LOST QUARTER BOOKS

Miscellanea

Posted on August 20, 2026 by Clint

Miscellanea from the Lost Quarter and beyond.

Door to Door

Wisps of smoke drifted through the streets, lingering in the air on the corners. Those walking by swore they could sometimes glimpse something from the corner of their eyes. A form emerging, solid as they, but when they looked at it straight on there was only the smoke dissipating to nothing. They hurried on anyway, the air oppressive…

I was in the midst of preparing dinner when the doorbell rang. A smiling youth waited on the other side. Do you have five minutes? I thought about saying no, but he seemed harmless enough, his eagerness and sincerity vaguely pitiful. With a motion of my hand I beckoned him inside, closing the door to keep out the smoke, so heavy on the air these last days.

It lingered still as he sat on the chair in my living room opposite me on the couch. He reached into a bag I had not noticed and pulled forth a book. I have been given a wonderful opportunity, he declared, to travel these parts and see all the great things here. I get to call on all the wonderful people, learn about them and tell them about myself and share some wonderful news.

He tapped a hand upon the cover, which was worn at the edges and looked as though it had spent a long time in the bag, which itself was somewhat fraying at the seams. Idyllic greenery was depicted, so vaguely it was impossible to tell where it was taken. For all I could tell it was a picture of a tree down the street zoomed in on the tangle of branches and leaves.

We talked inconsequentially for a few minutes. He had come from the southwest to see our fine country during his summer off from school. There was much he wanted to see and do, but first he had to share his news. He asked me about myself and I told him little, keeping my answers short and letting a hint of impatience creep in, which he did not seem to notice. For he was back to the news he had to share.

I feared I was about to be invited to join some church, but he just opened the book. It was filled with pictures with no text whatsoever. At first glance they looked, as with the cover, like stock photos that someone had taken from the internet and printed at poor resolution, for the colour was faded and none of the details were sharp. You see, he said, as he touched each one and I wanted to tell him I didn’t, but worried that would just invite more discussion. I was already regretting inviting him in.

It seemed he was going to show me every picture in the book – there must have been over a hundred pages. I tried to interrupt him, to thank him for his time and send him on his way, but he wouldn’t meet my eyes, continuing to turn the pages and rest his fingers lightly on the image. When he did I could swear the picture changed. If there was water it flowed, if there were trees the leaves fluttered. The details became sharper and stranger. There were pine trees in what appeared to be a desert, eucalyptus atop snowy mountains, rivers flowing uphill. These were not places that existed, that could not exist.

I looked up at him, startled and disturbed. He met my gaze. You see, he said, and nodded as though everything was evident. The smell of smoke was becoming stronger somehow and I felt lightheaded. I noticed there were stray threads and loose pieces at the seams of his shirt and pants. The shoes he’d taken off at the door had lost their heel, which I hadn’t noticed earlier. He was coming apart at the seams.

I stood without another word and went to open the door, gesturing for him to leave. He looked at me forlornly, but I refused to meet his eyes, pointing again at the open doorway. Returning to the book, he touched another page and I was unable to resist looking. A great storm was on the horizon, a swirl of clouds moving closer and closer. There was flashes of lightning and I could swear I could hear thunder. The smell of smoke was overpowering.

I stepped back from the door, blinking and waving my hand as though to clear the air. When I had recovered he was outside, looking at me sadly as though I had somehow failed to meet the moment. You see, he said. It sounded like a promise.

Field Notes

Posted on August 6, 2026 by Clint

Being a record of certain phenomena found in the environs of the Lost Quarter.

Little Green Men

In those days strangers did not receive much comment. People were always coming and going from the Quarter and no one thought much of it unless they stayed. It was the way of things until it wasn’t.

