Uiston’s floor. The leaves began to fall more heavily and to overlay each other in silence. The leaves began to shadow Father John’s hut. And the old man began to worry once more. For he was not able to relieve the load from his hut any more.

Rocking in his chair as the loose leaves began to accumulate, Father John thought of how pleasant those leaves have been all Summer long, as they cast their shade across the cup of Uiston, and upon his hut. They were a relief again this past Summer. He nodded to himself as one large leaf settled down on its stem beside his porch and tottered warily until it limply slid against the roof of his porch.

Father John was newly shaded now. The surface was nearly fresh. Only a place or two had been bruised or torn. The brown looked lively yet, not crumbling nor dry. A waxen spill hung there, a sheet stretched clean between those veins. This leaf had barely begun to die. There was a time for dying’s decay yet ahead for this old leaf.

Father John found that another leaf would fall and add a masking pall. Another

came, and yet another. Soon he sat in musky darkness, here beneath the layered fall of Autumn’s eager excess. The odors multiplied. The whole intensified. A thoroughgoing thickness reigned. And Father John rocked again. He thought of going in but did not move. He worried about the cold that would penetrate these leaves come night fall, and the fact that he could do nothing, not even light a fire in his stove, until he found relief. Father John leaned back in his chair and rocked, all the time his fingers were playing on his cane while lay across his lap, atop the arms of his favorite rocking chair.

In this imposed darkness, Father John lost track of time; time’s ing had no meaning for him, really, not now anyway. The old man even dozed and did not dream. So, he did not know when the leafy casement over his hut began to break up and crumble to dust, the dry leaves being broken by the efforts of Father John’s eight young friends from Uiston’s edge. Yev spoke for the batch. ‘Father John! We’d like some coffee with you. Shall we brew a pot for the lot of us?’

21 October 1990

CDLXI

When Missus Duns first awoke, darkness clung everywhere. As far as she could tell from her bed in the corner of her sod house, no daylight had yet begun its flashing in the sky. Here she lay, chilly. She felt cool, even under her covers. The extras were in the cupboard, just across the room. She did not want to get up yet, and get colder for the sake of the warmth of some blankets. So she huddled herself as much as she could, keeping herself as much under the covers as was possible. Even so, she could not get herself warm. The chill had overpowered the capability of her blankets to hold separate the chill and her own body heat. She squirmed, twisting her shoulders and hips, shuffling her legs together, curling herself into a tighter figure. Nothing worked.

Being chilled when she wanted to warm made missus Duns more and more awake. The night lingered still. She should be asleep. She knew she should be asleep. But no: here she lay, awake and chilled. To accomplish anything now, she began to realize, she would have to get up, put her feet on the floor – which must be icy now – walk to the cupboard, gather some extra blankets, return, straighten her covers, flip the new blankets over the top (thereby creating an icy stir in the room), and shiver her way back into the covers, more wide awake than ever. Hopefully, then she could warm and ease her way back into a full drowse and fall asleep, pleasantly.

At last, Missus Duns swung her feet out. They struck the floor; it was colder than she had wishfully imagined. She shuddered, but knew she could not retreat yet, not until the extra blankets had been supplied. Through the dark, well known room, she toddled. She was neither so quick nor so steady as she once was. Her roundish frame wavered on the way. Her hands quaked and her fingers quivered, making the opening of the cupboard more difficult than usual. After fumbling frustratingly, Missus Duns found the cupboard coming open; she sighed in relief, reached in and grasped three blankets, which she dutifully tucked under her left arm and closed the cupboard door.

Back at her bed, Missus Duns methodically arranged her bed while the involuntary shivers made her quake. Her unsteady hands approximated smoothness. Her mind slid from the thought of the blankets to the fact that she was feeling colder than she had anticipated. She felt miserable and very much in a hurry. ‘I should have brought out – found and brought out my winter bed clothes! But no: not you, Missis Duns! You have to delay. You have to get this cold in the middle of the night. You’ll be lucky if you ever get to sleep!’

Missus Duns crawled under her covers. The sheets, though crumpled from her sleep, were cold already. Cringing, she muttered: ‘I’m always amazed at how quickly these things get cold and how slowly the warm up again’. She grimaced and laid very still in order to encourage one pocket of warmth in the middle of her bed. As her narrowish slice warmed, Missus Duns relaxed and let the cold edges feel her warming skin. Before too long had ed, she was warm and her tight defenses against the chill were melting. She nestled into the bed, warm and comfortable. She forgot about being sleepy, and slept.

Having completely lost track of time, Missus Duns slept heavily. She did not notice the way the room lightened. She did not observe the Sun come, later, over the Hills and poke into her one window with its bright beams. So she naturally did not see the frost melt and vanish, leaving only smudges as a trace of the fancy beauty once painted on her windows. And she naturally did not hear the rustling of the leaves as they blew in the wind and stiffly fell to the ground. Missus Duns was, rather, enjoying the luxury of warmth on a chilly morning.

Long past early morning, Carymba and Geoffrey and Clyde came up the path, took the quick climb and the sudden cut back into the little open niche in the edge of the Hills in which Missus Duns’ house sat. The house was very quiet, even for Missus Duns’ place, this late in the morning. No smoke curled from her chimney, a curiosity on a morning that was still so chilly. The trio of visitors stood on the level ground, out in front of Missus Duns’ door. They studied the quiet and looked at each other. Clyde said, ‘I thought you said we would find

Missus Duns at home’.

Feeling challenged, Geoffrey replied, ‘Of course: she has always been at home before. I cannot seeing her anywhere else but here. So, naturally, I believed she would be here. Wouldn’t you?’ ‘Well, I suppose I would. But clearly she is not here. She surely would have a fire going in her stove by now, for cooking if not simply against the nip in the air’. ‘Don’t be silly’. ‘What do you mean Carymba?’ ‘Missus Duns cannot climb down that path anymore. And there is no other way to this niche and to her sod house’. ‘Oh. I had not thought of that, quite’. ‘Always the next thing up, right Geoffrey?’ ‘Right on’. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean, we need to realize she hasn’t started her stove, but must be at home. Either she is asleep, …’ ‘But it’s nearly noon! Even I’m awake, and dressed, and breakfasted!’ ‘… or she’s having trouble with her stove and is terribly cold’. ‘Fine: but what do we do?!’ ‘We could look in the window.’ ‘Who wants to be a peeper? She’s an old woman, living alone’. ‘That’s not a good idea’. ‘Well, we could knock on her door’. ‘Remarkable insight! Isn’t that our normal procedure?’ ‘Sure. And this is not a normal situation, right? So we ought to walk right in and see what is the matter!’ ‘No, no, no, Clyde, you are too impetuous! Geoffrey gave the obvious answer. Why don’t you try it now?’ ‘I’d rather do it myself’, said Geoffrey, with an air of his own importance. ‘Alright: go ahead’.

Geoffrey straightened himself and, convinced he was in gentleman’s gentleman order, he stepped up to the door, glanced quickly both ways, raised his hand while catching his breath – then, at last, rapped against the wooden door. He could hear it echo inside. He still held his breath, concerned over whatever might be found inside. In spite of the crisp air (though warmer than it was), Geoffrey felt as if he were perspiring. His lips tasted slightly salty. He panted as he finally breathed, and thought he heard a low moan inside. His brow quickly furrowed in concern.

Geoffrey raised his hand again, and looked, worried, to Carymba. She solemnly nodded; he rapped again, more firmly than at first.

Missus Duns awoke, warm and slow. Her eyes beheld the brightness. By the angle at the window she was suddenly aware that mid day had arrived already. She gasped. And she throw aside the covers and scrambled to her feet, pausing to hold onto the bed post until her light head steadied.

Geoffrey, anxious, rapped yet again, harder yet. Flustered, Missus Duns cried out: ‘Who is there?’ ‘We are!’ came the reply. ‘And who is this we?’ Missus Duns was gaining composure. Carymba, placing her hand on Geoffrey’s shoulder, replied: ‘Geoffrey, Clyde and Carymba. We came to see if there might be some scones for lunch’. ‘Come in! Light the stove while I get ready. Then we will look into some scones, together. … My! I got warm and really slept!’

28 October 1990

CDLXII

Grey blue and brilliant, the sky arched airily above Hyperbia. The thick dust of Autumn hung low in the air. And the musky odors persisted throughout the place. Mid morning already, and pleasant conditions made it feel like a lazy day. Yves sat on the stoop of the Great Dome and watched the lazy trickle of the brook that flowed under the Dome’s floor. The steady water flow bounced over pebbles, and around stones, swirling and twirling, dancing its way ahead.

Yves sat on the steps, his elbows on his knees, and his fingers slowly shredding an old dry brown leaf. The brown cracked and crumbled, falling steadily from the veins. The whole thing evolved into an airy fan, the stiff old veins sticking brittlely into the air – until those finer places, where the vein was nearly broken and left dangling off at some precarious angle. Yves waved the remnant until he grew tired of it, and threw it into the brook. Unlike the crumbled fragments, the vein-frame was too big and awkward to be carried away; it perched jauntily against a stone, half submerged.

Betsy came to the door behind him. She looked at her brother, sitting there, doing nothing. She watched him reach for another leaf and begin to tear it into crumbled shreds as well. He looked very bored, and perfectly useless. ‘Just like a boy’ she thought in her little-girl pique. ‘Surely’, she thought, ‘he could find something better to do with the morning than dumping the crumbs of those old leaves into the brook!’ As she reflected a little further, she nearly decided that boys, particularly brothers, on their own could not in any likelihood accomplish any better plan. That’s why there are sisters around!

So, Betsy thought of what she could advise Yves to do – something which would obviously be better for him to do than to sit there idly, crumbling and shredding dry brown leaves into the lazy brook flowing underneath the underlying arches

on which their Great Dome had been built. But Betsy could not think of anything. So, after a long, long pause, she pushed open the door and scolded Yves: ‘Can’t you find anything better to do with yourself? Boys!’ She gave all the disgust she could muster into her voice.

Yves half shrugged at her, for he only half heard her. He was, basically, dreamy today. He was launching a huge navy and sending it off downstream on a superdangerous mission. Each ship entered on the dangerous trip as it hit the water; few suffered any delays, so far as he could see. And, of course, in his imagination, the entire flotilla was sweeping on to victory, to free an imaginary captive land downstream. These were brave craft, and liable to encounter grace threats to their success. The next leaf brought a new wave of reinforcements in order to overwhelm the enemy.

Betsy was aggravated at Yves. She knew nothing of his day dreaming and supposed he was being merely lazy when he should have been doing something productive. Unable to contain her anger any longer, Betsy gave forth a disgusted sigh and let the door slam behind her as she turned away to her own ways of postponing chores, her own distractions in her own style of daydreaming.

His late breakfast done at last, and feeling a tad restless, Geoffrey came out of the Inn-by-the-Bye. The Commons lay in lazy splendor, a messy powder dusting everything, and seeming to hang irresistibly up to maybe head high. The air was thick with this ever-present dust. Geoffrey sniffed at the dry, puffy air, and coughed. Clearing his throat and twitching his nose, he decided to go for a walk, anyway. He meandered around the Commons, over to the Big Rock and through of going on around to the Fields. He looked out that way, seeing the helterskelter array of fallen leaves and deciding not to go that way. Along the Leaferites’ Hill, however, lay a similar disarray of fallen leaves. He chose to move off behind the Inn-by-the-Bye.

Geoffrey meandered through the leaves, having no choice if he were to go

anywhere for a walk this morning. For great dry brown leaves cluttered just about on everything and everywhere. They made walking clumsy for Geoffrey. Most of the leaves were a pace and a half, or two paces across. They proved to be slippery and liable to break up under his feet. More than once did he stumble over some tough vein after breaking through the fabric of the leaf with his foot.

By the time Geoffrey had ed to the back side of the Inn-by-the-Bye, he had begun to wonder about this wisdom of going out for a walk today, especially one which left the relatively open spaces of the Commons behind. Almost ready to go back – or, as a quick afterthought, to the small back door to Marthuida’s kitchen for a safer short cut – Geoffrey caught sight of Yves as the boy crumbled yet another leaf into the brook, launching a new navy into the imagined adventure (although Geoffrey did not know that fact in the activity he say). Geoffrey turned aside and went down to visit.

‘Hello Yves!’ called Geoffrey. Yves, startled, looked up suddenly; ‘Oh, hi, Geoffrey. I didn’t notice you at first’. ‘Yes; well, I saw you sitting here and I thought I’d mosey on down the hill and visit a bit’. ‘Fine with me’. ‘You know, those leaves are getting thick out there’. ‘Sure are. I guess I’ve been playing with a bunch of them, too’ he added, pointing to the jaggy pile of skeletons balanced on one another in the brook’s water. ‘Quite a pile!’ ‘I’ve just been playing with them, I guess: ing the time in the morning’s Sun’. ‘Makes for a pleasant time’ agreed Geoffrey as he shoved one leaf off of a stone by the main path up the hill, and plopped himself down upon that stone.

Having settled himself onto his seat, Geoffrey watched as Yves carefully broke up and shredded the leaf in his hands, leaving the major veins whole and free of leaf-fragments. The results were clean and stark, only to be dropped with the previous ones, into a pile unmoved by the low, gurgling brook. One leaf more fell, this one landing on top of Geoffrey’s head, ending in a lazy balance there. He heaved it off.

Reflecting briefly, Geoffrey said ‘I wish we wee folk would have it as easy as you with these leaves, especially when they get thick around our houses. The old folks have to have help from somebody’. ‘I could do that! Want to come along?’ ‘Sure, I suppose’. ‘Here: I’ll give you ride’. And Yves swept Geoffrey up into his shirt pocket.

As they left, Betsy reappeared, and scowled. She scolded: ‘And where do you think you are going?!’ But both Yves and Geoffrey simply ignored her.

4 November 1990

CDLXIII

Missus Carney had become restless early. The Sun was not up and she could see nothing at all. Out her window, stars peeked down through the nearly bare branches in the big overhanging limbs of the trees nearby. No moon shone. And a light frost hinted its appearance in the corners of the window panes. She rubbed her arms vigorously, and shivered. She felt the gooseflesh underneath her night clothes. And her nose felt nippy in the cold room. She curled her toes around, and squirmed her feet. The thought of simply levitating, moving around, with her feet a little ways off that cold floor, flickered through her mind. She smiled faintly at that most brief hint of pleasure, then scoffed at herself, for she didn’t do that sort of thing – not at all.

Should she just go back to bed and let those blankets insulate her and hold her warmly? She frowned, pursing her lips and wadding her forehead in consideration. At last, she decided no: she would rather go and see what could be done with this incessant restlessness in her bones and in her mind.

Surely, something could be accomplished! Why, in the days she could well , she would be up, dressed, have a fire started in the pit, stones heating and batter mixing by now. Soon she would have eaten, banked her coals as best she could and been out, even before the Sun rose this time of year, and been about her chores. Now, she grumblingly itted, life had slowed down. Nevertheless, she was restless. ‘How far can I push the day?’ she asked, half out loud.

As she dressed, Missus Carney felt the cold air and the at-first-cold clothes all about her nervous flesh. She was soon glad to be dressed! Slowly, she warmed. Socks began to comfort her feet. Now, every place she touched, her body felt the cold of her fingers … and she winced repeatedly. But Missus Carney

ed former days, when she moved through colder stuff than this without bother; so, why not now? Stiffened upper lip met the challenges of the frost. Erect and slightly jaunty now (as never necessary before), Missus Carney finished her preparation for the day which had not yet come. Her hair reasonably in place, her clothes arranged acceptable, she strode to her door, and out into the upstairs corridor.

Dark and silent, the hallway swallowed her. She shuffled along, her eyes wide, gazing into the unremitting black. She moved cautiously. If she could get directly to the other side of the hall, feeling the wall by her own fingers, then she knew she could find her way safely to the top of the stairs. That would leave her in control of what it might be she decided to do. She could be confident, then. So, Missus Carney continued to go, leaving behind he known wall and door jamb. In fact, she kept her finger reaching back to the known wall as long as possible, while her other fingers stretched longingly for the opposite wall. ‘If only everything weren’t so dark!’ she muttered to herself. Slowly, carefully, nervously, her feet edged ahead, shuffle by shuffle.

Before her forward hand met anything but open air, her trailing finger lost with the furthest reaches of her door jamb’s trim. She was alone, in the dark, with no secure hold on where she was, or where she was going. ‘Am I really going straight across the hall, still?’ she thought, as a sweaty discomfort quivered over her body. ‘This is silly!’ she said to herself under her breath. ‘I’ve done this many times before. I can do it again. I will!’ Nevertheless, the notion of meeting the top of the stairs unknowingly and crashing down the steps kept preson her. So, nearly breathless, she held out her arm before her, hoping to meet the wall, and soon. For the arm grew heavy, and began to droop from the shoulder. She thought it might be drooping, but since she could not see her hand, nor her arm, she simply was not sure.

At long last, her arm sagging to waist height, Missus Carney’s fingers scratched the wall. Taking a slow, deep breath, she let it out in one long, low sigh. She had reached the other side! Shortly, she realized she was all the way there in a hasty

bump into the wall. ‘Oh!’ she said quickly, in surprise.

Missus Carney assumed more confidence. She had her bearings once again; at least she had a decent idea where she was, and was confident that, following the wall, her shuffle steps would bring her to the stairs, safely, and in good order. Slightly light of heart, she inched down the wall, toward the stairs.

Confident, and yet wary, Missus Carney concentrated on the stairs. She plotted what they would feel like when she got there, even though she could not the feeling of the top of the stairs. What she would see, if she could see: that, she knew. But what would that sudden openness feel like? Would it be like shuffling slowly across the hall, unseeing? Moistening her suddenly parched lips, she worried about what she would do when she got to the stairs: her next goal.

Before she could really prepare herself, the wall ended. Missus Carney’s hands groped off into the dark, feeling nothing. In the pit of her stomach, a churning occurred. The queasy quaintness there returned her right hand back to the corner. There it was, receding from her. Until she realized that her feet had not stopped shuffling along – as if on automatic – her mind imagined that the corner itself was falling away, to leave her alone and uned at the very edge of a very great black hole. In her imagination, the hall became a narrow ledge. The stairs became the black void. Seeing nothing, nothing was there. This whole event was senseless. Her heart pounded in her chest; her ears echoed the sound. And her shallow breath panted in utter panic. ‘Why did I ever leave my bed!?!’ she whispered into the dark, dark silence. ‘If only I had room, I could sit down.

Frozen in fear, Missus Carney trembled at the top of the stairs. She did not know what to do. Thinking, reasoning was out of the question. Tears slid from her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. She was afraid to sob.

When sounds began to come from downstairs, she had monsters churning in the gaping hole in front of her, eager to swallow her. When a light came on around the corner, casting a soft light to render shadows in the dark stairwell, she saw the stirring of who knows what! She panted heavily, and trembled.

Thyruid came to the stairs. ‘Who’s up there?’ He asked. ‘Me’ came the timid squeak. ‘Missus Carney!’ he said. ‘Let me come, give you a hand. We’ll get some tea going while I do my polishing. Now, whatever has you up so early, and on such a dark morning?’

18 November 1990

CDLXIV

Splattered stars flecked thickly the velvet night sky. The frost lay unseen while sharply felt in the still air. Shadows were thick everywhere. And, being late, no lights shone in Hyperbia. Carymba ambled in her syncopated way down the Valley Road, away from the Sea Road.

Earlier, Carymba had watched the slow heaving of the Sea slide into darkness, the lapping of the low rolling heaves the only remaining hint of the Sea’s incessant restlessness. The stars, so vivid in the sky, did not reflect from the Sea’s rolling surface. There was no moon tonight. The shrouding black penetrated everything, except those cool and distant sparkles, embedded in endless dark, overhead. Carymba had listened to the peaceful, rhythmic sloshing on the strand, and allowed her eyes to search the searchless blackness over the Sea while sitting on the rocks, high above the Sea Road.

At last, however, the night’s folds beckoned her onward. She rose and walked gingerly through the rocks, down to the smooth Sea Road, then on toward the turn to the Valley Road, just before the cliffs along the backside of the Hills stopped the Beach and jolted directly up from the Sea itself, unbuffered by any beach at all. The path was long known to her. Even in the unseeing darkness, her eyes seemed to follow the way. She did not fall on the rocks. She recognized in her footfall the terrain and matched the Sea Road with her turn to the left, and the Valley Road’s most subtle turn, again to the left, away from the lapping of the lazy Sea. Her feet seemed to follow naturally, as if they could see, or knew intimately the way through the rocks, the sand, the barely guiding subtleties of the route.

The Valley Road quickly entered that strait between the Hills and the Crossed Hills. Soon, the trees loomed high, their big branches arching majestically over

the Valley Road. The branches reached across the Road and, at places, mingled with their partner’s across the way, as if reaching to touch and grip fingers in the quiet night. Carymba tugged her shawl more closely about her slight frame, sealing off the channels and leaks through which the frosted night air had intruded on her. Nevertheless, she reveled in the feel of the chilled night on her cheeks. She tossed her head, her hair dancing in the air.

The brisk feel nipped at her nose and ears and flirted with her neck until the hair flopped back into place, veiling her throat. She looked into the sky, slowing nearly to a stop while gazing at the mess of stars all scrambled above. Only the traces of the great branches managed to carve out dark streaks in the sky.

Carymba knew those branches were truly there. Her throat, unseen, lay open as her head was thrown back to gaze overhead. The frost nibbled at the throat and coaxed its way low, toward her chest. She did not care. The night was encouraging her in all its hush and spangled beauty. Why should she grow shy in such a pointed caress? She almost laughed, but rather sighed. She noticed the dampness in her eye; if the moon were peeking, some might call it a sparkle in her eye. But only Carymba felt that swell.

Breathing deeply in that sharp air, she felt her throat, and her lungs cool. Exhausting the dark, she imagined the bold plumes that must be there before her face, then drew her chin down and, staggering momentarily, she moseyed on down the Valley Road, nearing the Narrows.

Carymba paused at the Narrows. She sat upon the root-steps which always began the climb up into the Crossed Hills, up to Mother Hougarry’s Hidden Cabin. She did not intend to climb, not tonight. But, for the moment, sitting here, absorbing all this star-studded dark, night felt like it was exactly what she needed to do right now. She listened to the fragile silence, breathing as lightly as she possibly could. The brittle air, crisp in its minute crystals of suspended, invisible frost, waited to be rattled by some sound. Carymba would not utter the sound, nor

even a sigh. The air quivered at her faint breath, then fell again into its hush as if she were not really there. She thought of participating in the cold stillness by being herself, so utterly still as was the breathless night.

Those stars had swept across the vast velvet night some ways while she sat and beheld the quiet. Nothing else, it seemed, had really moved, not even Carymba, beyond the necessities of blinking eyes and lightest breathing. She almost felt dizzy in the faint inclusion within this quiet night, away from the restless Sea.

What hour it had become escaped her. Instead, she found her wakeful eyes watching the stately sweep of stars behind those great black stationary arms the trees suspended in upward reaching supplication, grasping for the incomprehensible, the infinite beyond the cradled stars. Into this pristine, caressing night came suddenly a loud crashing, tumbling sound. Carymba sat upright, attentive, ready to move or respond. The noise was coming down the Valley Road, from the Fields. In spite of the impossible darkness, Carymba strained her eyes into the unyielding night, trying to determine what she heard. Whatever it was, she heard haste, and hard breathing, a bouncing into objects – trees, most likely – and muttering at the problems of the trek. Carymba thought to mount the root-steps and huddle next to the large tree that defined the Narrows. As the crushing rushing noise drew nearer, she thought that safer and wiser; so, she climbed, the frost nipping beneath her skirts for the effort.

Soon the rushing, panting something thudded into a tree nearby, hard. There was a second thud as the noise ceased and, she knew, the person was down on the ground. Carymba listened. Did he (as she imagined it must be he) – did he fall prone, unconscious? Or is he but sitting in aptly silent frustration? Storming in the hushed and blackened night is violence, ignoring the beauty and the need of the special night. Carymba knew that her special night had vanished now, in another need transcending her frosted delight.

Lightly sighing at this brash intrusion out of time, the waif eased back down the

root-steps, the frost once more intruding with a nip beneath her skirts. Slowly, she eased, almost floated in the frost-flecked air, off toward the last memory of the noise. Memory, not only of the crashing intruder but also of the Valley Road, suggested she need not go far to find her way to this fallen figure. She shuffled so as not to fall. She peered into the black. There, at last, her foot told her she had found the fallen.

Stooping on her haunches, Carymba felt the fallen. There was an arm, a shoulder, neck, a head: sweaty and chilling now. He had clobbered the tree; the tree did not yield in the dark. ‘Are you Walter’ she asked, her fingers tracing his features. He merely moaned, lowly. ‘What is the haste tonight, Walter? You can’t see anything!’ ‘Uh … what? … who?’ ‘Who else but Carymba?’ ‘Oh, you: what do you see out here tonight?’ ‘Stars and the tingle of the frost. Trees are too hard to see. You must be careful’. ‘Bah! I was in a hurry’. ‘A hurry to crash?’ ‘Just a hurry’. ‘’You missed the quiet. Here … sit a while, and listen to the night. Feel the tingle of the frost. See the bright stars. And recover from your fall’. ‘What else can I do?’

Walter fell unusually (for him) silent, sitting against the offending tree. Carymba stood, and huddled to herself. ‘I’m sore’ he said, sadly. ‘Be still. Morning’s light is not far off. … And I must amble on’. ‘Where?’ ‘To the Inn’. ‘Let me come, too’. ‘Come … quietly … slowly’. Amazingly, he did.

25 November 1990

CDLXV

Already the day was hastening along. He had been groggy all night, and slept hard, and overslept the dawn. Now, Wilbur was behind on his day’s chores. He had lost, irretrievably, several hours – half a morning already – of watching. He blanched at the thought as he pulled his clothes onto his body. How many might have tried to beckon him, seeking a age across the Great River? Even the warmth in the air the last couple days did nothing to temper that River now that the water had chilled considerably. And, being trapped in the underbrush …, well: that was not desirable, either. Not when the Guard is out. Who knows if they are out? Wilbur took to muttering, and wagging his head at himself, sure as anything that his oversleeping had brought some kind of disaster to someone.

With his face drawn long and low, his eyes sad and heavy, his forehead creased and cross creased in deep furrows, Wilbur byed his kitchen. He did not light his stove, nor did he start his morning coffee or discover something to eat. Instead, once adequately dressed, he hurried to the window and peered long and hard into the creases in the bramble and underbrush along the Great River. There were no hints of any attention there. He felt relieved that he saw no one in desperation. At the same time, he sighed that there was no way he could discover what or who of if anyone had been missed this morning.

Seeing no signs, Wilbur backed slowly toward his kitchen, knowing just when to swerve which way and how much to avoid all the clutter he had accumulated in his little home. It may seem difficult or crowded to others; but to Wilbur, this is truly home. He made it a point to ignore all comments about the space, but to refuse any help offered to straighten it up. The thought of the time Missus Carney came for a ride across the River and came into his house, flickered through his mind, causing Wilbur to wince; for she had nearly taken things into her own hands. She protested his great protest, for she was certain he would injure himself, or at least seriously slow his reaction time due to the maze he called home. How he had labored to convince her that any real change would

indeed imperil his life or limb! Now, never losing sight of the far back, nor even brushing a piece of furniture – table, chair or couch – in his room, Wilbur backed into his kitchen and slid along to the stove.

One last piercing look at the empty bramble-tangled bank, and Wilbur ducked down to prepare his stove. It was cold: no embers had remained past dawn. And now, in the warming of mid-morning, the stove required the full replacement. Ashes are removed; the bucket holds them well enough, and the tinder comes; and labored, careful ignition follows. The light flickered under the thin wavering wisp of smoke. The scent was tangy in his nostrils, making his nose quiver and threaten to sneeze. He was not ready for a sneeze. Not now! Not in the least! Just in case, though, he pulled back. Both hands were busy and he could not rub the nose. He twitched it, snarled up his face, sought some way for that almost-sneeze to . Finally, as the fire bit into stouter materials and sustained itself, believing the sneeze to have died, Wilbur relaxed, and moved the fire a bit further in its proper development.

Standing up to fix some breakfast and start the morning’s coffee, Wilbur sneezed. That sneeze caught him by surprise. He was rattled by the force of it. Shaking his head briskly, he muttered through flapping lips: ‘at least I got the stove going first!’ Mopping up his excess, Wilbur sniffed at the odor of heating metal. He knew the stove was nearing the correct heat for fixing his usual stovetop biscuits, and they weren’t prepared. Neither was the water on for heating. He was heating his house alright, but it was already unseasonably warm, with the rising Sun shining in, unhindered since the branches were all bare. Hungry and ready for a second (let along a first) mug of coffee, Wilbur hurried. He filled the pot with water and set it on the stove. ‘That’s begun’ he muttered, and he scraped together a wad of flour and some shortening and stuff and mixed it all into a wad. Dividing it, he set out the wads on the griddle to cook. They sizzled. ‘Too hot! But what can I do now? They darkened on the skillet, and raised. The scent of burnt flour penetrated the house; Wilbur twitched his nose in response. The water boiled and spat onto the stove. The beads danced and quickly disappeared. ‘Much too hot!!’ And Wilbur wiped his brow. ‘Impatience gets me again’. He scowled.

