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 Two Hundred and Seven

It is Thanksgiving in the Lost Quarter, for the harvest festival is celebrated earlier here in these northern climes than it is in other regions. The harvest is long finished in these parts and we have journeyed south to have dinner with my parents and sister. A small gathering, this year as all years, for we are not the sort to bring cousins and uncles, all the flotsam and jetsam of families together.

This seems an apt time to cast my eyes back on the last two hundred odd days since the grippe reborn came to these parts. So often now we are driven to look ahead, squinting against the sun on the horizon, looking for signs of coming storms and seeing only the vast, seemingly unchanging, plains of our future under the quarantine protocols. It is easy to focus on the negative in such circumstances, but today I shall consider the positives, such as they are, to this strange moment we are trapped in.

First, to this point, I and those I love have remained untouched by the dread lord. The future offers no guarantees, but I will take what has been given and count myself among the fortunate. My love and I have also avoided the economic devastation that has followed in his wake. Both of us have jobs that are as secure as one can hope for at this time.

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 Two Hundred and Three

Two hundred days under the quarantine protocols. Two hundred days of the grippe reborn on our streets, in our homes, in our lives.

There is no end in sight. We knew that of course, but that knowledge is sitting differently now as the reality of these endless plague ridden days becomes apparent. Two hundred days and how many more to come?

In the Eastern Dominions cases have been rising precipitously causing panic and consternation, accusations of failure on the part of their leaders. Here in the west the dread lord has reasserted himself as well, though not to the same degree. Yet we still feel trepidation that all our efforts thus far may still be for naught if we cannot somehow hold the line. And all the while those of us in the Greater Dominions look at the grand old empire to the south with the fear that that may be what awaits us.

There is a sort of hysteria to the way people speak of the dread lord now, brought on by an exhaustion, of having to worry about this for months now. Of wondering if what you are doing is keeping you and everyone safe. Scolding others for not doing the right thing.

For a time the protocols and measures were easy to follow, especially when the results were clear. We were holding the dread lord at bay, perhaps even driving him from the Quarter. Now it is plain that he isn’t going anywhere, that we shall have to maintain our vigilance, no matter how sick and tired we are of hearing of all of this. No matter how much we long to venture outside our homes without giving a thought to protocols and measures, masks and distancing and hand washing, and the dread lord.

The night is long and the road is winding and we have far to go.

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 Two Hundred and Three

On our recent mountain sojourn I had an encounter with a bear. With autumn here the creatures descend the mountains from their summer habitats in search of berries and other food to gorge upon before they hibernate for the winter, so it is not uncommon to come across one. It is still unsettling.

The chalet we were staying at is about at third of the way up a mountain. A few dwellings line the winding road to it, creating a small community. Beyond there is forest, far up the mountain. The bears stay to the forest for the most part, thought certainly there were warnings posted in our cabin and elsewhere noting the possibility we might encounter one.

After breakfast I wandered outside in my bathrobe and swimwear for a dip in the hot tub. The tub was on a patio extending nearly the length of the building, which is set into the mountain, so the road to it is both above and behind, as is the forest. I didn’t glance up until I reached the tub and I saw, seated on the large rocks that act as a sort of retaining wall, a bear.

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 Two Hundred and Two

I woke to darkness and the sound of what might have been a gunshot. I stayed still, eyes open, staring at nothing while I listened intently for something more to follow. Shouts and cries. Sirens in the distance. But there was only silence. I tried to return to sleep but could not, still waiting, expectant, for something that didn’t come.

Today was the first day in nearly two weeks that my love and I walked together to work. It was still dark when we crawled out of bed, not even a hint of the sunrise present on the horizon, and the dark followed me on my lone journey home. It shall only grow from here until December, steadily shrinking the days until it begins to feel as though the morrow will bring no sun at all. The change happens quickly now, or at least it seems to, the darkness accelerating, more noticeable every morning we rise.

There were thin dark clouds in the sky above as we walked, emitting a few drops of rain, as if in warning of a deluge. Yet none appeared on the sidewalk before us and the ones that struck us were barely noticeable. The rain fell, but the dry wind evaporated the drops before they could reach us. It has been a month at least since there was any rain and it seemed as though the clouds were desperate to provide it. Wait though I did none came and the wind carried the clouds away.

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 Two Hundred and One

We returned from our seclusion in the west to strange days. The grand old empire to the south seems to be descending into the grip of some terrible madness. Their leader, already a madman, has been touched by the grippe reborn. This after months of denial of the dread lord’s powers and a refusal to enact even the most basic of precautions for himself and his citizens.

To read about the place is to find it both unrecognizable and deeply familiar at the same time. Already the leader was fulminating and preparing the way to discredit the coming elections, which he seems likely to lose, and cling to power using the institutions he commands and has broken. The likelihood of him succeeding was perhaps low before, and may be shrinking more and more now that he is ill.

But the fact he was willing to attempt it, and likely still will regardless of what takes place between now and the election, and that his allies are willing to go along with him to ensure they can maintain their power, shows how far the empire has fallen. Its institutions, which it has long trumpeted as exemplary, have been shown to be pathetic and broken. One is tempted, sitting here in the Greater Dominions to say such things couldn’t happen here, that our institutions are stronger, but they are run by people and can be broken too. It can all so easily fall apart.

