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

The Landlord

He set off for the Quarter in March, as he did every year. An unsettled time, the weather always unpredictable and the ways into the Quarter, which were always drifting, were even harder to trace. It was important that he look in upon his lands each spring to ensure all was in order for the growing season to come, at least that was what he told himself and those he visited. Some years spring had not arrived by the time he did and he was forced to endure a sullen and frigid tour. 

It had been decades since he lived within the Quarter, having fled those environs at the first opportunity. A number of listless years followed wherein he wandered about attempting to find his place in the wider world. That proved difficult, for he spent most of his time half-heartedly indulging in various passion projects, all of which came to nothing. There was his writing, of course, which he quickly gave up once it went from ignored to dismissed. Also, his travel, which he talked about constantly. He was always going to be establishing some new venture in some distant place, only to quietly leave after a few months when he could secure no interest from the locals. 

After a number of years the birthright, which had always been his even as he rejected it out of hand, came to him. His possessions, though not substantial, were more than enough to support him. He was not so foolish as to believe he could return and make of himself a landholder, so he endeavoured to let it out to some of his former neighbours. A satisfactory agreement was reached, but he was left unsatisfied by it and determined that he should tour his lands each spring, though he was told this was strictly unnecessary and in fact something of a burden. The renters and the lawyers and accountants could manage the arrangements perfectly fine without him.  

He ignored them. It felt important that he maintain a connection with the Quarter if he was to have possessions there. And he knew from experience that the longer he stayed away the more difficult it came to find his way back.  

The weather was pleasant when he left, but as he came nearer to the amorphous border of the Quarter it turned, as it often did. Sleet came down heavily, stinging his cheeks and soaking him right through. The rolling hills, which had been brown and bare were soon white with snow. All the roads were obscured, the way forward unclear. He was unconcerned, for past experience had taught him that it was only when he was certain he was utterly lost that he discovered he had somehow entered the environs of the Quarter.  

This time proved no different. By afternoon the skies were clearing and he could see a vast horizon unfolding ahead of him. White lined with darkness where the roads crisscrossed and speckled with other colours where houses stood. Somewhere in that vastness were his holdings. He set off toward them with a lightness in his step. 

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

The Sorcerer Comes to Town

The sorcerer came to town at the end of November. Cold winds arrived with her leaving a blanket of snow on the fields and streets. They were northerners mostly, it was said, though he had driven in from the south. Anyway, it was hard going for a few days. The first cold snap of the year was always the worst as everyone remembered all over again what winter was.  

She moved into the Lang place, which had sat empty since Mabel had left town after Harold went to jail for touching the kids. Once it had been the locus of that end of town, half a dozen or so children heading there every day after school to spend a few hours until their parents came home from work. Most found it fitting that a sorcerer would move into a place like that, so shadowed with the weight of the past that everyone wanted to forget. They were disturbing sorts anyway.  

A few speculated on the logistics. Had the sorcerer bought it? Except it hadn’t been put up for sale, certainly not advertised. Was Mabel renting it? Again, there had been no advertisement. Did sorcerers pay rent and deal with landlords? They must, they were people, after a fashion. 

That he was a sorcerer was evident from the staff he carried, if not his dress. Most had not seen a staff before and they studied it curiously. Easier that than meeting her eyes. It was more like a walking stick, rising only to his waist, with a narrow point at one end. The whole thing was wrapped in thin bands of metal, perhaps silver, for it certainly shone like that. Each band was filled with runes, some only visible in the right light. There were a few left in town who could read the old tongue, but no matter how they were pressed they refused to speak on the meaning of any of the runes. 

The sorcerer wasn’t seen much about town. The odd encounter in the grocery store where everyone fell silent and eyed what she had in her cart. Cereal, milk, nothing unusual. She complained about the price of Doug’s vegetables, but everyone did. People did begin to visit him, though no one would ever admit it. Most entered through the back alley, but they were still seen. It was a small town after all and everyone knew everyone’s business. What transpired within the house was most certainly left unsaid. A sorcerer’s business was her own. 