The burnt, but half raw, biscuits were hot. They did not taste very good. But, being hungry, Wilbur did not care too much. ‘There’s always tomorrow’, he said. The water boiled. He ran it through the drip coffee-maker. He sniffed: yes, he did the grounds. The aroma was right, and ripe. Nibbling on the more done parts of his biscuits, Wilbur waited for his coffee to drip. It took forever, he was sure. He grew more impatient. And the more impatient he grew, the slower the coffee ran. The dribble, however, did keep on running. ‘This should be done now – should have been done long ago!’ he scolded. Just then, the dribble stopped completely; the coffee was done. He poured for himself his first mug. ‘I like it best steaming hot, just like this’; he sighed as he sipped at his mug and put the quite raw center part of his first biscuit back on the griddle, where it sputtered and spat.

Nibbling further on his second partially done biscuit, Wilbur suddenly ed that River bank again. He shifted over a bit, craned his neck and looked thoroughly. There was nothing to be seen at the moment. He wanted to feel assured, but he could not forget that no one had ever just stood out there on the beach and waved until he happened to look. Each would appear, wave, then duck aside into the bramble for a bit before daring to come out again to one of the creases in the underbrush to try again, ever hopefully. The coffee begged another sip. His re-cooked biscuit was nearly smoking. He had to respond! So he traded his half-eaten, half-cooked second biscuit for the re-cooked half of the first. And, with a swig of piping hot coffee, returned to peer out the window.

With a second swig to drain down the last of the first biscuit, just before leaning over to retrieve the last half of the second, a hand waved quickly at the second crease. He saw it, and turned pale. How many times had that waving arm tried? He grabbed the biscuit lest it burn, left his mug on the counter and hurried toward the door. Grabbing a jacket, he neglected his shoes. He rushed down the hill toward his boat, nearly slipping and plunging into the cold Great River himself. But he didn’t.

On the way, a voice called: ‘Can we go, too?’ ‘Why?’ ‘To visit’. ‘I’ll drop you off if you can make it: hurry!’ Eliza almost slid on the mud. Carymba grabbed her flailing arm and lent a breathless stability. The two scrambled into the boat, just as Wilbur began to push off. ‘Why the rush?’ ‘I’m late this morning, and I just saw a wave … I don’t know how long I’ve been sought!’ ‘Which crease?’ ‘The second’. We’ll jump as you land’. ‘We will?’ came Eliza’s new anxiety. ‘We will’. The period was spoken with finality. Eliza tried hard to swallow; at last she did. And Wilbur brought the boat around, into the current, to be driven across the way, right to the right landing, to trade these two for another, more frightened, more needing. Wilbur thought of his coffee. ‘It will be there when I get back’. He wiggled his toes, for the water was making them cold.

2 December 1990

CDXLVI

Everything remained dark in the houses and huts of Hyperbia. Even the Inn-bythe-Bye was totally dark. Only the Big Dome showed light this morning. Thyruid awoke. He was no longer tired. He was slept-out. His body told him it was past time for him to rise. And yet, it was most thoroughly dark-black: a most unrelenting thoroughness. The Inn-by-the-Bye felt a little stuffy, and cold. All was silent, unlike the moaning howls which swirled about the house all last evening, before he let the moans serenade him to sleep. Recognizing the old winter pattern, Thyruid re-snuggled down into the covers. He frowned; for the first time this winter he, and Marthuida, the Inn-by-the-Bye and their guests were all snowed under.

All wee-folk’s homes are provided with at least one door which opens in, away from the mass of snow. Everybody knew that no one could start a stove nor light a lamp until a channel had been made for air to enter and smoke to leave. Otherwise … well, everybody would choke on smoke and have trouble breathing as well. Thyruid knew what should be done, what needs to be done. He simply did not want to go, do it, not yet this morning.

Upstairs, Missus Carney also recognized the problem. She knew that no place would be as warm as her bed. And she got cold a lot easier than she used to do. (Why, time was, and not long ago, when she would be out and onto that snow early, even before dawn, and she would be cleaning off other’s smoke holes, over in Apopar.) So Missus Carney also snuggled down in her covers.

Geoffrey never did wake up so early. He was mounded with a stack of blankets, one no one had ever counted, and no one ever knew just how thick it really was. Even Geoffrey didn’t know; he never counted. (Besides, the dimensions of that stack had become legendary – and no one wants to threaten legends with trivial

facts. … Of course, truth sometimes sures legend!) Geoffrey slept blissfully on.

Clyde lay half awake in the dark. The whole Inn was silent. He was never the first one up. Somebody always was rattling something somewhere. The fact that there was no outside noise did not with him. Instead, he figured it must still be in the middle of the night. And so he, too, rolled over and went back to sleep until some more promising time arrived.

Sitting on the Rock which stands beside the end of the Way Down, in the place she had spent so much of the storm night, both watching the snow in the shelter of some bare trees and periodically brushing aside the accumulation of fluff so that she would not become buried in it all herself, Carymba stretched her neck to look out over the Fields. Everything was white and sparkling in the early morning Sun. The night time storm had now ed and the cold sky was brilliant blue overhead. Carymba squinted against the hard, hard glare of the pure white snow. Only slight lumps marked where a house lay buried. And, when she looked up into the Hills, toward where Eliza’s cabin had been solidly rebuilt, she could see only snow, cusped from one massive tree trunk to the next. She knew people would be having trouble. Someone would have to create air ages. Some could, if they would. But what of Missus Duns, or Mother Hougarry, or Father John? They simply could not. And even the insulating snow would help only so much.

Carymba stood up and dusted the snow off her seat. She shook with a sudden quiver and the loose snow flew from her warm cloak. Up here, however, the sharp nip in the air hit her nose and ears. She raised her hood and drew it close at the throat for protection. With one hand, she brushed at the snow. She tested it, placing a foot into it. Down, even past her knee, her foot slipped. There, at last, she found a firmer sounding. Certainly, she would have to take the top route: burrowing would be an impossible tact to try!

Step by slow step, she went. The cold filtered beneath her cloak, and beneath her skirts. The fluffy, flashy white clung to her calves and melted, half-melted and half re-froze, to re-melt, run, chap her legs, cling or fall away to be replaced as step by labored step she cut across the way, headed by the snowscape toward the Bid Dome. Carymba knew she could not manage to free all the houses herself. But Yves and Betsy could playfully, easily perform this vital task, if only they would. (Of course, they’d grow hungry and get the old Inn-by-the-Bye free before morning ended. Carymba wanted more, and the whole to be thought out, direct rather than merely accidental and haphazard.)

Walking through the fluff, thanks to an underlying crust, was possible if difficult. Carymba couldn’t have gone far in pure fluff more than twice as deep as she is tall. But this, largely, was possible. Only occasionally did the footing fail and her leg plummet into the snow. Then she would have to pull herself out, find a surer footing and shake what she could of the snow from her clothes, and her legs. Worst of all, the failing of the footing slowed her in her trek. She tried not to imagine her wee friends in their homes as she trod, struggled along.

At long last, cold and shivering by now, Carymba arrived at the Big Dome. She had to be careful, for the brook was not frozen over and the snow was weakly arching over the trickling water. Concentrating, she arrived on the steps. She kicked away offending snow and rapped on the door. After what seemed like a very long time, Betsy came, yawning. ‘Hi, Carymba’ she said. ‘Come on in!’ The door opened a crack; Carymba slid into the Big Dome. Warmth came upon her, feeling very good. She realized now how raw and sore her chapped legs were, down under her long skirts. But such concerns had to . ‘You know’ began the shivering waif, ‘every house in Hyperbia – except yours – is buried in snow. No one can even light a stove for warmth until they get a channel free for air and smoke’. ‘That’s right! I had forgotten … Yves! Let’s go and free up some houses!’ ‘Oh! … I’ll get ready’. ‘Me too’.

Carymba watched them scurry around. She stayed clear of the hurried, somewhat undisciplined feet. They pulled on coats and mufflers, mittens.

Everything was hurried and in a mess. Half out the door after Yves, Betsy stopped to reach back. She grabbed up Carymba. ‘I’ll take you to the Inn-by-theBye first. You’ll get warmer there’.

After a few sweeps of her hand and some crunching stomps with her boots, Betsy freed the Inn. Geoffrey knew nothing of it. Clyde saw the new light. Missus Carney sighed in relief, thinking of Apopar. Thyruid stirred from his bed to begin his chores. Marthuida, his wife, began to go to the kitchen, having instructed Thyruid to start the fireplace fire before doing any of his foolish polishing. Carymba, set at the porch, shoved some last snow away, and walked into the Inn, expectant of warmth that should soon follow. She saw Thyruid already at work at the hearth, and spoke: ‘Good Morning, Thyruid. That fire will be wonderful!’

9 December 1990

CDLXVII

Bright warmth bathed Hyperbia and everyone found it so refreshing, a break from the cold, and before the anticipated bluster soon to arrive. The Sun and relatively balmy breezes curled around the Hills and Crossed Hills, across the Fields, in a swirl through Uiston, lazily across the Plain and tauntingly over Apopar and the Borders – these brought a dreamy cast to the day. Almost everyone found a way to be outdoors. Almost all those outdoors found a way to be a little lazy and pretend to be luxurious. Even in Apopar, the Winter respite and thaw has eased the way. Paces became slowed to an amble. No one seemed in a hurry. No one paid attention to the usual pressing hubbub. Instead, the thaw brought out an indulgent laziness in almost everyone.

Even when the nervous old woman, nameless to everyone in her past in Apopar, and faceless to others, tried to keep the habitual bustle, storming against the slower pace, the relaxing of routine among her neighbors, she kept running into people who clogged her way. She came near to frustration and to tears. She wanted to scream, but had long since forgotten how, in all the years of Apoparian silence. Instead, she held the tension snugly in her body. She wanted to move, but there was no room. She wanted to run, but the warmth had melted everything, making all wet; and the ground was soft, the yellow mud thick and clingy on wayward feet. She had to be particular where she put her feet, lest she stick nearly solid!

The old woman’s route carried her slowly by Nova’s door. Nova herself was inside, puttering with chores. But Sophy was squatting by the open, low doorway, watching the slow laziness of the Apopar people. They all remained silent, like always; but the pace was unusually slow, drawn out in seemly eternal age. Sophy was intrigued with the ambling gaits of people whose legs usually stomped with machine-like insistence, pounding, driving relentlessly the stern faced bodies into the day’s chores. She could not ever seeing anyone here so persistently, insistently relaxed. The lazy air infected everyone,

even Sophy herself – everyone, that is, except the old woman who was becoming so exasperated by the whole lazy day affair.

Intrigued by her flustered appearance, the flushed face, the wild look in her eyes, Sophy studied the old woman coming bye. She seemed to be even more bogged down than need be. The lazy, milling group clogged the path for her; but moving through themes was possible only if a body stayed composed and very alert. This poor old woman was no longer either, so that she bogged herself up as much as did the others in their random ease. Sophy felt sorry for her. Nothing was going right for her, and she might be hungry. Certainly, a rest would allow her to get herself together, so to speak. Thinking this way, Sophy sprung to her feet and rushed headlong after the poor woman – who had taken to flailing her arms and swinging her shoulders and hips wildly, like some kind of trapped, panicked animal. Sophy grasped a flying sleeve, and tugged. The woman paused, stunned by the brisk tug on her sleeve. No one grabbed hold of anyone in Apopar. Missus Carney was the last person who even touched her. She was disconnected and safe. Then there came this lazy crowd, and now a tug on her sleeve!

Looking at the little girl, the old woman puzzled. She puzzled, first of all, because she was looking at someone, someone who was, indeed, a little girl. She saw a bright, smooth, fresh face. The hair was tousled. The eyes were bright, a signal of liveliness, such as the old woman really did not having seen before, ever. She looked at the hand, continuing to tug on her sleeve. One day, she ed, she had caught her sleeve on a bramble. The sleeve had tugged hard then, too. But that was a faceless, nameless bramble. This is a child, with a child’s face. And does she have a name? Does anyone in Apopar have a name? The old woman doesn’t know a name for herself. She had never needed one.

With her one hand, Sophy tugged. With the other, she beckoned the old woman to come with her. The crowd milled around, but Sophy was intently earnest in her task. The old woman saw the strange earnestness in her face. ‘This is all terribly unusual’ she thought. She ed no incident like this one ever having happened before. At the first tugs, she had been stunned. Then, she had

resisted, as if trying to tear the sleeve free from yet another bramble. And now, she felt herself yielding to the tug, actually going along, sliding through the crowd after the opening movement of this girlchild.

The little girl’s insistence brought the old woman to the door of Nova’s yellow mud hut. It looked like any other mud hut in Apopar. The old woman was unimpressed. She began to grow irritated at this whole process. She stood stock still. She pulled back at her arm, trying to free it from the little girl’s grip. Sophy held firm. The old woman felt indignant. Then she noticed that, indeed, she felt something. Somebody looked at her. She looked at somebody. Somebody touched her. The usual driving routine was shattered. And it was all because that sunshine and the thaw, a warm day when it had been cold and blustery. But, of all the utter foolishness, she felt things. No one in Apopar was supposed to feel things. Why, if you feel, or think, you might need a name. And whoever heard of anyone’s name, in Apopar?!

In spite of herself, the old woman was becoming intrigued with this whole thing, ridiculous as that may seem. For this day was truly out of character for just about everything she knew. Warm in winter: sluggish crowds: a little girl tugging her sleeve, and more: this is ridiculous; this is absurd! Or so she thought as she stood helplessly at the door. She watched as Sophy pushed open the doorway and began to duck inside. The old woman was ready to watch the little girl disappear and have her day return to normal. She could then forget that she had seen that face and the lively earnest in those eyes. Except: Sophy kept on tugging on her sleeve, seeking to lead her into that hut. The old woman began to panic. Her heart beat wildly, as she could plainly hear in her ears. Her chest felt like it was ready to explode; she just knew it. Her breathing became quick and light. She froze, then grew dizzy and nearly limp. She looked at the little girl’s innocent face, felt the tug continue on her sleeve. She looked away, to see someone wading out of the softer mud, legs and feet all yellow and clumped with gooey mud. The old woman looked back to Sophy, sighed, and slid through the doorway after her. The door swung nearly shut.

Inside, a low fire cast long, odd shadows around the room. The smell of smoke and of hot stones and of cooking meal cakes confronted her nostrils long before she could see even the shadowy shape of Nova crouched by the fire-pit. ‘Who is this, Sophy?’ asked Nova. ‘I’m not sure. I didn’t ask her name, not outside’. ‘Well, … good morning. I’m Nova. This is Sophy. Won’t you us for some fresh cakes?’ ‘Ok’ she croaked, adding ‘but I never had a name’. ‘Well, what shall we call you?’ ‘I’ll call you Ella … because I like that name’. ‘Is that alright with you … Ella?’

‘Ella … a name … me’.

16 December 1990

CDLXVIII

Damp, drizzly chill penetrated Hyperbia. The winter Sun, delayed anyway, was sheltered from the land by long low overcast. The clouds, thick and dark grey, hung low, drooping near the Hills and Crossed Hills and hanging lower in dripping gloom over Uiston and the Fields, the Plain and the Commons, the Fringe, the Sea, Apopar and the Borders, and anyplace else the wee folk might think to go.

The defining drizzle itself was cold. It ate into anyone and everyone, an obnoxiously haughty, taunting cold, sure it could penetrate any defense so long as no one has started a fire. And, early on, when dawn remained reluctant to hint its presence round about, no one had a fire left, or much of a coal bed (at best) against the cold. So Winter snarled self-confidently this morning.

Into this snide morning, Mother Hougarry awoke. She didn’t like waking in the cold, but even the blankets she had were not enough to preserve her against that damp chill. She found herself all wadded up on herself. And still she was cold. Aware of the situation, she grimaced. She scowled. Never was she so uncomfortable as she was in this kind of very wet, chilled air. No blankets were around, extra, least of all in easy reach. Mother Hougarry squirmed, seeking warmth, without a shred of luck.

Mother Hougarry recalled olden times. Once, Carymba would have been here: she would get up and be about; she would start the stove and chase away this biting cold. If nothing could be done about the gloom outside, a lamp lit and a stove warmed would master those problems on the inside! But Carymba was not here. And even Eliza was gone back home, healed from that broken leg of – how many Winters has it been now? She had lost track.

With a sigh, Mother Hougarry ed further back, back to when she was herself younger and lively. Back then, she would be self-reliant. She would drag herself from bed, pull on some clothes and get the fire started in her stove, light her lamp, start breakfast cooking and coffee brewing, all on her own initiative. Back then, she simply grimaced, and took control of herself, and did it anyway. Lying there, Mother Hougarry argued with herself, to the effect that she ought not let a few years get in the way of her action! Why, even last year she was spry enough to wedge her way out of bed and get lamp and stove going eventually!

With grim determination not to be cold, Mother Hougarry threw aside her covers. Exposed to the gnawing air, she truly wondered if this were really the path to warmth. The logic was that of habit. But, gnawing chill, as it bit deeply into her thin flesh, forced Mother Hougarry to question radically such habitual logic. But … reversal was impossible now. She was getting up, regardless of her desires.

Old cold fingers, she was discovering again, were highly inefficient. They fumbled clumsily at the lamp so that the room remained dark. They were nearly as clumsy at the stove, so that Hidden Cabin remained cold. And damp. She shivered. Her fingers fumbled the more. The whole was most unsatisfying to her, and frustrating as all get out. Mother Hougarry rubbed her hands together, and then along her arms as vigorously as possible, generating warmth and circulation in those fingers. She simply wished they would cooperate some. Rubbing them together, concentrating on the stubborn ts, trying to make them move a little more easily, Mother Hougarry looked for feeling in her finger tips. Why must they be so obnoxious?

While working her hands toward trying again to get things lit, Mother Hougarry shuffled over to find some warmer clothes. ‘No reason to give up the effort all over my body while concentrating on the hands!’ she muttered as she scrounged up some garments and changed into them. Warmer about the shoulders, she continued her efforts with her hands. These, she thought, were crucial. In the

midst of the process, she thought again of Carymba and Eliza. This whole mess would be long over with if only one or the other of them were around. But, no: they cannot be here when she needs them! ‘Eliza’s probably at home, warm and snug. But Carymba – well! who knows where Carymba might be, or what she is up to! She is the most unpredictable person I know’.

Then, falling into a musing mood, Mother Hougarry thought of how often Carymba came when she really needed her, as if by magic. But that magic was not working this morning. ‘Perhaps I can try again’ she murmured, huddling onto herself for added warmth.

‘Should I light the lamp first, to see what I’m doing better; or should it be the stove, so I won’t be shivering so badly? Choices! Choices! Always, I have to make these choices!’ Short, shivering reflection sent her to the stove first. All the material needed was there; she knew it was there for her. She made sure of that last night, just as she always makes sure. Her hands found it readily. She clanked open the stove and poked around: all was cold. She prepared it by feel, knowing she had ashes all around her. Then came the attempt to light the fire. ‘Carymba is so much better at this than I am! I wish she were here’. Mother Hougarry paused. No one was around. So she began to work on getting the stove lit herself.

Success came at last. The kindling crackled. The fire in the stove danced. She watched it, squinting at its yellow-brightness. Soon, as the coal-beds formed, new fuel was added. It flared into flame. At last, the larger stock was added. By now the stove was hot, radiating warmth to the room. She fixed her tea kettle to heat first, prepared the teapot, then went to set up the lamp and light it. The chill was pushed back to the corners. And the heavy darkness escaped.

Being hungry, Mother Hougarry began to mix a batch of muffins. ‘I never did learn to make a small enough batch for just me’ she sighed as she looked at the overly large bowl of batter. ‘I may as well bake them all now’ she confessed.

As the muffins finished baking, and the Hidden Cabin was all light and warm, an island of comfort in the dark morning, rainy and cold, a rattle came at her door. Mother Hougarry started, for she had been concentrating very hard, and was all engrossed in her work. Nevertheless, she went to the door. There stood Carymba, and Eliza, with John and Jasper and Mary, and a few others she did not recognize. ‘Come in! It’s so miserable out there. Let me close the door against it! … There: now, what do you need?’

Carymba answered: ‘These people come from the other side of the Great River. They came by boat, around the River’s end in the Sea. They need a bed for a few days, a place to be and to sleep’. ‘Of course! And they can help with the stove!’

23 December 1990

CDLXIX

Jasper had finished his night’s work at John’s Foundry. He really did not quite understand why John wanted to work at night now, in the depths of the Winter. When it is hot under the Sun – fine. But no one in Hyperbia has had to worry about the Sun being too hot for a long time. And now, when it is so very cold, turning the days and nights back into the right order made a lot of sense – to Jasper, but not (apparently) to John. John simply shook his head and said something about keeping things simple. Simple is what Jasper thought he was proposing! But John insists, and so the hour when morning is supposed to arrive comes and John is ready to quit, until well after dark the next night. Jasper often fumbles through his days, not being eager to go curl up to sleep right at dawn. Now, tired from the night, with a little yawn engulfing him again, Jasper had to try to decide what, exactly, he might try to accomplish today, if anything.

Jasper left the Foundry. Inside, he had been sweating freely. Now, he met the bitter cold of the Winter pre-dawn. At first, the brisk and brash feeling as the air slapped his face was a delightful relief from the Foundry furnace hot. But soon, the icy air penetrated him, nearly freezing the sweat upon his body. The hint of ice upon his arms brought a coat over his back. He stuffed his arms into the sleeves and pulled the whole arrangement snugly across his chest. Retrieving a cap from his pocket, Jasper shoved it onto his head, tugging it down over his ears. His hands he stuffed into his pockets as he stood in the cold and dark predawn morning. Behind him, still in the hot-outpouring forge, John called out to him: ‘That’s about all for tonight, Jasper. I’ll see you a couple hours after dark. We’ll have a busy one tonight’.

Free to go, Jasper called back ‘Ok’. And he set out, wandering onto the frozen Fields. The grass was laid down, plastered near the ground, rising only in occasional, stubborn clumps. And even those clumps were stiff with hard bristles stabbing the air. Although it was hard to see much clearly, he could tell that everything was plated with white, and hardened to his step. The ground also was

rough and resistant to his step; he stumbled along crudely. He felt awkward in the exercise. He even thought that, perhaps, he should have stayed around the Foundry. After all, the place was warm – too warm, hot even. And then he could find a place to rest. He wouldn’t be tripping on all these frozen clods. Such an impulse did not last, however; Jasper was restless.

Through the darkness, Jasper wandered. He was terribly clumsy. Almost falling down once and again, he regained his balance each time. Each stumble changed his direction. He lost track of where he was. He had left the pathways and was simply meandering away from the Foundry. This trek brought him to the edge of the Fields which lies over by the Fringe. As he came to the sloping drop-off in the ground, he ed; he recognized now where he was. Shuddering, he stopped his trek. Pulling himself erect, he gazed through the darkness, out over the Fringe. Everything was very still out there. The still water was frozen now: he knew. Thus, the odor of the swampy place was sealed away.

Standing still, his hands still stuffed into his pockets, Jasper took on a half-blank look. He was not interested in the Fringe. He had been there before. But, at the same time, he grew curious about the place. And, as he pondered old memories as they were coming unfrozen, and the current sight of the place, all dim and hidden in the remaining night, the sky began to lighten some, slowly, and from off behind the Hills. The greying of the sky brought a little light over the Fringe. The smoke from the smudgy fire on the one rise, where all those silent wandering folk came together – that smoke rose in a thin straight line – straight until it crumpled and wavered and meandered off into the morning sky. Jasper wondered about that place. ‘How did I stay there so long?’ he thought, puzzling in his own mind.

Leaving the Fringe had, in its own odd way, been hard. He had had more trouble leaving the Fringe than he ever had leaving the Forge in the morning. Something was in that mechanical isolation, the silence where others were merely around, a part of the scenery, shared to the extent of bodily warmth in the standing bodies wedged into a large circle centered by that smudgy fire, and shared no more than

that. One man never thought of another. The code was known: let one another approach and give room – to on the ridges through the swamp, and to the circle on that low rise and round the fire. There was no more acknowledgement. Every Winter day was cold there. No alternative existed. Everybody quivered.

The light brought a higher curiosity to Jasper. He knew the entry point and, in the new low light, he wandered that way, steadily. Once he had come to the path into the Fringe, Jasper was absolutely captivated. He needed to go in. And so, he went in. The stiff, now frozen, frosted tall marsh grasses stood sentinel around him as he meandered into the Fringe. His body quickly adapted to the place, adopting the standard, mechanical way of walking. He felt the thick isolation, which even the nearest, warming body could not penetrate. He could not penetrate their isolation from him, even if he tried. No: not in here. Even Carymba could only knock at that extensive shell, nearly hollow with only a thwarted, miniature, shriveled person somewhere inside, afraid of his own rattle. He ed. But now, this time, he was not shriveling. Not yet, anyway. He came of his own choice. Jasper came to visit.

Oh, Jasper knew too well the pangs of living here. He’d known the raw life, the cold, the aloneness, the too bitter faces. He knew the freezing of ion behind those isolating husks. He ed; and behind that recollected husk, Jasper was wincing at the thought of the feeling of the Fringe. He shuddered, this time from an inner cold, as he slid up to the rise. He could smell the smudgy fire. There was the ring of silent men, wedged together. Jasper solemnly approached. As he drew almost near, he caught sight of Carymba, off to the side. Had he been less unmovable by any emotion, he must have blushed. But not here, not now. He saw her nod, a hinted smile, almost a whimsy skirting about her mouth. Jasper met the ring; it opened for him until he was wedged therein. Every face was blank, even his own. He did look, though. And he saw the gazing eyes, every one of them dull.

After a while, Jasper sighed. No one sighs on the Fringe. The sound of it rippled

around the circles. And Jasper stepped back. Before the circle snapped closed again, a pause interceded. Someone half sighed, across the way. The circle closed, but Jasper was amazed at what he had heard. Or had he heard it? He felt a little flushed. And, seeing Carymba again, asked with his eyes about that halfsigh. Carymba smiled softly, winked and nodded: yes, so much had come to the Fringe this cold, unlikely morning.

30 December 1990

CDLXX

Pre-morning cold gripped Hyperbia. Under cloudless skies, illumined by the full moon’s white eeriness, the wintered landscape lay bare and frozen. Stillness lay gently everywhere. The rigid crispness in the air knew no distressing breeze. What little snow there was lay clumsily, in a dusting between the clumps of grasses and the stark Winter trees. Most houses still had a faint trail of smoke rising from their chimneys. A few, however, had been silent long enough this night for the fire to die completely. From one, Missus Duns’ sod house, a regular line of smoke arose, driven by the fire which the long sleepless Missus Duns kept stoked.

The old woman had gone to bed earlier, about her usual hour. And, in the course of time, the fire had settled. The coals were still hot and the stove held the heat well. But the settled, dry cold penetrated her house. For this was a cold to penetrate every bone, and to chill the flesh. Only an aggressive fire, either in the stove or in the body, and the body well wrapped in insulating covers – only such could hold this cold night at bay. And Missus Duns’ inner furnace had grown a little timid with age. She cooled more easily now than once she had. And even her stack of blankets would not suffice this night. For the cold cut through everything.

Shivering, then, Missus Duns got up. She pulled on her warm socks, and her slippers. A blanket or two became a shawl, wrapped about her shoulders and neck, draping to the floor, huddled tightly near. Something had to be done to deal with that penetrating cold, to shove it back to the window and door, and to warm her as well. Only the stove had that power.

Pulling up a stool near the stove, with a box of fuel near at hand, she stirred the glowing coals. They were hot enough to give an orange tint to the stove, and to

her hands. They would not, however, chase the chill well enough, even now. So, she stoked fresh fuel into the stove. It sat there, cooling the coals. Missus Duns rubbed her hands together and blew on them, trying to keep them reasonably limber.

At last, the stick crackled into flame. A new warmth began to emerge, to fly into her face. Missus Duns smiled, and turned her hands to the fire, letting the comfort penetrate her flesh and her bones. A weary smile crept over her expression, softening her face. She allowed the warmth to come near her body, and sighed in new relaxation as it arrived for her.

Sitting on her stool, leaning forward, her elbows resting on her knees, Missus Duns watched the yellow flames dance in the stove. She watched right through the open door on the stove. ‘The sight of the flames makes me feel warmer, too’, she mumbled. And she loosened her grip on the blankets, allowing them to lie open in front while shielding her back from the encircling cold.

For her to go back to bed now would be to let the fire die down. She might sleep a bit, but only to be roused by the returning cold, and forced to prepare the stove again. Because she knew the problem in going to bed, Missus Duns decided to stay seated on her stool and tend the stove which made her warm, even warm enough to sleep if it weren’t for the numbing cold all over Hyperbia tonight.

