To move is to abut against the world. Sit quietly and it vanishes.

[samuel-durand.livejournal.com]

[location; 7 miles from Excolo]
[Wednesday, June 9th, Day 374]

I sit sketching in the dying light, adding the ground covered in the day’s ride to maps of my own devising.  I note the topography, water sources, points of interest.  Wildlife. Plants and trees. There are no hesitations or wasted strokes.

Later I can feel the ground cooling beneath my back while I watch the sky fade from blue to black. To someone watching from between the stars, did the planet Earth’s end of days register as anything more than a sparkle in the great celestial eye?  I decide that a new world needs a new name, and smile.

If the tanner told the truth, I’ll reach the next settlement by mid-morning. Excolo.

After all these years of wandering, I’ve learned not to light fires when I bed down for the night unless it’s truly a matter of life and death.  Fire warms, but fire blinds.  In exchange for bodily comfort, you announce your presence to anyone and anything with eyes to see and a nose for scent, and blind yourself to their approach.  I check the pistol underneath the jacket I use for a pillow, the knife in its sheath nestled against my breastbone, and settle deeper under the blanket.  The restive animals will wake me if anyone nears.  I will sleep the sounder for being invisible.

And I do sleep soundly.  But sleeping, I dream of fire, and of fever-bright eyes that are more uncomprehending than afraid.

[June 10th, Day 375]

[Location: Southwestern Entrance to Excolo]

First light finds me changing into the faded habit of my old order and removing the hobbles from my pack animals.  I take special care to check the straps that secure my bundles of leatherbound notebooks to the mule, and to make sure the oilcloth is keeping them properly dry.  My only truly valuable possessions, more valuable than diamonds, though they would not seem so to thieves.  All the better. 

Breaking my fast on dried fruit and salted meat, I rein Memory to a halt when the town first comes into view midst forest and field.  She tosses her head angrily, and I quiet her with a hand on her dappled neck.  Spirited.  Fights me every step of the way, sometimes.  It’s why I chose her, why I named her. There are days she’d kill me if she could.  The nameless mule merely waits, glumly, mute as meat.

It is important to me that my mount never be capable of true domestication, so that I can never be deceived as to the nature of our relationship.  A symbiosis of force, my will and her resisting spirit.  In the naked use of force there is at least respect for the separateness of that which you dominate.  The truly domesticated creature has been emptied of all it has to give, and is not even worthy of the lash.

I'll sell the mule as soon as I can find a place to stow my things.

A squeeze of my knees and Memory is moving again, taking me toward the town.  I stop well short, though, and dismount.  I always dismount before entering a new place. Better to enter such a place on foot, pulling the animals behind me on leads.

Smiling gently, as I do now. A humble man of the cloth.  

[Open to all]

Comments

[jack-hollow.livejournal.com]

Headin' down Silk Road and I've got the Pontarlier at my back when I see someone new coming up the road; hard ta make out details, with the sun more behind 'em than not. Still, actually manage to've got my hat on me for a change, helps some, an' I ain't guessin' someone local's got cause ta come in on a Thursday with two horses. 'Less they're lookin' ta sell one, an' that ain't exactly what Market runs with. Well. Stroll on down the road a ways and come up ta meet the man. Looks a serious sort, at least.

"Afternoon," I say mild, lookin' down an' holding out one hand. "'m Deputy Hollow. Welcome ta Excolo."

[samuel-durand.livejournal.com]

When the man first begins walking down the road toward me, my first thought is that perhaps I am nearer the town than I thought. A mere trick of perspective. But after several of his long strides (hard to tell how long, at first, when he's coming straight for you) I realize that it is simply how tall he is. A big one, and no mistake.

Still, he seems genial enough as I take his measure. Weatherbeaten, but hale. Calm, watchful. I cannot place his accent, not quite. This puzzles me. I consider the badge for a moment, file it away in the back of my mind under 'communal institutions and law.'

"Many thanks for your kind welcome, Deputy Hollow," I say, touching my voice with warmth, taking his hand firmly. "My name is Samuel." Indicating my garb with my free hand, I add, "Brother Samuel, if you prefer, though I fear I left my brothers across the sea."

No sooner have I finished speaking and released his hand than Memory's sleek head darts for the well-worn hat like a low-hanging fruit.