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

Festival Calendar

Seasons have their rhythms everywhere and the Quarter is no different. Its inhabitants have their own ways of marking those cycles, events whose origins are sometimes obscure but which are unimaginable outside of certain times on the calendar. Just as winter warms to spring which unfurls into summer, so the spring socials turn to sports days and fairs. One could travel from town to town across the full deceptive breadth of the Quarter taking in the festivities until harvest begins. Autumn brings turkey suppers and harvest dances, while winter is an interminable time whose dark hours are measured out in card games and curling bonspiels.  

All of these celebrations, in one form or another, can be found in towns and villages across the greater western plains. There are others that are unique to the Quarter, like the First Drop in spring. When the ground is finally warm enough for seeding to begin, farmers across the Quarter will empty a bottle of rye on a chosen field for luck and good harvest. In some places this is a solitary, almost furtive exercise, in others a field is chosen and the whole community turns out for the ceremony, which is concluded with a potluck in the community hall. 

Another is the Fallow Ground, typically in October, although some communities wait until after the first snow stays. Always it is after harvest. Families and sometimes whole communities will gather at a field that has been shorn of its crop and there they will bury human figures made of bread or cake to restore the land. These figures are often marked with some representation of a deceased relative, an acknowledgement of the cycle of life and death in which everyone is engaged. In some cases, a sin-eater is present and one of the bread figures will be given to them, along with a glass of rye or beer, to consume. These individuals are scorned members of the community at all other times of the year, but on this one day it is for them to take the burden of everyone’s sins upon them to ensure next year’s harvest.

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

A Good Day

He loaded the flatdeck with the tractor and the post-pounder as the light was still crawling above the eastern horizon. Long shadows lay across the yard mirroring the archipelagos of clouds above, somewhere between white and grey, set against a dark sky becoming blue. The back of the truck was already filled with posts and rolls of barbed wire and a fencing connector and a five-gallon pail filled with fencing nails. The hammer and pliers were in his toolbelt, tucked behind the seat of the truck alongside the cooler with his lunch and thermos of coffee.  

He was on the road by the time the shadows had resolved to light, leaving a trail of dust that hung in the air long after his passage. Once he reached the pasture he had a cup of coffee leaning against the truck, listening to the wind stir the grass. The only other sound was the call of the birds, blackbird and meadowlark mostly, and the hum of the grasshoppers. A bad year for them. The cool of the morning, promised the end of their season was just around the corner. The cattle were out of the pasture, having been sold the week before. Winding down that season as well and getting ready for the next. 

The morning he spent on the west fence. There were no bad posts so he just used the truck, replacing nails that had fallen out and connecting a broken section of wire. Lunch was salmon sandwiches with cucumbers and carrots from the garden. Dessert was a slice of chocolate zucchini cake. He washed everything down with the last of the coffee. The north fence had a few posts that had broken off, so he brought the tractor and post-pounder around to deal with them. The bottom wire was going as well, so he decided to replace the full length of it. That took the rest of the afternoon with still some left to finish the next day.  

He quit when he started to get hungry. The shadows were already getting long, the clouds tinged with red as the sun drifted low in the west. He left the flatdeck, tractor and post-pounder in the pasture. By the time he’d strung up the gate and turned the truck onto the road home, he had to turn on the lights. They caught grasshoppers flitting ghostlike across the road, dodging out of the way of the truck. He turned on the radio to listen to the weather for tomorrow. 

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

Old Horizons

The truck sat forgotten in among the trees of the shelter belt that had once surrounded a farm yard. It was a late arrival, having been left sometime after the house had been moved, the foundation dug up and the concrete recycled. The quonset and bins had been moved as well, while the corrals were torn down and the laneways plowed under, so that the land could be returned to crop. Someone had decided they couldn’t bear to take down the three rows of trees that encircled the old yard and at some point the truck had been left with them by parties unknown. 

Wheat grew on one side of the trees and lentils on the other. Both were the latest drought resistant varieties, necessary because after a wet spring, June had turned brutally hot and that had continued on through July. The sixth year in a row of drought with no end in sight. Yet the crops showed no signs of suffering from the heat. It wasn’t just the new varieties, though that was a large part of it. The fields, like so many others in those parts, were also covered in solar panels, standing tall above the crops, adjusting their angle to the sun, providing shade to keep the little moisture that was left in the soil from evaporating away.  