For her to stay awake and tend the fire in her stove, Missus Duns would certainly need to get things in line for musing. She began to the more distant past, when she was a child, or a young woman. She recalled winter nights more bitter cold than this, and nights nurturing stoves, half cat-napping as the weariness of the days came over her. Things were easier then, and harder. She wondered which. Sharing old friendships, in an age when she came and went as she pleased, regardless of the weather or the time of day or night, returned. Eyes misted over a face curled into a smile as the laughter spent with others came and went. Only Mother Hougarry and Father John were left now – oh, and Missus

Carney, although she had not seen a lot of Missus Carney even back then, because she had gone to do her work in Apopar. Memories soon misted in warm yawns. The weariness of the night crept into her bones. Her eyes grew very heavy. She dozed, her head hanging down, her chin nearly on her chest.

As that thin line of smoke rose relentlessly from her chimney, fed by the fire she still stoked, it marked its singular place in Hyperbia, illumined by the white, full moon overhead. All the other places gave only a wisp of smoke, at best.

The uniqueness of Missus Duns’ pencil of smoke caught the eye of Carymba. For that little waif was out again, meandering about Hyperbia in her driven state. She never knew just why she felt these urges to go walking in the strangest places at the oddest times. But, somehow, she always discovered that some real happenchance occasions opened for her; she was needed in some way. So, tonight, Carymba took her syncopated gait and turned toward Missus Duns’ little corner, in the edge of the Hills, by the end of it all, by the Fringe and all that lays beyond, over by the Sea. Curiosity inspired her now.

Taking the crooked little path up into Missus Duns’ little corner, tucked into the Hills, where no one ever went by accident, Carymba found herself up near Missus Dun’s sod house. To get an idea of what was going on, she slipped by the one window; it was all frosted, but the glow from the open stove did shine onto the swirling crystals of frost and heated them. Carymba noted the underlying film of cold water, floating the frost and giving a curious form to the window. I’ll just try the door’ she said. And she did.

Rapping lightly, no reply came. Tapping firmly, no answer arrived. Knocking solidly, only silence responded. Carymba tried the door; it opened. Sliding into the sod house, Carymba took care to close the door securely. She looked and saw Missus Duns slouched onto her lap in front of the stove. The fire was dwindling down; the last flickers of live flame were just then fluttering their last. Coming near, Carymba felt the warmth. Taking another piece, she laid it into the stove

and waited. Soon, it would ignite. ‘Here, Missus Duns, let me help into bed again. I’ll keep your stove live so you can sleep’. Missus Duns sighed deeply, but did not waken. She followed Carymba’s aid and was soon slid into her covers, under her blankets, asleep in her warm home.

Carymba puttered. She got out a kettle, and filled it with water. She did the same with a pot. She set them on the stove. As they warmed, Carymba added bits of this and that to the pot and let it come to a simmer. The kettle readied for tea. The aroma of broth filled the room. And the moisture made the warmth cozier. Missus Duns shuffled in her bed, a glance of pleasure upon her sleeping face.

Carymba gave cover to the stove and tended it for the night. Breakfast will be good in the morning’ she whispered to Missus Duns, but mostly to herself.

6 January 1991

CDLXXI

Wilbur sat by his window and scowled. This was, for him, the worst time of the year. The Great River was half frozen over. Free ice floated down stream, cracking into other pieces in the rush of the underlying current. He could not take his boat out on a day like this! And the ice was thin, treacherously thin, even for wee folk, over that cold and strong current. There was no way to get across the Great River now. So Wilbur sat, helpless, scowling, hoping no one would appear with a longing to get across the River today. More than ever, the River is a barrier, one even the boatman cannot transgress.

Distressed – for no one enjoys being so unable to do what he dies best – Wilbur sighed as he heaved himself forward, and up, out of his chair; he headed for his kitchen, where the stove was already hot and his coffee pot was already brewed and some breakfast was already ready. He looked at the kitchen – a bit messy, with time to eat well, and clean well, all uninterrupted – and he sighed. Listless, he barely had ambition enough to pour his mug of coffee. Even when he did get the mug poured, he let it sit there on the counter while he blankly stared at it, almost as if he were posing in the room for some unusual still life portrait.

Wilbur just stared. He looked right at his mug, full of steaming hot coffee. Or so it seemed. Yet, he did not notice the slow swirl in the mug, nor the slowly curling steam that seemed to be pried off the surface, or peeled into a thin, aromatic vapor trail tantalizing his nose. Except he did not notice the aroma, either. He might have been worrying about the Great River, knowing that the ice was nearly always treacherous because of the strength of the current. But even that sad reflection was not there. Wilbur was blankly staring, a strangely mindless act, the reflex of a sense of his uselessness. Not willing to it that his was a simply useful role, Wilbur never considered himself merely useful; yet, each Winter, when the ice made the Great River so dangerous, he would discover himself simply staring blankly nowhere.

For as much reason as lay behind his blank non-reverie, Wilbur found his eyes focus again onto his mug. He noticed the aroma and, with a slight shrug, he reached to his mug, took it up and sipped at it, deeply. The cooling coffee was still hot enough to be modestly tasty. (Wilbur liked his coffee best when it is thickly steaming. When the steam stops pouring off the top, he considers the drink to be borderline, at best.) Quickly draining the mug, he felt only a mild displeasure. But the taste was not satisfying; so, he filled he mug again, watched it steam into the dry Winter air, and began already to sip at it. ‘Ah!’ he said out loud, the first sign of pleasure he had endured all morning.

The sign of pleasure was fleeting. Wilbur hardly noticed it himself, except to sip quickly again, and again, that the hot, dark fluid amply fill his throat with its strong flavors. But, most of all, his mind mused on the Great River, and the coffee, on hoping no one would come to the other side, seeking a way across the River – a way he could not provide today, and likely not for several days – and then back again to the nearly empty mug of coffee. In a fit of impatience, he gulped down the last of his coffee, draining the mug. And, after a quick check on the stove – it was doing fine, needing no attention now – he ambled back toward the big window from which he habitually watched the creases in the thicket on the opposite shore.

Flopping down into his big chair, Wilbur watched. The sky was heavy and grey, hanging low and lazy over the Great River. The icy River was grey, too, and dull … except in the streaks of dark, nearly black open water, with flecks of ice tumbling along in the current. Into that unfriendly world, nothing dared poke itself. The River was too cold, the ice too threatening, the current too strident for anyone to test it. Wilbur gazed intently, studying the far shore. He really did not know what he would do if someone were to appear and wave for him – worse, wave with a note of real desperation in the act! ‘I certainly hope no one appears. Surely, no one would come on a day like today!’ He murmured to himself, there being no one to eavesdrop on him. And he looked over the Great River, and how the ice was there.

Shaking his head in dismay, Wilbur muttered: ‘No. There is no way to cross that River today. No way at all’. All the while, nagging in the back of his mind, the thought stirred that he was the one whose task it had long been – he almost thought always – to find a way to get people across the Great River, particularly those in a panic. ‘I’m losing it!’ The words spit out of his mouth with vehement dismay.

Midmorning had given way to late morning, and the lunch hour was staring at him. Wilbur didn’t feel hungry. He was sad, thoroughly sad. He just knew his face was long and heavy; it felt that way to him. No interest in changing that glum look he suspected showed through the big widow existed. He had become very sad. Even the rapping which came on his door did not improve things. The prospect of having company felt depressing. With company, he would need to be civil. Why! They (or he, or she) might want to go on across the Great River. What will he say? No. What else can he say? And the prospect of refusal hung heavily on him, like some dead weight hanging from his neck like a gruesome pendant.

The rapping, tapping at his door did not go away, no matter how much Wilbur wished it away. The sound repeated in insistent staccato until Wilbur got up and went to the door, more to stop the clatter than to be hospitable. ‘Who’, he thought, ‘would want to show hospitality when the day is as miserable as this one? I might as well just open the door and say: No!’

In such a black mood, Wilbur opened the door with a sigh. The movement was sudden, and came as Geoffrey was just about to re-rap upon the door. His knuckles had started to move directly toward Wilbur’s nose; but then, Geoffrey brought them up short, still, a short way from that nose. ‘Good morning to you’ offered Geoffrey. Wilbur was too startled to explode into his planned ‘No!’. Instead, he stammered something incoherent, which everybody ignored. Mary interrupted: ‘It is cold and damp out here. Would you mind if we came in? Then, you would not get so cold, either’. With blinking eyes, Wilbur stepped back and

waved them inside.

Carymba, the third and last of the visitors, commented on the Great River: ‘That water looks extra treacherous today. No one could cross now: not until the ice clears. That must be hard for you’. ‘It is’. ‘We came’, said Mary, ‘wondering about a plan for Spring’. ‘For Spring?’ ‘Yes. Things take time to get ready. We have heard Missus Carney’s tales of Apopar, how dismal it is there. We thought, perhaps, some flowers would help cheer up the place. I sell flowers! If we can slip them across the Great River … later, not now! My! I have nothing ready and the dirt is all frozen; you can’t plant in frozen earth! How could we do it? We would do it together, of course’.

Wilbur began to muse. And his stomach noticed the hour. ‘Let’s fix some lunch, so we can think about this together more easily’ he said with a firm air of finality.

20 January 1991

CDLXXII

Thyruid was already busy this morning. He got up a little earlier than was usual, but nothing extreme. Simply put, he awoke well rested and eager for the day. He had no reason to stay in bed. So he had slipped from the covers, and dressed, and done everything else necessary to prepare himself for another day. Coming out of his ed door in the ed wall along the stairwell, he had tended the lamps, and rejuvenated he fire on the hearth, warming the dining room and chasing the chill back to the corners and the windows, as far as he could. Then, he had found his polish pot and his rag, kept down under the counter, in the back, and begun his daily chore (and joy) of polishing his brassware trim. He loved to see that ever deeper sheen shine out, with a distinct glow.

While pondering his brass, as the ends of the rag snapped in the air, Thyruid half allowed his thoughts to look ahead to the coming day. Not having anything in mind, he reasoned that today will have to be a lot like every other day. About half way through his polishing, though, Thyruid thought he heard something. Now, he thought, I didn’t get Marthuida up when I awoke; most likely it is just her, up and going this morning. He went back to his polishing, half humming to himself, thinking of breakfast coming before too long – Marthuida’s rising brought the notion to mind, for she always made her way to her kitchen and got practical matters going first. Long after she would have been done with these tinkering rattles in the room, a new set of noises came. ‘Must be in the kitchen’, he thought, then realized they came from the wrong direction.

‘I wonder if something else is the matter’, he muttered. Setting his polish pot and his rag on a nearby table, he began to shuffle off towards that ed door. Before he arrived, however, he heard this unusual sound again, and determined it came from the stairwell itself and not from the room secluded under the stairs. Thyruid turned aside, around a last table, up into the vestibule and to the base of the stairs. There, near the top, sat Missus Carney. She was alone, hanging onto the railing above her left ear with both hands. In the shadows, Thyruid couldn’t

be at all certain, but he suspected that he caught a glimpse of desperation on her face. ‘Are you alright?’ he blurted out as he rushed to the steps and up them toward her.

Her tone was of disgust; and the pace was slowly measured as Missus Carney spit out her answer. ‘I’m just fine. I cannot walk down these stairs. I’m tired of waiting for Clyde – dear man that he is. And so, I eased my way down. Getting to the floor was the first problem. Then, I have to try to ease my way down, one step at a time. It would be quicker, I think, if I were to let go and make myself roll down the stairs. … But, that would make a lot more racket. Besides, I don’t bounce well anymore’.

Thyruid stopped at her speech. He then moved slowly up to greet her. ‘Well, I’m here. Do you want a hand? or not?’ She sat there, musing. ‘I’ll need a hand, I suppose. Oh, of course, I could get there myself. But this step at a time business is hard. And slow. My strength disappoints me, you know’. ‘I can imagine’. ‘I doubt you can; you walked up those steps, nearly ran! I could do that, too … once. But not any longer. Now, I need someone else to give me a hand with things. I really do not like it, not at all’. She pulled on the railing, gritting her teeth with her face turning red, her arms trembling with the effort; she then eased herself down one more step. Panting after the bumps along the way, she paused; ‘See! I can do it! Even slowly, and with a lot of work. … Now, you can help me’.

Along with a sympathetic smile, Thyruid reached down to try to help Missus Carney. She’s so thin and light, he knew he’d have no trouble. But once he tried to get leverage, he found the stairs confounding him. He juggled himself for his balance. He mumbled and sputtered. But, there was no ready way to get a hold on her. From behind, she was too low for him. From in front, he had to reach from too erect a posture – it was all in his arms, with no leverage to help. From the side, his only chance, he felt so awkward! Planting, at last, his right foot on the same step where her feet lay, his left foot on the one where she sat, he leaned over, his left hand reaching her left armpit, his right hand firmly on her very thin

right upper arm. With nervous waiting, Thyruid swallowed hard. ‘Keep you feet steady on that step. I’ll see if I can get you to stand up. Then, getting you downstairs will be a lot easier’. ‘Ok’, she said; ‘I’ll try’. ‘Succeed, too, if you will!’

With a deep breath, Thyruid bounced on his flexed left leg – then, with a grunt, heaved her up. They almost kept going, but Thyruid managed enough balance, and Missus Carney managed to keep her feet in place; thus were they safe. Relieved, Thyruid thought to rest for a minute. Sitting down sounded awfully good … until, that is, he thought of Missus Carney again.

Just then, Marthuida appeared at the bottom of the stairs. ‘Whatever are you doing?’ she asked. ‘It’s a long story’ he replied. ‘I’ll tell you later. Say! Can you help me help Missus Carney down the stairs? I’m not quite so bold as Clyde is’. ‘And I’m a bit more wobbly than usual just now, too’ confessed Missus Carney with half a giggle. ‘I suppose I can. Yes. But, : I have things on the stove. I didn’t plan on delaying my return even this much’. ‘Fine. Come up quickly; lend a hand and we won’t take so long!’ ‘Oh. Yes. That is quite right’. And up she came to hold Missus Carney’s left arm on the way down the stairs.

Once they had arrived at the foyer, Marthuida excused herself and hurried off to her kitchen. Worry wrinkles were etched into her face. She dreaded this whole thing: what might have happened while she was away, not-attending to her breakfast?! And she had not asked Thyruid whatever it was she had had in mind when she first poked her nose into the dining room in the first place.

Missus Carney said ‘Set me in a chair near where you are working. Then you can talk with me while you polish your brass. I took up so much time, we will have to hurry before breakfast comes!’ ‘Yes, Ma’am’, he replied, leaving her off by a chair before picking up the polish pot and rag to return to his brass trim polishing. ‘Do you Apopar?’ she asked.

Thyruid stopped and slowly turned around. Solemnly, he responded: ‘Of course I do. And I that glass of water you sought that night, too. You made us start this whole life of ours. I knew nothing at all about Inns then’. ‘I didn’t either’. ‘But you got us started’. ‘I gave you the idea. You gave the glass of water’.

‘Breakfast is ready! What a rush! I got in there just in time, as everything had to be taken care of at once!’

27 January 1991

CDLXXIII

Mother Hougarry wondered about the world outside. Since the snow had fallen some time back (she lost sense of time – she merely rose and slept as occasion implied) all her life had come in erratic snatches. She caught a nap, rose to putter, trimmed a lamp, fed her stove, daydreamed, lolled around and napped once more. The snow had fallen deeply. She knew, or supposed, it was cold outside. But the snow was thick. By keeping her stove going, she kept a smoke hole clear. (She was fortunate the snow had not come at night, when her fire was low, or even out, and no smoke hole would have been there all this time – however long it has been!) The thick snow blinded her Hidden Cabin; she could see nothing, except a drift-darkened porch, due to the high, heavy snow.

Days like today – if this is day; she couldn’t tell – merely hung along, continuing with relentless boredom. Everything is the same. She wouldn’t go out anyway – not very far at least, even in the blossom of Spring – but now, with all that snow, she could not go out. The enforced nature of that change grated at Mother Hougarry. She would go to the window at the door, and look out. She always saw the same dim darkness. She always saw the deeply shaded white walls, faintly illumined by the lamps and the stove behind her. She saw the roof of her little porch ing the snow. (Was it bending a little under the weight? She worried about such a burden, but could not decide if it was or was not bending. She refused to even consider the notion of stepping out on to the porch to get a better look. That was strictly out of the question.)

So, Mother Hougarry would sigh deeply, let the curtain fall back, and retreat half-reluctantly into her Cabin. The stove needed tending; or, perhaps, it didn’t. Either way, she would check, for she did not want the stove to go out. She knew she wanted that smoke channel to remain clear. And hot smoke was the best way she knew to keep it that way. Even if the Cabin became hot – and it did – the smoke meant she could keep herself warm; the extended chimney would not become closed off by snow. She worried about losing her fire; far more than

once she had, and had had to survive with blankets and the cool knowledge that snow does insulate her little cabin. It keeps it warmer than it would be otherwise. But still, she prefers having the stove do the heating.

After a while, Mother Hougarry decided the pile of fuel in the back room would be her measure of time. It went down regularly. And the lower it went, the later it was and the more she longed for the snow to clear and her life to return to some semblance of normality. A certain degree of anxiety huddled near to her. She could not shake it off. And so, as tired as she was, and really out of touch with anything at all – her mind meandering at random – she paced the floor, and worried. Wringing her hands, and wadding her brow, she relentlessly paced. Even the thought of sitting, or stretching out and napping, perchance, was escaping from her. She worried hard.

After a while, Mother Hougarry stopped pacing. Her legs ached, but she had not bothered to notice. She refused to pay any attention to the ache in her legs. Nevertheless, she did sigh just a bit, out of weariness, when once she had plopped herself on her stool, next to the stove, in order to tend again the fire, even though it was still doing well. Concentrating very hard on each move, her hands and arms seemed to creep in slow motion through the process of shuffling the fire box with her poker and arranging the coals. The coals danced and popped, red orange and singeing on her face. She felt confused by the whole thing. The door looked to her as if it were on backwards. ‘That ought to open the other way!’ she exclaimed in a hoarse whisper. Looking at her hands, she wondered why she had the poker in the left hand. She had always used the right one. But, with this strangely backwards door on her stove’s fire box, she had no real choice.

Blinking slowly as she gazed into the fiery furnace, Mother Hougarry paused. Her fingers of her free hand touched gently on her lips as she frowned deeply. Something seemed to be not right with her. She was bothered. And befuddled. She stewed at the confusion. Nothing sorted out in her mind; instead, it all swirled and whirled into a messy pot. Dizziness rung around her head. She put

down the poker and balanced one hand on each knee and tried to pretend she was fully stable. But her effort failed. A little panic began to stir inside her frame. She was not handling things well. Soon, however, this all ed. And she smiled whimsically into the air. And she yawned.

Outside, Carymba had been walking. The snow was crusted well under the bright Sun and cold, crisp air. Only a little slipperiness demanded her effort at compensation. She did not find any soft spots which would give way under her and leave her plunging into snow much deeper than she was tall. With some concentrated effort, the help of trees and some stomping for footholds, she climbed up into the Crossed Hills and toward the Hidden Cabin. She found a low lump in the snow, with a smoky hole belching out a healthy, steady stream from the stove in Mother Hougarry’s rooms. ‘Should be good and warm! But there is no risk of the hole blowing shut with snow! I have to it that. Old Mother Hougarry must be doing OK in there, warmth-wise, anyway. I’ll stop and visit while I am here.

Going to where she knew the porch roof was, and to the edge of it, where (she supposed) there was the least snow to penetrate in order to find a way down into the Hidden Cabin, Carymba began to open a way down. Making a stepped route would be best for going the other way, later, she decided. And so she did.

After her labors proved to be successful, Carymba stepped down, lady-like, and walked across the porch. Mother Hougarry did not notice; she stared blankly into the slowly ebbing coals in the stove. Carymba rattled the door; Mother Hougarry did not respond. Carymba opened the door; Mother Hougarry simply stared into the fire. Walking to her side, touching her shoulder, Carymba spoke: ‘Good afternoon, Mother Hougarry’. Mother Hougarry slowly turned her head and looked toward her, lifting her eyes and her face to see her visitor. The eyes did not blink. The mouth hung open. The shoulders remained slumped. ‘Let me fix you some tea’ offered Carymba; Mother Hougarry made no response. Carymba took up old, familiar chores, chatting the whole while. Mother Hougarry watched each move blankly, unblinking.

Finally, the tea was done. Carymba set it at the table. Then, with ease, she helped Mother Hougarry rise and go to the other chair; the old woman went along, unfeeling. Carymba helped her sniff, then sip the tea. Mother Hougarry half smiled in enjoyment, and sighed. ‘I’m glad you are here. What day is today?’

3 February 1991

CDLXXIV

Unseasonably warm, with the frost melting rapidly under bright skies, Apopar became a yellow wallow of mud – just like every year in the time of thaw, or in a time of persistent rain. Mud comes from melted ridges of frozen clay, now oozing with the water that had made it hard and rough. Mud slithers and slides, seemingly even before the first foot hits it. And, by mid-afternoon, after the tromping treks of the wee folk of Apopar have stomped their way on their varied journeys, the mud was a thick goo – yellow and pasty, sticking to everything and weighting every step.

Someday, such a bright sky and warm breeze will dry up the mud and leave the land in cracked cakes of yellow, matted with yellow dust. But not today. All that today’s bright and joyous sky brought was defrosted mud. No longer frozen hard, it all became a thin slick of mud. And then, with time, it changed into a thicker slide of mud. And all the time, once the Sun had begun its work in earnest, every footstep required a bit of care due to the slippery state of virtually everything. Where most often the feet would stomp along in a rough, steady, beating rhythm, now the steps were shorter, lighter. Care was taken, for no one wished to slide into a fall onto the cold wet mud.

Sophy trudged toward home, following Nova. Nova went entirely too fast anymore. She ought to be tired, running down, hanging back in her pace just a little, and then a little bit more. But, no: instead, Nova kept that mechanical push going, racing home (it seemed to Sophy), stretching tired muscles to drive them onward, ever onward in staccato insistence, never wavering but pushing all the limits past good sense. Sophy was panting now; her arms drooped from drooping shoulders; her legs ached; her side was cutting in that jabbing pain, as if a knife were slicing her in two. Tiredness gave a limp. But there went Nova, on, and on, and on!

Nova slowed the slightest bit. She knew poor Sophy grew tired behind her. The child insisted this morning that she would go along. For the day promised to be lovely and warm. It was. But Sophy had not thought of the thaw, and the cold, clinging mud. She had not thought of those at all! Nova found she could not make that impression, really, on the child’s enthusiasm. Now, as the feet were so heavy not only from the burden of a long, long day, but also from their doubled size in thickly clotting yellow clay, Sophy was too proud to complain. As much as she wanted to forget, she still knew that she herself had insisted that she tag along. Nova slowed slightly, to ease the burden, yet without the raw insult of coddling the child.

Sophy began to daydream. On such a day, eventually, she would. She always did, in her own good time. Daydreaming filled in the boring gaps, the time just spent on nothing worth her while. Trudging through thick cold mud at the end of a laborious day was, so far as Sophy was concerned, truly spending time on nothing worthwhile – her while, or anyone else’s she could imagine. And so, inevitably, her mind wandered.

Then Sophy’s march became a dangerous journey into a distant, mysterious land. She was tired, but she had to keep looking. Sophy’s eyes glazed as she looked around, intently. The monotonous yellow, interrupted by clusters of yellow domed huts, gave way to a rough, rocky, bright terrain. She slowed more, just to be careful for the dangers of the place. There were enemies behind every rock, and the slipperier places threatened to send her sliding down, down steep walls of rock. The narrow path required skill. Sophy frowned, concentrating her effort on overcoming the risky trek. ‘Oh no!’ she thought. ‘I must get out of the path. I just know something is waiting around the turn’.

She did step aside, into the soft, untrammeled mud along the path. She did let others, somewhat snared behind her slowing pace, . She did collect new yellow clay, weighting her feet even more. She did slide some more, and totter in the burden of the walk. But she handled those dangers safely. She did not fall. And she was able to listen, and peek, carefully, so as to avoid the monster’s

greedy threat, just ahead. She tricked him! And she felt triumphant!

Nova did not slow enough for this fit of adventure in the mountains Nova did not realize had suddenly emerged in the flat yellow mud lowlands mess. She kept on, slowing slightly, but feeling the pressure of tired folk behind her, also on the way home with their burdens on their backs, ready or past-ready to be inside, with a fire crackling in the pit and the cold damp drying by the hearth stones. Supper was teasing the imagination of each one. Finally, Nova decided these people pressing behind her must have ed Sophy on the narrow trail. That meant Sophy had gotten off the trail! Sighing, Nova stepped aside and stopped to look back.

Sophy, still off the track, was struggling against the mud. That was in reality. In her visionary tiff, her struggle was against outrageous monsters, looming just around the next boulder, ready to send her tumbling headlong down the steep, slippery slopes. She must be cagy. With lunging, crafty steps she moved ahead. She felt bold, brash even. A blush raged on her cheeks, making her warm. She breathed deeply, both from a labored pace and in favor of the anticipated dread. She must, simply must, be ready for any eventuality.

Dragging her feet, now heavier than ever, Sophy heaved herself from foot to foot. She crouched over, legs spread, shoulders arched, arms agape, her eyes warily searching for the monster’s surprise. Such concentration carried her farther from the path. She sought to be ready. But her feet became too heavy and too spread; she was losing control. She felt herself losing control, sliding. Yes! There was the beast! Now she must fight. She twisted. She pulled. She tugged, grapping at the air, heaving her thighs, only to have them slide more miserably away. Alas! Alack! She whimpered. The monster was winning. She was lost. She slid and slumped into the thick, yellow, slimy mud. It was cold. She was cold. And wet. And stuck. A child, she cried. She tried to gain her feet, get up and return to the boring trek. But no: she was stuck. She wept. She was cold.

Nova, through the thicker mud, returned for her. No one else noticed. Coming to her, finally, she stooped. Her heavy feet kept balanced beneath her. She crouched, putting her hands in Sophy’s armpits. ‘Hold my neck’ she said. Sophy lifted heavy, now cold, clod-cluttered arms, and held onto her neck. Together, they rose. Sophy shivered. Holding hands, muddy now, and cold, the two returned to the mud slicked path and shuffled on toward home, where they would make their fire and warm themselves, and gain a bite to eat. Sophy sighed, but stayed right with Nova now, all the way home.

10 February 1991

CDLXXV

Margent stared out his window. The City on the Plain was stirring slowly this morning, under grey, low-hung skies. He pondered the scene and thought about his City, and this leadership job he stumbled into when Osburn suddenly and surprisingly was toppled from power. Workmen, mostly, ambled through the streets, down below his window. Margent watched them as they strode along, coming around one corner or another, one bend or another in the narrow, winding streets that webbed their way between houses and buildings in this compact region of the City. Each lumbered along, or glided along, swept along by the urgencies of the day at hand. Perhaps that cool grey sky and damp penetrating air contributed to the movement, quickening the steps on the way to a shop or an office or a work place.

Margent was glum. The grey skies drooped on him and shrouded his spirits. Even the dancing fire in the little stove in his office did not cheer him, nor did its warmth ease him. Instead, he ignored them. Of course, he wasn’t shivering in the cold. Nor was he bundled as were the traipsing workmen beneath his window. So, the stove did affect him. But the warmth did not reach his mood. His thinking and feeling was out in the street. Thus, in spite of the warm and inviting stove, Margent turned from his window, sought out his coat and a scarf, a hat and some mittens in order to go down the back stairs and out onto the street.

Sliding out the door, the cold nipped him more than he had anticipated. In response, Margent pulled up his collar and huddled down inside it, his shoulders shrugged high and his head tucked down low. Aside from the texture of his clothes, Margent thought he looked like those workmen he had seen from his window up above. He began to stroll along the wall. Occasional figures ed him hurriedly, one way and the other, all in silence. He was as if he were not there. The street’s business and traffic moved on, ignoring him as he had ignored that stove. (Of course, he now did miss the warmth that cheerful little fire had poured into his office.)

Margent felt cold. But he wasn’t ready to go back to his office. This day was a street day, he felt. He was more restless than cold. He stuffed his hands deeply into his pockets and shuffled slowly along, hanging close to the wall of housefronts.

Upon reaching the corner, where another narrow street teed into the one which es in front of his own office door, Margent stopped. A small niche was there, in which he was able to tuck himself away. The breeze byed him there. And some warmth from the dark stone building seemed to accumulate for him. With a quick shudder, he nestled himself back, out of the way. Being out of the wind felt good to him; the cutting dampness was less than pleasant. Soon, he discovered he had an added advantage in that his niche was on the corner and he could glance all ways and see what was there – all the time melting into the building’s face itself.

Margent didn’t notice how cleverly he was secluded for some time. Others ed by, even close to him, and never guessed he was there. But then, he had had yet others go by while he was walking along the building, and they also had ignored him. He was not one of them, really. He did not mean to be different. But, leading the City had made a difference. He got along. People seemed to like him. But he was not part of the old gang anymore. … After a while, however, he began to suspect that no one was noticing him at all. That is rather more than simply being ignored because practically irrelevant to the moment.

A little cozy and quite secluded, Margent took up watching and listening. Nothing much was there to be heard. So, he watched, mostly. He grew certain that he could see better here than he could up in his office, at the window beside that warm stove with the cheerfully dancing fire. Getting down onto the streets was an effort, many days, for he had many chores to do. But getting down here alone, unseen, to taste the street’s life – that was even more difficult. Even a workman’s clothes would not disguise his softer hands and his generally polished appearance. People knew his face, even more than his dress.