Later, no one could quite remember when the two newcomers arrived in town. Mostly this was because they didn’t stay for any length of time, in town one day and reappearing some weeks later. They were usually in the company of some of the loudest supporters for the independence movement which had lately been roiling the Quarter and other locales. A referendum on the matter was planned in the fall, which most agreed would not succeed. It would send a message out east though, let them know the Quarter could not be taken for granted.

They were regular figures at rodeos and other events throughout the region where those in favour of independence sought to sway others to their side, handing out placards from card tables set up on the grounds. It was said they were part of the monthly gathering that took place at the Carter place where the usual suspects gathered to plan for the referendum and the future that came after. If drinking a couple of flats of beer and shooting off rifles could be considered planning, some said.

The strangers didn’t say much at community gatherings, present but in the background. Those who did speak to them said they were obviously not from around here, their accents immediately marking them out. Everyone understood what that meant, though no one thought it of much note. They weren’t the first people to come north for one reason or another. When asked what they were doing in these parts, the strangers would say things like “helping out our friends,” and leave it at that.

That disconcerted some people, but most dismissed it. They were hanging out with the same people who’d convoyed out east in the last days of the grippe reborn or blocked the roads to the borders south. This was just what they did: protesting and honking and not accomplishing much when all was said and done except hanging out with their fellow travellers. Not a surprise that people from down south were fellow travellers. Look who they elected, after all.

If asked where they were from, they claimed to hail from the interior or to have family from Fort Mac. No one pressed them on these obvious lies. They were friendly and jovial with their fellow travellers, but were unable to hide their anger at being questioned by those opposed to the cause. Those people were dupes and fools, they would say loudly and with menace.

As the referendum approached, the Carter place became a hive of activity, people coming and going at all hours, including the strangers. There was shooting nearly every day on the back of the property out of sight of the road, though the neighbours could hear it for miles around. A few called the police with their concerns, who promised to look into it. Nothing was done though. Some saw trucks with foreign plates heading in that direction, though the vehicles were never spotted again, which was somehow even more concerning.

In the days before the referendum, the activity ceased and the strangers were gone. Hardly any vehicles were seen heading to the Carter place. Everyone felt a sense of relief. Once the referendum was past all this strangeness would be over.

Field Notes

Posted on April 30, 2026 by Clint

Being a record of certain phenomena found in the environs of the Lost Quarter.

Interludes

It was the fifth false spring that broke her. The fifth storm that blew in from the west leaving her trudging through snow. Again. It was the end of April for fuck sakes. All she wanted was a morning warm enough to sit on the balcony and have a coffee and contemplate life and where she might go from here. Life and weather were not cooperating. She knew enough of these parts not to expect that, but still.

The thing was, it had been a long winter. The longest. A kind of grim stumbling march through the long nights wondering if she was even heading in the right direction. Feeling like she probably wasn’t, but still keeping on because that was what she did. And what was the alternative anyway? Well, she spent a lot of time thinking about the alternatives only to end up convincing herself they weren’t any better than what she already had. He didn’t make her happy, if she was forced to admit, but he was decent and good and who was she to complain. No one was promised happiness, exactly. You made the best of the situation and it wasn’t a bad one. She’d been in worse for sure.

When he’d said he was leaving, she told herself she shouldn’t be surprised. What had she been thinking about these last months after all? It had somehow taken her completely unawares. A suckerpunch to the jaw and she looked at everything through glassy eyes still. The snow returning every week didn’t help. Hard to move on when the world seemed to be spinning its wheels.

Oh everyone told her it was for the best. It was an opportunity. She would be okay, better even when all the dust had settled. Sometimes she believed them. This was an interlude, a pause where she could gather herself, reassess and determine what mattered to her. Be lost for a little while before finding her way. But most days when she woke up to clouds and cold and a blanket of white on the streets below, it felt like she was just lost and there would be no finding her way out. That maybe the interlude had been her time with him and now things were turning back to normal where the snow never stopped and the grass never turned green.

Field Notes

Posted on January 8, 2026 by Clint

Being a record of certain phenomena found in the environs of the Lost Quarter.

