The Woodsman

The Woodsman - a reading (on YouTube)

Nothing I say matters,

This is not my red-cowled curse.

Yours is not my pain but it resonates

Like the first blow against a family tree.

In their eyes, I am sworn to support you,

Not fight for you, with you or against you,

Stand clear-eyed as their phantasms descend

In what should be the twilight of your gods.

Say nothing as they whisper in your ear,

Reweaving the illusions that consume you,

Reinforcing their familiar bonds,

Their slipknots tight and sacrosanct.

Attend like a dutiful daughter,

As they would have you do,

Forgetting I am neither female nor blood kin

Whose bedroom privileges apparently overlap on mine.

Bind your hands without comment

As you rework a childhood puzzle,

Your fingers bloody from the shards,

Black from unwinding the lead came,

As you reconstruct the mirror,

Piece by shattered piece,

Into a stained glass window

Reflecting your perfectly broken past.

Ignore the looking glass on your nightstand,

Casting light at fractured angles,

Revealing the shattered image of a woman

From the girl I never knew

Whose eyes implore me not to cast the counterspell,

As if my silence is not complicity,

As if glass daggers have not sliced my hands,

As if my fingertips are calloused yellow from craft

Like yours.

You play the fairy tale princess,

I watch you fall asleep,

To reawaken decades later

With a slap rather than a kiss.

I’m no charming wolf-prince like your brother,

No shining housecarl as you wish,

I inherited no magic sword,

Only this ax and an ordinary grindstone.

I command no armies, no allies,

Raise no tartaned clan,

Just wield this iron wedge,

Cleaving right from wrong.

I am the woodsman,

Rough-hewn and splintered timber

Fit only for the charcoaler,

Or to lay a charnel fire.

© 2015 Edward P. Morgan III

Pearl

Oh Margarete, my precious pearl, captive of Kraist, enraptured afar in the shadows of Repugnikratia and its realm of unilluminated darkness, please believe I did not know. Lying atop your burial mound, I feel as empty as your grave.

---

My name is Cotton Nero A.x, last of the Demokins. Or so I thought until I broke the sacred seals and peered into the Domesday Book. Our people had fallen long ago, first in fire, then in blood. Now our mark has been all but erased from this earth. Kraist and his barbarians would say cleansed.

My journey began when I returned from searching the southern upland wilderness for artifacts. A salvage crew had claimed they had stumbled upon a cache on the outskirts of the ruined Yellow City. The valedictors sent me as an authenticator to establish any connection to the lost Nighthawk niversity. After a six-week investigation, I suspected the salvage crew had strayed illegally into the Southern Venom Zone surrounding Peachtree but had used the Yellow City to mask the origin of their finds. Only time would tell whether the burning sickness condemned their trespass.

As I returned to the seat of the Scient, I saw smoke rising from the Villa of Ashes, drifting through the broad river valley like a poisonous fog. From an overlook near the ancient parkway, I stood witness to the aftermath of the Demokins’ final battle.

I interviewed the survivors as they fled. Most averted their eyes and ducked their heads as they hurried past, shunning my visible badges of office. Only a few paused to relate the tale.

I pieced together how Repugnikratia’s lightning raid had fulfilled the destiny of our mountain stronghold like Kraist’s accusations of topomancy. The zealot’s forces had flowed through the valley like a flash flood, inundating everything in their path. Even our northern enclave of The Boon with its catacumbal niversity had been overrun. Now, our scoles and corts and libers were indistinguishable from the ancient ruins. We’d grown complacent behind our walls.

Where Kraist styled himself as a warlord and a savior, the people of the Scient saw only the dimming of an ancient light. With the fall of the Villa of Ashes, I knew the Demokins as a united people would cease to exist. All of our cathedrae had fallen silent. Kraist’s heralded edicts now replaced our sacred lore. Our salvaged knowledge had come undone. Our Reluminescence had been eclipsed.

Quickly, I got swept up in the refugees’ exodus to the mountains. Any unsecured chattel was being put to the sword.

---

Days later, I awoke alone at Capel Sion in the place of Hanging Dogs, not knowing how I came to be there. The other refugees had scattered like fallen leaves before a winter wind.

A decade past, Capel Sion had marked the highpoint of our Reluminescence. Now, the abandoned Manuprint workshop afforded me scant sanctuary, a final refuge in my flight. All the procurators and copywrights were gone. Slain or fled, I did not know. The vineyard lay fallow. The herb garden was overgrown and clogged with weeds. Rapeseed obscured the burial yard beneath a yellow carpet. That softened the blow of seeing your and your mother’s graves again after so many years away.

I knew then I’d come to say goodbye.

After I revived myself with rations from the valedictor’s hidden stockpiles, I unsealed the Domesday Book. First, I searched its square pages for clues to the workshop’s sudden demise. Finding none, I next scoured the index for your gravesite. Kraist’s marauders had claimed you and your mother in one of their first raids a decennium ago. Mistra Nero A.x had been a Valkyrie assigned to our protection. I was an adjunct procurator on my way to becoming an authenticator. You had only just emerged from infancy a year before.

They came by night, circling through the mountains. I only remember the smoke and blood and tears. Valedictor Velim Faustina wouldn’t let me see you. He said it was for the best. He told me that you had died within Mistra’s arms and that was how I should remember you both.

Soon after the burials, I threw myself into righteous work to re-illuminate the night. Each passing year only dulled the pain a little more, but the wound of your and your mother’s absence never fully healed.

And yet, the Domesday Book still bore your name. Valedictor Velim Faustina had lied. Why I didn’t know. I only knew your grave stood empty. As I skimmed the pages, I found yours was not the only one. I discovered a host of others, all girls, none older than twelve. Kraist had abducted hundreds of the Otho generation. Perhaps that solved the riddle of why the valedictor had fled. 

On my knees at your graveside, the tears returned unbidden. I wondered if you were still alive. I wondered at the young woman you might have become. I knew that in my ignorance I had failed you. Kraist had stolen everything from me. If you yet lived, I vowed to get you back.

Weary from the bright sunlight, I curled up and fell into an uneasy slumber.

---

The scent of the rapeseed overwhelms me like sweet incense. Plucked music like a memory permeates the air. The euphony drives me mad. It refuses to leave my head. But is my journey just beginning or have I already reached its end?

---

When I awoke, sunlight was fading. Crepuscular rays illuminated a previously hidden arbor set in the shadow of the forest. A path receded into the darkness like a vision. It called me like a dream.

I gathered my scant belongings and provisions for the journey. I strapped on my black Evlar breastplate and my iTanium dagger, the badges of my now nonexistent office. I was no Martial or Valkyrie but I knew my way around a blade. Scrounging through the Manuprint workshop, I added a Polaris stone, an ancient copper penny, and a polished magnifier as clear as a mountain stream. The Polaris stone would guide me. The copper would buy me aid. The magnifier would help me see.

The arbor track descended from the mountains. Two score days I wandered through the upland forests. Beneath the canopy of trees with boles as dark as indigo, only the Polaris stone kept my path toward sunrise true. Every farm and freehold and fastness I passed was eerily abandoned like the ancient ruins. Or a pile of charred timber and artificial stone. I encountered no other soul on my journey, living or dead. As if every man and beast had been taken up to the heavens just like Kraist’s fanatics said.

But from the shadows I sensed eyes upon me. Ten years as an authenticator had honed my instincts. Without them, I never would have survived. Predators, two-legged or four, I was certain of their presence. I could feel their piercing stares. Hair bristled on the back of my neck for no reason. Startled birds rose into flight from deep within the trees.

I scanned the wilderness and ruins with the magnifier but saw not even a flicker of movement. These moss-troopers never revealed themselves to me. Once or twice daily I called out a hail but received no reply. After I time, I stopped. Yet I still drew comfort from their presence, my unseen traveling companions.

Then, a few days before I reached my destination, all traces of them disappeared. I was once again alone. Perhaps they had sated their curiosity. Or had I passed beyond the borders of their territory?

My journey through the uplands ended atop a high bluff overlooking a river that snaked through the pristine landscape like a thread of gold. Beyond stood the verge of a verdant garden, reborn in our long absence. The far shore was lined with fruit trees. I counted a dozen varieties at least. The scent of apple blossoms drifted across the water like sweet nectar. The border of Kraist’s territory. The Eastern Venom Zone.

This was not how the valedictors had described it. No word had filtered down that the lowland waste was free from the burning sickness never mind flourishing and green. What other vital data had the valedictors kept hidden?

I once again pulled the magnifier from its leathern case and scanned along the river. Its water flowed quick and deep. I traced the shoreline seeking a ford or ferry. My copper should see me safely to the other side.

Across the water, I spied a carefree demoiselle in a white dress on a rock outcropping with her legs curled beneath her. She was plucking the petals from wildflowers and tossing them in the water, watching as the current swept them downstream. Her golden hair was loose and glistened like the river. Her pale skin shone in the sunlight like the ancient porcelain we so rarely found intact. She was yet a maiden but displayed woman’s grace.

In the middle distance, I spotted a city perched upon a hill, its walls shining like a vision of Kraist’s mythical heaven. Her home, I assumed. A new city, not an improvisation built atop the ruins. Kraist’s city.

I needed to investigate. This girl was the only person I’d seen in weeks. Hers wasn’t an extension of the upland wilderness that buffered our separate worlds. Perhaps her aid would see me to the other side.

I descended the bluff along a sweeping, switchback trial. At its base I found a gravel path that shadowed the near shore. I followed the path downstream. When I was nearly across from the young woman, I hailed her.

She looked up, startled by my presence. A large, unblemished pearl lay at the point of the shallow v of her white, embroidered bodice. Even from a distance, she was as beautiful as Mistra. As if I was seeing a much younger ghost. My breath caught in my throat. Margarete.

She watched as I approached the shore, curious but unafraid. No recognition dawned within her eyes. Of course she would not remember me. She would have been much too young. I knew I had to approach her carefully. I needed to be certain.