‘Then why did they all ignore me?’ he thought, almost out loud. But the answer followed immediately: ‘they did not need me now; it is cold and raw; they are on their way to work, or home after a night’s work. I was beside the point of life this morning’. A wince flickered across his face, for the thought brought a painful twinge. He easily suffered from the illusions of being important, with his opinion sought on almost any topic, and people responding to him. Denying all that, and being just a body in a niche on the corner, practically invisible to everyone – such took some getting used to!

While nestled in his niche, Margent saw the old men shuffle by, staying close to the wall, out of the way of busy people. Their faces looked a little grey, and distant. Margent frowned as they went by. He never saw these men from his office window, for they kept too close to the wall for him ever to see them. Shrugging his shoulders, Margent stopped mid-sigh, wondering if he was ignored as he walked next to the houses’ faces because the others assumed he was a simple old man, shuffling along, useless and half-vagrant. His frown turned into a scowl. He was no useless old man. He should walk out in the road, where the active, quick workmen go. Then he would be recognized.

The old men did not talk, even to each other. At least they didn’t out here on the street. Perhaps they had places though would go, and talk there. Why, Margent could other old men, dignified men, who would gather at a coffee shop, or at the plaza when the weather was warm, and discuss the affairs of the City. They didn’t look like these men, however. These men were tiny and timid. They looked lost. And cold. Margent grew cold again.

Watching further, a huddled, black wrapped shuffling old woman came along the wall, holding even nearer than did the old men. Margent noticed her eyes, even at a distance. For they were bright, and sharp. They did not seem to fit with the dull eyes of the old men who went to and fro in the streets. She walked as they did, however. And she seemed as lost. As she drew near to the corner, Margent wanted to ask her about her life. But he did not dare. At the corner, within a

breath of his niche, she stopped. The wind there was nippy, curling damp and icy right at the corner. She shivered and stepped nearer to him as he stood in the crevice. Suddenly aware of him there, the old woman looked up. ‘Why! What are you doing there? That is my niche’.

Margent nodded, and stepped out. ‘You may have the niche. But, tell me: would you care for some tea, if I made some at the stove in my office?’ Looking at him with delayed recognition, the old woman nodded: ‘Yes, a cup of tea sounds perfect’. ‘And you can tell me of these old men I see’.

17 February 1991

CDLXXVI

Mary finished her breakfast. She really wasn’t very hungry this morning, and so her breakfast had been light – a cup of tea and some leftover pieces from the day before yesterday. That was enough, she decided. And, being done, she immediately became preoccupied with what she might do today. She forgot her dishes, leaving them on the counter in a jumble. She forgot her bed, leaving it in a crumple from overnight. She neglected to finish getting ready – she was dressed for the day, under her housecoat. But she still had on her fuzzy, floppy slippers. It didn’t matter much, as she only needed to toddle on down the stairs to her Flower Shop. And that she did.

Mary was not sure just what the reason might be for her getting up so early, nor for her preoccupation with so many things. In fact, she was mostly preoccupied with being preoccupied, and her mind swept blankly from one chore to another, relentlessly. Downstairs now, she buzzed from one plant to the next, investigating how things were. But her mind simply was not on her work. Her mind was not on anything.

She walked about in a daze, her hands gently arranging things as they always did, almost on automatic. Technically, she saw the plants, dealt with them, felt their moisture, judged the need for water: misting, priming helping. But, in practicality, she was unaware of her activity. She was caught up in the meandering of mind. The thoughts of her head skimmed lightly, airily over everything, like some wispy veil that flits and flutters and moves along somewhere, anywhere, nowhere else.

If the truth be known, Mary was in a rut. Routine had ground so deep a groove into her expectations that it had truly become a rut! For so long, she had worked with her plants, which she truly loved, that now she simply dealt with them.

They received the care. Many days – though not this day – she would talk to them, muttering something in their direction. These plants suffered no loss by Mary’s fall into her rut.

But Mary was losing touch with them. And, by losing touch with her plants, Mary was finding life increasingly boring to her. And her mind wandered badly. Somehow, the plants were not sustaining her the way they always had. When she had finished her routine, at long last, Mary began to shuffle back to the front of her Shop. Half way there, she stopped abruptly. She looked around, puzzled: ‘Did I do these plants today?’ she asked herself, out loud. She touched, poking her fingers into the soil beneath the leaves. ‘Yes. The soil is moist, about like it should be if I watered them this morning’. She shrugged: ‘Oh well’.

Having returned her watering can to its proper place, Mary maneuvered her way around the plants, and the tables. She adjusted the curtains to let in “just enough” light. All was done by guess and feel, and by her own closeness with her plants. Soon, she was satisfied. It was all the same as it always had been.

At the stairs, then, she paused and turned around. That room, the first room in the Flower Shop, was cluttered, very full. She glanced around, fondly. On the landing, two steps up, Mary sat down. Resting her chin on her hands, her elbows on her knees, she gazed over her collection. In a way, it was her collection. She provided flowers when needed. And she needed to do that, maybe even more than she usually did. But each time she made a delivery, she felt a twinge of real loss inside.

Mary would cringe to see the flowers leave, even as she knew too well that they were being joyously received. Oh, she was grateful for that joy, a mood which could soften the deep grief at seeing the empty spot on the table, or in the corner, or over aside, on the floor, or along the bay window, leaving a ring clear of dust for the time being. Sitting there, she let her eyes moistly survey the fond collection: all hers, today.

A rap at the door snapped Mary’s delicious meandering over the fond array into attention. She heaved herself forward and found herself standing on her own two feet. Blinking at the sudden rise, and placing her left hand majestically on the banister end for a bit of steadiness, Mary quickly strode down the two steps and on to the door nearby. Opening, she saw Carymba. ‘Hello!’ she offered in a burst of bright, warm friendliness. ‘Come in’. ‘Thanks’ replied Carymba. ‘Did I get you up? I didn’t think I’d be too early this morning’. ‘Oh my, no! I’ve already been around the Shop, tending chores. I know, because I checked again, by spot check, to see that I had done it. And I had’. Mary smiled in self satisfaction.

Just then, Mary looked down. And her eye caught her housecoat hanging to the knee, her skinny legs sticking out below the housecoat and ending in the puff of her fluffy slippers. ‘Oh!’ she started. ‘I guess I do look as though I just got up a bit ago. Really, though, I’ve breakfasted and done my chores, and all. … Now, … as I catch my breath … shall we have some tea? A midmorning spot would go so well, I think’. ‘I agree’.

Behind the thin legs and fluffy slippers, Carymba took her syncopated gait up the stairs to Mary’s kitchen-dining room-living room-bedroom combination suite. The Sun shone in brightly and made the whole room glow. ‘This room is always so marvelous in the morning’ commented Carymba. ‘When the Sun clears the Crossed Hills, or the Leaferites’ Hill, it bursts in here and turns everything into a pot of gold! That’s why I like this room so light in color. Then the Sun can bounce its light all around, and make me sparkle, too’. The two laughed at the bright pleasantness of the day. ‘After a few cloudy days, appreciating one like this comes easily’.

Tea soon steeped. And the small talk chatter of friends swirled over the poured cups at Mary’s little table. Mary created a pause, a solemn pause. Carymba sensed it was there, waiting for Mary to fill it with concern. Carymba waited. At last Mary commented: ‘I ate and went down this morning. As you can see, I forgot to straighten my bed. I did not clean up my breakfast mess. My slippers

are on my feet and my housecoat is still over me. My hair? … Well, it is not terribly unpresentable, I suppose. I went downstairs to my plants. I must have picked up my watering can and tools and begun my chores. I must have done it all well. For when I stopped, afterwards, to check, everything I saw was done. But I was in a daze the whole time. I ran purely on automatic. I forgot to enjoy my plants. I sat down there, just before you came, and recalled how I grieve over every one of those plants when it leaves my Shop. Yet, I mechanically ran through the whole thing. I get disgusted with myself!’

Carymba sipped her tea slowly. Then, looking at Mary softly, she said: ‘Before very long, you will be more closely attentive again, … in a new way. Just wait and see’. Mary looked at her, perplexed, finding it hard to imagine such a thing.

24 February 1991

CDLXXVII

Breakfast was done. The others had gone on downstairs to the Spinners’ Shop, getting ready to do their day’s work. Martha remained upstairs, in their kitchen area. She knew it was her turn to clean up after breakfast. The sooner she finished the chore, the sooner she would get to her spinning, downstairs, with the others.

Normally, Martha is very concerned with her work. The spinning has long been of great and enticing interest to her. She enjoyed it, which is more than she could say for cleaning up the kitchen after breakfast, or any other meal, for that matter. And yet, today, Martha sat in her chair, lounging as much as a body can lounge in a simple wood chair with no arm rests and both a narrow back and short seat. She hooked her shoulder blades on the chair back, folded her hands in her lap, set her feet close, and pigeon-toed, gazed blankly over the edge of her knees, and delayed.

The day itself was set aside in her mind while she mused over the hotcakes and tea they had shared, the crumbs of which awaited her procrastinated attention. Martha was daydreaming, and that about not much of anything at all. Mostly, she thought, she was putting off the chores a little bit. Even her customary willingness to go and indulge her spinning, to feel the wool in her hands and watch the yarn develop, the spool fill, the basket empty was not enough to push aside her lethargy. Today, at least, Martha felt like doing nothing. In fact, she was slouched there feeling … well, pouty. She was poutier than she had been at any time since she became reconciled to Effie ing the group and moving into that garret room.

Downstairs, Gilbert and Chert had fully settled into their work. The yarn was flying through their nimble fingers. Each rocked at his own tempo, feeling his

own way into a personal rhythm that pulses with his own body and his own work. To anyone watching their silence, the arhythm between them would appear odd. But neither of them cared.

And Effie was long accustomed to their rocking bodies. She too would nod from the waist, back and forth in a slow rhythm strictly her own. Yet, this morning, Effie was lingering over her preparations, fumbling the material as if she had become clumsy and unattuned to the art of spinning overnight. She looked at her fingers; they appeared normal in spite of the thick feel and the stiffness she imagined in them. She moved them, freely and independently; every movement was easy and natural before her eyes. The yarn, the wool, the bobbins, the wheel all made her hands feel like rock: unresponsive, brittle, hard. Movements became clumsy and crude. Bobbins bounced to the floor and clattered. Effie winced, and looked to her companions, but neither made any sign of noticing.

Effie decided she was merely out of rhythm. So she plotted how she might get herself in rhythm again. She studied Chert and Gilbert, how they swayed and rocked, each in his own regular pattern, with a consistent beat. ‘I do something like that, too. Maybe, if I begin to rock like always, then I’ll gain my touch again. These fingers show no signs of utter failure!’ Slowly, stealthily, Effie rocked. The sway was rough, irregular, uncomfortable; she scowled at herself. She began the wheel in its rapid spin, whistling in the air. The hitches in her step and in her sway were all smoothed in the wheel. ‘Maybe this hitch in me doesn’t matter after all’, she mumbled. Reaching for some wool, without breaking her rhythm, Effie still fumbled it. Frustrated, she stopped, and slumped at her wheel.

Thinking that maybe she should get up and walk around a bit before taking another, fresher try, Effie pushed herself back from her spinning wheel, stood up, and began to pace around. She reached as high as she could, walking even on tiptoe, and stretching at every step. The activity felt good, Effie had to it. But, still, she felt so clumsy; something more needed to be done. So she decided to go back upstairs and try again. Her stomach grumbled, and she wondered if, perchance, she was growing hungry already. ‘Maybe there is something left from

breakfast’, she murmured.

Upstairs, Martha remained slouched, her shoulder blades hooked on the back of her chair, her feet pulled back and cocked in a pigeon-toed stance, her hands folded on her lap and her gaze aimed just over the edge of her knees. She had not moved. But the idea of finding some more comfortable position had begun to tease her mind. To adopt a new position, though, would require that she decide to move, and then actually move. In her filmy state of mind, Martha was not sure which would be harder, deciding anything, or actually getting her muscles and bones to move!

Into the kitchen of indecision, with the breakfast remaining in its left-over state, and nothing having been done at all, Effie stumbled, almost falling headlong into Martha’s lap when she misjudged the last step on the way up. Using the best effort she had managed all morning, Effie regained her balance if not her composure. Martha slowly turned her head to give Effie a blank stare. Standing loosely next to Martha, with her feet spread for some mock-stability, Effie combed her hair back with her right hand while touching the tip of the back of Martha’s chair for reassurance. ‘Looks like we are not having the best of mornings today’ blurted out Effie. Martha cleared her throat slightly, and blinked. ‘I mean, nothing is going right for me – I feel like a real klutz! And you haven’t made it from the breakfast table yet’.

Martha was blinking hard, and frowning in mixed confusion and pure uncertainty. She looked at Effie, and pondered why she was standing there like that. It did not occur to her to ask, however. Martha merely blinked a few more times. Then, looking around the room, moving only her head and her eyes, she saw the leftover mess from breakfast, and wondered why it was still there like that. Looking back to her knees, and then to her hands folded on her lap, she began to become a little more aware of her basically uncomfortable position. She was tired of this. Looking back to Effie, she saw her combing her hair with her right hand even more pointedly. ‘Why are we here like this?’ asked Martha. ‘The day simply is not going right’ replied Effie, her own gaze growing more and

more distracted.

Martha half grunted and released her hands. She tried to heave herself out of this foolish position, but without much luck. ‘Maybe you can give me a hand’, she said to Effie. ‘Oh! I suppose I could’ came the reply. Effie squared herself to Martha and reached her hand from mussing her hair to take Martha’s outstretched hand. Together, they pulled … and Martha stood up. She shrugged and made herself rustle into reasonable shape. “I am feeling my rough edges, too. Do you think we can get ourselves together, together?’ ‘We can’t do any worse. At least someone is spinning. Maybe we can them … in a bit’. Martha nodded, and the two began to clear breakfast away … together.

3 March 1991

CDLXXVIII

Geoffrey was out early. Thyruid thought he had seen him come down, but then the hour was abnormally early and, what’s more, Geoffrey did not gravitate to his customary corner. No: not at all. Instead, Thyruid believed that Geoffrey had gone across the foyer, out the door, and had disappeared. Certainly, that seemed to be the way those moments had gone. But when there is no real evidence in hand, just how can you know for sure? Thyruid stood next to the counter, off by himself, and he puzzled. Why, Clyde and Missus Carney were not even down for breakfast yet! So he couldn’t ask them if he saw right. In case he was mistaken, he did not want to go upstairs and check Geoffrey’s room; besides, he never did that sort of thing on his guests. He didn’t think it was proper, even in the Inn, to go into the room like that.

Thyruid shuffled across the room, artfully dodging the tables and chairs until he had reached the corner and a shaded window. Pulling back the edge, he peeked outside. Yes: there went Geoffrey toward the Big Rock. He had seen him! That confirmation brought a tinge of satisfaction to him. It also brought a new, fully fresh, wave of curiosity to his mind. He puzzled, with his forehead wrinkled and one eyebrow arched high, and a thoroughly questioning look mapped onto his face. Thus did he watch Geoffrey disappear beyond the Big Rock. All that was left to his view, indicating the trek, were the footprints in the mud out there, a steady line etched in the soft ground from the edge of the porch straight across the way of the Commons, to that Big Rock, where the line simply disappears.

Puzzled again, Thyruid left the window. The curtain dropped back into its place and the outdoor brightness left the dim dining room. Thyruid blinked and did not see. He groped along as slowly his eyes adjusted to the dark. He wished to go, but was slowed by his eyes. Finally, the chairs emerged as shades, and then bore the glint from the lamps. And the brassware’s polished glow warmed the room. The chairs took form in his sight, and the tables became distinguishable one from another, and each from the soft background of the floor and tables and

chairs. Then, Thyruid made his way back, through the tables and the chairs to the foyer, and ed it to the counter again. Marthuida came out just then. He asked, ‘May I have a mug of coffee … just to sort out my thinking’. She shrugged: ‘Ok’ she replied, and returned to her kitchen through the swinging door.

With a steaming mug of coffee to sip, and Marthuida across the counter sharing one of her own, Thyruid pondered this strange day. Actually, the day had stared out seeming like any other day, clear up until he thought he saw Geoffrey (and, in fact, he had seen him) up early, properly dressed in his gentleman’s gentleman’s formal wear, and then going out into the muddy late Winter thaw. At that point, Thyruid’s day changed. ‘I’m confused’ he itted, and sipped at his coffee after blowing aside the thick steam. (Of course, the steam engulfed his face as soon as he quit blowing!) ‘Oh?’ responded Marthuida, making no commitments. ‘Yes: I saw Geoffrey out this morning already. He went on out the door, not stopping for biscuit and tea, and traipsed across the Commons and past the Big Rock’. ‘He must have had something on his mind’ she replied, calmly. Thyruid thought it odd that she was so calm, and became himself a bit more agitated in reaction.

About the time Thyruid had finished his mug of coffee, the last bit coming in large swallows before it all became too cool for his taste, Clyde and Missus Carney came down together. They were both in a bright and cheery mood when they arrived. Thyruid greeted them solemnly, somberly and in severe puzzlement. They half laughed at their own jokes, and enjoyed themselves. With a slow wag of the head, Thyruid went to the kitchen in order to retrieve their breakfasts. For they, at least, were reasonably close to on time – the usual time of arrival – and Marthuida would be adequately prepared for them. And she was. He said ‘Clyde and Missus Carney are down!’ She said, ‘Good: here, take them some coffee. Their fresh biscuits will be out of the oven shortly. … They timed it well this morning’. She smiled in satisfaction. But Thyruid was too wrapped up in his puzzle to see much to smile about; so, he delivered the coffee, and returned for the biscuits.

Almost midmorning: Thyruid clomped into the kitchen, the swinging door rattling in the wake of his preoccupied uncertainty. Now was about the time for Geoffrey to be getting up. Most days, he would come down and move mechanically back to his corner. He would sit there and wait, slightly bleary eyed, his hat upon the table until Thyruid would notice him and bring him first his pot of tea, freshly steeping, and then his basket of biscuits – hot and flaky – and a tub of butter, and another of jelly. Then, he would sip his tea, break a biscuit, let that butter melt opulently into a golden sponge, let the jelly glob melt into an ooze that sank into the golden matrix of the buttered biscuit and gave a rosy appearance, as in a crown. Then, in mouth-watering appreciation, Geoffrey would eat that biscuit and his face would awaken, and glow with appreciation. Thyruid often would watch it all, for the freshening in that face day by day. But today, since he had seen Geoffrey up and out long ago, there would be no Geoffrey coming down the stairs. There would be no tea pot to deliver. There would be no glow of appreciation: not this morning.

Thyruid’s mood was mired in gloom. He liked his days to go pretty much as always. The only pleasant surprise came in extra guests, more than he might have expected. But having Geoffrey change it all! and who would ever have expected Geoffrey, of all people, one who moves poorly of a morning, to have been out and traveling even before Clyde was down – and out in that horrid mud! The image of the footprints – deep and oozing yet in mud thick enough to hold the deep impression long after he had dragged his mud-heavy feet beyond the Big Rock – that image stuck in Thyruid’s memory. He simply shook his head, sadly.

The swinging door opened. Clyde stuck his bearded face inside. ‘Say, Thyruid!’ he called: ‘you have a bunch of guests, a company of them looking for … I guess it must be some kind of brunch, this time of morning’. He left. Thyruid followed in order to find out what was needed. To his surprise, there was a crowd. Most chairs were taken. Geoffrey sat in his corner. Puzzled again, Thyruid glanced around. He saw a mass of muddy shoes in the foyer. The dining room floor was clean.

Half-breathless, Thyruid ducked back into the kitchen. ‘Geoffrey’s back. And the dining room is full! I’ll get started!’ Marthuida smiled. ‘There is coffee here. And the tea kettle is nearly hot. I’ll do up some biscuits … a lot of biscuits … shortly’. But Thyruid was already out, beaming in surprise and pleasure.

Geoffrey was here … right on time, right in his usual place. That seemed just right for a new day.

10 March 1991

CDLXXIX

Father John sat on the edge of his bed. The house was cool this morning, but not cold like it had been so often of late. Even so, his old bones were reluctant to move at all. And he knew full well that they would resist him when he tried to get himself going, but that they would slowly warm up to the idea and even come to agree to cooperate, if marginally. So, Father John decided to be persistent with himself, to get his arms and legs going … but not too quickly. For he knew that there would be time for accomplishing what he wanted to accomplish, time enough before the day was out, if only he kept himself moving along in the right direction.

From the edge of his bed Father John used his old cane as a way to retrieve his tros. He brought them near, the hook-like handle of his cane serving irably as a retrieving agent. After the usual fumbling with the soft, well worn fabric, the old man got them into position and, with effort, pulled them on, one leg at a time. At the end of that exercise, he would have to get himself off the bed, gather his balance without losing a handle on his tros, finish pulling them up and then fasten them. Once he decided he was ready for that chore, he tottered over his steadier cane, holding on with one hand, his other on his waist band, and rocked himself forward, and up. Once again, he managed. He got himself ready for the day.

While standing in his slumped over position, Father John hooked together his pants. ‘That will keep them up’ he muttered. His bare feet felt cold on the floor. He curled his toes in response to the chilly wood. Looking down at the gnarled old feet, Father John debated over whether he should sit down on the edge of his bed again in order to deal with covering those bare feet – he certainly was not going to do anything while standing here! – or go putter over breakfast, instead. The toes were cold. But getting back up again would be a real struggle. He simply was not so sure he wanted to do it!

The decision came easily; his toes simply were not cold enough yet today to force him into dragging himself upright again, and so soon. He stayed erect. He used his cane deftly to direct his steps toward the stove. Get the fire started and his feet would soon be warmer, he decided. Get some food started and the exercise will add to the fire to make him comfortable, warmer at last: he smiled. A private kind of determination urged Father John along, clear to the stove.

Being cool, but not too cold, his fingers were stiff and clumsy – this being morning and all – and yet they remained basically manageable. Concentration wrapped his face while he carefully balanced himself and built what would become a fire in his stove. Concentration compounded itself, his forehead growing tight, drawn into a deep scowl, while his hands struggled to bring flame to kindling so as to warm his fire, his stove, his coffee and his breakfast … to say nothing of his hut, and him. Concentration paid off, eventually; the kindling danced in yellow flames. The darting fire brought crackling to the kindling, and heat into the stove. Concentration gave way to a broader satisfaction, spread across his spreading face.

Father John put on his coffee pot and mixed up some meal into a few small cakes to bake on the griddle-stove. He got a mug ready for when the coffee should be done. Satisfied that all was prepared, except for the inevitable wait, Father John flopped into his available rocking chair. ‘Oh my’ he sighed; ‘sitting feels so good! I grow weary so quickly, so easily anymore. It is hard to gain enough energy to get myself to breakfast!’ He had no trouble, however, sinking back into the chair and letting the force of his sitting generate a rhythmic to and fro which he could gently sustain at little effort. He even laid his head back against the chair, just to let his body rest.

The coffee was nearly ready. Not only did his ears tell him so, but also his nose. And the cakes were sizzling and browning and nearly perfect. All this coming to turn on the stove before him was rousing Father John up to gather his breakfast at its prime – rather than lazily letting it spoil and burn or turn bitter with grossly

over-brewing.

Just as he began to rock forward enough to nearly propel himself up onto his feet, holding firmly to his trusted cane – just then the door behind him rattled with someone’s rapping eagerness. Father John paused, losing all of his precious momentum, and with it his chance to get himself to his feet. Baring a note of disappointment, Father John cleared his throat and tried a second time to call out ‘Yes!’ – successfully, at that. ‘Father John?’ came the voice from beyond the door. ‘Come in! I’m here. You can give me a hand, now that I’ve lost my push to get up’.

The door, unlatched as ever, opened easily and itted Carymba. She shut the door behind her, cutting the sudden draft that re-cooled Father John’s still bare feet. He looked down at them in surprise, for in all of this activity, and with the warmth from the stove, he had forgotten that they were still bare. ‘Your breakfast smells about ready’. ‘I think so, too’ he replied.

‘Can you give me a hand with getting it from the stove to my little table? I suppose I can give you some coffee, even share a griddle cake with you, if you’d like’ said Father John. ‘Certainly I can. I even will’; and she did, taking her syncopated gait on around his chair and deftly flipping the finished cakes onto the plate. Handing the filled plate to Father John, Carymba took up the coffee pot with care. The pot was steaming heavily, and she knew she must pay close attention now. She filled his mug and set it on his table; she returned the coffee pot to the back of the stove, where it would stay hot, but not be so actively brewing.

Father John was preoccupied with his hunger and the attraction of his finally prepared breakfast, until, suddenly, he became aware that he was ignoring his gracious guest who had so aptly aided him in his need. ‘Won’t you have some coffee, too, Carymba? An extra mug is in the cupboard, over there’. ‘Thank you. I will’. ‘And I have, what, four cakes here. I am sure I won’t need four cakes

myself. Do take one. Or even two, if you wish’. Smiling, Carymba agreed to one, for she was not too hungry. She even took an old stool from across the way and pulled it up next to Father John, and ed him for breakfast.

‘That stove warms the place nicely’ she said. The old man looked at his toes, grinned wryly, and duly agreed with her. They laughed together, warmly.

17 March 1991

CDLXXX

Bright and warm, the sunshine melted the late-winter world, leaving Apopar a sea of yellow mud. The baked mud huts remained firm. And, inside, their owners were dry, and could be warm. But, outside, in the open and on the paths, mud reigned. The paths, often packed by the traffic of padding feet, were all soft, the frost having permeated the ground and filled it with moisture which now melted and, as every year, turned every stroll into a tortuous trek in ooze.

The sky, however, was blue, bright and glorious. The whole day was an invitation beyond the baked yellow-mud huts people called home. The air hinted its freshness, its tang giving an earthiness that Winter’s harsher nip never allowed. The beauty of it all lured faces and arms to turn up and lift a thankful joy for the ending and fading away of Winter. The smoke holes in every hut showed bright blue overhead. And the clarity of the sky drew the sheer interest of face after face. And door after door soon creaked open and gave room for another face to appear … and faces to multiply.

Sophy, on hands and knees, craned her neck up and around, her mouth hanging open so that she could bend her twisted head back farther, seeing the sky even better. She was pressed to the edge of the doorway, as close to being outside as she could be without actually falling into the wet pathway. She could tell the pathway was wet. And she knew that the ground generally was soft. So, Sophy kept herself back, back where it was dry; she thought it would be safer that way, particularly with respect to Nova’s good humor.

Nova came behind her, leaning over, and also looked out the door. She sniffed at the warm air and felt the Sun’s warmth on her hair. She smiled at that pleasure – inducing warm feelings all around her. ‘We ought to go and enjoy that Sun and air’ she said, ‘right after breakfast’. Sophy, though nearer to the ground, was

certainly as enchanted with the Spring-like tease in the air. She was, indeed, ready to go on out, without the delaying formality of breakfast. Since, however, breakfast was the stated necessity, the youngster quickly turned herself around in the doorway, squirmed around the leaning frame of Nova, and scurried toward the fire pit in the middle of the hut: here is where breakfast would have to be prepared.

The coals were cold. Sophy was disappointed. Her disappointment, however, spurred her into more activity. She gathered kindling, which she used, first of all, to even out the bed of spent coals and make a decent place to start. Then, she laid the kindling well. Nova watched her and prepared to get the morning fire started and breakfast on its way. She agreed that Sophy had done her work well. Thus, she knelt with the youngster and worked to bring fire to the pit, heat to the stones, so she could bake the batter she was about to fix. ‘There, Sophy: you mind the fire, nurture it until it can heat the stones right. I’ll go and fix the batter for the meal cakes. They’ll feel good in the stomach for when we go out in a little while, and find out just how that sky feels, and the air smells!’ Sophy’s eyes quickly glistened in dancing anticipation.

Breakfast done, chores completed, coals wrapped to keep their glowing heat as long as possible, the two slid back to the door. Sophy was again on hands and knees, craning her neck to see better the cloudless blue overhead. And Nova again leaned forward, holding onto the edge of the doorway, looking out and breathing deeply to enjoy that sweet air. The promise of the day lingered right beyond their grasp. ‘Shall we go?’ asked Sophy, eagerly. ‘I think so’ replied Nova.

With care, then, the pair slipped out the door. Almost immediately, they were aware of the wet clay path. Melted frost was quite enough, even next to their doorway, to make the ground wet, and soft. Nova paused with a soft ‘oooh’ as she recognized the feeling beneath her feet. Sophy kept quiet, but she too knew the give in the path meant soft mud. Neither, however, was willing or ready to retreat to the dry doorway where they could see that brilliant blue sky and sniff

the tantalizing air almost as well as in the full outdoors, and without the mud. They had decided to go out for the beauty and the warm enchantment of the day. Neither was about to stop. Not now. Not for a little mud.