Blank Pages

She was new in those parts, having arrived the summer before. A smiling presence around town, people were drawn to chat with her. Asking her how she was finding her first winter and life in town. She was used to those questions now and understood how to answer them. What was expected of her. The first required a complaint about the cold, which drew knowing chuckles and comments about how she would get used to it in time. This would usually lead into further talk about the weather, how it had been recently, what they could expect in the coming days.

The second she had learned to respond with a comment about how friendly and helpful everyone was. They were not particularly interested in how she was adjusting to life here as much as how she perceived them. Sometimes this would lead to talk of what had brought her to these parts in the first place, which she’d come to recognize as potentially treacherous waters. For many it was just curiosity, as well as the hope for reassurance that the world was worse elsewhere and they had made the right choice in staying where they were. Others had concerns which they weren’t willing to give voice to, at least in her presence, but which lurked in the background of the conversation. Sometimes it would slip out, unexpectedly. We need more like you, who do things the proper way. Those ones she knew to avoid in future.

She didn’t lie to people, but nothing she said was exactly true. It was what they expected to hear and she was happy to be put into the particular shape that fit into their puzzle of the world. Being what was expected was its own kind of armour. She could disappear in plain sight. And that was what she wanted, to exist in a place where she could leave all her history behind. As they became more acquainted, people would ask her about that history. Her family, her siblings, friends from home. She would answer in generalities. Yes, she had parents, a sister, nieces. If they noticed she had no pictures of them displayed no one mentioned it. Would they be visiting soon was usually the direction the conversation tended. Have you told them about us and these parts being the real question, left unspoken. Maybe some day, was all she would say on that.

They accepted that. They accepted everything she said, with whatever assumptions they had about where she was from and what that entailed left mostly unsaid. Basically they thought her life had been much like theirs, just poorer. A campground without amenities. Some of them judged her for that, but mostly they had no real conception of what life was like beyond their door. How could they?

That would have bothered some. They would have wanted to be known, to be seen, to be understood as they understood themselves. She preferred otherwise. Here was a place where she was free to write her own story.

Field Notes

Posted on November 6, 2025 by Clint

Being a record of certain phenomena found in the environs of the Lost Quarter.

Red Ribbon

He first glimpsed the sister through the trees that surrounded the Faulkenbourg Place. Since moving there it had become his habit to walk between the rows, starting from the laneway that led to the road and ending when he had circumnavigated the property and returned to the other side of the lane. The yard itself was quite large with extensive pens for cattle, grain bins and storage sheds for equipment, all in various states of disrepair. Thistle and brome grass overgrew the lanes between the corrals and buildings. They grew between the trees too, but he quickly wore down a trail. He liked being among the trees, unable to see to the farthest horizon as seemed the case anywhere else he stood in these parts. There was a hush there, a quiet, as if he’d journeyed to another place.

The wind was blowing – it was always blowing – bending the branches and fluttering the leaves, shifting things from light to shadow and back again. She was in the field just beyond the trees, passing through the stalks of wheat with a surprising grace, a red ribbon trailing from her hair. She didn’t seem to notice him, moving alongside the trees toward him. He called out to her, not wanting her to think he was lurking in the shadows with ill intent. The wind gusted, carrying his words away, and she didn’t hear and passed on her way.

He saw her several more times, usually in the field beside the trees, though once at the far end of the row he was in. It seemed difficult to believe she could fail to notice his presence, but she never acknowledged him. She was young, maybe eighteen or so, and he assumed she was the daughter of one of the neighbours. When one of the brothers across the way asked how he was getting on, he mentioned his walks and how much he enjoyed them and added that there must be someone in his family who felt the same for he always saw her walking the trees. The brother could not hide his dismay at the statement and changed the subject. This piqued his interest and he began to ask around town about the Faulkenbourg Place. It seemed odd to him that the yard for what had obviously been an extensive operation had been allowed to fall into such a state.

