Being an accounting of the recent and continuing pandemic and its various circumstances, from the perspective of an inhabitant of the regions lately called the Lost Quarter. Dates unknown.

Day Seventy Five

Turmoil again in the grand old empire to the south. This time it doesn’t concern the dread lord, or not just him. All roads lead back to him eventually these days it seems. Now it is almost as though he has ceased to exist, his incursions forgotten. Old injustices, deep in the fabric of the empire, cuts that won’t heal, have become infected again. Always they are left to fester, never dealt with, and in times of turmoil like these they can only worsen.

Make no mistake that the grippe reborn is not the direct cause of the violent clashes, but his return has exposed the fault lines everywhere as never before. Those of us with wealth and positions that allow us to remain in quarantine in comfort are so much better off than all those others who cannot afford to do so. They must risk their lives and venture out and it is they who will suffer the most from the dread lord’s touch and from all the other fallout as well.

This has begun in the grand old empire, and other places, but it will only continue so long as we continue to suffer from the dread lord’s attacks. It will come to the Lost Quarter in some shape, it only remains to determine the form it shall take, for many here suffer and will grow angry as their suffering shows no end if nothing is done to aid them.

The collapse of old certainties – that this is how life must be, that our governments and our beliefs and everything cannot be otherwise – will only serve to make people believe that the fault lines that we have accepted as facts of life, as necessary in some way, are nothing of the sort. They can shift, they can be redrawn. The earth can shake and reform and we can too.

Being an accounting of the recent and continuing pandemic and its various circumstances, from the perspective of an inhabitant of the regions lately called the Lost Quarter. Dates unknown.

Day Seventy Four

The alkali flats glisten in the sun, shadows of birds flitting across its unbroken white surface. He pulls the truck up as close as he dares and walks down the rest of the way to where the grass ends and the slough begins. The divide is very clear, the ground going from hard and dry, spiked with tendrils of dull grass, to the wet cement texture of the alkali. Beneath the white surface the mud is dark, almost black.

He skirts the edge of the alkali, following an old cow trail. There are tracks in the alkali, coyote and bird, though they don’t go deep into the slough. Littered on the ground, in the flats and alongside, are bits of old machinery and scrap metal. Old wagon wheels, bent and warped. Parts from a Case 830, the only remnants left of that piece of machinery. He pauses here and there, kicking at the pieces, or digging into the alkali to pull them up to get a better look at them. Each time he shakes his head, clicking his tongue, throwing the piece back into the alkali, before continuing on.

Soon he has made a complete circuit of the flats to the fenceline that creeps in to the far edge of the alkali, so he turns around and makes his way back to the truck. He takes a wider route this time, farther from the slough. There is less detritus here, but he still takes the time to inspect all of it, his head down. A clump of tiger lilies bloom and he kneels down to look at their vivid orange and gold colors, his hand reaching out to brush against their petals.

Back at the truck, he leans against the hood, resting his head on his hand, staring off across the flats as if expecting it to reveal its secrets. A meadowlark calls and the wind stirs the grass. He shakes his head and gets into the truck and goes.

Being an accounting of the recent and continuing pandemic and its various circumstances, from the perspective of an inhabitant of the regions lately called the Lost Quarter. Dates unknown.

Day Seventy Three

My first memories are of me in a hospital. They are images, pieces of a recollection of what took place. The interstitial moments have faded from my mind so that only these singular instants remain.

In the first I am lying upon a hospital bed, unable to move. I have the distinct sensation of something like claustrophobia, an itch to move that I cannot scratch. My leg is broken and raised up in traction – I know this, but I do not actually see it in my memory. Instead, what I see is someone hovering above me offering me a plate with toast and jam. Their face is a ghostly absence, though I feel it is kindly. Whoever it was is vanished from my mind.

The second is some days or weeks later. I was in traction for over a month because I, ignoring the pain it caused, would not stay still enough for my leg to set properly. This time I am outside, seated on the wooden planks of a deck, playing with a toy truck. Some other child comes and takes it away from me and I cry out, trying to get up to steal it back. But my legs don’t know what they are doing after so long abed and I remain seated and forlorn on the deck.

I must have returned home not long after, but I have no memory of that. For years I favoured my left leg over my right when going down stairs or kicking a ball, for no reason except the memory of that broken leg shadowed my young thoughts. Now all that remains are those two images, so vivid and clear, while the greater parts have been washed away by the years.

Being an accounting of the recent and continuing pandemic and its various circumstances, from the perspective of an inhabitant of the regions lately called the Lost Quarter. Dates unknown.

Day Seventy Two

My love has returned to her office. When the quarantine laws came into effect I thought this would be a happy occasion, that we would feel relief at its coming and the end of lockdown and the fear and doubt that pursued us. Yet that is not quite the case. We have not conquered the dread lord, though we have turned aside his first assault. More will come, but we will hopefully be better prepared when they come.

We have grown used to days spent together at home, both of us busy at work, but without all the attendant stresses and distractions that seem to come from being in the office. It is a strange thing in that I don’t think either of us was aware of those stresses until they were absent. They were just a part of daily life, not even worthy of our attention.

She returns to a tower as sparsely populated as the hinterlands of the Lost Quarter. What purpose can there be in her being there, I find myself wondering, when she cannot meet with anyone and must scurry through the hallways trying not to come into contact with anyone.

By contrast, I must remain at home for the foreseeable future where I can still keep up with my correspondences. Will I enjoy it as much with my love absent? I think not.