Besides, Nova knew of nagging needs in the back land. There, this mud would paralyze life terribly. Even the simple things would be impossible. She, and Sophy, could manage in the thick yellow mud. She was certain of that. So with a laugh and a deep, pleasurable breath, Nova strode off along the path. Sophy kept herself with her. ‘Where are we going?’ asked the child, eager for the journey even as the mud grew quickly deeper and thicker, creating an ooze that clung to her feet and ankles with a still-cold penetrating wetness. ‘I think we need to go out back … to see how things are doing there’. ‘Ok’ she answered, her voice as bright as the earnest sky.

The Sun proved to be unseasonably warm that day. It beat upon the mud and melted more mud, making the traditional Apopar yellow goo thicker and deeper and stickier than it had already become. Through it all, Nova and Sophy trudged. No one else, it seemed, was out today, in spite of that luscious blue sky and the rich earth smells in the air as the world was coming alive. Surely, there were needs in the huts in the old back country. Nova felt in her bones that she was needed. Little Sophy had been so glad to get out of the yellow mud hut called home, even with the weight of all this cold yellow mud, that she was long at peace with everything.

Now, as the mud clung to them and chilled their feet, as the mud weighed on them and hung on their feet, making each step more and more difficult for their every increasingly tired muscles to overcome, they both began to wonder. ‘Why is no one else out today? It is so pretty!’ asked Sophy. ‘Can we go home? I’m tired’. ‘We are almost there. See, those are the huts we aim to visit’. ‘Oh, alright: I’m coming, too’.

Nova and Sophy dragged themselves to the nearest hut. They were very weary.

They were no longer talking at all. They felt gaunt and drawn. Nova was not even thinking about helping someone, but about finding a warm, dry place to set down and rest – both for Sophy and for herself. As she approached that first hut, she felt ashamed. She should be coming to help, to do something to make life easier for those in this back land huts. That was the sort of person she was. She knew it, and Sophy knew it, too.

Almost there, the door creaked open. A little, shriveled old woman looked at them. ‘Come on in! You will never make it in that mud today. Have something to eat. Get warm. Wait until tonight, when it gets cold again, and the ground firms up. Then, you can get back to your home. … Meanwhile, I am glad you are here. Mostly, this has been a lonely Winter.

24 March 1991

CDLXXXI

Carymba ambled along the Sea Road. In the dark, only the lapping of the waves upon the Beach attested to the presence of the Sea – that, and the strong salt scent in the air. For she could not see the waves wash up the strand. Nor could she really see the Sea Road, for only the stars shone overhead. And even though there were a swarm of speckles of light scrambled in the deep velvet black, their light pointed only to themselves, in a distant, cold fashion, leaving the landscape dark, ignored by the heavens above. Still, Carymba was long familiar with the Sea Road. The sound of the Sea on one side easily kept her from the wet, still very cool, Beach. And, on the other side, the smooth Road gave way to rough rocks, so that the very act of walking steered her steps back into line, should they happen to meander away in the night’s enclosing dark.

The air, full of the scents of the Sea, hung heavily and still. No breeze scampered, nor scurried to disturb the cool, damp over-abiding presence. The thickness of air brought dew upon the ground. Dew settled into Carymba’s hair, and upon her shawl – for Spring was surprisingly advanced and the air was cool but hardly cold, even in the dampness of the falling dew. Carymba simply ambled because she had no sense of needing to go somewhere in a hurry or with a need. In her mind, this was nothing more than a night for musing. The strange closeness of the distant world entertained her musing mind. Everything was unfocused. Her was with flickering stars and the smooth road, the salt scent and the lapping waves, the clinging dew upon her face and hair, and the strangely unreal feel of the whole situation.

Unusual as the moonless night was, the appearance of intermittently running footsteps, coming down the Sea Road, underlying the heavy breathing of someone exercising, or running from fear: footsteps would kick rocks and stumble. The sound of scampering pebbles rattled the air and the roll of larger stones cracking into their mates all of a sudden shocked the dew-thick atmosphere. The steps would move away; then, they would ease from that side

of the Road, and merely slap the wet pavement before sliding toward the Beach and beginning to slap the wet sand and sometimes splash in the cold, lapping waves. Low mutterings repeated following the splashes. The sounds were distinguishable only by their tone and the low grunting effects. The darkness swallowed it all from sight.

Carymba stopped her ambling and considered how she might deal with this restless running coming her way. She really did not want to get herself run over. If the runner were a little consistent, she could go, move out of the path. But he (the voice sounded like a “he”, and she was guessing it must be so) was so terribly inconsistent! Which way should she go? Or should she merely stand stock still and guess that his meandering gait would lunge him somewhere else? The uncertainty of it all, and the heaviness of the breathing as well as the weight in the steps added together to give an aura of dread to the occasion. Why! She couldn’t even see him! Only the nearing sounds pulsed to her, the only evidence of this suddenly unstable night marked the time.

Carymba’s ears were listening as carefully as possible for clues about what was happening, and might be happening next. It was so hard to tell, except that, as the erratic runner drew nearer, the rasping of the breath and the scraping of the feet along the Sea Road, the heaving, lunging steps thudding against the pavement – all came more distinctly, threateningly. Carymba still had not moved. She had not said a word. She was entirely uncertain as to what it was she might be advised to do, right now, as the erratic runner approached.

Footsteps plunged nearer. Adrenaline pumped through her system. She found her heart pounding, her head swirling. She struggled to keep any kind of perspective at all on the world she could not see under all those dancing, distant flecks of light within the dizzy velvet black. Almost ready to confess she could feel the breath that puffed wildly from the lunging runner’s lungs, Carymba broke her silence. She might have screamed; she might have bellowed. Instead, she spoke in firm command: ‘Wait!’

The feet stopped. All Carymba could hear, besides her own pounding heart, was the panting, heavy, coarse breath somewhere near. All this was entirely unusual. The only one she ever ed meeting out this late in Hyperbia, anywhere in Hyperbia, was Walter. And Walter never ran. He didn’t work that hard! ever! She decided quickly that she would have to remain cool and collected, entirely in charge of this situation. So, with a self-assured, gentle voice, she commented: ‘This is an interesting night. I was out for a stroll, ambling along to witness the stars, the dew, the lapping Sea – all the Beach can offer on a clean night in the Spring. What brings you out, running in this blind night?’

The panting continued, suggesting a heaving chest, one seeking to regain a modest stability and come into balance with itself. But no voice replied. Carymba, neglecting to become worried, said further: ‘This air is awfully heavy, wet with dew. You must find breathing hard tonight, especially after running like that’.

Carymba could not help wondering if she should move, slide toward the rocks – since she felt the runner, now stopped from his running but lacking any kind of a name besides “the runner”, that he was closer to the Sea and the gently lapping waves. ‘The Sea is talking gently tonight. You almost guess that it is nearly asleep, and breathing lightly so as to lap easily at the strand’.

When nothing could be heard in reply, the waif continued a monologue in the night. ‘How dark it is at this time on a moonless night. At first, seeing all those stars mes the sky, you would expect to be able to see something, at least some shadows in the shades. But, no: all is swallowed up in the darkness. Even movements are available only to ears’.

‘Huh!’ he said – or was it merely a heavier sigh? ‘Guess you missed … my … nodding head’ he said. ‘Too dark, I know. I’ve got to go … on down the strand … into another land. Sorry to frighten you so’.

‘You’re so tired. Stay, and rest’.

‘No. I can’t do that. I’ll be going on now’. She heard him shuffle off, splattering in the lapping of the Sea along the strand. ‘Who would believe?’ she thought to herself, musing on the Road under the starry velvet sky.

The sound moved off, more gently now, into the waiting of the night.

31 March 1991

CDLXXXII

Mahara was up, fixing breakfast. Already she had dressed for the day. Already she had started the gypsie brew batter for hot breakfast cakes. As usual, Guerric slept, although today he was far more restless than usual. He had been since shortly after she arose. The thought ed through her mind that she was glad to be up, and not be liable to being in the path of his restless thrashings. Such did not take up too much of her thoughts, however, as Mahara concentrated on preparing the stout coffee they both enjoyed – as well as an adequate supply of her morning cakes of gypsie brew.

Guerric threw himself over, and landed nearly half out of bed. As his leading hand flopped all the way to the floor, and rattled against the wood (far harder than the mattress!) Guerric responded with a low grunt and a lower moan. Mahara glanced his way. His head dropped over the edge of the bed, one arm dangled to the floor. A leg protruded from the covers near the other side of the bed. And he appeared to be caught mid-sprawl, suspended there in the midst of his restless energy.

Mahara wondered just what he might be about, lying there like that, and in the midst of such an unusual streak of tossing and turning. The covers were all torn awry, wadded in a strange fashion, more or less about his body. Mahara had to smile, and even stifle a chuckle that wanted to emerge. She watched as Guerric slowly raised his head, half opening his bleary eyes to look at the fingers of his hand – the one that had struck the floor and owned fingers which were now beating wildly. He looked so helpless and perplexed! She wondered what he would do next. She watched, and he wavered. His hand and neck and shoulders trembled from the effort to hold them all up at such angles. And then, they flopped again, and his knuckles rapped against the floor. And Guerric sputtered into a thick sigh.

Mahara half smiled, half winced and found a moistened eye as the humor of his struggle also caught her sympathy and made her sad. Such a mixed-up morning! Guerric responded to the just-now growing aroma of coffee, and the tang in the air from the active gypsie brew dough readying to be cooked – responded by lifting himself up in his bed and twisting his way around, toward getting up. The badly tangled and loose covers came with him, snarling him even more thoroughly than they had already done. Guerric blinked at the awkward mess constructively. Seeing his morning excess of incompetence, Mahara strolled over and inquired as to whether she could help him get free. Guerric, however, merely looked blankly back at her, for nothing at all of what she said really ed with him.

In a fit of comion, tempered by the knowledge that she soon needed to return to her stove, Mahara reached and took hold of the ensnarled covers, seeking an edge from which she could begin to manage poor Guerric’s release. Shortly, using her wakefulness as an advantage, Mahara traced a corner and began the tortuous process of freeing Guerric from his trapping wrap. Now, the work was not entirely straightforward, for the twists and twirls had a way of curling around on themselves, intertwining nastily. But Mahara persevered and, finally, found the wraps clear of his legs. ‘Now: I’ll fix breakfast. You get your restless old body up and dressed’. And, with a swirling twist, she was off to her kitchen.

Only a very few minutes later, Guerric hobbled over to the kitchen while still trying to pull his tros all the way on. He had a brightness in his eyes and a thick, weighted look about his jowls, a most comical appearance! Mahara nearly wanted to laugh out loud at his appearance. But, before she could laugh, he burst out speaking: ‘That’s why I was so wrapped up!’ ‘What is?’ she asked, suddenly curious that there might be a reason for his unusual behavior. ‘I was dreaming … it was so real, it might not even have been a dream – I’ve had those sorts of transports, you know’. Mahara nodded: she knew. She also knew he had not had one in quite some time, which suited her just fine. ‘Tell me about it over some hot breakfast cakes and a mug of steaming black coffee’ she said, soothingly.

Guerric, fumbling to fasten his tros, was far too impatient to wait on Mahara’s scheme. So, he simply stammered and overwhelmed her restraint with his words. ‘You see, Mahara, I was going back into the hills. I saw that old square and fountain again, in that nearly forgotten, secluded gypsie town, where I found you. ?’ ‘I ’ she said softly, having no real desire to .

‘I was there, and the place was lonely, empty. No one was doing anything. I saw the fountain, no longer working. Everything was dingy. No one cared. Hardly anyone was around there, at all. I tell you, Mahara, the scene was depressing, and glum. I could hardly stand it. I had to get involved. I found that things were simply broken down. It was a place in desperate need of someone to fix things. So I started searching out jobs. I found too many – a real frustration!

And then I reached for my tool box. Mahara: it was not anywhere. I was becoming desperate. I searched frantically. At last, I came to a great door and banged my hand against it … hard. Everything stopped. My hand throbbed with pain. I looked at it, dumbfounded. But the throbbing would not go away. So I searched some more and then found myself all balled up so I could not move at all’. His ever faster speaking pace suddenly stopped. ‘Then I woke up’. These last words were given in a slow, very measured cadence.

‘I think you need a good breakfast’ replied Mahara. ‘And finish dressing’. He did finish dressing, and in time to come and in a quick breakfast. As he finished his coffee, Guerric said: ‘I need to go. I simply can’t stay here. That dream was too real. Are you coming, too?’ ‘Should I?’ ‘If you want to come, I’m leaving in a minute. Otherwise, I will see you later’. … ‘Give me a minute more, to set the kitchen in order’. ‘Only a minute’.

In a scurried hurry, the pair left through the front door. Guerric led, his tool box swinging heavily at his side. Mahara hurried after him. For a change, she had to scamper. He was walking like a driven man. Past the Commons, past the Inn-by-

the-Bye, past the Leaferites’ Hill, past the cut back into Uiston, on along the Plain, then back to his left, suddenly, into the mysterious land about which he had dreamt. There, he came to the abandoned square, to the non-working fountain.

‘This is worse than I dreamt. Let’s make it work’. ‘I’m cold, Guerric’. ‘We have no time to be cold, not now. This town, such as it is, is too important to merely die like this. I have to give my part. That’s all’. Mahara looked around, wistfully, and nodded. Somehow, she knew just what he meant, even though she did not like the idea very much, at all.

7 April 1991

CDLXXXIII

Day had dragged its slow, weary way along. And, at last, it appeared as if the day were going, at long last, to slide away into night with barely a whimper. Thyruid, for his part, sat heavily upon the stool by the counter in the dining room of the Inn-by-the-Bye. The room was empty and dull, as it had been nearly all day long. Unusually warm for this time of year, he had not had a fire in the fireplace; he felt the lack of its cheery crackle. Everyone had been out almost all day long. So the Inn had been lonely. He and Marthuida had shared a bit. But, really, this day had lingered limply more than anything. And the dragging quality of the day burdened him most of all.

Yawning then, and no longer restless, Thyruid leaned one arm up on the counter, the other slumping limply at his side, his shoulders rounded and his rounder frame even more ball-like than usual. He knew that, outside, the Sun was setting, the shadows were lengthening and thickening and turning the land of Hyperbia into a softly somber rest. Even in the well-curtained dining room of the Inn-bythe-Bye, Thyruid could sense the darkness meeting him, and the glow of his lamps and polished brass trim becoming more important. Such an ending of the day made for a gentle settling-in. If only Thyruid were not so heavy-feeling inside! Instead, one more yawn stole across his face, irresistibly.

About that time, a low grumble roused itself inside his stomach. With a slight pout, and raised eyebrows, Thyruid peered at the unquiet round. He shrugged, knowing he was beginning to feel hungry and ought to look into doing something about that growing need. The nagging feeling of want brought him to slide himself from his perch on the stool by the counter. His feet thumped against the floor as he landed. His legs felt a bit wobbly and his hand upon the edge of the counter served to stabilize him. Once Thyruid had satisfied himself that he felt secure again, here on his own two feet, he straightened his stature and stood erect. He even over-straightened momentarily, just to stretch some of the kinks out of his system, the ones that his slouching slump had instilled into his

frame.

Feeling half-corrected, or corrected enough, Thyruid shuffled his way off, around the counter and toward the swinging door leading into Marthuida’s kitchen. Inside the kitchen, he saw the big overhead door open – the one he had had to install when they picked up Yves and Betsy as young children in their care. For those children are so terribly large that the big door was necessary if they were going to feed them. Outside were Yves and Betsy. Marthuida was in the doorway telling them something about their dinner, but Thyruid could not quite make out what it was that she was saying. He could tell, however, that dusk was getting thick and soon it would be fully night. Furthermore, he was hungry and was far more interested in finding a bite to eat. So he forgot about the dusk, the door and the children in favor of something more immediately satisfying: food.

Marthuida finished her talk with Yves and Betsy and sent them on home to the Big Dome before night was fully fallen. She pulled down the door and shut out the night from the kitchen, and latched the door for the night. Turning around, she found Thyruid poking around in her kitchen. ‘What are you looking to find?’ ‘Something to eat’. ‘The kitchen is a good place to start’. ‘I thought so and, you see, I’m here once my stomach began to grumble and growl’. ‘What do you want to eat?’ ‘Something’: he shrugged. ‘I’m bored, too’. ‘I see’. He nodded continuously and looked with off-handed interest at the sort of stuff Marthuida had laying around.

Looking at his bored half-heartedness, Marthuida softened her ruffled feathers. She was not real pleased to have him poking in her domain, especially on a day when she is hardly being extended at all. Everything was well under her control. She did not need any help. And, she was feeling somewhat severe in seeing his hands investigate her work. Her own severity was softening now, though, for he looked so … lost; yes, lost is the word that describes the forlorn look on his face. ‘Why don’t I fix us a little supper, and some coffee to go with it. If I have a clear chance, it will only take a couple minutes to pull a decent meal together for us’.

Thyruid politely, obediently retreated over against the wall, next to the swinging door. He nodded to her: ‘Yes. You do have a good touch in the kitchen. I am always amazed at what you can whip up, and how fast you can whip it up. In the end, it is always good, too’. Innocently watching her work, Thyruid almost thought he might catch a hint at the magic he supposed she must have at hand for fixing meals. But the thought never came to his mind, and his eyes never did catch anything of magic in her work and incantation at the stove.

Before long, Marthuida presented a supper. ‘Here: you can help by carrying the plates out to the counter’. ‘Ok’, he replied, almost mechanically, in a monotone drawl. Taking the plates and backing thorough the swinging door, Thyruid obediently prepared for their supper. Marthuida followed with a pair of coffee mugs, steaming hot, full of swirling black, aromatic coffee. As she arrived and emptied her hands of the mugs, Marthuida pulled back a truant strand of hair and more or less tucked it away, more or less in place. Climbing up onto her stool, Marthuida sighed, then smiled. ‘I didn’t realize how tired I had gotten doing not much of anything. Sitting down now certainly feels good!’ ‘This supper smells good’. ‘I hope it tastes good as well’. ‘I’m not worried’. ‘Perhaps you should be!’ But the twinkle in her eye told Thyruid that she really was not serious.

After eating, and chatting about not very much, they were both feeling better. ‘I think a busy day is easier than a very slow one’ Thyruid offered by way of reflection. Marthuida looked up at him and replied: ‘I think so, too’. ‘After a day like this, though, I appreciate you more’. ‘You do, huh! Well, I think I can say the same about you’. A long pause in silence followed, ended only with Thyruid musing out loud: ‘I wonder when people will be back tonight. I know it is dark out there by now’.

14 April 1991

CDLXXXIV

Midmorning, and all of a sudden, Mother Hougarry became agitated. She had no premonition that she would get so uptight and anxious; so, the mood took her entirely by surprise. She had been sitting back in her little Hidden Cabin, relaxing and enjoying the morning.

The Sun outside was playing between the branches and twigs held high overhead by all the big trees that covered these Crossed Hills. The patterns danced on the ground as the branches swayed lightly in the gentle morning breeze. Where the Sun shone upon the ground, the earth warmed, pushing back the left over chill of winter, nudging against the stone cold earth. In response, the soil exhaled its rich odors and hinted Summer’s progress in growth from the droppings of previous Falls.

Inside, the merest hint of that warming soil penetrated as lightly musky scents. Mother Hougarry enjoyed it all, next to her stove, which was hot enough for tea and scone or so, but not to warm the cabin very much.

With so gentle and pleasant a morning, with an easy breakfast already consumed, and her chores in order, ready to be done while her mind meandered over many a fantasy, Mother Hougarry was hardly ready for this sudden twitching in her limbs, and the itching to get moving, to do something, go somewhere. Being surprised by herself, Mother Hougarry did not really have a chance to organize her response and minimize its effect on her.

Instead of her usual easy going balance, she suddenly stood up. She wrung her hands together. She fussed with her apron, first arranging it, then unarranging it,

rearranging it, wadding it in her busy fingers then smoothing it out again in front of her. With a certain twitch in her movement, she gave up the apron-playing and began to move irregularly about her Hidden Cabin, not stopping to do anything, nor even, really, to see anything, but merely to be about and to seek whatever it might be that had brought about this most unusual and irregular feeling that so overwhelmed her.

Eventually, her skittish jumping about brought her to her door, and its principal window. There, impulsively, she threw open the door and peered outside. The air was warm for this time of year, but with yet a hint of an early-Spring nip to her nose. And the rich aromas were rising, far stronger to her nose out here than they had been inside, where the smell of hot iron and a tinge of smoke and the stale scents of left over breakfast competed with Spring’s first musky tones. But, most of all, she met an irresistible freshness in the air, one that drew her outside, enchanted with the day.

Mother Hougarry, uncharacteristically, neglected to consider anything at all. She ignored the fact that her feet were in soft slippers. She forgot that she had set aside her light shawl since the stove and Sun together had the room so delightfully warm. She forgot everything. She ambled out onto her porch, clear to the edge where she leaned one hand and the same shoulder up against the post and gazed lazily and nearly dazed out over the near-by spread of the Crossed Hills.

The big black bark-covered columns rose high into the air, where they each branched and bent and posed the sky with every smaller fingers, forming a dizzy web to her sight. Cluttered about were the remnants of last year’s leaves and the organically rich gifts of the leaves of previous Summers. The Sun danced on the soil and gave the signs of warmth. Mother Hougarry, misty eyed over it all, smiled, her face broad and surprisingly smooth in the radiance of joy. Her eyes, indeed, sparkled in enchantment over so many Summers and Springs, all brought together in this morning’s splendor.

That itch which drove her thus far merely got worse. She could not restrain herself. She ignored constraints. She felt like a young girl again. And the lure of Spring was far too much for her to set aside. Off she stepped, onto the soft, moist, spongy ground. Her feet had not been here, off the porch, for too long. She had grown fearful, very cautious.

Now, someone is likely to think she has entered a second childhood and needs better supervision. But she put away even the hint of such a cautious thought. Instead, feeling the damp in her slippers, she leaned over and pulled them off – going barefoot in the woods on the Crossed Hills, letting the Sun warmed patches ooze into her feeling feet. She laughed out loud; she even giggled and held her mouth while wiggling her toes in the warming soil.

Unrestrained, Mother Hougarry went walking. The Sun-warmed soil, soft and spongy yet oozed comfortably about her toes. But, off in the shade of a tree, where the Sun had not bathed the soil in its Spring-time zeal, the spongy soil turned cold, and the old woman scampered onto a Sun-warmed patch again. She became particular where she stepped.

In time, as she grew tired – for she was not at all accustomed to walking like this, in the fresh air and along the uneven, spongy ground, Mother Hougarry began to question whether or not she was being childish. Certainly, she was weary. And her feet were getting cold.

‘Where are my slippers?’ she muttered while curling her toes and balancing on the sides of her feet, the damp and resilient soil, full of the leaves of the last decade, squished about them. Wrapping her arms around herself, she missed her shawl, left on the chair before her ‘itch’ became her entrancing, and the Spring day felt like Summer.

Perplexed now, her face drawn tight in a worry-wad, feeling displaced and, indeed, lost at mid-day. Tired, wanting to sit down but with only the cool wet sponge of the ground in the woods to sit upon, Mother Hougarry realized she did not know where she was. She could no longer see her Hidden Cabin. She had left the trails in her pixie glee. She had not been very prudent, leaving her now confused, perplexed, uncertain. She had lost her bearings, and found courage rare.

Slipping among the trees came Carymba and Eliza. They had met down on the Fields and fell to talking. They had talked of Mother Hougarry and how she would love this beautiful day. They decided to come up to Hidden Cabin, only to find the door open and her wet slippers on the edge of the porch. They went looking, and listening, to find Mother Hougarry.

‘Ah!’ called Carymba when they found her. ‘We thought we might find a teapot on this afternoon’. ‘Yes. And a little chat on your porch, with the Sun peeking down on us would be just right’ added Eliza. ‘But I am lost, and I am cold’ replied Mother Hougarry.

‘Maybe we can find our way … together. Would you help us?’ ‘Yes. … I can help. But, I really did get myself lost!’

21 April 1991

CDLXXXV

Bright blue skies, filled with the bright Sun arched high and clear over the land of Hyperbia. Underneath, the ground was generally soggy. And the stream was running high, heavy and muddy as it swept beneath the Great Dome. Betsy stood at the door, testing the mid-morning warmth, whether it demanded a jacket or not. She could not help noticing that the stream’s usual gurgle had ed away in favor of a quieter, fuller rush, far less disturbed by the now well submerged stones in the stream, far more ominous in its swirling, angry impatience, Betsy watched it with distance in her eyes.

The hillside she and Yves had climbed in search of breakfast earlier in the morning glistened in its wet, streaked mode. The slide marks where she had skied down the slop, wide-eyed and ashen-faced, still shone in their strict, straight outlines. She shuddered, just ing the trip, after her feet had lost traction and she began to accelerate down the slope, trying desperately to keep her balance. The bridge and the rocks, and that menacing, swollen stream combined to indicate the closure of her slide, until she fell and, in the mud, swept to a halt exactly at the foot of the bridge. She ed that momentary dread, the beading sweat upon her brow, the cold wet mud below, the stop in time to avoid a crash, or a plunge into that water. She shivered once again, and turned to retreat from reliving the scene.

Inside the Great Dome, Betsy walked slowly down the center hall to her door. She frowned, nearly scowling over the way things were. Her seat was still sore where she landed on that slide. And the cold wet mud, though washed away now, could still be felt as if it clung to her legs and feet and all around. The ooze was as if packed still between her fingers as she pressed her open palms into the mud on the way down. In fact, only the happenchance that Yves had not seen her on the fall and slide was favorable in her sight now.

Retired to her room alone, Betsy looked at the mud stained clothes she had set out to dry. For they were not only muddy but thoroughly wet, too, and cold. They were even colder now, she was sure. She looked at them and realized anew how thoroughly she had been slathered in that mud – wet, slick (yet sticking closely), yellow clay mud! A grimace swept across her face, a specter of ugliness to match the unpleasantness of the deeply impressed emotion. Betsy flopped on her bed, where she was warm and dry, the landing soft and stable. Sighing, she looked at the ceiling overhead. Her gaze led into a whimper, drawing one more sigh to a stuttered close.

Yves thundered back from the Plain. He had gone out to romp while Betsy chose a tamer path, going back to the Great Dome after breakfast. Having run halfway to the Great River, Yves had stopped, panting, to regain his breath. His ruddied face steamed beneath that blue sky. He thought of the low puddles through which he had splashed and grinned broadly at the remembrance. ‘I wonder how far those sprays went’ he said to himself, out loud, between his still heavy pants. But out there, on the Plain, looking around all alone, Yves became ill at ease. Discomfort seeped into his exuberance. And the lad began to grow listless. No boy likes feeling that way, so he began to strut about, covering over his illfeeling with a flash of bravado. He thought he looked pretty bold. He was even ready to be pleased with himself, almost. Except that he was still not feeling all that happy with what he was doing.

Yves had tried to daydream, unsuccessfully.

Yves had wandered to the City on the Plain and looked over the whole thing, casting his shadow so as to hide the morning Sun. Some felt it was an ominous sign. But Yves was merely curious. Long ago he had learned to be careful of the week folk around whom he lived and romped.

Yves, at last, grew weary. He ambled aimlessly until he found himself excessively bored. Then it was that he turned and ran home, his heels thundering

upon the sod, as little boy’s heels are wont to do. He came, sliding in the stillwet grass, to the top of the hill leading down to the Great Dome. Yves had decided he wanted Betsy. For Betsy, his sister, was and remains his one good friend, the other child his size, and the only one not a wee person, sized for his shirt pocket. Having made his decision, Yves was eager to get home. There was, really, no other place for her to go. He knew she did not enjoy slipping and splashing like he did – too bad about her, but he was stuck with her as a friend. Now, he was eager enough not to care much about those other traits. He had become bored enough, lonely enough to rush headlong home, to play whatever Betsy might want to play – even some girls’ game!

Artfully keeping his balance and managing the turn, Yves thundered again, straight ahead, straight toward the muddy slide – the path down the slope toward the bridge over the stream, and leading to the porch and to the door of the Great Dome, where he expected to find Betsy. Galloping, Yves crested the top and began to go down the slope. His feet slid. They spun. They scrambled for control. And they, for a while, did manage to keep themselves under his body. Soon, however, his gyrations caused him to lunge more and more, to lean to the one side and then to the other, back and then forward, his arms waving frantically until he went too far forward and lost that by-now-tentative balance. He flopped on his belly, sliding face first in the mud, racing down. He saw the bridge, and swerved his face to miss it by an inch, only to go splashing into the muddy water of the cold stream.

Betsy, lying bored upon her bed – bored but dry and warm, heard the splash. There not even being the usual gurgle to the stream, the splash came up as a mighty sound. She sat up, bolt upright. Her heart pounded and her mind raced through all the wilder possibilities of what might be happening out there. Her imagination kept getting worse and worse, even to having the Great Dome itself being washed into the swollen stream, and her home being carried down to the Great River and out, forever lost, into the Sea. She jumped to her feet, sought her ‘sea legs’ in the turbulence of her dreads, and groped for the door. She pulled herself and leaned forward, nearly crawling to the door of the house she was sure was collapsing about her head. Out the door, her head swimming in fear, Betsy crawled. Onto the bridge she went. She looked. There sat Yves, waist deep in the

stream, coated with mud, soaking wet and cold, sputtering and nearly yelping: ‘Somebody! Help me!’