When we were separated by a stretch of swirling but silent water, I called out to her. “Do you hail from yonder city?”

“I do but nearly all my life,” she cried back boldly. Many young women would be afraid to converse with strangers. Not her. Though her face held a curious expression.

“I seek a crossing,” I said. “Is there a ford nearby?”

“All the fords are guarded by my master. None may cross without his permission.”

“Then perhaps a ferry.” I held up the ancient copper coin and made sure it caught the light. “I carry the standard fare.”

She gently shook her head. “No ferryman will bear a stranger from Gilead. Only death or a pass from my master will see you safely across the river. What business calls you to this side?”

I seized on her curiosity to keep the conversation going. “I search for my daughter. She was lost to me half a score of years ago. I recently discovered she may have found her way here to live.”

“Many daughters have been blessed to find their way to Capel Hill.” She laughed spontaneously as if her mood had bubbled up from a secret spring that fed the river. “What does she look like? Perhaps I know her.”

I wanted to say, she looks just like you but I knew I needed to woo her into acceptance, if indeed this was truly her. “In all honesty, I do not know. She was lost to me when she was very young. She would be about your age, perhaps. Her mother had fair hair, pale skin and was slim like you.”

She laughed again, a sound as high and sweet as trickling water. “I suspect you attempt flattery to gather in my trust. All that you can see from where you stand.”

“But I cannot see your eyes,” I called back quickly. “Hers were as blue as still, deep water reflecting a cloudless sky.”

She glanced at her image in the river. The tiniest furrow marred her brow. “Did this daughter bear a name?”

“Margarete,” I called across the water, as much an answer as a plea. “Although I can’t say in honesty whether she would remember what we called her.”

“Margarete is my name,” she said in a cross between astonishment and dismay. She eyed me as if seeking similarity to the reflection she’d just studied. I knew I had to tread carefully if I was still to earn her trust.

“How did you come to be here?” I asked, approaching the problem from an oblique angle like an artificer.

She misunderstood my question. “My master told me to wait by the river this morning. For what purpose, he did not say. He commands; I obey.”

I did not like her lack of independence. Her mother would not approve. “And you do all he tells you without question?”

“How could I do otherwise?” Her smile turned radiant. “I am his bride.”

Bride? I struggled to keep my feet steady even as my mind reeled. What kind of beast was I dealing? I knew in that moment I must liberate her. “You are too young,” I stammered.

“The first fruits are appointed to the lord,” she responded as if by rote. “The Master of Might.”

I regained my composure. I knew that moniker. It was scrawled in ash across the Scient, the land she called Gilead. “I have heard of this Master of Might. Kraist is his name.”

She nodded. “I was very young when Kraist took me into marriage. Destiny chose me as his sister-wife.”

“Has he treated you well?” I felt I whispered but my voice must have carried.

She looked away. Had a flush tinged her cheeks? “He washed my robe pure in blood, and crowned me in virginity and pearls.”

Now choler stained my face red.

“I am happy and unharmed,” she quickly continued. “The Queen of Courtesy has settled me beneath her wing.”

I knew I must set my emotions aside. I thought furiously a moment. “They say he is a seer and a prophet. If he sent you to the river, perhaps he intended us to meet.”

Her expression turned from guilt to something bordering on shame. At first I thought she desired to flee. Then I heard a pair of metallic cracks behind me as the springs of two Domani rods locked into place. My pearl has merely served as the distraction to allow her companions to sneak into place. But how to interpret her look of remorse?

I turned to find myself confronting a trio of Kraist’s soldiers. Two gripped their anno-fiber control batons low but at the ready. The third, lingering behind, clutched a catchpole in the shape of a shepherd’s crook with a corded noose and drawstring. All three wore short, white tabards emblazoned with a staurogram in red. Like a bloody basket-handled cutlass pointing down.  That marked them a squad of Kraist’s Defensors Fidelis, his personal bodyguard. Were these my shadows through the wilderness?

Thankfully, none were armed or armored with bangsticks or transparent tower shields like his elite raiders. In my Evlar breastplate, I stood a chance.

I drew my iTanium dagger and assumed a fighting line before the skirmishers could close. I relied on the treacherous footing across the rocks to either side of the trail that led to the water to ward my flanks.

The first skirmisher advanced with his Domani rod forward. I thought he might be preparing to probe my armor for weakness until I noticed a full section of his control baton remained retracted, ready to punch through armor and then bone with a flick of his thumb.

Behind a quick series of circular parries, I gave what little ground I had to narrow his attack front and keep his companions out of distance. I resisted the urge to glance at Margarete behind me across the river but I did allow my eyes to flick away from his face briefly. That was all the water needed to allow the mustard seed of his overconfidence to blossom.

The moment I saw a smile shadow the corners of his mouth, I lunged beneath his guard.  With a lightning strike of beat parry, riposte, I scored a line of blood along his right side. A trick my wife had taught me. Though I knew the wound was surficial, I hoped it would provoke him.

It did almost faster than I could react. When I saw his backswing forming, I dropped my hand and lowered my body beneath his counterstrike. As it passed over me, I stabbed upward with my blade. The razor-sharp iTanium scraped along bone, nearly severing his thumb. He screamed as his Domani rod clattered to the ground. Reversing my balance point as I kicked back onto my line, I snatched up the control baton with my now trailing free hand.

My first opponent stumbled out from in front of me, cradling his ruined thumb to staunch the blood. He whimpered like puppy. I adjusted my stance to a Florentine style to face the second man.

This skirmisher approached warily. I exploited his hesitation to close distance and regain an extra step or two between me and the river should I need it. Too late, I realized this was a counter-tactic to draw me out to where the third man could harass me, effectively neutralizing my newly acquired offhand weapon. A mistake my wife would never have made.

Before I could rectify my error, I found myself pressed from two sides. The second man lay into a series of attacks, while the third darted in and out of my guard with the catchpole, seeking to snare either a limb or weapon within his noose.

In a press of coordinated feints, attacks and parries, I desperately tried to slice through the catchpole’s cordage and render it ineffective. The third man was fast and prepared. I had just pulled back to slip my knife hand free from being caught when I felt the iTanium grab and nick the cordage. I had no way to assess the damage before I was forced to retreat back toward the river and the relative safety between the rocks.

Now my only chance lay in defeating them in detail. The second man seemed to recognize this, too. He began a series of probes and feints to wear me down. I knew it was a delaying tactic but delaying for what? Did he have reinforcements on the way?

My answer came as I heard a skittering of pebbles among the rocks to my left. The injured first man was trying to flank me along the river. Something small and sinister lay concealed within his unbandaged hand.

I quickly swung a beat against the second man’s Domani rod and sought to readjust my facing. As I turned to gauge the distance, a malodorant stream shot forth from the first man’s hand. It struck my Evlar breastplate and splashed up onto my face, burning my eyes and searing my nose and throat.

Gasping through a veil of tears, I stumbled toward the river, escape my only thought. With neither sight nor breath, I knew this battle was lost. Half-blind, I waded into the river, my arms outstretched toward Margarete as if she alone could save me. Waist-deep, with water tugging at my legs, I felt the catchpole’s noose loop around my neck. The frayed cordage held as it yanked me back to shore.

Darkness swallowed the look of horror on Margarete’s face as the water swirled over my head.

---

I awoke to find my body swaying as if transported on rhythmic waves. My lungs were raw and sore. Had the cordage finally broken? Was I floating free downstream?

It took me a moment to orient myself and realize I was lying face down with my ribs resting on a curved, swaying platform. The smell of leather, livestock and dust quickly filled my nose.

I opened my eyes to find grass sashaying beneath me. I was slung across the back of a beast of burden, my badges of office stripped away. I struggled to rise only to find my hands and feet were tied. A captive then. The memory of Margarete’s betrayal came crashing back as I once again slumped down.

Within moments, the moke beneath me came to a rest. Two pair of hands hauled me to my feet. One each remained firmly on my shoulders.

I stood before a white pavilion perched on the grassy hilltop before the walls of the shining city. A banner fluttered from its center pole, the same staurogram that adorned the Defensors Fidelis serving as its scarlet blazonry. A man stood in the open entry in a white robe freshly stained with blood. Kraist.

He waved someone toward him, whether myself or my captors I could not say, then retired into his tent. I felt the grip on one shoulder tighten. The other guard drew forth my stolen iTanium blade and sliced through the bonds at my ankles. A shove in the small of my back sent me stumbling forward, my hands still bound before me as if in prayer.

A gravel path led to the canvas praetorium. Small, iridescent pebbles as bright as tiny pearls shone in the slanting afternoon sun among the broken shards of common stone. My leather clad feet crushed them into dust.

Surrounding the city stood row upon row of orchards, some heavy with fruit. A host of demoiselles in white gathered that bounty into woven baskets. Rapturous birdsongs no instrument could imitate filled the early evening air.

Beyond the pavilion, a gravel road led to the central of three gateways adorning this side of the shining city. Twelve shallow steps glistened like gemstones just inside the portal. Twelve levels ascended from the foundation in a perfect square. Its shining white walls rose above the orchard-strewn hillside like polished glass, running a mile and half again on each side. Strains of plucked ethereal harps notes emanated from within.

In that near distance, the city appeared so beatified and unaggressive. How could such an idyllic structure serve as the womb for all the Scient’s woes?

At the threshold to Kraist’s pavilion I hesitated to survey the space inside. The furnishings were simple yet struck me as opulent in their near perfection. A well-carpentered narrow wooden table stood to one side. Atop it lay a pewter ewer and cup, and a pewter plate piled high with bread and ripened pears.  

A scissor-folding chair stood opposite the entry, intricately constructed yet unadorned. Its arms and slide-in back shone like honey in the rays of sunlight streaming through the entrance. Tapestries and weavings carpeted the grass beneath its feet. Sweet incense wafted forth in waves.