People were reluctant to speak on the matter. They would mutter something about the sisters and then talk of something else. It was very unlike the locals who seemed willing to gossip about anything, even with a stranger like him. It was only when he came across a story in an old newspaper while doing some unrelated research that he realized what they wouldn’t tell him. Hazel and Abigail, the McIntyre sisters had both loved Sven Faulkenbourg. He’d chosen the younger and in a fit of jealousy Hazel had murdered her sister, drowning her in a slough. At the time it was seen as a terrible accident and Sven had gone to Hazel for comfort while he mourned. One thing had led to another and soon they were to be married.

They lived with Sven’s parents until they could build a place of their own, the very house he was renting. Sven discovered a red ribbon in Hazel’s things. There had been strands of red ribbon found under Abigail’s fingernails when she had been pulled from the slough. It had been noted at the time, but more as a curiosity. When Sven found the ribbon he understood what had happened and he strangled Hazel with it. He was hanged, one of the last to receive capital punishment in those parts and his parents moved away, unable to bear being in the house and on the land where such a tragedy had happened.

Miscellanea

Posted on October 23, 2025 by Clint

Miscellanea from the Lost Quarter and beyond.

Winter Comes Early to the Outpost

Snow covered over the road ahead and the stubbled fields that surrounded them, still drifting down from above. No one had come this way in some time for theirs were the first footprints to mark the trail and the snow was already to their ankles. The few trees they passed – short and shrubby, like all the trees in these parts – still had most of their leaves. Winter’s arrival had been sudden and unexpected, especially for the straggling band of travellers with thin coats and thinner shoes.

On their journey north – flight would be more accurate – they had camped out in the shelter of those sorts of trees, for they tended to cling to lowlands where water gathered. Water, which had been problematic for much of their travel, would be no worry tomorrow. The creeks would be flowing again. But none of them were in any mood to spend a night in a snowbank. They were already cold and soaked through and it would be hard work to get any fire started to warm themselves.

That was why when they came upon the smattering of houses that didn’t quite constitute a village, one of which included an inn of the old style, two stories and square, they went inside without any discussion among themselves as to whether it was wise. It wasn’t, but neither was staying outdoors for a winter’s evening in their thin coats and pants that they had hoped to have more time to find proper replacements for. The place smelled of mildew and disrepair, but they supposed so did they. A few locals, sipping harvest ale, gave them a careful once over, registering who and what they were, before returning to their muttered conversations.

The innkeeper sized them up with a skeptical eye, weighing whether their money was worth the trouble. How many rooms, was all he said. They asked for the cost and there followed a back and forth that ended with an agreement for two rooms for the six of them, with meals included. Drinks would be extra. A girl was summoned from the back and sent out into the snow to let whoever would be cooking know. They looked longingly at the heavy coat she shrugged on. It was an hour before dinner appeared, during which they sipped at peppery harvest ales they couldn’t afford and tried to ignore the stares from the locals. The girl brought a great pot of barley soup, ladling out a bowl for each of them, and handing them day old bread to soak it up with.

She looked at them with a fierce interest that worried them, sitting on a stool behind the bar, clearly wanting to speak with them. The innkeeper noticed as well and angrily banished her upstairs to ready their rooms. The other locals kept their interest better disguised, though their eyes kept flicking in their direction and their talk grew lower and lower. One man left and returned twenty minutes later, which caused them some consternation. But they reassured themselves that the constabulary wouldn’t have a station in this place and it was doubtful anyone was willing to endure the weather to go summon one. They hoped.

After they’d eaten four of them went up to wash and ready for bed while two other remained below to drink another ale and keep an eye on the locals and ensure no one had any plans. They retired upstairs only when the tavern had emptied and the innkeeper was cleaning up. Though they felt confident the constabulary hadn’t been summoned they still took shifts sleeping, one person in each room keeping watch.