Miraculously, Betsy regained her feet and did not laugh. She could not reach him from the bridge. She could not reach him from the shore. She had to wade into the cold stream. Making an ugly face, she reached and took Yves’ hand. ‘Here’, she said, ‘come with me. I’ll help you in, even if you are such a mess!’

28 April 1991

CDLXXXVI

Feeling unusually warm, and close, Missus Carney was up and restless early. She fumbled about her room, getting herself dressed and arranged for the day. The sky was light already, but by this time of the year, the rising of the Sun was no longer a marker for the rising of Missus Carney! Now, when she was younger and active, she usually was up and about for the day before the Sun came up, even on the very longest of days. But such was no longer her habit. So, today’s early rise was more a product of discomfort than anything else she could imagine.

Getting such an early start is an inconvenience for Missus Carney. She knows it is. And so she tried, even this morning, to roll over and go back to sleep. After so many rollings-over, with her covers now a twisted mess, Missus Carney had given up on the effort. She got out of bed. She dressed. She took her time, frustrating that nagging restlessness inside while the inability to slow down simply drove her harder and faster, further along. With slow haste, she left her straightened room, closed the door and shuffled her way to the top of the stairs.

By the glow that shone from around the corner at the foot of the stairs, Missus Carney could tell that Thyruid was up and at his chores. In the meantime, she was up here while he was down there. She knew he was there, but as yet he was unaware that she was up and wishing to come downstairs. In the all too familiar dilemma of dependency, Missus Carney stood at the top of the steps and pondered her immediate problem.

The data were simple and straightforward. She could not walk down the stairs alone. That was an impossibility anymore. Clyde, her usual helper, was still sleeping soundly. And Geoffrey – well, Geoffrey was one person Missus Carney had never seen up and alert – even up – at such an hour as this. He may not

always wait until midmorning before escaping his covers, but he was a stranger to such an early hour as this. Her only likely escort now was Thyruid. Listening carefully, she heard the vigorous flapping of the polish rag. Yes: Thyruid was busy polishing his precious brassware, doing his chores as he liked to put it.

In such a time, in such a state of affairs, attracting Thyruid’s attention was somewhat less than likely. Missus Carney sighed and reviewed her options. One was to stand here and wait. She fielded that concept for herself with a real wince. For standing still was wearying anymore. And waiting had never been something she did well. No: waiting was too ive, too oppressive an act to catch her fancy at all. So, on to the second choice: she could retreat into her room and try to relax until such time as she would hear Clyde up and about. Then she could return to her perch and await the arrival of her usual deliverer. Somehow, that script was not one bit more attractive to her than the first. Even the thought of such a scheme made her even more restless so that she fidgeted about the area at the top of the stairs. She could call out for Thyruid, breaking through his concentration. Or she could turn and go rattle Clyde’s door until he rose up to respond, whereupon she could coyly request his arm to assist her in the descent to the dining room. She scowled, straightened herself and, through squinted eyes and pursed lips, harshly refused such a begging pose.

In truth, she thought for a few moments that she had, in fact, rejected all of her options, that she had exhausted all the possibilities and now must try to decide which of them would be least derisive in her thinking. Reviewing them all, one by one, each was turned aside and denied until, in seeming despair, Missus Carney stood there, blankly staring, ashen faced, her hands folded at her waist. There was nothing to think, she said to herself, struggling against the thinking of nothing – an act she could not even imagine!

With such an evacuation of hope, Missus Carney slowly sighed. Unaccustomed to being so blank in her expression, color began to return to her face as if by reflex. And, not liking to find her mind so utterly void, her thoughts stirred. When the two mingled, a sparkle returned to her eye as if by a bold shaft of light

penetrating her presence all alone. She decided right then that the problem was she did not like being so, … so blasted dependent on inconvenient others. Holding the rail, she stopped, for she knew too, too well that she did not have the strength and balance in herself to glide down those stairs like the lady she had always been.

Holding the top end of the railing, though, Missus Carney thought she might be able to manage this by herself if she were adequately careful – or prudent, and daring – or bold. ‘Boldly prudent!’ she sputtered, mostly under her breath, as she groped for what such a phrase might mean in a place like this, in a situation such as she had come to inhabit.

Slowly, a wry smile began to curl the corners of her mouth. Her slight, not quite frail frame straightened. Her face smoothed some – not nearly becoming young again, but certainly showing signs of refreshment. A sage glance surveyed the staircase before her eyes. With studied care, she sought a way to lower herself down, to sit upon the floor, near the steps yet clearly under control of herself. This maneuver was proving to be more challenging than she expected. She did not want to just flop down onto that hard floor. She had no way of guessing what might come next. Such might be a bold act, but hardly a prudent one!

Retreating, and pacing down the hall and back, Missus Carney took the time to analyze what it is she thought she might accomplish, and to plot some way to accomplish her scheme. While down in the shadowed regions of the hall, where the lost light from Thyruid’s lamp or the just-now rising Sun had failed to arrive, Missus Carney paused and smirked brashly. She thought of that low stool that was stuffed into a back corner of her room. ‘Maybe that is the answer’ she muttered to herself.

Hastening, she shuffled to her door, opened it and moved graciously to the identified corner. There sat the stool. Leaning over carefully, she retrieved it. She lifted it – for it was light enough for her to carry easily. And she carried it out to

the stairs, being careful to close her door on the way. Near the top of the stairs, aside and in a safe place, she set down her stool, leaning over to it and holding onto its edges. Her head began to feel strange, nearly inverted like this. Quickly, she turned herself and let herself flop onto the cushioned stool. Stable now, she eased herself down onto the floor. ‘There!’ she sighed with a radiant grin.

One step at a time, from the stool to the floor, then one step by one step down the staircase, Missus Carney found her independence. At the bottom, she used the step and rolled herself around until Thyruid noticed and came over. ‘Let me help you’ he said, concerned. ‘Why, thank you. I think I can do it myself, but your help will make this a lot easier’. ‘You should have called for me’. ‘I wanted to do it myself. … But I do hope no one trips over my stool up there’. ‘Perhaps I can check on it for you’. ‘That might be wise. … Thanks’.

Thyruid, having eased Missus Carney to her feet, went up the stairs and Missus Carney, adjusting herself as she was standing again, proceeded to her favorite seat, to await the coffee to begin this day right.

5 May 1991

CDLXXVII

Chert gazed quietly into his nearly empty, cooling mug of coffee. The others had all gone on downstairs in order to begin the preparation process for the morning’s spinning work. His chore today was straightening up after breakfast. Not only did he despise this particular chore, but even before he realized that this was his day to do the clean-up, he was on a downer, as they say. Somehow, he felt as if nothing really mattered anymore, that nothing was going right. The night’s sleep was too short and too agitated, leaving him feeling heavy when the scuffles of other feet told him it was already time to drag himself from bed. He got up reluctantly, even though he found nothing about lying in bed, restless, to be inviting or desirable.

Sitting here, now, with the cool coffee in front of him, Chert had slid into a purely automatic mode. His mind was disengaged so that if it were thinking about anything at all, he did not know about it at all. He really was not even aware that his mind was blank. Instead, he just sat there, ignoring himself and everything else as well. He ignored totally the slow beads of sweat that oozed out onto his face. He ignored the inevitable trickles that ran down his face. He paid no attention to the close heat in the kitchen, a heat that normally would have him impatient, for he never had liked being hot.

So, lost in his daze, Chert let time slip away from him, unnoticed. While so strangely absorbed, Chert neglected his chores. He paid no mind to the work waiting downstairs, being prepared for him, too, by Gilbert, Martha and Effie. For quite some time, those downstairs had paid no attention, nor intention to Chert’s absence. But, when their preparations were done, when they were setting in to do their daily task of spinning, Martha noticed that Chert had not appeared. He was not present at his wheel. He had done absolutely none of the preparations.

By being so slow in coming down from cleaning up breakfast, Chert had effectively taken advantage of the three of them. He had taken advantage of her, for she suspected she had done a little more than her share in preparing his work space for him. The longer she thought about Chert not coming to help get ready at all, the more bothered Martha became. Her work slowed down. Her spinning became uneven and her disposition became increasingly gloomier. Martha finally stopped and merely glowered at her spinning wheel.

As she sat there, smoldering, Martha’s aggravation came to have a life all its own. She forgot about Chert. The fact that he continued to be absent from his wheel for totally unexplained reasons ceased to concern Martha. She even ceased to notice he was not at work. She forgot she had dome much of the set-up for him so that they all could get their work done. She forgot she was supposed to be busy spinning. She was aggravated with being aggravated, and that itch inside the mind took over her thinking. And her thinking soon became her nonthinking as she began to gaze blankly ahead, seeing nothing consciously.

Gilbert had been quiet all morning. Breakfast had been somewhat mechanical, even distracted, after a thoughtless exercise at rising and dressing and preparing himself for one more day’s spinning. He had been the one to get things started. He lit the stove. He started the coffee. He mixed up some quick dough for the tough brand of scones he could make. He ate the bits, if you wanted to call it eating. But greetings were grumbled. And Gilbert did not tasting his food. He knew the wool was in his hands – he could see it and feel it and even smell it. This was the way his days were supposed to go – with wool being spun into yarn. Such was his work, and he had always enjoyed his work.

While his hands kept busy, Gilbert became aware that Chert had not come to his wheel. Breakfast had ended a long time ago. He had had all kinds of time to clean up the table, straighten the room, come down and help finish preparations – or, at the least, in on the daily spinning. But no: Chert was nowhere to be seen. Gilbert could see the empty chair. He felt a slow burn on the back of his neck.

As if it were not bad enough to have Chert absent without any hint of an excuse – he seemed normal enough at breakfast, and no one else had suffered ill effects from his somewhat pithy scones, Gilbert also became aware that Martha was just sitting there at her wheel, staring blankly off into space, doing nothing. Gilbert was also ware of a certain degree of pressure to get yarn spun. He had orders to fill. He had a reputation to maintain. And two of his co-workers were not cooperating at all.

Gilbert knew that he should not lose his temper. If he could only regain his composure, he could then address this issue calmly, rationally, and with proper order and decorum. If he failed to keep his temper and regain his composure – well, the whole day could be lost and he would be worse off than ever. So, Gilbert shifted his weight and squirmed on his seat, trying to make himself more comfortable. In the process, unbeknownst to himself, Gilbert became noticeably distracted. His fingers failed to keep their deft coordination. His hands fumbled. He feet disturbed the rhythm of the pedal, making the whirl of the wheel irregular. And his own smooth rhythm fell into abrupt disrepair.

Effie had long been at work. Her day had gone regularly. She and Martha had chatted over breakfast, solving nothing but giving Effie a feeling that today was basically a solid, OK day. When time for preparation came, she had gone about the organizing chores. She had concentrated on her work and plugged her way through her work. The fact that Chert had not yet come did not disturb her, for she did not pay any attention. And Martha’s becoming so self-involved over her pique also escaped Effie’s attention. Since Chert was not there, Effie would have to lose concentration enough to notice an absence. Since Martha was sitting still and quiet, Effie would have had to become aware of the stillness. But, since Gilbert was fumbling and so obviously out of all natural rhythm in his spinning, squirming unnaturally, Effie noticed. She was bothered. She could not imagine what was his problem.

‘What’s the problem, Gilbert?’ she asked, without a note of sarcasm in her voice.

‘Look at Martha! Look at Chert – or Chert’s stool!’ he snapped. Then he stopped, too, aware that he had not kept his temper. Effie stopped. ‘I’ll go look for Chert. He must have been distracted by something. A little patience and he could be to work’. Gilbert just sat there and sulked, angry now at himself for mes, losing his temper as he had told himself not to do. Martha ignored the whole event.

A little while later, the dishes done, and the pair laughing softly, Effie and Chert came down. ‘Why aren’t they at work?’ asked Chert. ‘I think they’re waiting for us. Let’s just spin and not worry too much about them. They’ll be back to work soon enough’. ‘Well, I do have plenty to do myself’ itted Chert, starting his wheel in its rhythmic hum.

19 May 1991

CDLXXXVIII

Marthuida fumbled along. She was not very active, nor very responsive to much of anything this morning. In fact, she was simply dull. For her mind, the fact that the sky was crystal clear, the air full of dew, cool and crisp yet promising to respond to the Sun’s caress – all that was of no . She had been tired when she went to bed last night. She had fallen into a heavy, somewhat muggy sleep, awakened in the same position she took when she went to sleep but as if she had not rested at all. The night was consumed in sleep, and yet she was so weary this morning that she cared not a whit about the beauty of the day. No: this was but a day for doing the mere necessities, no matter how mechanically.

Fumbling, then, Marthuida dressed. She moved ahead. She ed through the door in the ed wall. Barely noticing the furniture in the customary places, she shuffled betwixt the pieces in the array, around the counter and, under the influence of a deeply thorough yawn, on through the swinging door, into her kitchen. There, in her own space, the brightness outside filtered clearly all about – unlike the subdued and darkly curtained dining room, which was ever dependent on the lamps for light.

Marthuida squinted into the kitchen, standing just far enough inside to be fully clear of the swinging door, a placement she had long since learned to assume – on the level of habit: NEVER stand within the arc of that door! The door did not sway, for only Thyruid was up and, as always at this hour, he was far too busy with his brassware to be approaching her kitchen. Marthuida was merely safe while trying to get her groggy eyes and thick mind to adjust to the brightness of the kitchen. Almost a half moan rose, but did not break the barrier of silence. The squint was not bringing about the desired adjustment, however. She would rather close the eyes, and pretend to sleep, than continue this struggle. Then, too, she half thought, she could go back to the dim dining room, or even to the bedroom behind that ed wall, to a place she could sleep some more and, perhaps, rise more rested.

In spite of these pointed, poignant temptations, Marthuida did not return through the swinging door. She squinted again, and forced herself to adjust. ‘If it is bright in here, I’ll work in the brightness’ she muttered, not at all cheery with the prospect. A slight snort escaped her nostrils, for Marthuida almost realized her complaint of being cheerless on such a cheery day. Such a flicker of insight, though, ed quickly into silence as her squint gave way to a heavily-furrowed forehead, wrapped into a scowl. ‘Time to get myself going’ she murmured under her breath.

With dogged persistence, Marthuida began her chores. She mixed her morning biscuit dough. She fixed the fire in her oven. She made up coffee, and filled the kettle for preparing tea. She knew, simply knew all the necessary operations for preparing the kitchen to produce the usual needs of breakfast – with a broad enough range of flexibility for the occasional imposition of crowded extras. Knowing the dull routine on a morning meant to be dull helps, she decided. For then she could simply slide through the whole array of stuff, void of the need to make any real . She could do her work and still remain dull, scowling against that persistently cheery brightness in the morning.

Then, Marthuida began to stumble as well as fumble. She worked the biscuit dough. She knew it should be about ready, but even in her disconnectedness this morning, she simply knew this did not feel right. Something was wrong with her dough. Something was really wrong! Shaking her head, then trying to rub her twitching nose on her shoulder, she attempted to recall what she forgot, or overdid, or underdid, or whatever. It was all to no avail; even her nose would not stop twitching menacingly. She peered, puzzled, into the bowl. She raked her fingers through the mixture. It crumbled. It spilled. It puffed about. There were all the traits, except the fullness of the dough. ‘This simply is not right!’ she blurted out in rhythmic tones.

That squint that ed into a scowl, deeply carved into Marthuida’s face, now moved along, becoming something more. She was studying this cheery day on

which she felt so cheerless. When the day asked her to play, her weariness told her to slough into the mechanical plodding-through routine, turning the day into something as dull as she felt. All she got, so far, for her efforts was a batch of biscuit dough that was certainly wrong to the touch, all due to some error she could not identify, nor . Study became frustrating. So, she set aside her bowl, wiped her hands on her apron and strolled over to the little door, deciding – a first for today – that she should take a brief break.

Opening the door, Marthuida stepped outside. The air had become fragrant and the earlier coolness was warming, but without losing its moisture much at all. The day was beginning to feel and, moreover, to smell muggy. ‘Already, the mood of the air is catching up with me. Maybe this dull deadness is just catching!’ She muttered the words and did not chuckle over them. Instead, she became distracted by the fragrant air. Her nose twitched some more, even more violently than she had resisted inside. The twitching, indeed, raced onward, impelling from her a full, deep sneeze, one that rattled her. She staggered and blinked in the wake of the sneeze. In her mind, she sorted out the aromas of warming, moist earth, and flowers, all throwing out their habitual and thick aromas. Her nose began twitching again. Prudently, Marthuida retreated into her kitchen, closing the door upon the rich world outside.

Returning to her mixing bowl, Marthuida peered into it, at the odd and incorrect concoction in the hold of the bowl. ‘I have no memory. There is no redeeming it, I fear’, she said, dumping it out onto a board. There she tried to work it, but the dough stubbornly resisted being worked. Her hands, now more attentive, felt the dough. She decided it was too dry. ‘Should I try to correct this, not knowing what all I may have neglected? Or should I give it up as lost?’ She mused, pursing her lips and concentrating her thoughts.

Boldly, Marthuida decided to risk the biscuits on an adventure. A sparkle slipped into her eyes, and an impish curl about the corners of her mouth. Her forehead forgot its squint and scowl and her cheeks flushed with color. She guessed what she must have done, and modified the result to compensate. She felt a little

creative. She chuckled under her breath as she finished the preparation and put the first of the trial biscuits into the oven.

Just as the end results were coming out of the oven, Thyruid came through the swinging door, yawning. ‘Is breakfast about ready? I’m hungry. And I could use a little coffee’. ‘Yes, it is ready. Take the coffee while I get some biscuits and butter and jelly together for us’. Thyruid nodded, and obeyed, as a matter of rote habit. Marthuida thought the biscuits looked about right; they would test them.

26 May 1991

CDLXXXIX

Unnatural, the muggy heat that bore down upon the wee folk of Hyperbia. The soil was soft from recent rains. But this afternoon, the Sun pressed hard into the nooks and crannies of Hyperbia. Breezes had all died. Everything was still. Great green leaves hung limply and undisturbed on all those high, overarching branches. As a result of the oppressive heat, wee folk were quite reserved in their activities. They did not take off on treks. They stayed quiet, and pondered the world in the shade of one tree or another, if at all possible. At times, for some of the wee folk, the position of Sun and tree and home were inconvenient, so that staying home meant they were automatically bathed in the unrelenting heat of the Sun.

Most of the day, however, Wilbur’s house was well sheltered by the imposing trees all around his house and directly across the Great River. He knew, however, that the Sun would soon slide down some and glare at his home from diagonally across the Great River, and continue to do so until at last, it had settled down into the night. Already, the heat hung around him, filling up his house thickly. It was hard to breathe, the hot air being so heavy with the moisture drawn out of the River. Wilbur had his windows open for the benefit of any slight, stray breeze. But there were no easy breezes to filter through his house. He looked down toward his boat; it was baking in the glare of the shining Sun. The Great River steamed as the mighty current swept noiselessly around the bend, and then on toward the awaiting Sea.

Sitting near that open window, drenched in sweat, Wilbur lazily glanced over the far bank, keeping watch for someone who might want, or need, a swift ride over the Great River, escaping Apopar. On a day like today, too hot even for his usual coffee, Wilbur did not realistically expect anyone to call for his services. If he had thought, though, he would have realized that the shadeless yellow clay plain of Apopar, and those oven-like yellow mud huts, so open to the Sun’s haughty excesses would not be much to keep one from moving to the shaded shores, and

even opting to claim a age to the other side. Today, however, was far too hot, far too muggy for any thinking beyond that which wisps its way over a cool drink of iced tea. And Wilbur did no more than maintain his lazy watch over the far shore.

When a rap erupted against his door, Wilbur was surprised. He sat up straight and felt his clothes tug at him, for he was sweat-laden, and they all clung to him as he was. The clinging cloth distracted him, leaving him, in the silence, to suspect the door’s rap had been mistaken. Who, after all, would be out on an afternoon like this one? So, easily convincing himself of his straightforward error, Wilbur settled back into his seat, sipped at his cool drink, and glanced again, long and slow, across the far shore of the Great River. Thus re-contented, Wilbur jumped again when the rap impatiently intruded into his hot, muggy, easy house.

‘I’m coming! … I’m coming!’ called out Wilbur as he brought himself around and rose to shuffle off to the door. He pulled at his shirt twisting it free so he could move more easily, and so that the plastered wrinkles could fall free again. After stumbling over a chair and leaving a cacophony of clattering sounds to echo through his house, Wilbur made it to his door, and opened it to meet a smiling, if sweaty, Carymba. ‘I might have known!’ he confessed. ‘A mite warm’ she responded. ‘You could say so, I suppose. It is no cooler inside, although I can offer you something coolish to drink, if you would like’. ‘Sounds delightful after my amble over this way, across the Plain and down the River path’. ‘Then, come on in. And you can tell me what brings you this way on such an … uncomfortable day!’

Carymba patiently waited on Wilbur, while he shuffled himself along and retrieved for her a cool glass of tea. She chose a seat near the open window, a move designed to catch any wisp of breeze, should one happen to arise. A breeze was not expected soon, however; one would seem out of character for a day like today. As she had been exercising in the hot muggy air, sweat trickled everywhere. Her clothes were wet and sticky, clinging to her slight frame. A

ruddy face gleamed, moist and surrounded by stringy strands of strawberry blond hair plastered to her head, her cheeks, her neck. In spite of it all, Carymba beamed a most satisfied smile.

Wilbur puzzled over the broad smile she offered. He was truly impressed and somewhat confused by it. For she certainly appeared to be anything but comfortable. And someone that hot, that sticky, that (apparently) miserable, should not be smiling so, unless, of course, this is a sign of relief at being in the shade, at rest, at ease, anticipating this cool glass of tea in his hand, prepared for her. Yes, he thought, this must be it: she is anticipating his kind – he almost thought warm, but the thick air corrected his view – generosity and hospitality. A twinge of self-satisfaction even crept over him, and a slightly smug texture appeared on his face and in his carriage.

Before Wilbur reached her, Carymba spoke up in bubbly . ‘Why, do you think, everyone is so grumpy and lazy today?’ Wilbur paused, not quite ready to trust his ears. This was not quite what he had in mind, not quite what he expected to hear. From his perspective, today gave far too much heat and much too much humidity too early in the season. Nobody was ready for this! And, given that there was absolutely no breeze, that everybody was wet with sweat, that the Sun was as angry as if they were already immersed in the full-baked depths of Summer, Wilbur could see nothing wrong with being grumpy and lazy today. ‘The Sun is too hot, and the air is too heavy, too humid’ he said in a curtly, matter of fact tone.

‘That does not make a lot of sense to me’ Carymba replied. ‘The heat is not that bad. And a little tea, a little pause refreshes amply for another try’. ‘You may think so, but most of us find such an opinion to be very unnatural. This is hot weather, without relief. Such days beg for us to take life easy. They are given to us for that purpose’.

‘You sound too confident, Wilbur. ... Thank you for the tea’. After a long

draught, she sighed and confessed: ‘the tea is good. And the cool wet really refreshes on such a hot day. Sitting here refreshed, too’. Setting the glass down on the table, she too her hands and bounced her hair, still damp, free from her cheeks and her neck. She pulled loose her shirt and breathed deeply, giving the unbelieving Wilbur a big grin.

‘Now, Wilbur, once I finish this tea you kindly gave me, could you give me age to Apopar? I need to see Nova this evening’. Wilbur first shook his head in disbelief, then shrugged and said: ‘Well … I suppose I can. That Sun is wicked this afternoon, though’.

2 June 1991

CDXC

Osburn sat, as usual, and sulked. Although he maintained his gardens and took care of his cliff bound property daily, he still found that he was taking time to sit here by his picture window and sullenly glower over the City on the Plain, which once was his city. Time was not healing this complaint of his! The loss nagged at him continually, so that even his gardening and his puttering did not put the smoldering thought out of his mind. People knew him as a sulker – at least those who knew him at all knew him that way.

Osburn sighed heavily. For he had become engulfed with his own sadness. He was unwilling to become alive anyway, but led a return to the world that crumbled for him when his City invited him to retire in favor of Margent. ‘What has Margent done for that City?’ he asked out loud in a crescendo of indignation. ‘Not one thing that I would have done. I certainly would have made a better profit on the years than he has. … Those fools! They banished their leader in an hour of possibility’. He spat out the words angrily, and slumped back into his chair, frustrated because he was powerless to do anything anymore.

While sitting, fuming, Osburn slowly became aware that in the back of his house, out by his proud garden, there was someone moving about. Someone was there, disturbing things. He scowled, and his face took the resemblance of a pitted prune, gnarled and distorted. ‘Who would be out there … now?’ he muttered under his breath. Absolutely no satisfying answer came to mind, so Osburn shoved himself up, out of his chair. As a snarl crackled across his face, Osburn turned to go to the back of his house, to the door, to investigate this interruption on his displeasure.

Shuffling along, Osburn ed his age. His hip was stiff, hindering him as he sought his way. A full-fledged grimace struck his face until his pride pushed it

back, and drew him up, stiff and erect, forcing his feet to walk without a hint of the pain that really did bother him. ‘If someone really is out there, I will not let him – or her – see me limp or wince. I will not do it’. Osburn gritted his teeth in sheer determination. Here, at least, he would remain in charge.

Reaching the back door, Osburn paused at the counter and drew a deep breath. He felt sorer than he wanted to feel. And he grew angry with that uncooperative hip. Leaning to look out the door, he did see someone, standing on the path, his hands on his hips, looking out over the garden Osburn had worked so hard to prepare. With a biting tone, Osburn snapped: ‘What are you doing out there?’ His visitor started and looked his way with weasely eyes. Rasping words came: ‘Just looking at your garden on the way to see you’.

Not taken aback at all by such a curt address, Osburn retorted: ‘There’s not much to see yet. I only finished planting early this afternoon. So, keep yourself out of the garden. Last thing I need to do now is repair my work after some bumbling fool messes it up!’

Casting a nastily sly glance, the visitor smirked, shrugged and meandered up to the door in a pretended saunter. The easy gait as he gamboled up toward the door, his hands stuffed in his pockets and his wary eyes darting nervously all about combined to rankle Osburn. ‘What brings you here? You never did bother to answer’. Irony dripped from his words, a fact which gave no appearance at all of bothering the visitor. No change came upon the face, except the tinge of a sneer. The pace was undeterred. The saunter only slightly more exaggerated. Osburn seethed.

‘I came to see a has-been’ came the answer, finally. The figure had stopped just past the reach of the swing of the door so that, when Osburn, in a rage, flung open the door, it but crashed against the wall. ‘Nasty temper’ he said in a drippingly condescending tone. ‘What is your name?’ snapped Osburn, enraged yet restrained by that sore hip about which he refused to let his visitor know.

‘My name is Walter’. The reply was even, emotionless, sterile almost. Osburn found the dry answer totally sapping. ‘Oh’. That was all he could say. ‘Oh’. He repeated himself.

Having stood opposite each other, on either side of the threshold, about a door’s swing apart for what seemed to be forever, Osburn at last relented, speaking in an unusually soft voice: ‘Can you close the door behind you as you come in?’ Walter, more taken aback by the quiet tone now than by the surly tone before, simply stood stock still. He felt suddenly uncomfortable. His favorite saunter no longer seemed appropriate. He felt odd being simply a harsh and nasty figure, a living insult to a man who, even as a has-been, spoke in such tones to him. Walter was accustomed to meanness. He dealt in the underside of off-handed nastiness and barbed slurs. Nearly everybody was the same way back to him. He could deal with that. But this, an even-voiced invitation to come in – this was unusual.

After a longer pause, Walter swallowed hard. The noise seemed to him to be very loud – loud enough to echo all across the Plain. He felt himself flushing at the sensation. He decided to accept and, stammering, said ‘Alright’. He reached for the wide open door and drew it closed behind himself while he crossed over the threshold and Osburn stepped back with a limping shuffle in order to let him enter. Osburn was hoping that that wince at the sharp pain had not been noticed by Walter, for he was not ready to let down any of his barriers, for each one protected him.

‘That is a nice little garden you have’ offered Walter, his voice cracking slightly as he spoke. ‘You think so?’ Osburn’s face brightened, surrendering the last vestige of the dried prune. ‘I take my frustrations out on that patch’ he added with a chuckle. ‘Pretty productive frustrations! Mine are never so well represented’. ‘I started the garden to be self-reliant. I guess I am, and then some. But now it mostly serves as Therapy. Come on: the view is better from the front, looking out over the Plain. Sometimes, I can even see the Sea, over the lower area near the Great River’. ‘Really?’ ‘Yes. Come on in: I’ll see if I can’t show it

to you’.

With a full limp, unguarded and meant to ease the pangs, Osburn meandered to the front of his house. Walter followed, paying no attention to Osburn’s forced gait at all. At the window, Osburn began to point out the landmarks down below. ‘Yes, if you look carefully … right over there … Yes, that’s the place. Can you see the Sea?’ … ‘That’s good’.

9 June 1991

CDXCI

Frustration reigned for Father John. He felt stiff and his body was insufficiently responsive. He mumbled to himself, saying: ‘I thought it was only the cold damp that made me hurt like this! And here it is, warm and a bit muggy, close. And I should be feeling good now!’ In fact, Father John was not feeling very well. He did not want to move much at all. And yet, he knew all too well that he had to move in order to keep himself going. He simply scowled at the fix in which he found himself.