“Welcome to Capel Hill.” Kraist beckoned me inside. “Come. Refresh yourself while we speak. I have been waiting for you.”

I stepped into the shadow and waited for my eyes to adjust. The incense nearly overwhelmed me. I swayed a moment before I steadied my resolve.

Kraist rose and poured clear liquid from the ewer into the dull chalice, offering it to me. I clutched the cold pewter in my bound hands. Kraist made a sweeping motion to the plate on the table before ensconcing himself back upon his throne.

No scent from the cup permeated the perfumed air. I took a long, deep draught. What I thought to be water transformed in my mouth to clear, sweet wine. I drank no more, instead setting the cup aside before facing him, turning my back on the remainder of his hospitality.

Kraist eyed me intently. “How have come to stand before me? Men from Gilead and the Scient are barred from crossing the river from the Citadel to the Southern part of Heaven.”

I feigned ignorance. “I did not know I trespassed. I came in search of my lost daughter. And I think I have found her. I wish to take her back.”

“You have lost nothing,” he replied almost quietly. Even though they were softly spoken, his words were infused with authority. “All fathers must eventually give up their demoiselles.”

“A daughter should not be taken from her family.” I insisted.

“Even by her beloved?” he asked, his eyebrows rising in mild surprise. “Your daughter is a rose in bloom. She would have withered without my hand.”

“No girl should gain a husband by abduction,” I shot back. “She was just beyond her infancy, incapable of being wife to any just man.”

“So you say I receive my payment unjustly?” He did not raise his voice as he steadily held my eye. “She is the Guerdon of Bright Heaven. She was promised as my bride. You forfeited her with your deeds and worries. Such is the price for access to my orchard.”

The wine fortified my resolve. “We have sampled nothing from your garden, so our familial rights remain unbound. She was stolen from us, her absence masked as death. My wife gave her life defending her.”

“Your valedictor signed a contract,” he replied dismissively. “Your people were allowed to prosper until they transgressed against it. Why should you complain now?”

My mind reeled. What had Velim Faustina done? “I was party to no agreement with Repugnikratia.” His expression clouded when I voiced that name.

“You Demokins always try to seize a greater fortune than belongs to you. You arrive at the eleventh hour and demand a full day’s wage.” Anger crept into his voice. His face reddened. He looked as if he might set the contents of the tent askew. And just as suddenly it passed. “And I shall grant it. Yet first you must work for me.”

“Why would I consider that?” I asked, defiant.

“Because your daughter has pledged herself in body, mind and spirit. Greater mysteries await her but only if you yield. If not, perhaps I will allow her to become my bride in deed as well as word, as is her most fervent desire. From that day, she would remain cloistered. You would never look upon her face again.”

I stared at him aghast. I could not believe even he was such a monster as to make good upon that threat. “She is just a little girl,” I whispered, pleading.

He stared back at me openly. His eyes were soft and sad, almost piteous. We stood in silence a moment before he asked, “Did you see the gateway to the city as you approached?”

I nodded, uncertain where he was taking this sudden turn of our conversation.

He arose and walked behind his seat. He pulled back a panel of the pavilion and motioned me over. When I stood beside him, he pointed to the city through the gap.

“Each gate is inscribed with the names of all the girls who have found their way to me. They call themselves my sister-wives. They are glorified around every portal into the city. They know no jealousy. They are bound together by their common desire to please me any way they can.”

He gazed out wistfully.

“One day, twelve thousand names will adorn each of a dozen gates. One hundred and forty four thousand pearls, none different from your Margarete. Each of their names will be scribed into the Book of Life. And that day, the prophecy will be fulfilled.”

I thought about trying to kill him in that moment. Just wrapping my bound hands around his neck and squeezing his throat until life fully fled him. I knew I could crush it before his guards could pry me away. But I hesitated, thinking about what would happen to Margarete. I could not let my actions spell her doom, not after I had been reunited her, however briefly.

By the time I realized that path might be the better one, the moment slipped away. Kraist let the panel drop back in place and walked across the tent toward the entrance, leaving me in stunned silence in his wake.

He paused there a moment, haloed by the crepuscular sunlight streaming through the opening.

“There are many manors in my Father's empire. I go to prepare a place for Margarete.” His eyes pierced to deep within me as if he had read my mind. “I will prepare one for you nearby as well. Bring me the Balm of Gilead and I will return her to you unaltered.”

Unhurried, he departed, leaving me to wrestle with my thoughts alone in the falling twilight. Just outside the tent, he issued instructions to his guards.

---

Ill fortune befell me that day at your mound, Margarete. Once again bowed with grief among rapeseed, I am stretched across your grave, longing only to lie here forever. Either to be reunited like Kraist foretells or be relieved of the burden of my vows. I know it is mad to strive against him, but I also know I must somehow resist his will. Through my love for you, my daughter, and my inaction, how many others have I condemned to your fate?

The heretical priest emerges from Capel Sion to fortify me with sacramental wine and bread. Two Defensors Fidelis stand watchful sentinel nearby. I rise to face him but only make it to my knees before defeat settles over me like a rain of ashes once again.

The bread he offers tastes like it has moldered, the wine now tastes like blood. As I choke down this final repast before I embark upon another journey, the priest whispers Kraist’s final words like a catechism in my ear.

“Grant us this man become Kraist’s servant and suffer the little children, innocent and undefiled,” the priest intones. “Verily, let him bring our lord the Balm of Gilead and delight him with precious pearls.”

If that’s what it takes to save you, Margarete, so be it. So say all men.

© 2015 Edward P. Morgan III

Patriot Police

I wasn’t thinking about the course of human events as I sat unboxing the latest delivery from my distributor, the first shipment of virgin Soviet-era science fiction, freshly translated. No one knew how to pen a dystopia better than the Russians, though it probably helped that they’d lived one every day. Eisteddfods had helped back the original project on Kickstarter so this was part of our reward.

Officially, the bookstore wasn’t called Eisteddfods and never had been, even though that was the name that appeared on our website, our cards and above the painted hours on the door. The big sign near the street read Sessions, the closest English translation. When I’d applied to the city of Osceola for a permit, they’d said Eisteddfods sounded too foreign and had made me change it before they’d grant a permit. A backhanded favor since no one could pronounce it anyway. Such is the mutagenic nature of the Welsh language. Though the new name kind of detracted from a bookstore specializing in off-beat international translations. But I had to admit it didn’t hurt the attached coffee and wine café we’d opened last year where we hosted readings interspersed with live music that had a hipster, world-beat, one global village feel.

The concept was almost too avant-garde for even the most Bohemian enclaves in Piney Point County never mind the wilds of Osceola. But Osceola was where I lived. Ten years of driving the Beltway had made certain I’d always work close to home. If I never saw another library book stretched across a steering wheel in 40-mile-an-hour bumper-to-bumper traffic, it would be a day too soon. Juggled electric razors, double-fisted cell phones and lattes, wriggled-into pantyhose, and rearview makeup mirrors had all cemented that decision into a final answer.

Eisteddfods was wedged between the Liberty Liquor and Lottery Outlet on one side and Teddy’s Tea Party Consignment on the other. Down the row, the Lexington Green Payday Loans and The Star Spangled Strip Club anchored the plaza. A bunker-like building that housed American Heritage Pawn squatted across the street, sharing a parking lot with the Freedom Hall Worship Center. It might seem like an odd location but honestly it was the best that I could find. Every other empty strip mall suite in Osceola, and there were plenty of them, had an equally red-, white- and blue-bleeding neighbor.

Osceola’s streets were now littered with businesses with names like 2^nd Amendment Sporting Goods and Ammo, Minuteman Travel (and Instant Passport Photos), Fort McHenry Fireworks Depot, and Independence Square Senior Living. That was the city identity the Mayor had envisioned when she proposed her five-year redevelopment plan. Now her mandatory picture smiled down on me from the wall behind the counter in patient condescension as she reveled in her success. Lisa Rivers. Auntie Lisa. Osceola’s own little Papa Joe.

Eisteddfods brought worldwide tourism dollars to Osceola even if no one knew from where. We kept a list of our most literate cities on the wall behind the counter. People knew our name from Calgary to Cambridge, from Stockholm to Santiago. We saw collectors from Dublin and Hay-on-Wye. At least the locals mostly recognized that Portland was in the US. They knew Washington DC was as well, but marveled that anyone there knew how to read. They’d heard of St. Petersburg and Melbourne, too, but got confused when I told the ones on our list were actually in other countries.

Most of our business came off the internet. The brick and mortar storefront and café was a sidelight, my attempt to help convert this sleepy, semi-rural retirement community into a destination rather than a drive-by on the morning commute.

I was still trying to figure out how to incorporate a book bearing a giant red star into my summer reading display when the two goons walked in. They looked like a cross between enforcers for the mob and the Art Deco models for the great patriotic heroes adorning the dust jacket of the anthology in my hand. They were all chiseled chins and broad chests filling out the big and tall off the rack suits. Their lapel pins gave them away. Brightly enameled flags with diamond chips for stars. The Mayor’s Patriot Police, Osceola’s most recent addition to its code enforcement arm.

I’d seen both of them before but not together. I couldn’t remember either of their names. They moved through the store like linemen on a semi-pro practice squad, one clutching a brace of official Made-for-the-USA™ flags, the other a red, white and blue striped contribution can. The bigger guy had a no nonsense face that was authoritarian and austere. The smaller one was a nasty looking piece of work, brutish and short. That tickled a memory. That’s right, his name was Hobbes.

“Good morning gentlemen,” I said, pasting on my best professional smile. “The coffee shop is right through there. Today’s special is dark roast Ethiopian Yirgachefe, imported direct.” I could smell the aroma wafting though the connecting doorway. Like a morning slice of caffeinated heaven. I had to stop myself from reciting off the wine special that would start at noon. The last thing I needed was a couple of drunken Patriot Police regaling my international patrons with their equally drunken exploits as Darkmarsh contractors after the war while they sucked down all my best stock gratis like it was box wine at a distant cousin’s wedding reception. They struck me more like beer hall types anyway.