The gravel road that ran in front of the fields was still in good condition, though it was empty now more often than not. Most of the farm sites that had populated the road as it wound its way north from the highway had also been turned back to crop land, the result of consolidation that always followed the arrival of more efficient equipment and techniques. First it had been tractors replacing horses, then decade after decade of larger and more precise equipment, enabling more bountiful harvests even in the face of continuous drought. The few people left now farmed vast sections of land, but with the depopulation brought on by their own consolidation they had moved to be nearer to town, which itself was shrinking. Some had even moved farther away, there being little need to stay close at hand. 

Automated drones handled most of the day to day work in the fields now, making daily passes to measure and record everything. They were nimble enough to be able to target herbicide directly onto any weeds that grew up and could even target pesticides as well. Seeding and harvest was largely automated as well, with fields well mapped. The work there was in transporting the equipment to the field. Once it was there and set up they needed only to keep an eye on operations on their phone. 

The drones paid no mind to the truck or the trees surrounding it. They were not part of the field and were therefore irrelevant. If the truck had been left there as a message it was one that was ignored. But they were not the intended recipient. There were still margins, however narrow and restricted, where the old ways still persisted, for whoever might be looking for those spaces. And there was always someone who was, driven by romantic, possibly foolish, ideas who would spot an old truck sitting useless among some trees and would lose themselves out in the deep parts of the Quarter chasing some forgotten horizon. 

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

The Rusted Edge of Things

The alkali slough was a shimmer of white on the horizon as they crested the hill, almost lost in amidst the faded green of the surrounding sea of grass. A well-worn trail led to it, following old cow paths and picking its way through the knolls and dells. They had been along it enough now that the path they followed was becoming dangerously visible. The grass was worn where the tires passed over it. Another year and the ground would be bare, if they were lucky enough to still be coming then. 

They had left the yard before dawn, as usual, so that there would be no trail of dust visible to mark their passage. Without lights in the darkness they couldn’t travel fast, but the road, once gravel but long since reduced to dirt, didn’t allow for speed anyway. It was washed out and overgrown, though the locals used it to avoid the highway where you had to pay tolls for safe conduct. No one existing out here could afford that, just as the Magnus and his Spartan Hordes and what passed for their government couldn’t afford to extend their suzerainty beyond the highway.  

There was nothing of worth out here anyway, at least nothing the Magnus and his followers saw as worthy. A few people trying to scrabble together an existence in among the remnants of the old ways, most of whom would be forced to give up and move on once it became clear there was no water to squeeze from these stones.  

No water in general. They could almost count on their hands the number of days they’d had rain or snow in the past year when they’d first come to these parts. The ground was cracking in places, weed strewn where once there had been planted fields. When the wind howled the dust swallowed the sky. The pastures had done better, especially with cattle now sparse to eat upon them. They roamed wide and free, like the bison once had, and various tribes followed them living off them as best they could. Deer and antelope proliferated. Moose as well. Wolves followed these burgeoning herds, but that didn’t frighten them. There were wolves everywhere now. 

The alkali slough wasn’t visible from the road, nor would their truck be now they were over the hill and into the dell. One of them stayed behind to watch the road and warn them of any approach. The rest descended to near the slough’s edge where they began to explore the area. Mixed in with the grey grass that seemed both living and dead were metal remnants. Pieces from trucks and tractors and things even older than that. Wagon wheels. All of it had been thrown here decades ago, left to rust and sink into the slough, eaten away by its salt. It was unclear why these scraps and pieces, most of them broken and useless, had been left here and not thrown away. Some old farmer had obviously thought they might be useful someday and had not wanted to part with them. 

Time and terrible events had made them, not just useful but valuable. The machines they had been part of were long vanished, but what was left could be refashioned and remade for what remained. That slowly fading past that all of them kept patching together until the only thing to do was leave it to rot somewhere. What they couldn’t use themselves they could barter for what they needed, even pay the tolls.  

They came as little as they could, to ensure no one noticed where they were going. Even in such an empty land there were always eyes watching. They took only a few bits and pieces they needed or could sell, always resisting the temptation to collect it all. Better to leave it here where no one but them knew of its existence. There was less now than there had been those first trips, less and less each time. Most of it was rusted almost beyond use. They took whatever they thought could be salvaged and left, wondering what would happen to them when there was nothing left. 