[jack-hollow.livejournal.com]

"Many thanks for your kind welcome, Deputy Hollow," he says. Solid sorta grip, which ain't a bad sign. "My name is Samuel. Brother Samuel, if you prefer, though I fear I left my brothers across the sea." That's got me liftin' my eyebrows a bit, but there's a nicker from his mare and a quick movement--

Reach up an' make a grab for the brim, but she's got a good grip on the crown, an' there's a tearin' sound.

Oh, Lord. Well, 'least this one lasted a bit longer, even if Kit got more use outta it than I did. Close my eyes for a second and sigh, then look back down at him.

"Right, sorry," I say, foldin' up the brim and pocketing it with a rueful smile. "Anyways, you were sayin'. Mind if I ask which faith you'n your brothers were in?" Mean, I understand those women came in a few months back ain't doin' anyone any harm, but I ain't 'xactly hopin' for another snake-worshipper.

Take a step aside so's he c'n keep walkin' up the road, 'cause I sure ain't findin' a reason ta hurry him along. "You passin' through for Market or lookin' ta stay?"

[samuel-durand.livejournal.com]

Oh, bloody hell. I make a grab for her bridle but she's faster than me, the scheming harpy, and she makes quick work of the deputy's hat. I grab her by the underside of her lower lip and hiss my displeasure into her ear. She rolls her eyes in my direction, but quiets, and why not? Having won the round, she can afford to be magnanimous.

The deputy takes it better than I have any right to expect, shrugging it off and even beginning with an apology. I wave it away fervently. "Please, my sincerest apologies Deputy Hollow! Of all the tribulations that bedevil the days of man, I fear Memory here is in a class all her own." I chuckle, giving her a fond pat on the neck, but watching out for those teeth. "It's my own fault for spoiling her, no doubt."

He asks what faith I belong to, and I cast my eyes downward in an attitude of humble piety as we walk. "The one true faith, Deputy," I murmur, letting a couple of beats of silence tick by. I break into an irreverent smile, then, and raise my eyes to his. "I jest. Catholic, originally. Franciscan. But faith doesn't meant quite what it used to, and we found our own true calling as shepherds of knowledge." I learned long ago to stick as close to the truth as possible. The ring of sincerity tends to drown out the little lies. "My brothers and sisters wished to cloister themselves and shut out the world. I thought our true work lay elsewhere, out in the world."

When he asks after my plans, I shrug. "I hope to stay, at least for a while. Perhaps there is some good I can do here. Truth be told, I know little of your community. I was blown here by the wind, but I learned long ago that the wind is often wiser than I."

[jack-hollow.livejournal.com]

Please, my sincerest apologies Deputy Hollow! Of all the tribulations that bedevil the days of man, I fear Memory here is in a class all her own."

"Happens," I say, shakin' my head a bit and considerin' the mare. Don't guess she's after bitin' me--had that happen 'xactly once, and don't care ta repeat it--but I ain't gonna call her friendly. "Pretty name. You want me ta lead the other?" I add, jerking a thumb towards the pack mule. Guessing he might want both hands ta deal with her if she kicks up a fuss. I'd offer ta manage her, but don't guess a man really wants his horse given over ta a stranger she just maybe annoyed.

Answers me "The one true faith, Deputy," and honestly kinda glad ta hear it. Then he adds "I jest. Catholic, originally. Franciscan. But faith doesn't meant quite what it used to, and we found our own true calling as shepherds of knowledge."

Give a kinda curious grunt. "Like Jesuits, then?" I say, though I couldn't really say much 'bout them. "How's that 'bout faith not meanin' what it used ta?" Ain't claimin' I was ever particular well-travelled, sure. Still ain't seen much different 'tween Excolo an' how things used ta be back in Shooter's Knob. An' kinda wonderin' if he means not bein' sure 'bout what you believe, leastways not sure enough ta call it true even if ya believe it. Thought a'that makes my head hurt a bit.

"It's a decent town," I say, lookin' up and 'round as we start comin' up towards Silk Road. "Growin' pretty quick, an' we've got electricity," which ain't that common 'round these parts. "Gets a bit loud Friday'n'Saturday, since the Market started up. But sure ya can find a place ta rent afore t'morrow, or else go by the Abbey." Think about that fer a second and add "They ain't Catholic, if you were wonderin'. Decent, though."

[samuel-durand.livejournal.com]

"Doubly indebted to you, Deputy," I say, handing over the mule's lead rope. In truth, it would probably take a gunshot to dissuade the mule from following obediently along, rope or no rope. But I've learned over the years that rapport is built as much from what gestures I accept as those I offer, and being on a lawman's good side is worth the time.