The big guy wrinkled his nose distastefully. “We didn’t drop in for a cannoli and an overpriced cup of Joe. We’re here on official city business.” He turned to his partner. “How many flags did you count outside, Tom?”

“I only counted three.” It came out like tree.

“I think you missed the official decal in the window.” I pointed. I resisted cracking a joke about him finally finding a partner who knew how to count. These guys were notoriously short on humor and long on taking offense. “Three’s the required number, anyway.”

The big guy just glared at me. “You must have missed last night’s Council meeting. They upped the required number to thirteen, one for every patriotic holiday, effective retroactively.”

“I thought there were only six patriotic holidays?” I ran through the additional possibilities in my head but came up empty well short of a baker’s dozen.

He shrugged. “They added a few more to commemorate the 4^th. Lucky for you we have surplus flags we can sell you wholesale before the Mayor starts her morning drive. After that my hands are tied.” He pulled his wrists together with an expression of mock sympathy.

So they were doing me a favor. And as long as I owed them, they’d never be broke.

“You aren’t a veteran, are you?” his partner asked. I shook my head. “Shame. That doubles the price, doesn’t it, Jerry?”

I wondered if the Mayor kept the price to round numbers so that even this pair could do the math in their heads. I was almost tempted to ask but discretion got the drop on valor and shot it dead as if it had just walked out of The National Guardian Tavern at 2 a.m. after questioning Will O. Really’s journalistic integrity or the truthiness of Coyote News. Instead, I took eight flags off their hands plus another decal and rang it up as petty cash.

The tall one’s face took on a pinched, somewhat pained expression as he accepted my offering, as if he had developed a gas cramp. He reminded me of a severe Presbyterian minister I remembered my girlfriend dragging me to see in high school. Right, Calvin. That was this one’s name.

“You sure you don’t want an extra for Moon Landing Day?” he asked as his partner slowly counted out my money. That was a possibility that hadn’t even entered the same zip code as any of the holidays on my list. “It’s coming up next weekend.”

Hobbes looked up as if hoping I’d say something he could take as a provocation, which struck me as nearly anything. I shook my head mutely. He promptly lost his count, cursed and started over, his lips twitching with each bill he carefully flipped past.

“You ARE patriotic, right?” Calvin leaned in across the counter to recapture my attention. “You don’t want to be the only one on your street not to participate.” That last came out as something between a concerned admonition and an extortive threat.

Mayor Rivers’ stated goal was one hundred percent participation throughout the city. Her last campaign platform had promised to make Osceola the most patriotic city in Piney Point County if not the entire state. Her re-election and the formation of the Patriot Police had brought a whole new meaning to the term “bully pulpit.” Even Osceola’s notoriously fractious and vocal Freedom Hall Worship Center had quickly fallen silent. It might have helped that one of their core tenets held that God was as patriotic as an apple pie eating contest. Though there was a certain twisted irony in their choice of an American flag as swaddling for the baby Jesus in their Nativity display.

The Mayor’s city identity plan was like a corporate bond drive without the returns. At least there you got back all you put in with a little interest even if it wasn’t a great investment. Back in DC, my participation helped our division vice president win a trip to corporate headquarters to pick up a bronze plaque to hang in the lobby, plus I got to keep my job. Now I was just trying to avoid a fine and one of the Mayor’s flag-waving parties. Osceola’s updated version of stocks in the public square.

I found my professional voice again, the one I use with Girl Scouts, Scientologists and other over-eager solicitors I don’t want to annoy. “Thanks, guys, but I’m all set on the home front. Looking forward to it in fact.” I gave a wave to one of my newly acquired flags.

Hobbes stared at me as if trying to sound out whether the words I’d said really meant no. Clearly he was low on limited mental ammunition. Calvin just glared, dubious but with you-better-hope expression.

It wasn’t until they headed for the door trailing one lone flag behind them like a retreating paramilitary convoy that I realized I’d made them miss their quota. Now I was certain mine was a face they were unlikely to forget.

---

“You’re tilting at flagpoles again,” my wife said, flipping through a crocheting catalog the same way teenage boys peruse gentlemen’s magazines for interesting pictures between the articles. “No one takes her seriously anyway.”

“Maybe someone should,” I protested. “I mean Moon Landing Day? What kind of patriotic holiday is that?”

She looked pensive for a moment. “Well, it was the first time we conquered another planet. And it finally gives you a good excuse to dress up like that cute little Martian in those cartoons.”

Now I knew she was trolling me. I didn’t do cosplay.

“And Statue of Liberty Day?” I asked, undeterred. I pointed to the article in Osceola Observer, the local throwaway paper that adorned our driveway every week. “Have you even read this list?”

“If you’re not careful, you’ll be celebrating that one dressed up in costume at one of the Mayor’s flag-waving parties.” She smiled at the thought. “Besides, I thought you’d appreciate that they picked Constitution Day.”

“Only if they learn to read it,” I sniped. “So I guess you’ll be out beside the Mayor with your flag on Boston Tea Party Day?” thinking that one might finally hit a nerve.

“I suppose you thought they’d go with something more meaningful like MLK or Emancipation Day,” she quipped.

“That would have required them to step out from behind their Confederate flags,” I quickly shot back.

She just rolled her eyes and went back to lusting after skeins of silk and bamboo yarn, clearly finished with the subject.

I directed my residual anger out the front window with a glare. That’s when the Mayor’s black SUV rolled into view, an extended version of the new Lincoln the after-hours crowd at Eisteddfods cheerfully dubbed The Hearse. Which made it even funnier when some joker tapping into our free wifi discovered that was exactly what it was.

“Of all the neighborhoods in Osceola, why did she have to pick ours for a spot check?” I wondered.

“You did put it out, didn’t you,” my wife asked pointedly, glaring up from her catalog. “You remember what almost happened last time.”

“Of course I did,” I snapped. “After the inquisition at the shop, do you think I’m looking for a fine?”

We observed a mutual moment of silence, holding our breath as the Mayor’s car slid slowly down the street, her entourage of Patriot Police huffing behind like an overweight Secret Service detail. The first time she’d toured the city, a year ago on Veterans Day, she’d only noted the neighborhoods and businesses where she hadn’t seen enough flags and reported them to the council. Now, the smallest flick of her wrist would send a legion of her minions knocking on the offenders’ doors like God’s own patriotic plague drawn to houses unmarked by a secret X.

The Mayor’s vehicle paused next to our mailbox. She rolled down a window, then reached out and touched our little cloth flag. What was she doing? She’d never done anything like that before. A minute later she extended her finger toward the Patriot Police and beckoned them like the Addams Family’s Thing. They trotted up beside the Hearse dutifully, leaning in toward the window to receive her instructions. Then that fateful finger pointed toward our door. Like the hand of Death choosing to its next victim to be claimed.

I killed the lights and dropped the blinds. We peered out between the slats of the dining room window like a couple of truants skipping school. Maybe she hadn’t seen us. Maybe her entourage would think no one was home.

No such luck. A pair of Patriot Police trotted up the walk. The blinds rattled as I let them snap back into place. We hid to either side of the window.

They knocked firmly on the door a moment later. “Open up,” someone called. “We know you’re in there. Don’t make us get a warrant.”

I put a finger to my lips as I glanced at my wife only to see her retreating back as she passed through the kitchen on her way toward some inner sanctuary deeper in the house. With a fleeting over-the-shoulder smile as she rounded the corner, she left me to deal with this pair on my own. Payback for the previous Saturday morning when I’d scurried for the bathroom as I saw a gaggle of door-to-door Witnesses pull up into our driveway. When I’d tried to convince her afterwards that answering the door in her silk bathrobe had been the perfect repost to their Watchtower proposition, she’d just smiled her sweetest, most innocent payback-knows-where-you-sleep smile, the gears in her head already turning on her revenge. I knew I should have claimed the side of the window the farthest from the door.

The pounding continued more insistently. I hung my head and shuffled toward it. Better to talk to them in person than have them tag us with a violation. At least then maybe I could spin a tale of woe. 

As I opened the door with my best imitation of a smile, I found myself confronted by the same pair from the bookstore the other morning. My mouth developed rigor mortis. I didn’t think my wallet would be far behind.   

“Well, if it isn’t the bookworm guy, again.” Calvin broke into an earsplitting grin as he recognized me. His partner just scowled as he traced a finger across the Roman numerals on the decorative sundial by the door as if he’d just unearthed an antikythera machine inscribed with Linear-B. “Guess you’ll be crying in your fancy wine tonight that you didn’t pick up that extra flag after all.”

“Gentlemen, always a pleasure.” I replied as I desperately tried to revive my postmortem smile. “What can I do for you this bright, fine, red, white and blue day?”

“Oh, you know, the Mayor asked us to stop by and have a chat.” Calvin’s hands were clasped behind his back like an innocent schoolboy.

I peered around the pair of them toward the street but the Hearse had already pulled away to continue delivering the Mayor’s holiday cheer. “What seems to be the problem?” I asked.

“Your flag.” Calvin pulled his hands from behind his back to reveal are rather dirty, mud-stained little stars and stripes. It looked suspiciously like the one I’d hung beneath the mailbox that morning, silk-screened fabric, about a foot on the long axis, quarter inch dowel with a pointy, gold painted end cap. Only this one looked like it had participated in an Iwo Jima re-enactment.

“There must be some mistake, guys” I said, pointing.  “That flag isn’t ours.”

Calvin’s bushy eyebrows shot up in mock surprise. “Oh, so you’re saying you didn’t have one out today?”

“That’s a serious offense,” his partner chimed in. He looked up from examining the sundial as if eager to upgrade the encounter from a simple citation into an abject lesson.

“No, that’s not…” I started.

“I should mention that anything you say will be held against you,” Calvin cut me off. “Consider your next words carefully.”