Regardless of the morning’s distress, Father John knew he simply had to get himself into the morning’s chores. And so he started. First, he needed to get himself out of bed. This was his first chore. Anymore, he found getting up in the morning to be a challenge. Daily, he took the challenge as a burden to be overcome. Most days, he made it with only a light struggle. Other days, the push had to be found in some deep, unnamed recess of the soul. Today was one of those other days.

Mustering some sort of gumption from somewhere deep inside, gritting his teeth and assuming a look somewhere between desperation and determination – perhaps with a goodly share of each of them – Father John reached and began to tug and pull himself, intending to draw himself out of his bed and thence up, onward to do his next chores: breakfast, and a fire in the stove so that he can brew his pot of coffee for himself. Tugging and pulling, shoving, straining, fighting his own unfortunate limitations, Father John discovered that, this day, he was not going to get going without a helping hand.

‘A few minutes’ rest: that’s what I need’ he exclaimed, reasoning that a little time to recollect his energies and plot a logical scheme to rouse himself against this morning’s aches and pains would be enough to correct the problem. … So, he

settled back onto his bed, panting for his breath. Not wanting to be worried about the extra struggles of this morning, Father John was worried anyway.

For one thing, he was hungry, and wanted some breakfast. Usually, that desired breakfast would be almost prepared … but not today. And, again, he knew that his kind visitors did not always come by for him. They missed some days. And they did not always come in the morning. If no one came and he could not get himself up, he would end up very hungry, very frustrated. And aggravated. And angry. And even, he had to it it, frightened. Just lying in that bed, feeling helpless, made Father John inherit a deep sense of personal isolation. Not even when he had been snowed in completely had he felt this isolated and utterly alone.

As his imagination began to meander aimlessly over all sorts of unlikely tragedies, over every conceivable thing that could happen, and a large number of utterly fantastic traumas that were increasingly beyond any sort of possibility, Father John began to sweat. He was cold, and sweating, all at once. He felt more and more uncomfortable with the wilder runs of his frightened imagination.

So much was Father John becoming alarmed at himself that he became more bothered by his overactive imagination of doom than he was by the aches and pains, and this strange weakness he had in trying to deal with it all. He felt like he was losing control … and the feeling did not settle well upon his mind. Not at all!

What to do about this coming apart plagued his mind. He began to plot one way, and then another of overwhelming his fantastical imagination and all its varied, strange, concocted and illogical disasters. He would consider logic problems and figure their abstract games upon his bed. Indeed, he began to play with his mind in a strictly logical way. Imagination’s courting of imaginary disasters became pacified this way. Father John was relieved.

After just a little while, though, as his satisfaction rose in importance to him, the strict logic began to play with him. The categories stretched. They approached the ridiculous. They turned into neat patterns of definition and exclusion, into absurdity. What was defined neatly become opposite of itself, triggering the shift upon looking at it, as if the mirror image made the right hand left and the trim flabby, the weak strong. In his bed, confined, he was a victor and victim all at once.

‘Am I becoming delirious?’ Father John asked himself out loud. For the imagination’s taunting games had infiltrated his defenses, and turned them into a mockery for his state of mind. Father John sighed deeply and began once again to sort out just how he might get going again this morning. He would, he decided, place his energies on practical matters, on the issues of rousing himself, raising himself from this bed and making himself some breakfast. With that in mind, he thought of physics experiments in mechanics, such as would pry him from the bed and help him on his feet, in spite of these wobbly-feeling knees of his. He was not sure, however, how to compensate for the weakness he felt in his aching legs.

Rational reflection on the mechanics of getting up helped. He felt as if he had finally focused himself on a topic. He was, in brief, under control. Now, in such a recollected state, he could work on the actual problem, which was breakfast. All this confusion was making Father John hungrier. Knowing he had not yet figured out how he was going to fix things for himself make it all worse.

Pondering created mental images of mobile beams, with systems of pulleys and levers and balances, all of which played into an interactive system which would enable him to do these desired chores. The more he thought about his novel system, the more quirks he discovered and the greater the elaboration of added parts, all flexibly interacting to cover for all the eventualities he had thought of already. The room, his hut, was becoming crowded. Now, he will need a far bigger hut, with larger arrangements taking up even more than the increased

space to enable him to do everything he wants to do in spite of these aches and pains and that infernal weakness in his legs this morning.

Still, however, Father John had not succeeded in getting himself up and out of his bed. He had satisfied his head, however. And that satisfaction did put him at a certain degree of ease. But it did not fill his stomach, creating new dissatisfactions and new problems for a frustrated man to encounter this morning.

Noticing on a whim that there was no sign of a heating stove fixing breakfast in Father John’s hut, Carymba came over and rattled the door. ‘Come on in!’ bellowed the old man, relieved. She did. And she asked why he was still in bed. ‘I guess today I need a little help to get myself up. I just cannot do it by myself’. ‘Ok. Why not let me start some breakfast first?’ ‘Alright: then, maybe, you can give me a hand up. I am not ready for breakfast in bed quite yet’.

6 June 1991

CDXCII

Eliza awoke, finding the air bright and crisp in the early hour. The Sun, of course, was still behind the Hills, and the leafy spread overhead hid most of the sky. Even so, the brightness of the green testified to the blue sky and the brightness of the morning Sun. In all, the lure of the hour enticed her from her sleep, from bed, into her day’s clothes and unto a hastily arranged breakfast. She was grateful for the decent leftovers from the night before and the cool water easily available. That meant she could get by even without taking time to get her stove lit and mix up some odd entrée for her breakfast. She felt speedy.

Food, what little she was really interested in eating, went down quickly. A mug of cool water splashed the remnants on after the main course. Even that much was pushed aside in her mind, for her imagination was stirring boldly, nudging her on to go and to do … something. She didn’t plan what she was going to do. Rather, she anxiously, eagerly set out to do it, whatever “it” might turn out to be.

Rushing through her door, barely closing it behind her, Eliza rushed on, headlong, down the Way Down, down toward the Fields. Eliza became impatient with the gist of the morning, so full of the nuance of the morning was she. She was in a hurry to engulf herself in the atmosphere of this day. Every step seemed to be already in her way, slowing her from becoming completely at home in what tingled her body. Almost stumbling, Eliza merely stretched out her stride even farther to catch herself after each lean forward. In doing so, she sped her pace and required of herself that her other leg be thrown yet farther ahead, faster in order to keep from tumbling down the slope. The wind of her running blew through her hair. She found her arms flailing the air in search of balance. And her wide eyes watered in the haste. Her chest heaved with the hard breathing, and the exertion made her perspire.

Nothing was slowing her on her descent. The Way Down was steep enough that most took it at a cautiously measured pace. Eliza usually did, too. But today found her too impetuous for caution. And now, as she neared the Fields, becoming cautious was as impossible as it was desirable. This time of rushing feet, as she hustled down the path, brought also fleeting moments in which to try to figure out what she might do when the slope suddenly ends and the more level face of the Fields takes over. She was not deciding very quickly, however, for her panicked mind had nothing, no experience at all, on which she could make her decision. Instead, the Rock beside the end of the Way Down rushed by her and, past it, the Felds met her.

That first step onto the Fields came as a shock. Her foot landed before it expected to find earth. And the jolt rattled her knee and shook her frame. The abrupt shift in her weight, in her momentum, in her gait served to throw her into a limp confusion and a loss of balance. She crumpled onto the ground in agony. And there she lay, half curled, half sprawled on the lush grass of the Fields, just beyond the path that traces along the edge of the Hills. Her leg throbbed in pain. Rolling on the ground, with a sore knee, a gimpy hip and some cramps in that leg, Eliza thought only about the moment and ways to find a little quick relief. Later, she might wonder about her impatience; for now, the recent past was forgotten in the urgency of the moment.

Straightening her leg, and pulling her toes up tight, she managed to relieve the cramps somewhat. But the leg as a whole hurt. Memories of the Winter with the broken leg, lying on the floor, helpless, rushed through her mind. Stiffening her lips, she decided this was not that bad. At least, this was not as bad as the broken leg! Nevertheless, her knee throbbed. And her hip ached. While she half lay, half sat on the grass, the ache was dull; there were no stabbing pains. When she moved that leg, however, and put some stress on the knee, the ache was overwhelmed by the pain. And the swelling at the knee seemed to accelerate. Eliza winced when she moved, and hastily resolved to stay as still as she could for now. Under these conditions, that proved to be very, very still.

Once she had a chance to come to herself, Eliza began to feel very foolish. Here she was, mostly sprawled on the ground, sweaty from her run, her hair and her clothes mussed. Her face must be red from it all, flushed from the exercise if not from embarrassment. If it were not for the throbbing in her knee (mostly), she might have had time or energy to feel really stupid. Instead, she found herself continually distracted. She could not even muster up enough of a sense of concern to worry about her appearance.

As she lay in the grass for what seemed forever, Eliza wanted some sort of relief. How could she manage here? Someone would need to help her. But who would find her here, like this? She thought of John first, or Jasper. Then Walter came to mind, and she shuddered. She figured it would be bad enough for John to find her here. But Walter, for entirely different reasons, would be far worse. Why, her flesh creeped on her and she shuddered deeply until new pangs shot through her knee and up her leg. Holding still, Eliza tried to ease herself into the grass, with the hope of being at ease. She decided it was hard to relax when one body part hurt like this!

In truth, the sky was still blue and brilliant and the rising Sun was still far from shining even on the farthest part of the Fields when Carymba ambled down the path, coming from the Fringe and headed toward the ‘Y’. She could not help but notice Eliza, sprawled as she was in the grass, and rather obviously in severe discomfort. Carymba paused. At a distance, she thought Eliza may be resting in her somewhat impish way. Closer, however, the pained aspect of this sprawl became obvious. Carymba went directly to Eliza, crouched down and asked her what hurt. ‘My knee!’ she half-shouted with sharp, somewhat pained words, each one spit out with intensity.

After an inspection, Carymba declared she would be just fine. Eliza was not so sure. ‘Of course you will. I’ll get John and we will take you over to the Inn-bythe-Bye. We’ll have some lunch. If things go well, you will be home on your own tonight. If they are a bit slower, we will take you to Mother Hougarry. You know already that she will get you well soon enough!’

As Carymba returned with John in tow, they came upon Eliza, still sprawled upon the ground, but much relieved in appearance. Carymba noticed that John had expected something far worse. Eliza smiled and pointed to the sky. ‘Isn’t that about the bluest blue you can imagine?’ Her eyes sparkled with the brilliance that had early enticed her.

23 June 1991

CDXCIII

Grey overcast and refreshingly cool, morning eased into experience. In no way did this morning intrude on anyone; it simply slid in, almost apologetically. As a result, the day was not bright enough to make inner clock rouse her from sleep. Of course, the fact that a few days had been hectic recently, and the last few nights had been exceptionally late, and she had not slept well anyway – not until this past night, that is – and last night she had had a chance to wind down: she was so tired she was not able to keep her thoughts together. She was actually dizzy. So, once she fell into bed, she sank into the mattress and melted into the pillow and flowed into a deep sleep.

Guerric would not know how she slept, for he nearly always sleeps hard. Getting up in the morning is one of his most difficult chores. He struggles with the end of sleep nearly every night, only the lure of strong coffee and bit of nagging getting him on his feet at all. So, this morning Guerric slumbered deeply, too. But this was nothing unusual, not like the late, deep slumber of Mahara. He offered no impetus for her to awake, leaving her to lie heavily, in the same position she landed last night.

Even so, the grey light did seep into their hut, though the one window at the door, even though it was curtained. And morning time did run along until Guerric began to stir; his stomach had begun to churn and he was feeling thirsty – two factors which did the most to arouse him this morning. As his slumber became disturbed by inner needs, Guerric slowly began to awaken. He habitually sniffed their air; there were no aromas of coffee or of breakfast preparation. The air was simply the stale air of a quiet house, a bit musty and humid but not too warm – a bit clammy. Guerric slumped back to his pillow, since morning was a ways off, for Mahara always was up before him, always was fixing breakfast before trying to rouse him. And nothing was happening in the kitchen yet; only this nagging thirst and a low, obnoxious grumbling in his stomach kept nagging at him.

After so much nagging delay, Guerric found that his stomach was taking command, dragging him out of his sleep. Guerric was not cooperative with this drive to waken; the entire notion was alien to his natural lethargy. He was more inclined to lay back roll over and wait for Mahara to call him, and the odors of breakfast the aroma of strong black coffee to lure him from his repose. Responding to these inner stirrings, even ones in the vital area of the stomach, and at an hour universally called ‘morning’ – well, such was alien to him. This rumbling inside was not what he had in mind, if Guerric could be said to have anything in mind at such an hour!

Nevertheless, Guerric did at last shove himself up on one elbow. He blinked his eyes, opened them wide then, wincing, closed them again. With more subtlety, he scowled and squinted about the room. The place was light, after a fashion, with a dull, grey light. There was no movement in the room. With a vague recognition of the eerie quiet, Guerric wondered what Mahara might be up to now. She clearly was not to be seen in his bleary view of the room! With a wresting drive, he sat up in bed and rubbed his face, then his head with his two hands. ‘I suppose I’ll have to get up and discover what is going on around here’ he mumbled in a low, incoherent, growly voice that fell limply into the morning silence.

With such marginal decisiveness as he could muster, Guerric began to move toward the edge of the bed, only to discover Mahara still there, a warm, limp lump on the bed. Guerric took a start, sat bolt upright and found both his eyes and his mouth thrown wide open. He had not expected to find her still here, in the bed, when his stomach was already growling for food. He became a little testy, and nearly kneed her out of the bed – except he restrained himself from the mere impulse of a wisp of thought. ‘Nah: I won’t shove her out’ he muttered. Instead, he gently (for a clumsy time of day) arched himself over her, not even landing a stray knee or elbow in her back, and bounced his way out of bed, leaving the mattress quivering in his wake.

Mahara was not disturbed in the least. As Guerric tottered on his feet, groping for enough balance to keep himself erect, he gloated slightly over his unusual success. He had gotten himself upright! And he left Mahara asleep, just as she had done with him so many mornings. (But she did not need to crawl over him in order to get up! That gave her a distinct advantage – yet he had won success in his venture: Guerric beamed in self-satisfaction.)

With the reminder recurring in his stomach, Guerric turned and toddled to the kitchen. When he arrived, he stood flat on his heels, rocked slightly, scratched his stomach with both hands, pursed his lips in anticipation … and let his face evolve into a configuration of utter bewilderment. He glanced around, slowly and serenely surveying the place. He saw the stove; it was cold. And he saw the jar of gypsie-brew, hanging from the peg on the wall. He saw the water jug in the corner, big and, he supposed, reasonably full. A smile almost flickered across his face, for he had sampled the water – cold and clear – once or twice when he was particularly thirsty. Like now.

A strange confidence swept over him as he grabbed a mug and strode to the jug with a slight saunter in his stride. He ladled out a full mug. The extra splashed back into the jug. He lifted the mug to his lips and took a long, satisfying draught. Refreshed, he beamed and set down his mug on the counter. Then, he turned around once more, and saw the kitchen: barren and empty. His stomach whimpered in a long, slow, undulating babble. And Guerric was aware that he had just exhausted his knowledge of his kitchen … or, rather, hers, Mahara’s.

For Mahara’s part, she was still sleeping. Aside from the slow breathing which heaved her upper torso so slightly, regularly, Mahara was not moving at all. Her long, dark hair veiled her face. Her arms’ olive tone skin shone on the brighter, if rumpled, sheets. She had been so tired last night.

Guerric decided he would go to the Inn-by-the-Bye. Marthuida would have some coffee. And some biscuits. He would not have to dare this kitchen after all. A

real deep sigh of relief engulfed him.

In the weight of that sigh, he dressed and was nearly to the door when, all of a sudden, Mahara threw herself up from the bed, her hair a shambles, her eyes wide and with a nervous burst. ‘I must have overslept!’ she cried as she hurried to habitual chores. ‘Just you wait! Breakfast is coming!’

But Guerric intervened. ‘Get dressed; we will go and see what Marthuida has to offer today’.

30 June 1991

CDXCIV

John sat on the grass of the Fields, taking a break for refreshment. For a point had come in his labor when a break was natural. The heating of new pour would take a while, and the last pour was in place, cooling. John has found that foundry work is extra-hot on evenings when the Summer heat insists on staying close. This is one of those nights. The lingering steamy heat penetrated everything. But metal stung the nostrils with its acrid odor. The Foundry sizzled, and sweat ran freely everywhere. Outside, the furnace of the Foundry was not so oppressive under the hazy sky, grown dark now, with the haze luring all the stars overhead.

With a sense of relief soaking into him, John leaned back, first propping himself on his elbows, then merely sprawling, laid out on his back surveying the lightly veiled heavens. Not as many stars as usual were visible, although the moon was hidden and no real clouds flirted overhead. And the sticky heat seemed to linger unnaturally. After all, he reasoned, this is night time. During the night, the Sun has gone down. The heat is not pounding upon Hyperbia from overhead. This is the hour a man should find relief. Instead, trickles of sweat continued to appear and dribble down his body erratically. The sticky feeling remained, coating him as with a gummy goo.

Thoughts of the Foundry were distant for John. He was not overly excited about returning to that place: not at all. Out here, the air took on a sweeter aroma, even down on the ground, where the grass kept away any breeze that might come along, holding the still air, moist and far from clammy, tight upon a body. John grimaced casually, not wanting to give in to the night’s work – not just yet.

Jasper ambled out from the Foundry, looking for John. Thinking he saw him as another shadow on the other side of the door, Jasper spoke: ‘I have the pour about ready. The molds are fixed, like you said’. The shadow gave no response;

Jasper felt a little angry over being ignored. He let a sneer slip across his face, real and malicious, protected by the dark. He, too, was hot. He, too, was dripping sweat all over. What is more, he had been in there, in the Foundry, where it is really hot. And John had come out here, laid in the grass, where life is easier. The least John could do would be to answer!

From somewhere behind him, John answered Jasper. ‘I missed what you said. Say it this way, please’. Jasper’s jaw dropped. His color vanished. Save that it was in the black of the night, he would appear like a ghost, fully wan, shaken. Of course, he was surprised to hear John speak from behind him. That was totally unexpected. But, once he had adjusted to the surprise, his mind became distracted over what that silent shadow he had addressed might be. His eyes, grown wide, stared wildly at that shadow. He wondered at its solemn stillness, lying there in the hazy, moonless night. Goose bumps formed and, in spite of the free-flowing sweat, Jasper had chills racing up and down his spine.

Impatient with Jasper’s long lull John brought himself up, from prone to sitting, sitting to standing. ‘What did you say?’ he said crisply, the words snapping with command. Jasper was absorbed with that unknown shadow. John, disgusted, strode across the light from the open door to the Foundry. The heat was heavier there he noticed as he hastened past.

Catching Jasper by the arm, John meant to pull him to his senses so that some response could be heard. Jasper felt the touch, the grip of the hand upon his arm; he responded by jerking his arm, tearing it free from John’s light grip. Panicked breathing took over on Jasper. ‘What is the problem with you?’ asked John, rationally. Jasper, however, was no longer rational. He lunged free from John, yet no nearer that shadow, for the unknown had stirred his imagination violently.

‘I said: What is the problem with you?’ pressed John. Jasper merely stood aside, staring into the dark toward what he saw as a shadow. ‘Do you see something out there?’ continued John, squinting in hopes of seeing whatever held Jasper so

riveted. But, to John, the dark was just uniform. ‘I’m going to have a closer look’.

The matter of fact statement came in even, steady tones. Jasper watched the step John took and flicked his eyes back to that shadow; back and forth snapped the eyes until he was absolutely certain that he saw the shadow move. Fear flooded his body. As John moved closer, Jasper struggled with himself between rescuing John or fleeing on his own . Torn thus, at the last minute (as he saw it), Jasper darted and grabbed John in a bear hug and heaved him back, both of them falling to the ground, away from Jasper’s dreaded shadow.

‘What do you think you are doing?’ pressed John in raw aggravation. He could see nothing in this action which made a whit of sense to him. Jasper saw loyalty; John saw lunacy. The difference was just that clear between them, but neither could see the view of the other. Jasper, shoved aside, panted for breath, lying alone in the grass, in the dark.

John sat up. ‘I can’t figure you out tonight, Jasper. Did the heat in there get to you?’

Jasper was silent, watching again the shadow off a ways, he could not tell just how far. He was sure it had moved; and he scrambled to his hands and knees. John watched Jasper’s odd intensity, and shook his head in disbelief. Something is not right here, he came to suspect.

John was becoming curious, too, when the sharp smell of hot, liquid metal struck his nose. He sniffed again: it was almost too hot. John jumped to his feet. ‘Jasper! We need to pour. Now!’ John’s voice was full of excitement as he headed himself toward the heat of the Foundry itself. ‘Come on! I’ll need some help’.

Jasper, for his part, was glad to have the excuse to leave that shadow behind and retreat to the Foundry. But he remained wary of that dark, sinister shadow. He did not trust it, not at all. So he slowly stood up, so as not to rouse the unknown unwillingly. And he backed to the Foundry, into the bright doorway and to the hot work area. He did not take his eye off the shadow until he was well within the Foundry itself, sweat and all.

John was already busy, readying the pour when Jasper arrived. Together, they took the molten metal and poured it into the forms, safely. That labor ended, Jasper was about to it his irrational fear when he noticed a figure appearing, creeping barely into the light by the door.

‘Can you help me?’ came the weak voice, pained. Jasper froze at the sight now of the shadow he had feared. John looked: ‘Mary!’ he cried, ‘of course!’ and hurried to her as she lay crumpled before the doorway. More slowly, Jasper moved to follow behind John’s lead.

7 July 1991

CDXCV

Breakfast had come and gone. And now the morning was in its lingering stage. Missus Carney sat pensively before the dark mouth of the fireplace, alone. Clyde had been there, shared breakfast with her, visited for a while and then had left, saying he had some errands to run. For his part, Thyruid was around, puttering at this and that, like he always did. She had refused she couldn’t how many mugs of coffee – saying she didn’t want to drink alone. Now Thyruid was wiping off the counter once again, pretending to be busy. For only Missus Carney and Clyde had been around all morning. And Clyde had left, while Missus Carney knew she was hardly an active customer!

The morning grew dull. Missus Carney was tired of sitting alone. She wished Clyde had not gone off for whatever reason it might have been. She wanted some company, someone with whom to talk. She began to think that even Thyruid would be refreshing, if only he’d talk about something besides the Innby-the-Bye. ‘My!’ she thought, ‘he has gotten himself into a real rut’.

As Missus Carney began to drum her fingers nervously, Thyruid slipped off into the kitchen. Missus Carney had become too preoccupied with her drumming fingers, and her nervousness, and Thyruid’s rut to notice his going. Instead, she looked at the cold, dark hearth and into the yawning fireplace and considered how yawning this day was becoming for her. Indeed, she began to yawn herself, showing off to anyone that she was bored, and boring.

Thyruid returned with a mug of coffee for himself, and a steaming pot of coffee in his hand. He arrived just as Missus Carney was being all wrapped around that big, gaping yawn. A twinkle in his eye matched a smirk upon his face, thinking he saw some reflection there of the cold, dark fireplace just across the table from her – ‘Mind if I you with a mug of coffee?’ he asked. ‘This has been a

particularly quiet morning’, he explained. Blinking away the excess moisture in her eyes, the direct result of her yawn, Missus Carney stammered her approval. ‘And would you like me to fill your mug? You won’t be drinking alone’. She chuckled and itted: ‘Oh, you might as well. That pot does smell good to me!’

Pouring her mug full of coffee, Thyruid used all of his trained elegance. The arc of the dark, steamy fluid gracefully swirled into the mug, spun around inside in a spiral, the steam curling up from the surface. Missus Carney watched the mug full of coffee. It behaved as it always behaved. But her eyes carefully followed it nonetheless, just like she would if she were seeing it all for the very first time. Realizing that Thyruid was seated now, and watching her with interest, Missus Carney felt a flickering flush in her cheeks, looked up quickly, smiled slightly – largely with her eyes, in a softened face – and thanked him. ‘That swirl, and the aromatic steam, always catch my eye. They seem so right, and ripe in this place’.

Thyruid looked down into his own mug cradled in his now plump hands. ‘That does make for an intriguing pattern, I must it’. Missus Carney smiled more broadly, glad that someone else found the patterns eye-catching, at last. ‘How long has it been now?’ he asked suddenly. ‘I’m not sure. I feel like it must be a long time. This place does become home after a while, you know. And it must be home to me. I must it, however, that I do get nostalgic for the days I spent in Apopar, in those yellow mud huts. Then I was really alive. I went out and did my job. I spent many a long night after a long day, and before another one. I got tired. Oh, I got tired! But it was all worth it. That was home. … In a way, it still is home.

‘I mean, how long has it been since you sent us – Marthuida and me – away from Apopar, all over a glass of cold water?’ ‘I that night, too. Those were most difficult days. Apopar has mellowed since then. Life is not nearly so hard, although I am sure those Nova serves now would not agree. Now – whenever now may be – is always the worst of all possible times!’ Thyruid agreed, nodding silently. She continued. ‘I sent you here to do something,

though. How has it gone?’ ‘We came here and fumbled around, and then finally ended up with the Inn-by-the-Bye. Once it was a far more prosperous place. We always used to get large crowds, often. Now, life slows. We came to a place and did a job. We are still here, growing older ourselves’. ‘I know. I know. This getting older goes with the job, you know. And when you get old enough, like I have done, you lean on someone else’s arm, just to get down the stairs’.

Thyruid took a long draught at his coffee, gulped it down, and sighed. Missus Carney carefully followed his lead. ‘Can’t just let it get cold on us, can we?’ he chuckled. ‘No. No. We can’t do that!’ she spryly offered back. He paused, pensively. She watched him, curious as to what might be going on in his mind. At last, sipping again upon his coffee, Thyruid cleared his throat and said: ‘you sent us to do something. And we did it. That is our accomplishment. Here we are, still doing it. I still pour coffee and tea and deliver a glass of water. I still polish my brassware. Marthuida still runs her kitchen. Yet, in so many ways, we have just run own. We keep going. But look at today. You are here. Clyde had breakfast. Geoffrey has not come down yet (although it is nearly time for him). We have not seen anyone else. We have sort of wound down over the years’.

‘That is a threat to anyone who goes and does. After a while, we hit a rut. Or we get too tired. Shaking out of that kind of a trap may be more than we can do. Do you think that might be it?’

‘I don’t know, Missus Carney. I don’t know. Everything was so busy. Everything was so urgent, then. Hyperbia bustled. And we bustled with it. Everybody did. But times are changed. We have become established. We have our routine. We take care of things. But where is the dash in life? I don’t know. I just don’t know, Missus Carney’.

The pair nursed their coffee, falling into silence together. Geoffrey came down the stairs to the now-preoccupied silence, and ambled back to his favorite corner seat. Carymba came in the door, ing the silence, and then Geoffrey, at his

table. They spoke together, but softly, intently over some fresh concerns Carymba brought with her. Geoffrey furrowed his forehead in thought, considering the needs around.

After a long pause, Marthuida poked herself out the swinging door to survey the dining room scene. With an exclaimed ‘Oh!’ she returned to her kitchen and brought the breakfast tray – biscuits, butter, currant jelly, cups and teapot – for two. This was moment of urgency, while Thyruid appeared to be on another errand.

14 July 1991

CDXCVI

Terzi meandered down from the Leaferites’ Hill toward the Commons and the Inn-by-the-Bye. His brow was deeply furrowed and his concentration was held in close to his plodding step. He was always slow moving: heavy, and carrying his weight with studied solemnity. The high sky and the Sun which warmed in its late morning position added to the sense of burden that he bore. Indeed, the weight of Sun and the moisture of the air and his heaviness of body and heart combined to slow his peace to a measured ease. Thus came Terzi, as he emerged from the wooded Hill of the Leaferites, out onto the Sun-played Commons.

No one was out just then to see Terzi plod across the way, approaching the Innby-the-Bye with labored breath and heavily weighted steps. He was in no hurry while the Sun teased a heavy sweat from his body and the air seemed nearly impossible to breath, it was so thick. Yet Terzi was not really noticing the heavy air, nor even the hot Sun beating down on him and on dry Hyperbia. Rather was he embroiled in his own heavy heart. For there was, in his mind, a great weight of sorrow, and upon his heart a renewed burden of grief.

The Leaferites, Terzi knew, were very quiet and reserved as a people. They did what their life designed, upon their Hill, and rarely, barely met the other wee folk of Hyperbia. They were mostly kept to themselves, cherishing their differences in culture and habit, and pretty much ignoring the rest of the world. For most people, that is no problem. Terzi and his people threaten no one. But there are a few who cannot really tolerate difference. The mere fact that the Leaferites are not like everyone else, then, becomes a problem. Terzi had once thought education would work for the people, particularly those who are most troubled. Now, however, he realizes that knowing, even understanding does not generate acceptance – for the fact that there is a difference seems intolerable to some. The latest incident brought Terzi, heavy of heart, to visit Thyruid at the Inn-by-theBye.

