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 Ninety Six

There are few towns in the Lost Quarter now and those that remain are shrinking from what was their zenith. When Those Who Came first arrived, after Those Who Left were banished from both land and memory, they quickly set about building villages to serve the burgeoning homesteads of the settlers. These hugged the rail lines that soon crisscrossed the Quarter, as they did the rest of the Dominions. The towns were named after the first arrivals in the area, the first sentries in the conquest of the territory, or after supposedly great men in distant lands, all now forgotten by and large.

There is one south of the Glover’s Lake and the Old Place, typical of many such villages that sprang up in those years. In the first decades after its establishment it blossomed, becoming one of the main stopping points on the rail line. There was a grand hotel, churches, banks, blacksmith shops, and other industry springing up by the day, all with an unstoppable momentum, until a fire burned half the town one fall. Many left following that disaster and much was never rebuilt. When the seasons turned to drought and the Quarter fell into the depths of a decade long depression, even more abandoned the area.

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 Ninety Five

There is so much talk lately about the economy now that so much of the greater world has raised some measure of defence against the grippe reborn, forcing so many from work. Even in the Lost Quarter, where we have begun to loosen some restrictions the return has been muted.

It brings to mind the last great depression that struck the Lost Quarter, as it did so much of the world nearly a century ago. Those Who Came had managed to build successful lives in the Quarter, starting farms and building homes, having families. All of that was upended by the depression and environmental calamity, the sad result of their own poor practices, and their lives of plenty became hardscrabble ones.

Those who lived through the times never forgot them. It informed every aspect of their lives thereafter. Old junk and scraps were never tossed away; they had to be kept because they might one day become necessary. Every penny was saved and nothing was wasted, because there was no promise that there was more to follow.

There were many who did not survive the depression in the Lost Quarter. Having lost everything, and seeing their lands ruined by wind and drought, they abandoned their plots and moved away. Some to far away cities, others to the north and west where they took up farming again in a more verdant plain, though the winters were even more unforgiving. Those who remained carried on.

The same dislocations, migrations and perseverance await us all in the weeks, months and years to come. We just don’t know how the story will go this time or the characters we will play. The not knowing is the worst of all.

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 Ninety Four

The sun shining through the clouds following an afternoon thunder shower. It never seems so bright as it does at this very moment, the earth still damp though quickly drying, the pools of water vanishing. Soon all signs of the storm will have vanished, the clouds drifting elsewhere.

The first flash of lightning was so bright it startled me and I wondered if an explosion had taken place. The rumble of thunder came much later, almost an afterthought.

Nothing smells as sweet as grass and leaves after a shower. It smells of life, the promise of it, and brings me memories of wandering through fields in my youth. How I would watch the storm clouds coming along the horizon and hurry for cover when the first drops struck. After I would walk through the pastures, the damp grass soaking my shoes, their long strands still heavy with drops seeking the ground.

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 Ninety Three

Waiting in a closed room, the blinds drawn shut. A dim light from the bedside, but I sit in the shadows of the corner. My eyes are half-closed, though not from drowsiness. I am ragged with unease at what is to come.

Standing outside the old grain exchange, while the wind blows newspapers by, gusting and floating. For Lease signs on the darkened windows. The doors are locked, no getting in.

A dog snarls and snaps, held back on its chain. Menacing eyes stare at me, daring me to give them a reason.

The clouds pile up, adrift in the sky, staying where they are. Trees in the distance, waving in the wind. A magpie struts along the fenceline calling out warnings. One step too close and it flies away with a taunting caw, landing in some tree to shout down obscenities.

I wander across field and pasture, no direction or purpose. The hills roll on like waves of some dead sea frozen in antiquity that we have forgotten ever existed. I glance off to the side and see a coyote upon one of the hills, staring back over its shoulder at me. Our eyes lock for an instant and then it is gone, a blur of movement along the horizon.

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 Ninety Two

He walks with an arrogant swagger, hips loose and head jutting out in challenge of anyone who walks near. A sneer twists his lips, his hands clenched and swaying widely, announcing his intentions.

Comes another man down the street, younger and slouching, wheeling a bicycle, his clothes loose fitting and layered. His whole life is on his person. A meek expression, eyes downcast. He doesn’t see the other until it is too late.

A terrible dance ensues. They circle one another. The arrogant elder, grey stubble on his face, his eyes dark and furious, lunging and muttering as he stalks around the other. It seems he is waiting for an opening. The younger keeps pace with him, not quite looking up, hand still on the bicycle, though he makes no attempt to get on.

He is looking for an escape and when he thinks he spies it he goes, dropping the bike and darting down the street. But there is no escape, the elder man pounces, pressing back against a building, leaving him nowhere to go. He clenches his hands around his throat, the younger offering no resistance, eyes downcast, expressionless.

“Give me the money. Give me the fucking money,” the elder mutters in a low, dangerous voice.

The younger doesn’t say anything in return, his gaze fixed in the distance, surrendering to whatever his fate may be. “Give me the money.” The repeated refrain.

Finally the elder releases his quarry, stepping back with a glare of warning, before moving on, unsated. His hungry eyes scan the horizon like a hawk afloat in the air.