I snapped my mouth shut and thought furiously. The best I could come up with was a dog-ate-my-homework excuse but it was the only one that fit.

“Someone must have stolen it,” I finally said. “It was as pristine as the day I picked it up from city hall when I put it out this morning.”

“And it just showed back up anonymously while you weren’t looking?” Calvin waved the dingy flag back and forth, idly watching it flutter in the artificial breeze. I had to admit it sounded ridiculous.

“If you’re going to lie,” he continued when I didn’t respond, “at least put in a little effort. I’ve got half a mind to fine you for a lack of creativity alone. So unless you’ve got something better?” He raised an eyebrow.

Admitting defeat, I shook my head as I stared at his mirror-polished shoes, trying to look contrite. Who wore brown wingtips with a standard-issue government grey suit, anyway? When I looked back up, a pad and an official City of Osceola ballpoint had magically appeared in his hands.

“Under Section 1.8.3 of the Osceola city charter,” Calvin’s voice turned official as he scribbled down my name and address, “I’m serving you with a violation notice for improper flag display. You’ll find instructions on the back for how and where to pay your fine. A smart guy like you shouldn’t have too much trouble figuring it out.”

He tore off the yellow copy of the triplicate citation and handed it to me along with the bedraggled flag.

Hobbes reached into his jacket and pulled out a business card-sized magnet, “Here’s a reminder from the Legion on proper flag etiquette and disposal. You might want to study it and keep it on your fridge.” He patted it against my chest.

“Happy Moon Landing Day,” Calvin added cheerily as they turned to go.

Yeah, same to you buddy, I thought as I stepped back inside. As I started to close the door, I spotted three towheaded kids peering around the corner of the house diagonally across the street, pointing and snickering. But as soon as I took a step back out to confront them, they disappeared like sin on Sunday morning.

I thought about going after them, but wasn’t sure exactly where they lived. So I went in search of my until-death-do-us-part instead. I found her crocheting in the back room we called the library.

“That sounded like it went well,” she said without looking up. “Though in hindsight, maybe you should go with a pack of wild dogs next time.”

She must have been listening from the top of the hall.

“Laugh it up, yarn ball,” I said. “It was those three lawn monkeys I always see skateboarding down the block. Larry, Darryl, and… what’s the other kid’s name?”

“Daryl,” she replied. Hadn’t I just said that? “I think they’re all related.”

“Anyway,” I rolled my eyes wondering if she was really listening. “I as much as caught them red-handed.”

“Tell it to the council, convict.” She scowled, whether at me or at the piece she was working on I wasn’t sure.

“Don’t tempt me,” I said, waving the citation in front of her. “I mean a hundred and fifty dollars for a dirty flag? That’s as outrageous as it is unconstitutional.”

“Just take the remedial class.” She glared down at her piece, scrutinizing it. “At least that will keep the points off our property record.”

That was easy for her to say. It wasn’t her name on the citation. I started skimming my options in the fine print on the back. As a first-time offender, I could avoid the fine by taking a flag etiquette course at one of three locations: the elementary school, the National Guardian Tavern or a Speaker’s Bureau at City Hall. So my choices were slow first-graders, drunken security guards, or a personalized dressing down from Auntie Lisa herself. And I’d still have to pay for the privilege with $50 in instruction and convenience fees. There was no way I was going to let this go.

“These yokels don’t know who they’re dealing,” I muttered.

“Oh, I think they do,” my wife corrected. “Have you forgotten about your little War on Christmas?”

As if I could. Seven years later and I still couldn’t fly commercial. Plus the restraining order from even glimpsing Will O. Really’s show. But that memory only hardened my indignation like concrete under ice.

“At least those guys were professionals,” I shot back. “This crew doesn’t even have enough talent to make it to the state legislature, and those guys are the definition of yahoos.”

“A little advice, dear?” She interrupted my rant before it could properly kick off.

I waited patiently.

“You just don’t have the right equipment to pull off ‘Honest, councilor, the neighborhood kids beat me up and stole my flag.’” She batted her eyelashes over a shoulder with her patented Mona Lisa smile. “But I’ll lend you one of my bras it you promise not to stretch it out.”

I stuck out my tongue. She snickered and turned back to her needlework.

As I turned to leave, she swore under her breath and began tearing out the row she’d started when I’d walked in. Served her right.

---

I spent the next week crafting my appeal to the council. I knew I only had three minutes to state my case. First, I sketched out a solid draft then began to punch it up for impact. I read and re-read famous speeches, incorporating allusions to self-evident truths, and the values we hold dear. I channeled my inner Churchill, Kennedy and King. I threw in a touch of O. Really, Netanyahu and Putin just for spice. Those three always seemed to resonate with the local crowd.

Over the next few days, I edited and revised. When new ideas popped into my head in the shower, I ran to the office to incorporate them while trying not to short-circuit the keyboard. I scribbled inspirational lines on a notepad beside the bed as they came to me in dreams.

Between drafts, I reconnoitered. I watched online council meetings on my computer until I had every detail of the council chamber memorized. I calculated the camera angles with a diagram and a protractor. I triangulated the height of the podium from the streaming video then built a full-sized mock-up on our kitchen bar, right down to the tiny flag that adorned its right side.

The next four days I practiced obsessively. I rehearsed walking up the podium with my one-page speech, checking that my stride and posture conveyed just the right attitude of indignation. I marked the paper for emphasis and intonation, making notes on when to make eye contact with which member of the council. I revised the text each place I consistently stumbled. I shaved individual words until it came in exactly at three minutes. I downloaded a stopwatch app for my phone.

Finally, I forced my wife to sit in front of the stove to imitate an audience. At first, it threw me when I looked up to find her making eye contact but I strategized my way around that by looking past her ear. By the day the council meeting rolled around, she’d heard my speech so many times she could have delivered it herself. When she began feeling puckish, she mouthed the words along with me as if quoting a Monty Python routine. After that, she refused to sit and listen any longer regardless of how much I begged. By then, even the cats ran to hide whenever they heard my voice.

As I donned what had become my wedding and funeral attire that evening, I noticed she was still in the same jeans and summer sweater she’d worn to work.

“Aren’t you coming with me?” I asked, wounded by the thought.

“I’ll watch the streaming feed on the internet.” She adjusted my collar, straitened my tie and patted my chest. “I know you’ll do great.”

With that, she pushed me out the door like a kid walking to school by himself for the first time. An occasion marked less by misty-eyed tears than the patient anticipation of a little her-time once the door had firmly shut behind me.

All week she’d reminded me that while you could fight city hall you’d better choose your quixotic quests wisely. I knew she really wanted to be out of the blast radius and avoid any fallout if my speech turned pear-shaped.

I wouldn’t let that happen. I’d practiced for every conceivable contingency the council could throw at me, down carrying a courtroom diagram that showed the blind-spots of the house and the most likely approach patterns of three degenerates down the street.

As I drove along Osceola’s stagflation-era business corridors then past the deserted disco-epoch mall, I couldn’t help that think that all the hand-stitched, American-dyed, patriotic flags in the world could never cover up the blight. The best the Mayor could hope was that the incessant fluttering would somehow distract our eyes. I wondered if she was a political Alzheimer’s victim who was in constant danger of forgetting where she lived.

When I arrived at city hall, the parking lot was completely packed including the adjoining overflow in front of the post office. A contingent of Patriot Police was directing vehicles to the community library across the street. I was glad I’d arrived early. Not that there was ever much traffic in downtown Osceola once the commuters cleared out. And yet it still looked like I might be one of the last to arrive.

As I approached the entrance to the council chamber under the portico of city hall, I saw my two favorite Patriot Police positioned beside the door like bouncers at The Star Spangled Strip Club on a Plush Limburger inspired Two-If-By-Tea Ladies Night.

I nodded an acknowledgement as I strode past. “Gentlemen.”

Before I crossed the threshold, Hobbes grabbed a handful of my jacket, spinning me around.

“Hey, mind the dry cleaning,” I complained. “This tie is imported Italian silk.”

“You can’t go in,” Hobbes said, dragging me farther from the door. “Orders from Mayor Rivers.”

“It’s a public meeting. I have every right to attend.” I felt his grip tighten, pressing wrinkles into my shirt. I hoped his sweaty sausage fingers didn’t leave a stain.

Calvin sauntered over. He pried loose Hobbes’ hand and smoothed my shirt and tie back into place, patting my chest gently not unlike my wife. I drew no comfort from the gesture.

“What my colleague is trying to say is that you don’t meet the council chamber’s new dress code,” he said.

Dress code? I looked down at my jacket, slacks and tie. What did they expect, an IBM three-piece suit? “What are you talking about? There’s no dress code for these meetings.”

“Oh, but there is.” Calvin smiled. “The council passed an emergency resolution at a city identity workshop just an hour ago. All attendees are required to wear a flag pin to show their civic pride.”

I pulled my wallet from my pocket, recognizing their signature shakedown when I saw it. “And I suppose you have them for sale?”

His smile broadened. “As a matter of fact, I have just one left. You aren’t a veteran, are you?” I rolled my eyes since he already knew the answer. “Then, Mr. Lincoln will see you through.”

I dug out a five and waited awkwardly as Hobbes pinned me like his prom date. Calvin thanked me for my donation, reminding me that all tax-deductible proceeds would benefit the Mayor’s city beautification initiative, and red, white and re-election campaign. Then he asked if I needed a receipt. When I shook my head, they finally stepped aside.

Inside, I found the council chamber just as full as the parking lot. It looked like I’d be delivering my patriotic invective to a full house. Every seat was taken and we were down to SRO. It looked like the entire patronage of the National Guardian Tavern had taken up residence. There was more camo in there than at an NRA convention during hunting season, which was slightly less than an old Soviet May Day parade.