I'm surprised when he mentions the Jesuits. Most of those who remember our sister order on this side of the ocean are in the Spanish-speaking regions. I beam a smile up at him, but make a note not to underestimate him, genial colloquialisms or no. "A lot like them, once. Long ago, Jesuits and Franciscans were the intellectual backbone of the Church. Dominicans, too. Our missions were all different, though. They focused on education. We focused on living close to nature. For a while, anyway." I'm not having trouble keeping up with his long strides, though whether it is due to practiced consideration or simply his unhurried nature I could not say.

He questions me further, asking what I had meant about faith. Memory yanks me to a brief halt in the road. "It's... Some types of faith are defined not by their relation to belief, but to doubt. The painful gulf that separates what you intuit from what you can touch with sense or reason." I glance up, to read his expression. "When the end came, some said that it proved all along that we were right. Others said it didn't. It didn't matter, really. It didn't work out the way anyone expected. We're all still here."

I finally get her moving again. Had the deputy not been present, I would have applied force in short order, but that's hardly the first impression I want to give. "And so long as we're still here, there's work to do."

We're nearing the town, then, and he begins to speak of it. I nod as he speaks, committing it to memory. Rapid growth. Electric power. Markets. He mentions the Abbey and I give him a curious glance, but he clarifies, and I shrug. "Decent will serve. It's hard enough to find in trying times." In truth, I'm just happy that they aren't likely to know me. I've been recognized by agents of the Church only twice in all these years, and the resulting confrontations were exceedingly ugly.

"I will present myself at the Abbey, but should that not work out... Who would I speak to about renting a room, and stabling my horses? And should I present myself to anyone, as a new arrival?" It's become a sensible question to ask when I arrive anywhere. Particularly in the more suspicious or inhospitable regions. Some take a dim view of strangers.

[jack-hollow.livejournal.com]

"A lot like them, once. Long ago, Jesuits and Franciscans were the intellectual backbone of the Church. Dominicans, too," which is interesting, 'cause I hadn't heard. Make a go on kinda noise an' listen. "It's... Some types of faith are defined not by their relation to belief, but to doubt. The painful gulf that separates what you intuit from what you can touch with sense or reason." Glances over at me an' I'm frownin'. Know some ways a seein' the world're defined by that, but if you're talking 'bout faith... Think it's more of a bridge than a gulf. "When the end came, some said that it proved all along that we were right. Others said it didn't. It didn't matter, really. It didn't work out the way anyone expected. We're all still here."

"Ain't sure that means faith changed any," I say, piecin' it out careful. "People believed then, came ta it careful or scared or sure. People believe now, come ta it the same way." I shrug, glancin' at the road an' then back ta him. "Maybe the end a' the world changed how or if a lotta people believed when it happened, but don't think that's enough ta say faith changed. An' that was four generations back'r so; ain't exactly earth-shakin' news ta a lot of folks, so don't think it's really changin' things fer people now." Mind, some'a the things in Excolo can cut a bit closer ta how people understand the world works.

Kinda hard ta get into that, though.

"And so long as we're still here, there's work to do," Samuel adds.

"Always is," I say, an' it's a kinda cheerful thought. Comin' up closer, an' that's handy, 'cause he's askin' about where ta stay an I can actually point ta the answers. "There's the Whitechapel," I say. "The bar downstairs's rough, but the rooms're nice. An' if they're full up, ya can maybe still stable Memory there. Coupla apartment houses in town, one up that way," wave t'wards Mrs. Esterly's house, an' ain't particular unhappy I can't point ta Beddau's from here. "An' you c'n maybe ask at the General Store if anyone else's got a room ta rent. Miss O'Hara mighta heard."

[samuel-durand.livejournal.com]

"An' that was four generations back'r so; ain't exactly earth-shakin' news ta a lot of folks, so don't think it's really changin' things fer people now."

"Your steadfastness does you credit, Deputy," I murmur, turning my lips in a weary smile, though my mood has curdled. I don't fool Memory, at the very least: I can see her temper improving by the second, her steps now as light and precise as a yearling's. "Forgive a tired brother his misgivings. A man accumulates more than dust when he travels." If he is correct, if a handful of generations are sufficient to erase scars of that magnitude from the order of being and human memory... I refuse to believe that. Left to its own devices, humankind would walk willfully to its destruction all over again.

Foolish creatures, all.