Deeply sighing, Terzi stepped up the sunbathed steps to the Inn-by-the-Bye. He leaned himself, shuffling, to the door, and opened it. The dim interior lay as if black in front of him, for his eyes were adjusted to the bright, bright Sun. He stepped forward in trust, for he had been here before. Even though he could not see, once the door was closed, the white light shut out, then his eyes would adjust to the dim Inn that he could see again.

Having paused in the entryway, Terzi’s eyes found adjustment coming slowly. Out of the pitch black emerged faint glows, almost like faint pinpricks in the deep darkness. Then arose heavy, monumental, looming shapes, vague and eerie, as if rising out of some thick fog. A primordial density slowly parted to provide a guess at the dining room of the Inn. The archway at the step down began to take shape in his sight, followed by increasing distinctness in the lamp-lit space of the dining room itself. Tables were fuzzy shadows, slowly taking form. And chairs emerged from sheer indistinctness to take their neatly patterned places.

Coincident with the change in his vision came the relaxation of his face. No longer was he squinting against the bright Sun, unshaded as he left the cover of his Leaferites’ Hill. No longer was he feeling the rays of the Sun beating upon his head, driving into his body relentlessly. Here, everything was muted. Here, life was a little cooler. The hot day’s glare was shut outside. And the place welcomed him, peaceably.

A silent sigh shrugged off much of the weight Terzi had carried. He even walked, as he began to walk, with a lighter step. As he moved on down the step, into the dining room, Thyruid recognized his friendly neighbor. ‘Terzi! How long has it been since you came to me? Far too long: that I know!’ ‘Ah, old Thyruid: I’ve come here since last you were to the Leaferites’ Hill. And I know it is no farther to there than to here’. ‘You are right. The fault is mine. A cup of tea, and perchance some fresh biscuits may help patch over the error’. ‘I suppose … if we can visit a bit, too’. ‘Certainly … certainly: here: come over by the counter. I can see my work better here, even though I don’t expect much in the

line of interruptions’. Terzi nodded, and shuffled his way along, ing Thyruid at the table nearest the counter.

‘Wait just a minute … I must go see Marthuida for only a minute’. ‘Sure. Take your time’. Terzi flopped into the waiting seat and half moaned once he was down. He knew there was something enchanting about the dining room of the Inn-by-the-Bye. Here, he had relaxed before and, in the comfort of Thyruid’s easy hosting, he had felt those burdens lift on those other days. Yet, this day, how could he resist? And how could he forget the errand he brought? Those questions moved in his mind, and his face distorted as they moved on by, before the flickering of the lamps distracted him once again, and his face assumed, again, the restful ease he found so natural here.

Missus Carney, sitting amiably in her usual place, had silently watched and listened as Thyruid had led Terzi on to his seat. She watched Terzi and noted the ing wrinkles between his eyes and across his mouth. But she did nothing but smile softly his way, and divert her glance.

Thyruid stormed out of the kitchen, full of bustle and joy, bearing a tray with tea and a basket of hot biscuits, with a tub of butter and another of jelly – just the treats he enjoyed giving most. He missed – or ignored, as the case might be – the glance from Missus Carney who much preferred her simple meal cakes, just like the ones she had long made in Apopar. ‘Here we are!’ declared Thyruid, his round face beaming. The tray nearly rattled as he eased it down, hastily shuffled the contents onto the table before sticking the tray itself onto the counter nearby.

‘Terzi! I am glad you came. It has been too long since we last visited. How are things going for you?’ ‘Most of the time, alright’. ‘Most of the time?’ Thyruid frowned as he poured two cups of tea and opened the towel around the biscuits, taking one in order to share the feast with his friend. Terzi clumsily took a biscuit for himself and, biting his lip slightly, continued: ‘Yes, until recently, when our old problem began to recur’. ‘Walter, again?’ ‘Yes, and more than

Walter. You see, we tap into the woods along Uiston, and even beyond the gap into that cup-like valley. And from the Hole area: there, too, Walter has found friends’. ‘I’m sorry, Terzi. That is a weight’.

‘Yes’ called over Missus Carney. ‘These burdens weigh good hearts. But weak souls never care and never grieve. I am glad that I learned to weep’.

21 July 1991

CDXCVII

The Sun just rose, and already it felt like mid-day. Nova felt like she was melting even before she moved more than her eyelids. Awake now, she became gradually aware of being soaked, her mat being wet with sweat, and her body feeling weak from thirst. Her eyes burned as she opened them, forcing her to squint and wince and try to let tears wash them free. Her throat was utterly dry while her nightclothes clung to her skin. Nova felt miserable and thought whimsically about cool nights and fresh days.

Know that this was not going to be one of those pleasant days, Nova began the tortured process of getting herself out of bed. If only she weren’t so listless! If only she had some shred of extra energy, then she’d be so much better off. She could bounce up for the day. As it is, she is peeling her body off the mat and sticking to everything she touches. Her night clothes resisted any movement and her push to get ready was found to be badly compromised. Only the fact that she had become acutely aware of how thirsty she had become helped draw her up. She pushed and bent her body to a semi-sitting position, and rested from her labor.

Sophie looked at Nova. The girl was herself sprawled uncomfortably on the mat. But she was not nearly as weary as Nova. She even felt a little bit energetic, energetic enough to get up on her hands and knees to crawl over to the water jug and ladle out a mug of cool, wet water. Taking a pause, Sophie got a puzzled look on her face and turned her head to look over her shoulder and see Nova uncomfortably twisting toward sitting, her night clothes plastered to her body, and straining in taut wrinkles from shoulder to opposite hip; all worked against her efforts. Sophie thought Nova looked awfully thirsty. And she thought a mug of water might help Nova get going today. So, walking carefully on her knees, watching the mug and nibbling tensively on her lower lip, Sophie came toward Nova.

Managing not to spill any of her water, Sophie drew near to Nova. She stopped as she came to be almost there, suddenly aware that Nova was not changing position – except for the trembling in her arms and shoulders, being caught in this unnatural position. Quizzically, Sophie asked: ‘Are you thirsty?’ Her eyes glassy and resistant to all her efforts to force them into focus, her throat dry and her mouth as if full of a wad of cotton, Nova mouthed a ‘Yes’, then slowly – erratically – nodded – just enough for Sophie to think she might, indeed, be thirsty. But Nova’s energy was being consumed simply in holding this position under stress in her clinging clothes. She could not make herself do what would be necessary to complete the movement toward sitting up. So, Nova was totally unable to swing herself around and reach for the offered mug. Only a mildly pleading expression could creep across her face. Sophie half-scowled, fully uncertain what Nova might mean, and not understanding this sort of difficulty in her older friend. A child, Sophie was confused.

Having pondered this situation, and seen Nova’s gaze toward her, and how Nova’s arms and shoulders trembled as Nova’s jaw worked as if she were trying unsuccessfully to have something come out her mouth, Sophie, shrugging, almost took a drink herself, raising the mug toward her lips when her eye caught a flicker of near desperation on Nova’s face. Suspecting Nova’s need, Sophie scooted herself a little closer, into arm’s length. She watched Nova’s eyes follow the mug; Nova’s straining body leaned awkwardly toward that mug.

With simple grace, Nova lifted the mug to Nova’s lips and tipped a little water into her gaping mouth. Of course, some dribbled out and over Nova’s chin, slopping down onto her chest, onto the already wet mat beneath. But some stayed in Nova’s mouth; she forced it back to her throat and swallowed it, hard, with a noisy gulp.

Sophie continued to pour her mug, bit by bit, into Nova’s mouth. When each swallow came, more gushed down her chin. Then more flowed into her gaping mouth. Nova gulped greedily, more and more successfully. She longed for some

more water, and Sophie continued to pour, lifting the mug higher and higher, fascinated at Nova’s strange behavior. Sophie could not imagine what Nova was doing!

At last, the mug empty, Sophie took down the mug. And Nova sighed a bit at the relief she felt. While Sophie watched, still intrigued by Nova’s unusual position, Nova gave up holding herself in this really uncomfortable place. She felt relieved enough to let her body roll back down onto the mat with a noticeable flop. Sophie’s eyes grew wide: this was not what she had expected to encounter!

Nova squirmed on the wet mat – wet not only from the slopped water, but also from the night’s long sweat. This time, more alert, she squirmed with purpose, stretching her night clothes around into a more orderly, unstrained position. She pulled the cloth away from her skin; the looseness felt unusual to her this morning. Sophie blinked, uncertain. ‘Shall I get another mug of water?’ she asked, deciding she might be useful that way. Nova nodded, and squawked out the nearly coherent sounds which were intended to be ‘I’d like that; thank you’.

Guessing that Nova meant the affirmative, Sophie hastened, still on her knees, to waddle to the water jug in order to ladle the mug full once again. While Sophie was gaining the fresh supply, Nova pulled herself into a sitting position. By the time Sophie returned, Nova was ready to reach for the mug, take it herself and lift it to her lips in her own hands and then glug it clearly down her throat. Sophie watched with a great deal more satisfaction and understanding. This, after all, is what she had expected in the first place. As Nova finished the mug, and smacked her lips in response to the refreshment, Sophie grinned. Nova asked: ‘Are you thirsty, too? I thought you started for a mug of water yourself’.

Suddenly, Sophie became aware of how thirsty she was, too. And she hurried to the water jug once more, to fill the mug afresh and down it to her own satisfaction. Sophie gulped quickly, with a couple slight runs of water escaping, one from each corner of her mouth. And, when she finished, she placed one hand

on her stomach and frowned until the nastily swallowed air escaped again. ‘Pardon me’ she coughed out.

Nova nodded with a smile. ‘I ought to fix us some breakfast’. Sophie nodded. ‘I’ll get you something to start a little fire, so we can have some fresh meal cakes’. ‘Fine: and I will start to mix the batter’. The pair smiled at each other, and began to prepare for the day.

While the meal cakes were baking on the rock, Sophie watched. ‘I wonder if anyone else had as much trouble getting started today as we did’. ‘I don’t know. But I am glad you gave me a hand’. ‘We’ll have to go out after breakfast and see how the people are doing’. ‘That sounds like a good idea. … Here: you take the first cake. I think it is about done now’.

28 July 1991

CDXCVIII

A soft, grey mid-morning found Mary leisurely examining, and caring for her Flower Shop. As usual, the rooms were humid from watering and misting all her plants round about the Shop. And it smelled musty in the rooms as the air was typically stale and motionless. Yet, to Mary, this was a most delightful aroma, one they shared with her, whose hands so carefully tended them, day by day.

Mary had risen easily some time before, and done her morning chores upstairs, enjoying a brisk breakfast and, mostly, readying herself for the day. She took long enough over her tea and scones to wake up thoroughly and settle into the day. Only her fluffy slippers did she leave on as they were by far the most comfortable of ways to pad around the house. She was not expecting anyone in particular, although the Shop itself was open for whatever customer might come by. Most days, no one would be by until after lunch, leaving Mary ample time to deal with her plants, and her slippers. And she deeply enjoyed the hours spent on her plants. The well worn, aging fluffy slippers simply served to make the morning even more enjoyable.

The thought came to Mary every now and then that these slippers were getting old and rather worn. A little threadbare tatter marked the inside of them. She now needed to be careful so as not to get her little toe on her left foot hooked in one of the worse holes, for that could be painful if she were to be hurried. But still, with a little care, she could slide into them and think of them as well broken-in for her feet, rather than merely nearly worn out. She did not want to think of seeing them end their days of usefulness, be discarded and replaced. These slippers had been her friends for years now. How could she ever find ones like them? Warm and fluffy-soft and, O, just-right!

For the moment, however, Mary was thinking more of her plants than anything

else. It seemed that some were needing more light and others more water, some less light and yet others less water. So, she was absorbed in rearranging her collection to balance the light through the day – her northern exposure and ample shade to the southwest assured her that most of the light was indirect and she need not worry much about scorching her plants in too direct an assault by the Sun through glass. While she was so entwined in the project at hand, she did not notice that her front door had opened. She further did not notice that a visitor had come in. Nor did she notice that the door had closed (for it was closed quietly, though not quite silently) and her visitor had begun to amble around, looking at her plants. Not until Mary turned did she find her visitor standing in front of her.

Mary jumped, turned pale, gasped slightly. Her pulse raced; her breathing became rapid, though controlled. Her eyes, larger now, darted about the room, seeking the way to safety while not losing sight of this intruder. On her initial surprise, she took him as an intruder, for she had not expected him to be there – not at all.

In all of these antics, Mary seemed to be unobtrusive. Aside from the rigid nature of her posture and the pallor of her complexion, now being followed by an insistent blush, she seemed to be quite at ease – startled, to be sure, but hardly out of control. She gave the illusion that she had no difficulties at all. She maintained the illusion by not stammering. Instead, she stood very still, very silent, her eyebrows raised as if in question. Indeed, they were in question, although the real question had to do with who, what, where, when, why and how all this was happening. The perceived question was: ‘How can I help you?’

The visitor, whose identity had not come clearly to Mary as yet, grinned a little sheepishly and spoke with a tinge of embarrassment. ‘I … I simply wanted to … to … get some flowers’. Mary’s flush came full; she blinked her eyes and looked down for just a moment. She saw her slippers: nothing could be done about them now, though. She consciously eased her shoulders and set her heels flat on the floor for the first time since she jumped. A smile brushed her face. At last,

without stammering, she spoke: ‘Well, I sell flowers. You have come to the right place’.

By now, she recognized Jasper as her startling guest. He was too startled when she jumped and became so rigid to do anything. He felt out of place, and hardly skilled at putting anyone at ease! So, finding Mary ill at ease, surprised at his innocent appearing in her Flower Shop, having come simply in order to get some flowers, Jasper flustered. He fidgeted. He wanted more than anything to find this encounter back at some sort of normal, comfortable, settling level. Rather, he wished it to achieve some normality, something which all this day has never known. Jasper squirmed, terribly uncomfortably.

Mary, however, had recovered her composure. After the long and rather embarrassed silence that came of her affirmation that she, indeed, sold flowers, Mary moistened her lips, felt her shoulders rise ever so slightly, and her body rock up onto the balls of her feet again while she entered the super-helpful sales person mode – or almost did. She would have done so directly if poor Jasper had not worn such a totally eclipsed expression on his face. She held her pause, gained her poise and asked: ‘What kind of flowers were you interested in seeing?’

‘I don’t know’.

‘Ah’. She waited, pensively. ‘Well,’ she continued finally, ‘then what sort of occasion suggested flowers?’

‘Lunch’.

‘A picnic? or at the Inn? or somewhere else, perhaps?’

‘I think it will be a picnic. Yes, a picnic by the Sea. That is what I anticipate’.

‘I take it you are not expecting a picnic by yourself, though’.

‘That’s right. After all, why would I need flowers for a picnic for one, least of all by the Sea? That sounds pretty silly to me, if you want my opinion’.

‘I agree. Perhaps, knowing who as well as when and where might help me suggest something …’.

‘Oh, I want to say thank you. … I am not very good at that, you know. I never was any good at that. The words always got stuck somewhere and I would end up going and doing something stupid. This time, I will let the flowers be the stupid thing and get it all said outright’.

‘Ah! And whom do you want to thank?’

‘The only one who ever helped me, all the way through: … Carymba. We have a picnic planned this noon. By the Sea Side, on the Beach’.

‘Would these do?’

‘Yes. … That would be just right. … Oh, thanks!’

4 August 1991

CDXCIX

Drizzle dripped cold and penetrating from the porch roof of Father John’s tilting hut. Inside, he sat, huddled next to his stove, warming himself on the just-started fire. There had not been time yet to accomplish anything, nor time for the fire to do more than consume the smallest of kindling. Thus, Father John was coping with a morning that found him tightly huddled in his bed against the unexpected cold which had overtaken Uiston, his hut and him. He had only slowly undone himself from his curled condition, slowly pried himself from his bed, slowly pulled on warm clothing – with a necessary search for his old sweater in order to cover his old bones. All had gone along with difficulty as natural stiffness was worsened by the morning’s unusual damp chill.

Gradually, the stove crackled into life, throwing off more heat and warming the room nearby. Father John gradually rubbed his hands and leaned into the warmth. The glow on his wrinkled face felt comforting. And his gnarled hands softened in its waves. He stretched himself, rounding his shoulders as far as they would go, and then pushing them back as far as he could. Old age, he decided, was no fun on mornings like this one. But was the cold, or the damp the worst part? He could not decide, finally shrugging and muttering: ‘It doesn’t matter, really. Either one is hard to take. But, together they are, well, miserable!’ With a grey scowl, Father John leaned a little closer to the warmth of the stove and let it soak into his body more thoroughly.

As the stove grew hot, the room warmed from the middle. Father John eased back from the fire and felt his skin crinkle as he smiled, refreshed by the warmth. He was finding his fingers and arms become about as limber as they ever get anymore. A sense of wellbeing slipped through him, and he confidently determined to get a pot of coffee brewing and something mixed up for breakfast – his usual unnamed, unnamable concoction somewhere between a biscuit and a scone, yet not quite enough like either one to lay to rest any suspicion that it was really something else altogether, and quite different than either of them. Stoking

his fire box a little more, Father John proceeded to do just that, to fix himself some breakfast and set it to cooking on the very stove that was making him nearly forget the chill and the damp this morning.

Breakfast preparations always include waiting time. Father John had long since learned to use that time profitably – as the morning required. On cool, damp mornings like this, waiting time was to be used in keeping his old body warm and cozy. Thus, he sat in his old rocking chair, all drawn up near the stove. Indeed, he had screeched and scooted his chair closer than usual for this time of year just to take better advantage of the warm fire. There, Father John rocked and enjoyed the haven he had made, waiting for his coffee to brew and his concoction to brown properly. His nose was his principal guide.

As breakfast neared completion and Father John was so enjoying this neat little retreat from the suddenly chilly and damp weather. He was as oblivious as possible to all that lay factively beyond the stove’s heating range when Dum came to his door. He did not even bother to knock, but burst right in, throwing the door wide open so that it clattered and rattled after crashing around into the wall. A rush of cold air, no longer slowed even by the flimsy door, swept directly toward the stove. Father John, his back to the door so as to ignore the draft better, shuddered violently in his chair. He shivered with a series of hard shakes. But Dum was too hurried to be bothered with the door. Besides, he was steamy, having hurried, nearly run half-way across Uiston’s floor this morning.

‘Father John!’ ‘Yes’ drawled the old man as he leaned nearer to the stove and struggled valiantly, if vainly, to control the reaction to the draft. ‘Father John, you should see what’s happening!’ Dum was panting to control his labored breathing, the result of his long run, making him hard for Father John to understand. The fact that Father John had some trouble hearing anymore anyway only contributed to the problem. The old man puzzled over simply ignoring the muddled sound or saying, loudly ‘Eh?!’ He chose to be silent and see what might happen next.

Impatient with the silence, Dum began to be more agitated, a fact which Father John knew, amid his shiverings, would make this even more difficult than it had been. He did not have any idea what Dum was so excited about. He was not even sure he cared too much. What was attracting his attention was the fact that he had just gotten himself warm, only to have that fool door thrown wide open so that the damp wind could rush unimpeded over his body, chilling him to the aching bones and making his stove flare in odd ways. This was not what he had in mind for this morning: that is for sure.

As Father John began to feel anger inside, an anger that was becoming active in his frustration, aggravation and disappointment, as he was almost ready to lose his temper and make a fool of himself while yet being unable to follow through at all on of his cold old age, Father John’s nose sniffed the distinct odor of rapidly browning biscuits, or scones, or whatever he ought to call those things. He hastened to turn away from Dum. He concentrated. The cold did not go away by the power of concentration, however. ‘Dum! Close the door!’ he commanded through clenched teeth while struggling to retrieve his breakfast before it was too late. That strong draft may have chilled the old man, but it also made the fire flare hotter and threatened his breakfast with being simultaneously burned and raw. Furthermore, his coffee was suddenly over-brewing due to the higher heat. All this, right in front of him while he was shivering so vigorously. Father John fumed.

After initially being frozen dumb by Father John’s sharp rebuke, Dum began to hem and haw. He rocked idly from one foot to the other. He blinked and stammered even more incoherently than before, until at last he began to shuffle himself backward toward the door, presumably to close it once he got there.

Meanwhile, Father John bumbled his biscuits or scones or whatever, nearly spilling them onto the floor. Amazingly, he saved them and set them to the side of his stove, where it was not quite so hot. Then, he grabbed a pad to grasp the coffee pot and pull it aside, setting it on a table until he had time to settle and get himself arranged.

Collected now, Father John turned himself slowly to scowl at Dum – who had almost reached the door. Vlad arrived just then, coming into the doorway, pausing to close the door. ‘I got the door, Dum. Why did you leave it open on a raw day like this one? There have to be better ways to tell Father John of the big tree that blew down at our end of Uiston last night’.

11 August 1991

D

Bright skies fill the day early. Mahara, even though she had not slept well all night, was awake and restless with the light. The Sun had not yet reached the point where it was high enough to peep over the Leaferites’ Hill and probe her house, even though she lived near the far edge of the Hyperbia’s settled reach. Even so, the sky had nearly exploded into intense blue as the day began. That brightness filled her house and woke her. Nothing, however, would yet disturb Guerric in his slumber.

Thus induced, Mahara slid from bed and stretched, twisting and bending her lithe body to get the kinks out of herself. She brushed out her long dark hair, enjoying the sheen which glimmered in her hands. She dressed for the day and with a slight, nagging yawn, began her daily duties; she started for the kitchen, to fire the stove and begin the process toward breakfast.

Just as she had the cold coals shaken down and the kindling in order, with the coffee pot fixed and thoughts turning toward mixing up some Gypsie brew cakes for their breakfast, Mahara stopped, stood up, pursed her lips under a concentrated scowl. She pondered whether she really wanted to mix up this breakfast now, or later or do something else. Pulling herself erect, leaving the stove door open to the unlit kindling, she sauntered to the door, to the curtain on the one window in their little house. With customary grace of movement, she swept her hand to the curtain on the window in the door, pulling it aside.

Outside that window spread her corner of Hyperbia. The grass, grown long, lay thick and green, moist with globes of dew, each drop, it seemed, mixed with the thick green underneath while the bright blue shone overhead. Every place she could see was wet and glistening. Down the steep, slope she could see a piece of the brook, gurgling its way toward the Great Done and beyond. The steep slope

was luxurious and thick in wet grass. She wondered why the dew didn’t just run on down the slope to the brook. But it didn’t; it clung to its place and quivered, sometimes collapsing back down toward the shaded roots. Nowhere, to her sight, had the Sun come to turn the expanse into a glorious blaze.

Mahara’s pursed lips and studied scowl had completely disappeared by now. Instead, her face was lively, smooth and fresh. The sparkling dew met its match in her eyes. Dropping the curtain, she used both hands to sweep her hair behind her shoulders before reaching for the handle of the door. ‘This is a day to be experienced’ she thought, bemusingly.

As the door opened into her, Mahara smelled the freshness of the outside air, crisp (by Summer standards) and moist and inviting. She suddenly became very aware of just how stale and stodgy the air in the house had become. Furthermore, that outside air was aromatic with the scents of thick soil and ripe grass, leaves and all the aromas of the Fields and the Brook. There was even the hint of the fire in Marthuida’s stove, and the unmistakable odors of fresh baking biscuits hanging as a mere hint, tantalizing her nose. Mahara stepped outside onto the stone walk leading to her house. Enchanted by it all as she was fully enwrapped in the morning’s subtle pleasures, Mahara left the door wide open and began to meander down the walkway.

A few steps along and the rough corners of the stone pieces reminded Mahara that she had neglected to put on her sandals this morning, for the stones cut into her bare feet. Mahara winced the first time her foot slid along the edge of one of those stones. Again, she felt a pebble under her heel and cringed as she rocked all weight off that heel. She stopped and looked around. The walk covered virtually the entire flat stretch all the way to the end of the Commons. Between her house and the Commons, the steep climb to the corner of the Fields was rougher yet, and thickly littered with gravel. She would not go that way. The slope down was steep, wet with visible globs of dew on long, bent-over coarse grass. Going that way would get her wet and make it likely that she would soon slide through the grass clear down to the bottom by the gurgling Brook. She

looked down. The way looked damp and cool, smoother by far than this stone path. She was tempted … yet ed that the way out of the gully would require her to walk through and along the Brook to the Great Dome, whence she could climb up and then ascend the mud path to the back side of the Inn-by-theBye, around the Commons and back to this stone path again.

Thinking better of the slide to the Brook, Mahara lifted her skirts slightly and moved forward along the stone path carefully. She placed each foot securely on a flat stone, walking on the balls of her feet, keeping her weight off her heels. Moistening her lips pensively, and nearly nibbling on her tongue in the process, she moved resolutely onward. The adventure of her morning was far more enticing than any thought of her kitchen might have been had it even entered her mind!

Soon Mahara reached the Commons. The stone pathway ended in the luxurious expanse of thick, long grass – exactly what she wanted to find. She eagerly climbed to the Commons, her jaw set, her eyes wide and bright, her face responsive to every hint of joy. The dew soaked her skirts, making them cling to her shins. Mahara responded by pulling them up to her knees, and found the thick grass wet clear to her waist – that wet coated not only her skirts but also her shins and ran down her ankles. The soil gave way under her step and the grassy sponge surged water between her toes. Her skirts were entirely soaked and some of the longer, less laid-over blades slapped their wet way against her shoulders and upper body. The cool freshened her thoroughly. She wanted to run; and so, she ran, her hair bounding through the air.

Having circled the lower Commons and returned near the end of that stone path back to her house and the open door, Mahara was panting. Her heart was pounding. Her olive complexion was raised to a deep rose tone under the rich olive; all was wet and glistening from the dew and from her sweat in the heavy air. Breathless and suddenly tired, joyous and in abandon to the morning, Mahara decided instantaneously to flop on the grass, sprawl and watch the sky as the rising Sun was about to turn this corner of Hyperbia into a glorious blaze of

brilliance – each dew globe on fire until the eager Sun evaporate it completely.

And so, she did, on the slope away from the Sun, watching the light sweep down and flood over the house, stream in the door and then seemingly ignite those dew-bespangled slopes. At the very height of it all, Guerric stumbled into the doorway, rubbing his eyes and mumbling. Mahara sighed and, sitting up, called out: ‘I’ll be there shortly, to fix us some breakfast. But first … is this not a glorious morning?’

18 August 1991

Appendix: Texts For The Stories

CDLI Matthew 14:22-33 CDLII Exodus 16:2-15 CDLIII Romans 11:33-36 CDLIV Exodus 19:16-24 CDLV Romans 14:5-12 CDLVI Matthew 20:1-16 CDLVII Exodus 33:12-23 CDLVIII Philippians 3:12-21 CDLIX Matthew 22:1-14 CDLX Ruth 1:1-19a CDLXI 1 Thessalonians 2:1-8 CDLXII Matthew 23:1-12 CDLXIII 1 Thessalonians 5:1-11 CDLXIV Matthew 25:31-46 CDLXV Isaiah 63:16 – 64:8 CDLXVI 2 Peter 3:8-15a CDLXVII John 1:6-8, 19-28 CDLXVIII 2 Samuel 7:8-16

CDLXIX Galatians 4:4-7 CDLXX Matthew 2:1-12 CDLXXI 1 Corinthians 6:12-20 CDLXXII Mark 1:14-20 CDLXXIII Deuteronomy 18:15-20 CDLXXIV 2 Corinthians 4:3-6 CDLXXV Mark 1:9-15 CDLXXVI Genesis 17:1-10, 15-19 CDLXXVII 1 Corinthians 1:22-25 CDLXXVIII John 3:14-21 CDLXXIX Jeremiah 31:31-34 CDLXXX Philippians 2:5-11 CDLXXXI Mark 16:1-8 CDLXXXII Acts 4:32-35 CDLXXXIII 1 John 3:1-7 CDLXXXIV John 10: 11-18 CDLXXXV Acts 8:26-40 CDLXXXVI 1 John 5:1-6 CDLXXXVII Ezekiel 37:1-14 CDLXXXVIII Romans 8:12-17 CDLXXXIX Mark 2:23 – 3:6

CDXC 1 Samuel 16:14-23 CDXCI 2 Corinthians 5:6-10, 14-17 CDXCII Mark 4:35-41 CDXCIII 2 Samuel 6:1-15 CDXCIV 2 Corinthians 12:1-10 CDXCV Mark 6:7-13 CDXCVI 2 Samuel 11:1-15 CDXCVII Ephesians 3:14-21 CDXCVIII John 6:24-35 CDXCIX 2 Samuel 18:1, 5, 9-15 D Ephesians 5:15-20

About the Author

I am a retired minister from the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ) living in the hills of the Northern Panhandle of West Virginia. I began writing these stories as a part of my background reflection toward sermon preparation in August 1981. I continued the discipline for nearly twenty five years. The changes in circumstances twenty two years into the process eventually brought the series to an end. I came to refer to my stories as a fairy tale exegesis of the text from which I would be preaching the following service. I now live in retirement with my wife of nearly forty nine years, two dogs, several cats and two ducks.