The only veterans in the room were a gaggle of old men who had been drafted back before conscription had fallen out of fashion by way of perpetual deferrals that didn’t include the poor, and a handful of casually dressed volunteers of varying politics who had seen enough camo for one lifetime. Plus one registered Cold War Veteran, a spook who blended in with the Eisteddfods after-hours crowd and didn’t advertise her patriotic contribution. Yet for all her flag-waving glory, the Mayor didn’t figure among any of their number.

The audience wavered between antipathy and open hostility. The reprobates from Eisteddfods held down a block of seats on one wing as if preparing for a siege. Word must have gotten out about the content of my speech. Why did I suspect wife’s invisible hand at work? I knew someone had been busy when I spotted the editor of the Osceola Observer chatting with an intern from the Piney Point Press. It usually took a double-murder before one of their reporters would drag over to this side of the lake.

I found the signup sheet for Citizen Comments with the city clerk. Like a bi-weekly open-mic for conspiracy theorists, aspiring curmudgeons and general city cranks. As I penned my name with a Hancockian flourish, I noticed the Mayor had conveniently cleared the night’s agenda. Mine was the first and only signature on the list. I went to loiter by the door.

Precisely at seven, the city manager, the city lawyer and the council all filed in to assume their places around the horseshoe desk that dominated the chamber, Mayor Rivers in the position of a lucky nail. A full contingent of Patriot Police formed a phalanx in the front row of the audience which gave the meeting that authentic American hometown feel the Mayor had always striven for. Though no one appeared to be openly armed which I’m sure must have been a disappointment.

I lowered my gaze during the invocation but kept my eyes cracked in case the Patriot Police had prepared another nasty surprise. I placed my hand over my heart respectfully for the pledge but didn’t trust myself to say a word. My stomach flipped relentlessly.

After the pro forma protocol had been dispensed with, the Mayor opened the meeting with her gavel.

“According to state statute,” she intoned, “Citizen Comments to the City Council are invited on items that are on this evening’s agenda, as well as any general comments you may wish to make. Comments are limited to three minutes.”

The clerk then called my name. I strode to the podium with all the confidence I could muster, which amounted to concentrating on not sprawling face first down the aisle.

“State your name and address for the record,” the Mayor said through a plastic smile with a mixture of curiosity and disdain.

My stomach sank lower then desperately tried to crawl back up my throat. Somehow I managed to get the information out without looking at my notes. I was glad I’d practiced even that.

I pulled my speech from my jacket pocket and smoothed it against the faux-wood podium to calm my nerves. When I looked up, I found Mayor Rivers staring at me expectantly as she flicked the button of her official timer. I froze when she looked me in the eye. I paused for a second. Maybe two. Three at the very most. Then I set off into my reading. 

Initially, I was tentative but gained self-assurance after the first sentence came out ungarbled. Within a paragraph, I found myself delivering an impassioned speech to an enraptured audience. The words fell off my tongue like polished silver.

Halfway through and I was belting out my argument like the prima donna in a Wagnerian opera. Babies hushed, women swooned, grown men wept openly. I have a dream… ask not what this city can do for you… the only thing we have to fear… we will fight them on the beaches… Mayor Rivers: Tear. Down. This. Wall. I emphasized each point by pounding the podium with my shoe.

An eerie silence fell across the chamber as I concluded. The councilors sat frozen like deer in a hunter’s spotlight, knowing their collective electoral fate depended on which way the crowd turned and whether they turned with them. I slipped on my loafer and folded my speech, trying not to shake as I prepared my exit.

Behind me, the Eisteddfods’ crowd burst to their feet, cheering madly. An instant later, the rest of the audience joined them in a standing ovation, whistling and stomping, hooting and hollering as if begging for an encore at a Lynyrd Skynyrd concert. If I turned around, I almost expected to see their lighters had emerged.

My face flushed as I lifted my gaze, basking in the crowd’s approval. The council members nervously joined them on their feet, as did the clerk, the lawyer and reluctantly the city manager. Only Mayor Rivers remained seated, her hands patiently folded on the desk before her. I wondered if my wife was now regretting not experiencing my triumph in person. That thought died as the Mayor met my eyes.

She smiled her perpetual political smile and casually flicked a finger. Suddenly, I found a pair of Patriot Police looming by my side. Calvin and Hobbes. Naturally. They each latched onto an arm. The crowd and councilors fell mute, uncertain now.

“You can’t arrest me for speaking my peace at a public meeting,” I protested.

The Mayor’s mirror-practiced smile never wavered. A twinkle crept into her eye. “But I can for exceeding your allotted time.” She held up the official timer for everyone to see. It read 3:02. “Get him out of here. This meeting is adjourned.”

Her gavel echoed when it fell.

---

My wife bailed me out the next morning. Turns out she was right to keep her distance or we both would have ended up needing bond. When I finally got home, I found a Warholesque study of perfect sandal prints now adorned the office desk. She’d said she’d been trying to kill a spider, but I knew better. When I’d been released into her custody, Calvin and Hobbes ducked beneath her steely glare like parochial school children shying from their least favorite ruler-wielding nun. I knew to let her answer the door next time.

She told me that as I’d been hauled away my Eisteddfods’ compatriots had quickly melted into the crowd as if that sea of camo would hide them. Not that I could blame them anyway. In a small town game of sociopolitical Darwinism, we were all woefully underclassed.

It took time for the after-hours crowd to fully reassemble, but when they did, I found they granted me folk hero status. Even a handful of the National Guardian Tavern patrons graced me with respectful nods each time I walked past to serve out my sentence.

I’d pled down from Obstruction of a Public Meeting to Defamation of Public Property for my exuberance with my shoe. Combined with my original citation, I’d been sentenced to twenty-four hours of community service at the Mayor’s weekly flag-waving party.

So for the following month of Saturdays, you could find me at the intersection of Osceola’s busiest business corridors. I was the one dressed in the court-ordered Statue of Liberty costume complete with a foam torch crowned by a sparkler in one hand and a rippling American flag in the other. Despite the chorus of catcalls and honking horns, I thought I might have underestimated the Mayor’s initiative. Dancing like a discount tax preparer, I’d never felt so free.

© 2015 Edward P. Morgan III

Time Virus

As Lida’s car breezed into the parking lot of the nursing home, she noticed a few letters had fallen off the sign. At first glance, she thought the bottom of it read “noir living.” Her stomach sank. Then the “o” and “i” rearranged themselves back in the proper order where the “s” and “e” of “senior” had fallen away. She didn’t really want to be here for her final high school volunteer credit. Still, it was better than picking up trash along the highway. Roadside beautification projects were the worst.

She was fifteen minutes late which was unusual and annoying. She’d had trouble finding the place. Her car’s navigation system had gotten confused by all the new neighborhoods. Something was wrong with the last auto-installed update. The complex was nearly hidden among old trees. Lida remembered riding her bike to the middle school just down the road before her father’s job had moved again. Back then, all these streets had been two-way, not green-spaces crisscrossed with alternative transportation routes. She hadn’t known this facility was even back here. Allison had said there was an old Civil Defense bunker tucked away somewhere nearby, too, but Lida had never believed her.

The sky was a hazy tan that dimmed the sun like fog. All her social media pages said it was from layer of fine Saharan dust blowing across the Atlantic. It looked surreal but it made for a pretty sunrise. Maybe it was a sign that she was really meant to be here. With her father’s transient work schedule, she always felt alone, a leaf on the wind blowing from place to place until nowhere felt like home. At first she’d been excited that they’d ended up back here. But Allison was the only friend who let her back in. Kind of.

The parking lot was almost empty. Lida instructed the car to claim a spot near the front door. At least it didn’t try to park in the handicapped zone again this time. It was a known issue with this version of the operating system, but her father said a general recall would cost too much. She plugged the car into the charging post, hoping the solar cells had been maintained, and went inside.

She was greeted by a male nurse in teal scrubs sitting behind a counter. She hoped they would give her scrubs. As long as they weren’t pink, and didn’t have any cutesy little animals on them. He filled his out nicely. His green-bordered electronic badge read “Salvatore.” An exotic name that matched his tanned forearms and sun bleached hair. He was cute and maybe five years older than she was.

“May I help you?” he asked in a mild, Mediterranean accent. “If you are visiting a resident, you will need to sign in.” He tapped a clipboard on the counter with a ballpoint pen. Who still used those? She expected a tablet and a stylus like even most low-end restaurants had. It was like this place had dropped back in time.

She glanced at the paper. Not many names. Good. Maybe that meant she wouldn’t have much to do. How hard could a summer of this be? She stood up a little straighter, smiled and pulled her hair back over one ear. “I was told I report to Mrs. Quinn.”

He gave her a quick once over, taking in her sneakers, jeans and maroon t-shirt but not lingering like she hoped he might. “And you are?”

“Lida Lorenz,” she said, resettling her purse on her shoulder. He just stared at her politely until she added, “Your new community service volunteer.”

A kind of recognition dawned in his eyes. His professional smile turned brittle. “You’ll find her at the nursing station in B Wing.” 

“And which way is that?” Lida asked when he didn’t offer any more information.

“Through there and around the corner.” He pointed to the doors to his left. “Mrs. Quinn is the only one in white.”

Lida wanted to flirt but his attention had already wandered. No one took her seriously anyway. Just another mandatory high school volunteer, and not a cute one like Allison. She hoped everyone else was nicer. Bad enough she was forced to perform two summers of community service before she could graduate.

As she passed through the double doors from the lobby, the smell of the place nearly overwhelmed her. A sharp, acrid scent like a mix of industrial cleaners and grandmotherly decay. Yuck. How could people stand it? She stopped at a water fountain to dab on some perfume. She didn’t want to go through the day smelling like janitorial old age. The people here deserved something more pleasant to brighten their day.

The hall was lined with shadow boxes framing large, neon colored butterflies, their beauty frozen in their final moment. Poor creatures, sacrificed for someone else’s sense of need. Every room she passed had a television blaring, sometimes two in conflict. Lida wondered how much attention any of the residents really got. Entertained by a steady stream of game shows while served by imported guest workers and conscripted volunteers, there was the irony in how much their service to the nation was valued. But it was the only way to balance the budget and keep their taxes low her father said.