They left before dawn, slipping out onto the empty road in the darkness. The snow had stopped and again theirs were the first footprints to mark the way, which would make them easy to track but couldn’t be helped. They had reached the edge of the village when the girl appeared, dressed for travel in her thick coat and heavy boots. I’m going with you, she said, her breath clouding the air. They argued with her, telling her there was no place for her among them, that where they were going was no place for a girl like her. She let them speak their piece and repeated her words, adding: you won’t make it without me. There was a certainty to her gaze they could not argue with.

Field Notes

Posted on October 9, 2025 by Clint

Being a record of certain phenomena found in the environs of the Lost Quarter.

Summer Days and Summer Nights Are Gone

With the latest troubles down south an intermittent straggle of newcomers had begun to arrive in town. Most passed through on their way to other places. A few decided to stay longer, attracted by the cheapness of the rent, but when they struggled to find regular work they would move on, rarely lasting more than a month or two. The latest arrivals, a couple, had taken up residence in the Dunning place on the outskirts of town at the beginning of June. Most of the newcomers ended up there. It was a dilapidated eyesore that everyone agreed should have been torn down years ago. Instead Marvin had halfheartedly tried renting it for years without investing any in improvements and he treated these southern exiles as an unexpected windfall.

The couple mostly kept to themselves and the locals didn’t press them. Their politeness, for which they were famed, was an armour to hold strangers at a careful distance. They were nice, kind even, helpful when asked, but they did not intrude into the couples’ lives and seemed to demand the same. Don’t tell us of your struggles and your hurts, we have our own and you are the cause. That was never said, but the couple felt the weight of it all the same in the way they were accepted but never quite welcomed anywhere they went.

Summer went by with them still in the Dunning place. They kept the yard well, fixing the fence and planting a garden, enjoying its fruits. The man took a job in the grocery store, part-time, and they both had hours at the greenhouse. The woman was a teacher it was said, but obviously not accredited for these parts. The man’s former career was unknown, but it was obvious he hadn’t done farm work or anything like that, so no one was willing to trust him with their equipment. He was a good worker, Don said, and he wished he had more hours for him.

Night began arriving earlier and earlier, a chill coming with it. Morning frost would be white on the lawn when they rose. The couple was still there, much to everyone’s surprise. They remarked on the abruptness of the change – the week prior had been blanketed with summer warmth – and were met with shrugs that said that time was over now. Well, they knew about that, all too well. Everyone worried about how they would handle the winter if they were staying on. A few solicitous folks told them they should see about buying a good winter coat before the weather really turned. The couple assured them they had brought adequate winter clothes with them and the locals assured them they were wrong.

Mornings the couple would walk together north down the gravel road that led from their house to the new elevators, those towering concrete structures, the tallest buildings for a hundred kilometres or more. During the summer they had marvelled at the crops in fields on either side of the road, at the brightness of the day even so early in the morning. Now their breath clouded the air and they went out later, waiting for the sun to rise. There was only stubble in the fields now, harvest finished. Overhead geese flew in formation, heading south. They would stand and watch them until they disappeared in the sky and then turn their backs to keep going on.

Field Notes

Posted on September 25, 2025 by Clint

Being a record of certain phenomena found in the environs of the Lost Quarter.

Everyone in Their Right Lane

She came into town at the end of summer, harvest in full swing in the fields. Come speak your grievances to me, she said, and the people came for they had many. It seemed it had been so long since someone had actually listened. She had an easy way about her, a smile that said she understood just what the problem was and how it might be solved. No matter the concern her answer was the same: it was not their fault and it certainly wasn’t hers. The dominion government that ruled them from far away – elected yes, but not legitimate – acted against them in all ways and needed to be cast aside. And there were others, newcomers from even further away, who had come here but did not belong and were creating trouble wherever they went.