It is a haphazard, lurching step into an uncertain future. And yet we must, for life persists with all its sorrows and joys. The dread lord cannot stop it entirely, no matter how many of us he may strike. We will just need to find ways to live within his shadows now that our defences have held. Further attacks are coming and we must prepare for those as best we can while allowing ourselves to resume our previous regimens.

Being an accounting of the recent and continuing pandemic and its various circumstances, from the perspective of an inhabitant of the regions lately called the Lost Quarter. Dates unknown.

Day Seventy One

Another day away from my correspondences. I transplanted some tomatoes and kale, preparing them for their eventual move outdoors. The weather hasn’t truly gotten warm yet – the days are often delightful, but the evenings still have a chill – so it will be a week or two before I am able to move them outdoors. This year in particular has been miserly for warmth; last year I would have transplanted weeks ago.

After, my love and I wandered down to the island on the northern river – we are between two rivers that join to the east, not far from that island – and had a brief picnic beneath some trees. It was brief because as we sat enjoying the peace of the day, the wind picked up and the sky darkened with clouds. Frantically we packed up our things before the rain came and sprinted for cover.

Being an accounting of the recent and continuing pandemic and its various circumstances, from the perspective of an inhabitant of the regions lately called the Lost Quarter. Dates unknown.

Day Seventy

I recall an evening in my childhood – I can’t have been older than four, for we were still in our old house – sitting listening to Cheap Trick on the headphones, rocking back and forth to the beat on our couch. It was a sea green blue couch, stiff and ungainly, with an elaborate sigil formed into its fabric. I would trace my fingers along its patterns as though I were trying to find my way through a labyrinth.

It was summer and there had been a tremendous storm earlier, lightning striking so near the house that the thunder had sounded like an explosion directly overhead. The rain had passed though and with it the thunder and lightning. My parents were in the kitchen cleaning up after supper, leaving me to my music. I closed my eyes as I listened, transported to another world I could barely formulate in my mind.

Being an accounting of the recent and continuing pandemic and its various circumstances, from the perspective of an inhabitant of the regions lately called the Lost Quarter. Dates unknown.

Day Sixty Nine

A long walk down by the riverside. So many others are out, walking and biking as well. Where the banks allow people have spread out blankets and are sunbathing. A few rafts bob along with the current, people sprawled upon them. My love and I sit, eating pastry and drinking iced coffee, watching ducks paddle by, luxuriating in a day spent at nothing.

Being an accounting of the recent and continuing pandemic and its various circumstances, from the perspective of an inhabitant of the regions lately called the Lost Quarter. Dates unknown.

Day Sixty Eight

A day of celebration, for it is my birth day. Now that I am getting up there, as they say, I just want to rock and roll.

Being an accounting of the recent and continuing pandemic and its various circumstances, from the perspective of an inhabitant of the regions lately called the Lost Quarter. Dates unknown.

Day Sixty Seven

It was in Sixty Seven that the governors and potentates, hierarchs and stewards, lords and magnates of the scattered territories gathered together to form themselves into a Dominion. In that time the Lost Quarter was still under the governance of the great Company that managed the vast north and western territories. All they cared for was extracting pelts and other bounty from the territories.

The territories that formed the Dominion fought bitterly amongst themselves for primacy in the Dominion and when the opportunity came to purchase the north and western territories from the Company, each saw an opportunity to create colonies in its image that could help to turn the balance of power in the greater Dominion. Those Who Left, still the predominant inhabitants of the north and western territories at that time, were to be remade and enlisted in this task, their old ways forgotten. And Those Who Came were to be carefully selected for their loyalty.

Such were the plans of the illustrious Dominion magnates. Those Who Left and Those Who Came both declined to cooperate though. Those Who Left saw no reason to let these interlopers determine their way of life and were subjugated and sent into their bitter exile as a result. Those Who Came were for a time loyal to their eastern masters, but the Dominion rulers were far away and matters on the ground were quite different and they quickly found that their interests did not align. They began to agitate to become their own stewards, equal in all matters with the eastern dominions.

Being an accounting of the recent and continuing pandemic and its various circumstances, from the perspective of an inhabitant of the regions lately called the Lost Quarter. Dates unknown.

Day Sixty Six

Rain falls heavily with no sign of letting up. I watch it descend from my window, the drops so large it looks like slanted waves cutting through the air. The rivers, already swollen with spring melt, will be near to overflowing their banks by the end of this spring storm. The trees outside my home grow greener and greener, their leaves lengthening.

Pie for breakfast with my coffee, a fine luxury. It is an iron law of pie that whoever rises first can partake of the leftovers to break their fast. This morning that is me, though in truth it is only because my love is kind. She always rises earlier than me and could claim the pie by right, but she knows how much I love it and is willing to forgo her claim. There is no dessert finer than a pie in my estimation.

My love doesn’t believe in laws regarding food. To her there are no foods unsuitable for breakfast or dinner. Anything can be eaten at any time. Spaghetti, chicken or noodles can be eaten as breakfast, dinner or snack. Her only law is that rice is life and must be eaten with every meal, though even on this she is not as constant as many of her fellow islanders are.

It is, I must admit, a much more sensible approach than that practised here in the Lost Quarter and elsewhere, declaring certain foods only suitable to particular meals. Eating should never be so rigorous. It should be about taking pleasure with your sustenance.

She eats her eggs with ketchup though, which is an abomination before man and gods and which I refuse to countenance.