When Lida rounded the corner, she was confronted by a gauntlet. Nearly a dozen men and women, most in wheelchairs, lined the hall between her and the nurses’ station. Some of them murmured to themselves, others repeatedly asked for help, both kinds mumbling the same words over and over again like a prayer. Two young nurses, maybe a couple years older than she was, were chatting over steaming beverage cups, ignoring the patients until one scuttled up to the counter.

“We’ll be with you in a minute, Mrs. Mikkelsen,” the blond nurse in bright pink scrubs said, not looking directly at the woman.

Her dark haired companion in blue wave patterned scrubs told another patient who started forward, “Mrs. Browning, you know it’s not time for that.”

Both had distinct accents. The blond sounded like that Russian model from Lida’s favorite streaming comedy, the brunette like all the islanders she’d met on the Caribbean cruise with her parents last Christmas.

The press of patients was daunting. But Lida hitched up her purse and tried to snake her way through the congregation, dodging one way then another as they vied for her attention and converged to block her way. An overripe aroma of geriatric vinegar assaulted her nose even through her perfume. She felt sorry for them but didn’t know what she could do.

Somehow, she made it to the clear space around the horseshoe counter untouched, almost as if the nurses’ station was the safe zone in a slow-moving game of tag. Before she could introduce herself, she heard the circular squeak of a wheelchair approaching from behind then felt an insistent set of tugs on her shirt like a young child demanding her attention. “Miss… Miss…”

“Mr. Bahr, you leave that poor girl alone,” the Caribbean nurse admonished. “Unless you need something, get to your room. Otherwise, back against the wall and wait with the rest.”

Like a sulky child, the old man dropped the corner of Lida’s shirt. She watched him retreat down the hall muttering, his wheelchair screaking the entire way.

A sturdy woman in a white uniform and tightly squeaking white shoes strode past him the other way with barely a glance. Her short, mousy brown hair that had just begun to grey to tarnished steel. As she approached the counter, the patients parted around her as if driven back by her wake. Her red bordered electronic badge that contrasted against her formidable bust read, “M. Quinn, R.N.”

“Lizabeth, get these patients sorted.” the woman instructed the Caribbean nurse in a lilting accent of her own, “I want this hallway clear before PT and OT arrive.”

Next, she turned to the Russian nurse, “Sara, I’m surprised you have time for chatting. I’m sure that means when I look in on A Wing, I’ll find all your duties done.”

Finally, she fixed her sea-gray stare on Lida. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m Nymphalida Lorenz, your new…”

“I know who you are, Ms. Lorenz,” the older woman snapped. “I also know you were supposed to be here half an hour ago.”

“I had trouble finding…”

“That’s not my concern,” Mrs. Quinn cut her off. “You’re here for a community service credit, though God only knows why the administrator thinks this is a good idea. But if you’re late again, I’ll report you.”

“But I didn’t…”

“I don’t want to hear your excuses. You’re here to work. Tomorrow, see that you come on time and prepared. That means a scrub top and either scrub bottoms or white pants. Just like the orientation packet says.”

“No one gave me an…”

“And wash off that perfume. Some of our residents have allergies.”

“Sara,” Mrs. Quinn addressed the blond nurse again, “give Ms. Lorenz a quick tour of the facility. We’ll have to wait until tomorrow to get her a badge. She can help you in A Wing today. And see if you can find her something more suitable to wear.”

“Ok, ladies, chop, chop.” Mrs. Quinn clapped her hands like an elementary school teacher shooing errant children in from recess. “We don’t have all morning. Oh, and don’t let me catch either of you without your badges again. Out and above the waist, those are the rules. Infractions won’t help you at your naturalization hearings.”

Both women sheepishly pulled their badges from their pockets and clipped them to their collars. Lizabeth circled around the desk and began tending the gathered patients, the green border of her badge lighting up briefly with each one she approached as it recorded their interaction, just like Lida’s school ID. They probably used the same color code, too. Green for guest worker, red for naturalized citizen, and blue for native born. Their monitoring seemed to be the only modern touch in the entire facility.

Sara guided Lida back the way she’d come. “I’ll show you where you can lock up your purse.” She gave Lida’s torso a critical once over. “I think I have an old top in my locker that might fit.”

---

Mrs. Quinn kept Lida running the rest of the morning. Each time she’d tried to sneak a break, she found the older woman hovering behind her. Like she had a GPS tracker on Lida and knew exactly how much time she had on her hands at any given moment. All three women assigned Lida scutwork errands they could have easily run themselves. A community service credit wasn’t supposed to be this hard. 

By late morning, both wings had begun to calm down. On her way back from dropping off another set of obsolete paper files, Lida snuck into the break room to catch her breath. She found Sara and Lizabeth chatting over an early, impromptu lunch. Sara absently thumbed through a glossy magazine. Lizabeth studied an old-fashioned newspaper, like Lida’s grandfather used to read. She didn’t know anyone still printed those anymore. Neither of them much more than glanced up when she entered. Like her mother and father nearly every morning at breakfast.

Lida pulled out her phone and began scrolling through her social media pages to see what her friends were doing. It had to be something more interesting than this. How had she gotten stuck with this assignment? She’d been late to class that day, too, because of the car, and all the choice slots had been taken. She should have written out an independent study outline like Allison. Her community service counselor had tried to convince her she would actually be helping people here. He almost made it sound appealing. Another condescending lie like all adults told, though Lida had really wanted to believe him.

“Some sky this morning,” Sara said to no one in particular. “The radio said it’s dust from Africa but I don’t believe that can be true.”

“Mmm,” Lida answered. She didn’t bother to correct the other woman. No one ever listened to her anyway.

“That top looks good on you,” Sara said a moment later.

Lida glanced up from her phone, surprised. “Does it?”

“It looks better on you than it ever did on me,” Sara replied, her eyes still on an ad with impossibly shapely and happy women laughing in a gym. “Keep it. It’s out of style this year anyway.”

Before Lida could say thank you, Sara began browsing an article with a bored expression that said her gesture was nothing but just that.

Lizabeth noisily folded up her newspaper then sighed and asked Sara. “So what does your afternoon look like?”

“I have to check on Mr. Wu.” Sara rolled her eyes, flipping another page.

“Which one is Mr. Wu?” Lida asked. She wondered if he was one of the patients around nurses’ station that morning.

“You haven’t shown her?” Lizabeth shot a dark look at Sara.

“I haven’t had time,” Sara protested, finally looking up. “This is the first break I’ve had.”

“All those clocks in his room,” Lizabeth shook her head, “not one of them right or running…”

“And the cat in the garden?” Sara interjected. “Every time he sees it, he calls it a different name.”

“It’s dark magic.” Lizabeth shivered, then admonished Lida, “Stay away from that one, child. He’s infected with the time virus.”

“Time virus?” Lida rolled the words around, uncomfortable with what they might mean. Hadn’t Allison shared an underground shockumenatary about something like that back in middle school? A secret anti-aging experiment conducted on military volunteers? Some sort of bio-engineered virus that threw a switch in cells. The video had claimed there was an uncertain age threshold where the treatment would no longer work and unwanted side-effects on those who had survived. Most seemed to drift through time, their memories unanchored. One moment they believed they were sixty, the next sixteen. See, immortality wasn’t all sparkly vampires, Allison had said. When Lida had asked her father if everyone would live forever now, he had said none of it was real or it would have made cable news. Besides, the government couldn’t afford it after the riots over retirement benefits and the debt. The price of a volunteer economy.

“At least he’s not violent,” Sara added. “And his poor wife. Can you imagine him volunteering her as a test subject? Maybe it is best he doesn’t remember.”

“Don’t listen to their foolishness, Ms. Lorenz.” They all looked up to find Mrs. Quinn standing just inside the break room door. Somehow, she’d entered without any of them noticing. “He’s no different than any other patient. We’re a VA facility. We don’t get to pick and choose. Speaking of which, ladies, let’s get back to work.”

---

By mid-afternoon, Lida needed some fresh air. The stench of cafeteria lunches still roiled her stomach. Almost as bad as the underlying odor of the rest of the facility. She wondered if it would cling to her clothes like the smell of grease had during her mandatory work-study internship in fast food for her work ethic class.

On her way back from yet another errand that any modern computer network would have made obsolete, Lida ducked into the facility’s large central courtyard. It had once been a manicured garden where the residents could experience a little nature. Now, it was overgrown with weeds and tiny wildflowers sampled by yellow butterflies. Like a haven or a sanctuary. A prefect place to hide.

She really needed coffee but they didn’t have a single-serve machine in the break room, just some disgusting sludge in a communal pot. She wished she could slip out for a mocha but didn’t know where to get one nearby. Plus she didn’t think Mrs. Quinn would understand even if she brought one back for her.

Instead, Lida pulled out her phone and began scrolling through her messages, then ran through her sites again looking for little red numbers. Less than a half dozen. She began posting a quick series of updates, copying them across platforms. Her being here wasn’t really helping anyone.

She jumped when something brushed against her leg. A Siamese cat meowed for attention as it looked up at her. Lida ignored it, turning back to her phone. It stood on its hind legs and rubbed against her knee. Then it headbutted her shin with a hollow thunk.

“Felicia,” a man’s voice scolded from deeper in the garden. “Leave her be. Can’t you see she wants to be alone?”

Lida looked up, confused whether the man was talking to her or the cat. He stood ten feet away, neatly dressed in casual clothes. He wasn’t young but didn’t look old either. Definitely not a nurse. A visitor, maybe?

He made a high-pitched noise by sucking air through his teeth. The cat ran to him.

“You must forgive my Sandra Day,” he said, petting the cat’s head and scratching behind its ears. “The sun-bleached sun fades to moonrise against a brushed platinum sky.” He looked upward then smiled at her apologetically. “The color of ashes instead of its normal blood. It’s confusing.”