She was not the first to come this way, not by a long shot. Fifty years now, another gleaming politician coming to town filled with answers to the same problems. You would have thought people would get tired of it, but they liked being listened to, even if the problems they all promised to fix still persisted. It was an acknowledgement that they existed and to some extent mattered. She liked giving them someone to blame. It was largely forgotten she had been that way in years before, telling everyone their freedoms were under threat. Now that she was in charge, the tune had changed somewhat. Though she still told them they were right, this couldn’t stand, and these others must be dealt with.

Once this had been a great land, they said, and she agreed. That is why we must hold on to everything we have tightly so we don’t lose more of it. The only way to do that, she said, was that everyone had to stay in their lanes and keep to their proper place. The dominion government should stay out of their lives. Town councils too. The only proper government was hers, because only she understood what was needed in these perilous times. Also, kids were getting weirder and weirder, talking in their indecipherable slang, dressing strangely and deciding they were one thing and then another. They especially needed to stay in their lane and avoid unnatural inclinations. Obviously outside influences were the cause of that, so books would have to be banned and curriculum restored to rote memorization and oaths of loyalty to better protect minds so easily influenced.

That was needed everywhere in truth. People couldn’t be trusted to stay in their lanes either, as the few who appeared at the complaint sessions who disputed what she said made clear. The only way to ensure less government intrusion in peoples lives, which everyone agreed was the goal, was for everyone to do as they were told. It did not need to be said who would do the telling. Most of those who attended were happy to follow along. It was easier and felt safer to have someone who could tell them how the world was and why it was right and clever for them to do exactly what she said.

Miscellanea

Posted on September 12, 2025 by Clint

Miscellanea from the Lost Quarter and beyond.

The Dead Can Never Die

The wizards with their orbs and spells, their alchemy and astrology, and other arcane knowledge that only they had the learning to truly understand, or so they claimed, had spent years perfecting their spellcasters. Their ultimate achievement, long sought after. A spell that could raise other spells, that would not dissipate, but would instead remain integral across all time, capable of casting any spell.

This required collecting all the learning on spellcraft in existence, collating it and rendering it accessible to the spellcaster. There were mistakes along the way. How could there not be? There were endless errors in spell books – wizards were secretive creatures after all and often slipped in errata to ensure only they would be the ones to know the spells. That didn’t even include the mistranslations, for spells had been taken from one language to another and back again over the years, and a spell that had begun transforming an eel into a princess now turned a prince into a frog.

Still the wizards claimed the spellcaster worked. Not only did it work, but it could learn. Through trial and error it could correct the many errors that had entered into the literature. Any task, any potion, any craft or artistry, all could be subsumed by the spellcaster. Here then was the power of the old gods long vanished from all realms.

Rulers and other elites were naturally intrigued by the promise. They had long been allied with the wizards. Together they had transcended all earthly domains of money and power and now lived in constant terror of losing it all. The promise of the spellcaster was the answer to all their dreams, for with it you no longer needed people.

They were a problem, it had to be admitted. Those testy subjects who were constantly insisting upon the obligations they believed their betters owed them instead of being properly awed in the face of their obvious excellence and superior wisdom. Most had proven quite uninterested in the wizards’ last great idea, exchanging their minted coins for a magical Repository of Value, no matter how many times it was demonstrably proven to them that this was a far better thing than actual coin. It even had other uses, though the wizards were somewhat vague on those. They had many questions about the spellcaster as well and did not seem especially convinced by all the answers they were given.

The wizards assured all that they would come around in due time. Having conquered all realms they turned to death itself, claiming they could escape our mortal bonds with eternal life. Not with the usual rubbish elixirs and potions, which everyone knew to be the work of charlatans. The spellcaster would be handy here for it would be able to invent new spells that would generate fresh organs and fresh blood to renew an aging body. The first few attempts at this went poorly. It seemed the wizards were stealing organs and blood from paupers and declaring them newly generated, causing the kind of scandal that brought the whole spellcaster project into disrepute.

