Tuesday, December 29, 2015

From a lighthouse, near the end of the year

From a lighthouse
Near the end of the year

My dear,

Thank you so much for your letter! I wish you could have seen the look of surprise on the mail carrier's face as I opened the lighthouse door to his knock. He seemed like a man bent on doing his duty no matter how absurd, just to make a point. He clearly did not expect anyone to be here and was already looking around for somewhere to stash the letter so that he could say his job was done. I had bolted the door and stuffed a rag rug under it to keep out the howling drafts, or I imagine he would have poked the letter under the door and been long gone by the time I descended all those stairs.

Our everlasting rain has turned into everlasting sleet and snow, hard pellets rattling on the walls and windows at all hours. The lioness refuses to go outside to hunt, merely making short, necessary visits to the snow fields as required and then returning to sleep on the bed by the fire. That's our bed, shared, because nowhere else is warm enough for us to survive the night. How did a family live here? Maybe they didn't stay the winter.

I appreciate your warning about the ship's captain! I'm gathering fragments of information as I buy fish each day from the fishermen who are brave or foolish enough to take their boats out into the bay in this weather. I admit I often look up from my books to watch them anxiously, in case one goes overboard, though what could I do in that case? One supposes that any fisherman who has lived this long will survive longer, but I suspect there is a logical fallacy in that statement somewhere. Any day could be our last, yet we have a one hundred percent survival rate up until that point.

The constant rattling of the snow and sleet has rattled my brains! I am rambling. I meant to say: thank you for the map, which has proved invaluable and has livened up the dull white plaster walls of this room no end. As you might imagine, my daily walks have been curtailed. I have boots, but after a walk I have wet boots. Until they dry, I have no boots!

The map and the fishermen's news together have helped me put together a picture of where he might have gone. That insufferable man! The town is still talking about him, my sister says. I got a letter from her last week saying that the rumors about us are flying fast and furious. She managed to fit quite a few veiled questions into her village gossip, but I am skilled at responding without giving her any new material. The town will just have to wonder. I'm sure anything they come up with will be more interesting than the truth, right?

The captain you mentioned should be arriving in port within the next few weeks, and I have secured a promise from Miles to notify me the moment it shows a sail. Whenever I get too cold, I go up and down the hundred steps of this lighthouse to warm myself up and strengthen my weak leg, sometimes as many as ten times, until I nearly fall over with exhaustion. Then the next day I can do a little more, and a little more. The lioness raises her head each time I reach our room at the top of the lighthouse, then drops it again when she sees I don't have a fish.

Fish, fish, fish. I'm getting as bad as the locals! I hope your lovely dry winter provides better than fish and your research goes exceptionally well for you! The dry, musty scriptorium sounds like heaven right now. I miss company and friends even more than I miss having dry boots! I will try to focus better on the research, so I have more to send you next time. I traded the ship's chandler in the port a painting I made of the lioness for a box of candles, so I will have many more hours of light per day to work now. Notice how much more I can write when I can see!

Waiting and watching and hoping,

A.

From the High Desert, just past the Winter Solstice

From the High Desert
Just past Winter Solstice

My Dear Friend,

You cannot imagine how your letter has lightened my spirits. Indeed, I had been feeling rather low, missing both true winter weather and any kind of useful information for my search. I was beginning to feel as though the quest was hopeless until your letter arrived and reminded me that we both still have work to complete. A task to complete keeps the mind sharp. Truly, the heat here must addle my wits! Your description of everlasting rain, I confess, made me wilt with envy. We’ve had not a drop these many months past. I almost forget the sound of rain, though when it does fall across the desert, there is a sweet, clean petrichor to the air afterward unlike anywhere else I’ve traveled.

The library here is a wonder! I’m not entirely sure if I mean that in a positive way or not. The books are in no order at all, half are crumbling to dust – the horror! – and dust and mold reign supreme in every corner of the place. I wouldn’t have thought mold would grow in the desert, but it has managed to do so in this library. But just the small number of manuscripts I’ve had a look at are promising. There is a wealth of knowledge here. I have to hold onto the hope that the answers we seek will be found here – at least in part!

I’ve found work, as you expected, in the scriptorium. At first, they were hesitant to employ me – they did not think one such as myself would be literate, let alone have skill in writing – but the head scribe, a formidable woman, indeed, tested me and found me worthy. I now have duties transcribing musty old manuscripts and have free access to the rest of the texts when my daily duties are complete. It is an ideal arrangement, although it pays next to nothing. I am fortunate that the lodgings and one meal a day are included, so I am able to save some funds. I sense that our quest will require them eventually!

About the ship – I heard an unsettling rumor about the very ship you seek, or about her captain, that is. It seems he is something of a picaroon, and he dealt very ill with one of the Duke’s favorite courtiers. I was not able to get more details, but I will send more information as I gather it. I know he is of vital importance, but I implore you to use the utmost caution in dealing with him. It seems he may be rather untrustworthy.

My candle is guttering and I must retire before I draw too much attention to myself. The lodgings may be paid for, but I am one of four scribes sharing a dormitorium. I am expected to maintain a curfew.

I’ve enclosed a copy of a map for the lighthouse. It is ancient and I thought it was beautiful, though I doubt it will help in any way. But I hope it will remind you of home, and of happy times.

                                                                                Your friend and comrade,
                                                                                                                X


P.S.: I nearly forgot. I found a text, nearly translucent with age, that I thought rather strange. The book itself was on agriculture and farming techniques, but it fell into my hands from atop the bookcase and opened to a particularly ancient page. The text of the page discussed a serpent-like creature, which I found intriguing, and in the margins was commentary about, I believe, the most astonishing sea creatures. My report is incomplete because most of the writing was illegible and faded with age and I couldn’t make it out, but the illuminations were as bright and brilliant as if they were newly painted, and did seem to depict some kind of marvelous creatures. I thought it odd to include serpents and sea creatures in a book devoted to agriculture. I don’t know if it is important at all, but I felt it warranted a mention. I have the text secreted away and will return to study it further as soon as I can.                               ~X

Tuesday, December 22, 2015

One

My dear!

I will not bore you with the details behind this delay. Just please accept my apologies for the lateness of this packet of ancillary material. The lighthouse feels bleak enough these days that I am glad of a trip into town to the post office, but the complications! Well, I did say I wouldn't bore you with that.

No sign of the ship yet. I can't imagine where I'll go next to wait for it. Maybe my strategy is completely wrong and I should be constantly on the move, instead of perching in one or another inhospitable point and watching and waiting until my eyes and ears ache from the silence.

Not that it's silent here! I just mean the lack of sounds I want to hear. There is plenty of noise, between the seagulls, the fishing boats, the men cracking jokes outside my window that I think I'm supposed to hear, but am also supposed to pretend that I don't hear. And the everlasting lashing rain rattling on the panes.

My lioness surely keeps me safe, but she has to hunt unless I buy fish for her from the men. Money is very tight, but I worry constantly while she's out hunting at night. Not so much about her as about me.

I don't want you to worry, though! Really we are very snug. I never imagined a lighthouse would be this warm and comfortable and well grouted against the wind. During the day the lioness and I sit together by the fire and study ancient maps and journals in the old lighthouse keeper's den, where the light is good enough to read. There will be much more ancillary material to come for your search. I hope that you have heard or found or divined any kind of information at all for mine.

My search seems impossible most nights, like finding a particular grain of sand lost in all the beaches of the world, but then dawn comes and the lioness returns home and I feel that ridiculous hope rising again. I can only wish that you too are feeling the resurgence of hope!