A patient? He didn’t sound quite right, but was he dangerous? Lida didn’t think so. The way he spoke reminded her of her grandfather after his stroke. Even if he couldn’t get the right words out, there was still an intelligence trapped inside. If only she could interpret this man’s strange poetry.

“Are you ok?” she asked. “Is there someone I should call?”

“No one knows I’m here.” He reached down and scooped the cat into his arms. The Siamese didn’t seem to mind. “I’m infected, but I’m not contagious.”

“Infected with what?” Lida was torn. Part of her wanted to back away but another part of her wanted to hear his answer.

“Time virus,” the man said as he stroked the contented cat. So it was real. “It was the only way to save her.”

“The cat?” Lida asked, confused. A therapy cat maybe. She’d seen online videos of those but no one had mentioned the facility had one.

“Pristina doesn’t want to live forever,” he answered, scratching beneath the cat’s chin. “Do you girl?”  The Siamese began purring as rough as an ancient combustion engine, the kind they’d outlawed when Lida was a child. The man cocked his head. “This place is run by the military, you know.”

Lida nodded. “You’re a veteran?”

“I did my duty to bring us to a new country. We both agreed. ‘Soldiers fight and soldiers die. Soldiers live to wonder why.’”

“I’m sorry.” Lida reached out to touch his arm. She was sure he was harmless. She felt sorry for him. “Is there anything you need? I’ll be here every day for a while.”

He shrugged. “When I’m hungry, I eat. When I’m tired, I sleep. Otherwise, I just am.”

“Are you hungry now?” Lida asked, hoping there was something she could do to help, even if it was small. “I can take you to the cafeteria.”

He shook his head. “I’ve eaten all my children. It’s just me and Jasmine, now.”

“Then why don’t I help you back to your room,” she said, not quite sure what else to do.

He paused as if considering then nodded once as he deposited the cat back on the path. He didn’t look unsteady, but Lida offered him an arm as she used to do with her grandfather when she’d take him out for coffee. He smiled wanly as he slipped his arm over hers, a touchstone for balance not support.

Outside the wide, faux-wood institutional door marked 47A, the name “Wu, Wei” was printed on the tiny display screen, parenthetically marked “Unoccupied” in red below. So this was Mr. Wu. He didn’t seem crazy, just maybe a little lonely. Sometimes people only needed someone to listen.

“They know when I come or go,” he said as he stood before the door, then snuck an exaggerated peek at her collar and smiled. “But they don’t know who comes in with me unless they have a badge.”

Lida took that as an invitation and followed him inside. She wasn’t ready to get back to meaningless make-work anyway. Besides, she liked him. When she spoke, he looked at her like he was really listening, like he was truly interested in what she had to say. Nobody had ever treated her that way before. Most people were only waiting for their turn to talk.

The room was heavily shadowed with thick draperies drawn against the outside light. It was configured as a studio, not much bigger than her room at home, with small living area adjacent to a recessed, curtained off sleeping nook created by the wide-mouthed bathroom. Opposite, a no-stove kitchenette with a dining bar looked out on the curtained wall.

Nestled among the cabinets, a microwave flashed either noon or midnight, like a constantly blinking reminder of a long forgotten appointment. It had to be old to be independent and disconnected. Lida wondered if it even worked. Every appliance she’d ever seen was on the network and self-setting except on the rare occasions when the satellites were down.

“Sit, sit.” Mr. Wu said, waving her through to the main room as he diverted into the kitchenette. “Guests require tea.”

As Lida entered his living space, she saw several more clocks displaying static, unmoving time. These were truly ancient, all gears with two hands meant to rotate around a dial, just like she remembered being taught by a grandmotherly volunteer in daycare and had rarely seeing since. But all their pendulums were still, their springs unwound, their hands at different angles.

A wall clock, a freestanding grandfather, a carriage clock, a dark wood cuckoo with its distinctive pinecone weights and chains, silver and gold pocket watches, a pre-quartz Timex wristwatch without a band, a kitschy, windup travel alarm cube no larger than an inch on every side. The kind of clocks she’d only seen at her grandparents’, at elderly neighbors’, on documentaries and in antiques stores.

They were interspersed between black, lacquered frames with old photographs, ink and glossy paper, not even digital never mind moving. A few were even black and white.

The rest of the furnishings were sparse, two backless, wooden barstools, a rustic coffee table with matching end tables beside a pair of bentwood and leather swivel chairs. The back of an ivory kimono hung on the wall behind them, delicately embroidered with a swarm of lavender butterflies rising from tree-lined mountains like a wisp of smoke.

A small easel stood facing the wall of draperies. Its tray held a set of sable brushes with a stone basin on one end stained with ink, the kind she remembered from art camp that you grind and mix yourself. The easel held a canvas with a brushstroke cat curled up in a stylized hollow of bamboo. Lida drew open the curtains a hand-width to find they concealed a floor to ceiling window that looked out onto a clump of bamboo in the garden. The room warmed as a beam of dappled light spilled in.

Mr. Wu hummed in the kitchenette as he clinked his way through assembling a tea service. A low tone from an electric kettle indicated the water had boiled. The sound of pouring followed.

He emerged a moment later carrying a wooden tray containing two handleless, ceramic mugs, an iron tea pot, a strainer and mismatched containers for sugar, cream and tea. The blue and gray glaze on the mugs reminded Lida of mountains against the sky.

Mr. Wu carefully set the tray on the coffee table. He motioned for Lida to sit as he began preparing the tea. He set about the task as if performing a familiar choreographed ballet, his manner precise yet effortless. He moved slowly but purposefully, completely focused and unrushed.

A moment later, he extended a steaming mug toward Lida with both hands. He showed no sign of even the slightest tremor. If anything, he moved more fluidly than she did. The mug was warm as she grasped it. Mr. Wu flicked a hand toward the sugar and creamer on the tray.

Normally, Lida would have swirled a heaping spoonful of sugar into the mug as if it were coffee. The only tea she’d ever had was brewed from a bag that came out of a large, cardboard box at her grandmother’s. It always tasted bitter. This smelled different, mellower. It was pale green rather than ditch water brown.

Mr. Wu watched her, unmoving. She opted to take an unadorned sip. It was surprisingly smooth yet full of subtle flavor that sugar might have destroyed. Nutty with a hint of plum, not bitter at all. Lida smiled and nodded. Mr. Wu smiled back and picked up his own mug in response.

A silence settled over them for a moment as they each enjoyed their tea. Mr. Wu didn’t seem bothered so neither was Lida. Most people saw silences as awkward, unnatural moments meant to be filled. She studied the nearby photographs.

“Is that your wife?” Lida pointed to the picture of a woman in a kimono that appeared to be the same one on the wall. “She’s beautiful.”

“The lady of the lake.” Mr. Wu smiled warmly. “The lord of the ring.”

“She’s dead now, isn’t she?” Lida said quietly.

He nodded gravely. “Two fish chasing each other’s tail, one black, one white, each on opposite sides of an ever-curving line. One defines the other and can never swim alone.”

“What happened to her?” she asked, only thinking after the words were out that perhaps she shouldn’t have.

“I did.” Mr. Wu didn’t sound perturbed, just honest and forthright. “Without me, she would never have volunteered.”

“Was she infected with the time virus, too?” Lida turned the mug nervously in her hand.

He nodded. “Too late to save her. Only me. The present is a finely honed razor slicing past from future. She had passed beyond the threshold I will ever stand before. Forever Chronos, I have no past, no future, only an eternal now.”

“I’m so sorry,” Lida said, adding as reflex, “I wish there was something I could do.”

After a long, evaluating pause, Mr. Wu finally said, “Light is razor sharp yet shadows shine like polished silver. But even shadows fade as clouds obscure the sun.” He eyed her oddly and whispered, “Help me fade.”

A deeper silence settled over them. Lida felt self-conscious like she was suddenly on display. Like the days she’d sat with her grandmother in her perfectly ordered living room, a child struggling not to squirm.

A moment later, Mr. Wu set down his mug, walked into the alcove with the bed and pulled the curtain shut behind him. Lida could hear him moving, out of sight. Eventually the sound of his rustling stopped. She could still hear his slow, even breathing.

Lida remained in her chair. She knew she should leave, knew she should get back to work before someone came looking. But the tears welling in her eyes kept her frozen in place. The other nurses thought Mr. Wu was crazy. Lida knew he wasn’t crazy; he was just trapped by the time virus in a life that was barely an existence. She’d seen it with her grandfather.

She sat for a long time, staring down at the cooling mug, the warm, welcoming tea turning bitter in her hands. She didn’t know how much time had passed. Finally, when she noticed Mr. Wu’s breathing had become muted as if he’d fallen asleep, she rose. She carefully set her own mug next to his. She walked quietly, purposefully just as she’d seen him do.

At the curtain, she paused, uncertain. She wasn’t ready to be alone. Was this what he really wanted? Was that what he’d really said? As much as she tried to convince herself otherwise, she’d come here to make a difference. Mr. Wu’s plea echoed in her ears, words her grandfather had never said but always seemed poised to. Help me fade.

Quietly, she slipped through the curtain and stepped inside.

---

Lida was used to failing, as was everyone around her. Now, she would have to find another volunteer position before she could graduate. Maybe she’d talk to Allison.

On her way out, she stopped before the wall clock. She knew she shouldn’t linger. Sara could come at any minute to check on Mr. Wu. When she found him, there would be an investigation that would likely end with Lida’s dismissal, or worse if she was seen. At least she’d helped someone even if that meant she was once again alone.

She noticed a clear, plastic push pin a quarter inch from the framing around the pendulum, just off to one side. She slid the bottom of the clock snug up against it so that it was no longer quite level. She set the hands to the time on her phone then flicked the pendulum with a finger.

The mechanism was ticking rhythmically as the door clicked shut behind her. 

© 2014 Edward P. Morgan III