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 Two Hundred

We in the Lost Quarter have been blessed with a wondrous autumn, which we are so rarely granted. This past week has seen temperatures in the low twenties, the sun bright and the sky clear, with only the slightest of breezes to disturb the falling leaves. Many still cling to their branches, a pure gold in colour.

My love and I spent the last week at ease, away from our work, a last respite before winter. We headed west into the mountains to spend a few nights at a chalet. There we lounged about reading and looking out upon the mountain scenery, only stirring from our chairs to venture into the hot tub.

Before we journeyed west I picked all my tomatoes, a bountiful harvest. Most were still green, but they will ripen soon enough and then I shall have more on my hands than I know what to do with. There will salsa and tomato sauce. I also harvested some of my herbs – rosemary, parsley, thyme and oregano – cutting and tying them in bundles that I suspended in a paper bag to dry.

Soon enough the other herbs, and the tomato plants and peppers (which produced one measly fruit this year) will die off and I will have to deal with their remnants. Already the magpies are picking at the remains of my love’s flowers, searching for bits and pieces to add to their nests for winter. Then the garden will be done for the year and there will only be waiting for spring to come to begin again.

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 One Hundred Ninety

I awoke to the wind groaning and rattling through the trees and buildings. It came in gusts that made the trees bend and creak so loudly I couldn’t help but wonder if their branches might go. The sound of it was incredible, like some monster come alive to terrify the citizenry.

I walked with my love to her tower, buffeted by that wind through the darkness. There was no hint of the sun on the horizon, the eastern sky heavy with dark clouds. The wind sought us out as we walked, finding its way through alleys, around corners, exploding out to catch us where we least expected it. The trees whose leaves have been turning have been undressed by the wind and the ground is littered with the remnants of summer. Their newly bare branches, up thrust to the sky, look strange without their adornments.

In the Lost Quarter the wind is its own entity. One always reads of the wind auguring something, bringing a storm or ill news. Here in these parts it simply exists. Its purpose is what it does and that is bluster and blow and scour the plains, seeking out every last strand of grass, every millimetre of existence.

It did so for most of the morning, though even as I returned home it was slackening. Now as I write this it is calm outside, the sun bright and the sky clear. The wind has wandered elsewhere, taking off across the whole of prairie, claiming it as its own.

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 One Hundred Eighty Nine

They say one million people have perished from the grippe reborn since he regained his powers. The city we live in now has over a million people, so it is as if the inhabitants of this place were simply wiped off the map. Imagine empty, silent streets, with cars parked and still, gathering dust. Homes and buildings with darkened windows, corridors undisturbed by footsteps. The detritus of so many lives gradually falling into a kind of chaos.

One of my coworkers recently returned to our offices to pick something up and said it was disturbing. Papers had slipped from the boards where they had been pinned or fallen off desks. No one, except perhaps the cleaning staff had been inside in six months, and even they could not have been there with any regularity. Things had simply drifted into a kind of minor chaos with the passage of time and the workings of entropy. If we do not return for another six months or more, what will we find when we do?

Of course, a solitary city hasn’t been blasted out of existence by the dread lord. His power is much more insidious. One here, a few there, a dozen elsewhere. How many of us have not met someone who suffered from his malady, let alone someone who perished? It is easy to dismiss this all as so much drama, to insist that all our protocols and defences are unnecessary, an overreaction.

Many do and their voices are loud and angry. Most of us though go about our days warily, knowing the grippe reborn is here and will not be vanishing with the snap of our fingers. How do you mourn a thousand, let alone a million?

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 One Hundred Eighty Eight

My love and I, blessed with a day of idleness, decide to walk along the river. It is something we have not done in the last weeks with her return to work in the towers and the gradual resumption of some of the regulars of life in these parts. There have been other things to occupy our time, but we have both missed those sojourns.

They were some of the good things that have come about as a result of grippe’s return to these parts, something that we said we would continue beyond this cruel time. We have not done well in that regard, slipping back into something of the patterns of life that existed prior to the dread lord’s arrival. It is why I do not quite believe this shall change everything irrevocably as some do. Some things will, no doubt, but perhaps not those we think. The effects will be disparate but deep, showing up only when we look back on things decades from now. Much of what seems of absolute importance now, will no doubt be shown to be completely inconsequential.

It is a glorious day for a walk. The smoke has utterly vanished from the sky, which is back to its glorious and bright blue, a few wisp’s of white passing by. The leaves of the trees by the river are beginning to turn a golden yellow, though some still cling to a fading green. The paths along the river are quieter than before, the people walking along them seeming more subdued, everyone out to capture these moments of the passing seasons, knowing this may be the last chance for a day like this for a long while.

Certainly my love and I feel it as we walk. We sit upon the river bank and muse about why we didn’t make the effort to venture here more often given how much we enjoy it. The usual minor regrets of life at not taking the time for simpler pleasures. As we sit and talk, ducks paddle and play in the shallows, calling out to each other. These are surely their last days along the river too. Soon enough they will go south, a monumental, almost inconceivable journey. But they will return too. They will find these shallows again.