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 Ninety One

My love has received word that many of her coworkers no longer have jobs. (Let Go. Terminated. Laid Off. Made redundant. Downsized. Fired. How many euphemisms we have, all straining to put a kindly face on a miserable act.) They join the millions of others across the Dominions who have suffered the same fate. Until now her work had escaped such grim decisions, though it seemed inevitable given the stagnation resulting from the world’s quarantine laws.

It is devastating news to receive, even if not entirely unexpected, for of course there were people she knew among those who lost their jobs. Mentors and friends. And, as always in these situations, there is not less work to do, just fewer people to share the burden of doing it. So, in addition to mourning those who have lost so much, she must also take on new duties, all while worrying about what is to come. For if things do not improve, which they may not for so long as the dread lord retains his full powers, then there may be further cuts to come.

After such a sorrowful day, during which we had to toil at our desks, we went for a walk together in the sunshine. We began in solemn silence, before talking of our fears for both our jobs and what we will do if we lose them. We talked of changing careers, starting our own businesses, or even moving to other parts of the Greater Dominion since opportunities are meager here for the foreseeable future. Of course, who knows if they will be any better elsewhere after the grippe reborn has been vanquished.  

Hard choices await so many of us, but it is near impossible to plan for them with so much uncertainty in our lives.

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 Ninety

Last night, as we were getting ready for supper, a tremendous storm erupted. The sky was filled with dark, foreboding clouds and flashes of lightning that rippled across the darkness. One could not help but ponder what the storm portended. The thunder was distant, which made me think the worst would pass us. Instead, a deluge arrived, a torrential downpour that lasted for over an hour. The streets were filled with water that had nowhere to go.

Only after the storm had passed did word reach us that the worst had indeed missed us. Hail the size of tennis balls and grapefruits had fallen elsewhere. Windows were shattered and siding ripped off of houses. Roads were inundated with lakes that formed out of nowhere, sweeping cars away. Their drivers left them in the middle of the road, after being rescued, and they are still there this morning, abandoned, as though an army had beaten a hasty retreat against a violent onslaught.

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 Eighty Nine

Every headache, every cough and sniffle, every twinge in the throat is now suspect. Is it just allergies? Thirst? A lack of sleep and nerves? Or is it something more? Has the dread lord come to stalk us?

These are the questions that come at the hint of any symptom. I felt a scratching something in my chest earlier in the week and worried at it for a time, but it passed as soon as I got busy with something else. It returned for several days whenever the thought came to me, disappearing just as quickly when my mind moved on to other matters.

I felt tired for much of the week too, just washed out. Was it only that I was exhausted from poor sleep and the worries of my correspondences and the general conditions of existence, or am I feeling the first cold touch of the grippe reborn?

I think back over these last months – near four now – and can think of any number of days when I felt similarly. A bit of a sore throat. Maybe a fever. An inexplicable exhaustion. They all passed and were forgotten. And I also think back to months before the dread lord’s arrival on these shores. How many days did I awaken and not feel quite right, but gave it no further thought whatsoever because it wasn’t worthy of note. There are days that one just feels like crap and it isn’t a sign of anything except that.

But now any minor deviation from regular health feels like a portent doom. My mind refuses to ignore it and worries at it, returning again and again to wondering if this is something more than it seems. That is where I feel the mental burden of the dread lord’s invasion most fully: the constant awareness, the vigilance and the anxiety that never quite fades away. It is always there, waiting to bloom, even if I am unaware of it, especially if I try not to acknowledge its presence. It eats away at you slowly, day by day by day.

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 Eighty Eight

A sunny, hot day, the first truly hot one of the year. In the morning I transplanted tomatoes, peppers and herbs under the glare of the sun. I was soon sweating, though the work wasn’t hard at all. Everything in the garden is growing by leaps and bounds now that the weather is warm, the nights not getting particularly cool. I can see the difference day by day, which is satisfying indeed. Soon there will be spinach and chard to eat.

In the afternoon my love and I went out to sit upon a patio for beers and lunch, the first time we have ventured out since the relaxation of the protocols began. It felt almost normal, despite the servers wearing masks and the fact customers were scattered and spread across the patio. I had not realized just how much I missed sitting out, eating and drinking, and watching people as they go by.

Later I felt mournful, for how long will it be until we can just go out and sit upon a patio and enjoy some beer on the spur of the moment, giving no consideration to the risks from the dread lord and all that entails. A good long while I fear, that is why today was such a joy.

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 Eighty Seven

There are days that feel pointless, way stations on the path to more momentous ones. Those days will matter, those days you will remember forever, and their effects will echo through everything you do. The rest of your days will be forgotten, sometimes even as they happen.

Of course, we can never know which days in particular will be the ones that stay with us. Certainly some are more eventful, but for the most part they are just one after another, without ceasing, until they do. The meaning is only there if we imbue it, for most of what we do seems utterly pointless even when it is necessary. We long for grand deeds and happenings of import, but if we are lucky they are mostly distant, leaving us untouched to go on our way. Those cursed to live in interesting times will be made to suffer.

Today has been busy with correspondences, so that I have barely had time to think or write. Now I look out at a hazy, cloud-filled sky, the sun breaking through here and there. Just another day.