This led to much grumbling on all sides, so a new approach was needed. Time was the problem, it was declared. Its ceaseless march wore down everyone and everything. The answer was to hold the world still, keep everyone in their right place, unmoving. If they did everything correctly, they might even be able to wind time back on itself, reset events and restore the glorious past when everything had felt new and life had seemed limitless. Soon it would be. The spells were cast. The world was wound back like a resetting clock, the whole fabric of society groaning as countless numbers were crushed beneath those gears.

The rulers applauded the wizards for their efforts. They complimented each other for their newly youthful vigour, though secretly each thought the others appeared much the same. Everywhere they looked there was stillness. No wind stirred. They all told themselves how wondrous it all was, how for the first time ever they felt at peace, all their desires met. Even as they did they found themselves looking over their shoulders. Old habit, they told themselves, one they would soon shake. But they couldn’t, for there was a sound somewhere that they couldn’t quite place, no matter how much they cast about in search of it. Like the roar of a waterfall heard at a distance.

Field Notes

Posted on August 21, 2025 by Clint

Being a record of certain phenomena found in the environs of the Lost Quarter.

The Hermit of the Hills

Nels came to the Quarter with three others in the early years of the century trying his luck on a quarter section. The other three sent for their families after they had broken the land and thrown up a shack, later ordering homes from the Eaton’s catalogue when they had money from a couple of harvests and their second quarter was handed over. Even after he got his second quarter Nels continued in the same shack, building a more permanent structure only after his first decade on the land. Many of the neighbours said this was little better than the shack he had been living in, though it did at least have a wood floor and a cellar.

Nels was always a friendly presence, happy to chat with anyone in town, available to help with harvest or any work really. His neighbours looked forward to his regular visits to spend an evening at cards and he called three or four families once a week. As more settlers arrived, people wondered when he would marry. Many of the other bachelors who came in those years did find wives, either among the locals or from their original homes. Nels did not though, never going with any of the local girls, even when others encouraged him to. After a time all that sort of talk stopped as people accepted things for what they were.

He never left the Quarter after homesteading, not even during the ten years of drought when so many others abandoned their farms, some not even leaving word or a forwarding address. More left with the second great war, travelling to far-flung lands and more still in the years after. The automobile was coming in wide use then and highways were being built. There were new opportunities everywhere. The Quarter was somehow both larger and smaller as a result. Fewer homesteads dotted the landscape and the farms were getting larger, while it was now possible to travel across most of its length in the space of an afternoon.

People saw less of Nels as the years went on. Several of the families he stopped in to play cards with had moved on after the war. Tractors and other machines meant that agriculture was no longer a communal activity, though he did still drive truck for a couple of neighbours. Folks started talking about him differently too, though he hadn’t changed much. He was a man of his era, a time now past, when people were willing to throw away the lives they had been living, leave it all behind and take a chance on a far away land with no guarantees. Everyone was settled now, knowing nothing else and of the place in a way that Nels, and those who had arrived with him, could never be.

At some point people began calling him the Hermit of the Hills, though he was always about and his half section was not especially hilly. Older siblings told younger ones about the terrible things that would happen if you wandered onto his land or into his house, which hid a portal to another demon-filled world in the cellar. If Nels knew about these stories he never said. He got diabetes in his later years and one of his feet took an infection which he neglected. Doctors took the leg to try to save him, but it was too late.

He willed his land to one of the neighbours, the son of one of the men he’d come out with. Nels had always called on them for visits, so the first time they set foot in his house was after he died. It was a ramshackle place, as to be expected given he’d built it himself. The yard was littered with old pieces of equipment collected in piles that they supposed had some sort of logic to them. None of that surprised them, but what filled the cellar and one wall of his shop did. Hundreds of urns and vases and bowls, made from scrap metal and whatever else Nels had at hand. They were all finely made, intricate designs carved or painted on them. Beautiful in their strange way. Of another world.