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

The Turning of Seasons

Springs are always haphazard in these parts. It is bright and sunny one day and then the next twenty centimetres of sleet falls. The next day the sun is out again and you can almost imagine it is summer. Nothing happens for days and then all at once everywhere you look it is green and trees are filled with leaves. 

That’s life, in a way. Long stretches of stillness, followed by a frenzy of activity that sputters out seemingly as soon as it begins.  

He had mixed feelings about spring in truth. Haphazard even. It was the end of winter of course, which was always welcome. But some years winter seemed to drag on through spring and they had more snow in April than in January. The trees had tried to bloom and then had to retreat with the temperatures dropping below freezing. Now they were trying again, green slowly unfurling.  

Misery too. The air was full of pollen; he could almost taste it. Nothing and then all at once, everywhere. There was no escaping it. Keep the windows closed and don’t go out and it made no difference. It found its way in. His eyes itched, his throat scratched and soon enough he was sniffling and sneezing. Then he was applying all the remedies: neti pots and antihistamines, eye drops and constant showers, staying indoors and changing his clothes as soon he came back from being out. For you couldn’t just live your life in your house all the time. 

He tried to those few weeks when everyone else was glorying in spring (The sunshine! The green!). All to hold the pollen at bay as best he could. There was no stopping it. Like the changing of the seasons it would come, celebrated by most. He treated it like most people treated winter: an unwelcome guest, barely tolerated, counting the days till it was gone. 

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

Further Notes on the Drylands

The summer’s fires still burned through the depths of winter, hidden from sight beneath the black scars on the land where they had previously raged. They slumbered now, patiently waiting for the inevitable turning of the seasons. The winter had not been cold enough, nor had there been enough snow, to douse the flames. And when spring came and the days began to lengthen and warm, the fires would be ready to rise from the dark earth and begin to feed again. 

It hardly felt like winter, except for two weeks of such bitter cold that everyone was left feeling as though they had been transported to some far polar clime. There were as many days above freezing as below it seemed. When it snowed warmth soon followed, returning the hills to a barren state. Even in the valleys they could see the brown grass poking up through the thin patches of white. The snow did not melt so much as evaporate, the ground still frozen far below so that the water could not penetrate.  

Rivers, which had dwindled to trickles over the summer and fall, continued to shrink until it seemed the flow might cease entirely. Reservoirs and lakes were low, exposing the pipes where water was pumped out to the surrounding communities. Everywhere they looked bare, silted and creviced land was exposed. They felt exposed too; the world they thought they lived in had gone away and what came next was unclear.  

In centuries past it was said there were droughts in these parts that lasted for decades. 40 years of drylands. The last hundred or so had been wet ones by comparison, though not without dry years intermixed. The usual way of things had been a few years of dry, followed by a few years of wet, balancing everything out. Water had not exactly been plentiful, but there had been more than enough for growing communities, expanding irrigation and oil drilling. Now it was clear there would not be enough for things to go on as usual.  

Politicians spoke of crisis, of not watering lawns or taking shorter showers, to ensure there would be enough water this year for farmers irrigating, communities to drink and oil companies to drill. A crisis suggested this was a temporary moment, from which there would be a return to normality. But if the aberration had been the last century, with its lack of decade spanning drought, then it was a crisis so much as a return to an old equilibrium, hurried on by a warming climate. No one wanted to acknowledge that possibility, for it mean the end of life as it had been in these parts.  

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

Harvest Moon

Harvest moon at the Harvest Dance, shining bright in a clear sky as darkness comes across the land. A cool evening after a warm day, the surest sign of autumn. Everyone gathers at the community hall, parking in the empty field behind it. There’s not much else left of main street anymore. The church was shuttered and torn down, leaving only the foundation. The same with the general store and gas station down by the highway and the elevators that stood by the railway tracks at the other end of street. The post office too has been closed, the building donated to the local museum in town. Now people get their mail from boxes set in front of the hall. 