I follow his finger as he points out the answers to my questions, nodding and noting. "Stable and rooms at the Whitechapel," I repeat. "Apartment houses in town. General Store-- Miss O'Hara. Got it." I pass Memory's lead to my left hand, reaching to grab the mule's halter with the same so that I can warmly extend my right hand to my companion. "Many thanks for your kindness, Deputy Hollow. You've been a great help, but I don't wish to keep you from your duties."

[jack-hollow.livejournal.com]

"Your steadfastness does you credit, Deputy," and I shrug a bit. Just ain't seen people believin' much different here than in Shooter's Knob. Not in a different way, leastways; few things 'round Excolo I wouldn'ta countenanced folk believin' in before. "Forgive a tired brother his misgivings. A man accumulates more than dust when he travels."

"Nothin' ta forgive," I say mild, 'cause I figure any trouble a man has with his own heart, ain't somethin' ta be treated as a wrong oughtta be forgiven. He'll sort it out, I guess. Good night's sleep does wonders fer that.

"Many thanks for your kindness, Deputy Hollow," Samuel says, holding out his hand and I take it and smile. "You've been a great help, but I don't wish to keep you from your duties."

"Ain't no trouble," I say, though I guess a tired man might want a little time ta himself. Still, I oughtta get back ta the Sheriff's, an' that's on the way, just a coupla minutes. "The Abbey's up Silk Road--that's this one--and ya turn left on Main Street, the wide one with the General Store on it. Abbey's just up on your left. Was thinkin' I'd head back ta the office-- that's the Church of Saint Willigis," I add, interruptin' myself. "Anyways, Sheriff's is right up ahead."

[samuel-durand.livejournal.com]

"Well, if we're still heading in the same direction..." I let go of the mule's halter and give Memory a tug to get her moving once more. Every now and again I turn my head just enough to check her out of the corner of my eye, watching for rolling eyes or the gleam of teeth. "I do hope you'll allow me to repay the favor sometime. A man of the cloth can't avoid relying on the kindness of strangers, but I always make a point of paying my debts." That much at least is true. It always makes it easier if I have to take drastic action somewhere down the road. Knowing that all personal slates are clean. I'm not heartless, after all. Necessity abolishes all ledgers.

"Saint Willigis?" I cock my head, frowning slightly in concentration. "I don't believe I've heard of them. How long has it been here?" My education was less focused on the history of the church than the larger history of which the church was a part. Memory bares her teeth in my periphery and I slide out of her reach with practiced ease. "Would it be all right for me to tie up my animals in front of the Sheriff's while I make my arrangements?" Anyone who tried to steal Memory would likely have their face chewed for their trouble, but the mule is another matter and I don't want to leave my notebooks at risk.

[jack-hollow.livejournal.com]

Samuel mentions hopin' ta blance the favor, an' fer just a minute I really got no idea what he's talkin' about. "Wouldn't worry about it," I say cheerfully enough when I figure it out. "Job an' all, ya know."

Headin' up Silk Road, an' ta be honest I'd rather discuss the church than, say, the Boy. "Saint Willigis?" an' guessin' he don't place the name any more'n I did. "I don't believe I've heard of them. How long has it been here?"

"October," I say, smilin' a bit. "Mean, the buildin's bin here longer, but Brother Laurence only set up here in October." Prob'ly better fer everyone all 'round than him yelling his lungs out in all weathers in the street. "Started clearin' it out an' patchin' it up, an' then his first service was October eighteenth. Seems ta be doin' pretty well."

See him not quite sidestep Memory. "Would it be all right for me to tie up my animals in front of the Sheriff's while I make my arrangements?"

"Er." Give his horse another look. "Maybe 'round the side," I say. "She's a bit spirited, don't want anyone put off comin' by." Don't like thinkin' a anyone who maybe ain't thinkin' too clear or movin' too quick comin' by. Gettin' horse-bit don't ever help.

[samuel-durand.livejournal.com]

"Mean, the buildin's bin here longer, but Brother Laurence only set up here in October."

"Brother Laurence?" An Abbey in town, and another man of the cloth? Place is bloody crawling with religion. Better tread carefully until I get a better grasp of the situation. I could always use the extra cover, of course, but on occasion it has served my interests to present myself openly as forging a different path. "How does he get on with the Abbey?"

"Maybe 'round the side. She's a bit spirited, don't want anyone put off comin' by."

I picture a heap of bitten, concussed pedestrians in the thoroughfare, and laugh out loud. "Point taken. I'd rather not be performing last rites five minutes after riding into town." I tickle Memory's nose and her ears flatten, but she settles for a baleful glare. "Come on, girl. Quench your thirst for blood some other time."

