Week 09

Life, Relocation

Spring 3: "Someone new arrives. Who?" Mike   Hold a Discussion: Jerry: Aren't we worried about property values dropping with all of these ... new residents?

Martook the Jack: property values? we dont have the resources to be taking in outsiders.   Mike: I'm a doctor.   Danni the seamstress: If they are skilled... can we really turn people away?   Constable Bob: well i always say the more the merrier Odalette Welford the Baker: What does.... He? Eat? Mike: I ...food? *Mike sighs knowingly*   ...   The notebook hit the far wall of the small hut. Odhran pinched the bridge of his nose and tried unsuccessfully to keep the burn of insomnia from his eyes. “Who the fuck is Mike?” Odhran repeated to the flickering shadows of the candle lit room, and snatched another book from the table. It soon took the same trajectory as the previous.   “Who the fuck is Mike?” He was no longer expecting an answer but the question had been his mantra for the past 3 days, and he hadn’t slept so there was no reason for anyone to be judgey about it. Odhran glared at the coat rack, daring it to say something clever on the topic.   “Woof. Ok. I need sleep.” He admitted finally with a heavy slump into the nearby chair. The coat rack had never been particularly witty and it was silly to think that it would have suddenly developed a personality now after so many years.   Odhran’s heavy eyes fell next on the gameboard sitting a bit disheveled on the table. Sighing, he replaced all the fallen pieces where they had previously been and, remembering that it was his turn, reached to make his next move. He then remembered that the piece he needed had been hurled at the fireplace. Odhran shot the coat rack a warning glance. He waited a moment for a response and then pulled the carving knife from his belt and began working on a new game piece.   The familiar motions his hand took with the knife calmed him and helped him focus. Each dip of the blade and the resulting curl of wood that fell on the stone floor eased his frustration with the question that had been plaguing his mind. Mike was new. He had known it from the moment he saw him. Odhran had lived so long with nothing ever being new that being confronted with something so very new was like being dropped into a frozen lake. He had never been dropped into a frozen lake before, never that he could remember, but even that sensation felt more familiar, more known to Odhran, than Mike was. Odhran came to the conclusion again that he must have done something different. Changed something.   Odhran rarely got this far and that was part of the problem. Early events were easier to remember. The motions were second nature. He’d done it all before so many times. Those years came and went like the curls of wood he was producing. Practiced memory without thought. Odhran knew he had gotten further before, knew it like he knew everything else. He suspected that occasionally he had gotten much further but had no reliable memory of it. That was the real curse. The not remembering. How much easier would this all be if he could just remember everything he had already tried. The notes helped though. Whenever a memory would come to him he would write it down so that his hands could help him remember the words. The more he did it the easier it got.   Odhran estimated he had less than a year left though before even his hands became an unreliable witness to his curse. He was quickly approaching the vague unknown and for something new to happen now, when he needed to be so sure of everything he did, was more than unsettling. He needed to be sure of how he had gotten here. He needed to be sure of Mike.   By the time the morning sun was breaking the top of his windowsill Odhran had made up his mind. He had to be sure. By lunch he was standing atop the cliff overlooking the valley below. A moment to reflect on everything he had done this time with the hope that some of it would be remembered. Then Odran was falling with the past rushing up to greet him once more.