Town is what this once was, but it has been a long time since anyone thought of it that way. Only the community hall, the hotel bar and a few houses remain. The community is all those who live in the surrounding area and they are the ones coming in to the dance. Volunteers bringing turkeys and mashed potatoes and squash and carrots and jello salads and pie. Everyone pays their ten dollars and they line up for dinner and eat at the long tables set out across the whole hall. The talk is of the weather and the harvest, recently completed for all those in attendance. They compare yields and discuss prices, shaking their heads at those who are still out combining. Equipment troubles and nothing but bad luck. 

Some go home after the potluck, while those that remain put away half the tables and chairs, folding them up underneath the stage The band starts up and the bar at the back gets busy. Two dollars a drink. There are a few dancers but most mill about around the dance floor, sipping drinks or continuing their conversation. In the kitchen the volunteers disburse the leftovers and clean the pots and roasting pans and run the dishwasher.  

As the evening goes on, the crowd gets younger. Kids from high school disappear outside to their trucks where they’ve got a bottle hidden. They saunter back inside, faces flush, convinced of their cleverness, while the adults eye them skeptically. More people arrive from outlying communities. The Altario boys, back from university, appear, taking advantage of the lower age limit to cross the border and drink. This draws the ire of some of the local youths who squint across the hall at these interlopers. 

The evening goes on for awhile with country standards, hard stares and too much whiskey, until one of the locals gets it into his head to take a run at a smirking Altario boy. He sprints across the dance floor, landing an off-balance punch. A halfhearted melee follows, the combatants basically hoping someone will intercede to break things up. Some of the older farmers do, reaching in and pulling people apart, grumbling about the goddamn kids. The local and his friends are deemed responsible and tossed out into the night. 

It’s too early to go home so they wander across the road to the hotel bar, a dismal old place that smells of mildew and stale beer. They order beers and are halfway through them when someone else from the dance arrives, looks them over and says to the bartender: You know those kids aren’t eighteen. Off into the night they go again, crossing the road to the truck with the bottle. After a couple unsteadying drinks they decide to return to the dance. Not quite an hour has passed and bygones may now be bygones. 

They slip in one at a time without incident, all except the one who started the fight. He is turned around at the door and sent back into the night. He returns to the truck with the bottle, though it’s locked so he can’t get at it, figuring everyone else will be back in a minute, especially once they realize he hasn’t made it in. No one returns though and it starts getting cold and his ride home is inside, having apparently decided he’s better off forgetting about him. A few older folks leave the dance and shake their heads at him without comment as they get in their trucks.  

He contemplates trying the bar again, but he’s sobered up enough by now to know that’s a poor idea. Instead, he starts walking, heading north on main street to the highway, which he scampers across into a stubble field. As soon as he is off main street and its two feeble street lights, the darkness is almost total. Only the moon, bright above is there to guide him. He walks along the edge of the field to where the road going north is and starts following it, staying in the safety of the stubble. It’s only five kilometres to home, so it shouldn’t take him much more than an hour. 

Even with the full moon, the going is tough, the ground uneven, and though he is much more sober than he was he still has trouble keeping his feet. His eyes adjust as he goes, the darkness changing around him. The sky, once just a moon and a vast blackness speckled by a few bright stars is now full of light, thousands of stars visible. He stands teetering atop a rise, looking up in awe at the vastness of it all, beyond his comprehension, and is filled with indescribable emotion that is bigger than himself somehow. More than he can contain.  It is a long while before he notices the yard light from home is visible ahead in the darkness and starts toward it.  

Now Available: The Adventures of Holly Amos

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THE ADVENTURES OF HOLLY AMOS

A WESTERN

CLINT WESTGARD

Holly Amos is on the run from a payroll heist gone south. With Morris Danforth at her side, trouble has always been what she’s been searching for. But lately Morris has been more trouble than he’s worth, and Holly is thinking it’s time for a change. But with the law after them, things are about to take a turn for the worse.

Clive Hestin is the lawman on her trail. He is a Northwest Mounted Police constable, banished to a lawless frontier town for refusing to look the other way on the crimes of his fellow officers. Now he has to track down Holly and Morris or risk being drummed out of the force forever. Nothing will stop him from seeing justice done. Nothing except, perhaps, Holly Amos.

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