Remembering not to cross behind her after she's tied, I make my way back to the street, straightening my hair with my fingers and smoothing the front of my habit. In serious need of a bath and a shave, but it'll have to wait. I check the weight of the pouch hanging from my belt. "Almost forgot. Is there a local currency? Or will I need to figure out what I can trade?"

[jack-hollow.livejournal.com]

"Brother Laurence?" Seems a bit startled, which I can kinda see. "How does he get on with the Abbey?"

"Oh, pretty fine," I say. "Just 'bout everyone does, really." Mean, I know Hughes used ta make a point of openin' the apothecary on Sundays, but that was about as much as anyone did. An' that was always more 'bout bucking a trend than snubbin' the Abbey particular. "Kind people who've bin here a long time, hard not to."

Laughs when I mention her maybe bein' trouble, an' fer a second I can feel the candleflame flicker up and billow. Keep a hold of it, though, an' glad I did. "Point taken. I'd rather not be performing last rites five minutes after riding into town."

"Ah, don't think we'd need ta put her down," I say, relaxin' some. "Not 'less someone really got hurt." Which had damn well better not happen. "Speakin' of, we've got a doctor in town. She bites you, you c'n find Constantine down the east end of Main Street. Just 'cross from the smithy."

Asks what he can use ta pay for things or if he's gonna need ta trade. Shake my head ta the second question. "Should be fine if ya've traded inside a coupla days here," I say. "If you've got money from further out, Market's Saturday an' ya can see what people'll take. Or maybe see 'bout tradin' at the Carnivale." Say that last a bit doubtful; honestly ain't sure they're up for movin' on soon. Makes 'em a worse bet fer swapping money.

[samuel-durand.livejournal.com]

I scarcely hear him, though I keep my face still and nod reflexively in acknowledgement. When I laughed I had tossed my head back and looked directly into Deputy Hollow's face, and I caught a glimpse of... flame? My first instinct is dismissal, and not that long ago I would have simply written it off as a trick of the light (in the shade of a tall building?), or of fatigue.

These days there's very little certainty to be had. Hell, I can't even be sure what I can safely doubt anymore. Some days ago in the trackless wilderness between far-flung settlements I had a nocturnal encounter with a force I could neither rationalize nor deny. Even now the thought of it pimples my neck with gooseflesh. And if I don't even know what it was, how can I possibly know what it represents?

I must tread carefully, for now. I am not in possession of all the facts. And perhaps it really was just an illusion. But I will be watching. All things become clear, in time.

"If you've got money from further out, Market's Saturday an' ya can see what people'll take. Or maybe see 'bout tradin' at the Carnivale."

"Carnivale?" I say, careful to keep my tone casual, as before. I feign an interest in the faces of passersby, to avoid looking at the deputy. "How delightful. I've run into one in years past, on my travels. Wonder if it's the same one?"

I do look at him then, since to avoid his gaze suddenly would be conspicuous. Flash my teeth in a smile. "Quite a town you've got here, Deputy. Not sure I've seen anything quite like it."

[jack-hollow.livejournal.com]

"Carnivale? How delightful," Samuel says, takin' a look at the people heading by. Ain't got a huge crowd, sure, but it looks like a few people at the Miskatonic decided they were done all at once. Mentions runnin' inta one before an' I shrug. Not sure 'xactly how many there are runnin' round, but wouldn't be the first time people ran inta someone they knew before in Excolo.

"Depends on when, I guess," I say. "Bin here a year already. Carnivale Diabolique?" I point back towards the bridge. "Just over the Pontarlier and a few minutes downroad."

He smiles. "Quite a town you've got here, Deputy. Not sure I've seen anything quite like it." An', hell, it ain't my doin' so I ain't proud but it's damn good ta hear.

"We manage," I say, grinnin'. "Between the river an' the post office, it's pretty central, ya know? An' there's the library, up on Main, an' the wind farm..." I shake my head, but I'm still smiling, and look 'round. "Mean, hear we ain't a patch on some places, but ain't doing bad... Er." Catch sight of someone familiar comin' down Main Street.

"Nice ta meet you, Brother Samuel," I say, touchin' my hand ta where my hat'd be. "If you'll 'scuse me? Think I need ta go see ta somethin'. Feel free ta stop in," an' then I turn my attention ta the lady comin' t'wards us.

"Mrs Wilson, what can I do for you...?"