Colony
by SpunSilk
Part thirteen: Task
The fear of death follows from the fear of life. A man who lives fully is prepared to die at any time.
–– Mark Twain
So here began a new rhythm for my days; up and build a fire, then after my tennis ball check-up each morning, off to the mine entrance for what I came to call the 'haircut'. The magnificent handsaw seemed pleased to see me each morning. (The cat gave me that look again, to see me anthropomorphizing an inanimate object, but I ignored his condescending stare.) The handsaw was a jumpy little thing, and I was delighted with the way it leapt into my hand of its own accord each time. After the haircut, I spent the morning cooking up something from the garden. Pumpkins or squash or semi-dried ears of corn. In the afternoons I typed, or read. Now I'm no great fan of highbrow literature, but I had found a book by Poe that really caught my fancy for some reason… and spent many an afternoon with it.
A lot to do in the daytime, not a lot of activity in the evenings. It was still so awful quiet. I felt my isolation even more intensely after my brief contact with another person. A one-sided conversation with a cat just didn't cut it for me.
One evening, the quiet of the evening was especially grating, and my eyes fell on the old violin. I walked over and picked it up, musing about what it must have meant for Horace to be able to play music in his lonely vigil. I plucked a string clumsily. The note enthusiastically sounded, the wooden box of it seemed to come alive for a brief moment, then the tone faded away into the empty quiet. I smiled ruefully at the well-worn fiddle. I wasn't the only thing feeling lonely in the cabin that night.
The next morning, I carried the instrument and the bow to the churchyard, and delivered them to where they belonged. I left them leaning up against the crude cross that I had placed on its owner's grave.
Other times I typed on the novel. The plot was moving along nicely, although the energy it took to type these days was sizable. For some reason, I still wanted to finish the book. Don't know why. Closure, maybe. The cat would sit on the table and try to snag the roller when I hit the carriage return. He actually got me smiling, more than once, with his antics.
Colony was still at work in all of this. Normally I'm a high-energy kind of guy, with energy for anything. Extra energy if a story is in the mix. But the low energy I felt made the daily chores hard. I was just so tired… tired all the time. And the turquoise haze, seen when I sat in the tennis ball triangle, had expanded to a worrisome level. It was hard to admit it to myself, but it was wearing me down. The damn infection just might win in the end.
I pondered this advanced state of the haze one day as I sat slothfully staring into space. I distractedly watched Edward R. Murrow thoroughly licking his shoulders and back. I couldn't deny it; I was not winning this fight. I guess had to accept that this green wilderness would be my last resting place. I closed my weary eyes. When Bloom happened I would move into the old church, as planned…live there… for what ever time was left…
Loneliness felt like a 200 pound rock on my chest as I contemplated the future.
Sorry, Horace, I told him silently, Bad luck. Not real useful to pass your cherished baton on to somebody with a death sentence on him. Once I'm gone, there will be no one to watch him. To make sure he stays contained–––
That's when the flashbulb over my head went off.
I still had one more ace up my sleeve! I had Colony. And once I died, it would go searching out suitable… Ether entities! Wasn't the Miscreation an Ether entity?! He would have to be, right? He would have to have an aura. I would be the first to admit I didn't understand what went on in the Ether, but that one detail seemed to have to be true. If so, I could maybe take down one last enemy with exit. My lousy exile, my death itself, could be useful. It could matter!
My spirit did an about-face with this idea ricocheting around inside my skull like a super-ball. Given that my demise was inevitable anyway. Why not? My eyes narrowed craftily. The beauty of the plan was that the troglodyte was contained, he couldn't flee from me or the deadly aura-virus I carried. It would be like shooting fish in a barrel. Ha! This might work! And he couldn't see the infection on me, even if he could see the Ether, since Lady Vet had said it couldn't be perceived without special equipment. I had a plan now. If Bloom actually ever happened, I wouldn't head to the church at all; I'd high-tail it for the mine itself.
Suddenly my mood was so good, I actually started to whistle.
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
I maintained the cairns for weeks. The feeble vines were determined and tenacious, but just too hobbled by the presence of the cairns themselves – and the daily dose of my dandy handsaw – to stand any chance of reaching their goal. I never stayed longer that necessary at the mine-head. In and out. I didn't like the feel of the place. I watched for him to make an appearance, but he never did me the favor. He stayed down in the deep dark of his pit.
It was getting steadily cooler in the night. Winter was coming on, brass monkeys and all. I kept the fire burning as late as I could manage, but once it went out, the room grew cool and in bed, the cold seeped in around the edges and straight into my bones. One evening as I pulled the patched quilt up snug around my shoulders, I felt the cat land nimbly on my legs. "No, no," I chuckled, pushing him off with my knee, "Nothing personal, mind you. But you are not the type I share beds with!" He landed on the floor with an insulted trill and a nasty glance in my direction. In spite of this, in the middle of the night I woke to find him curled up sound asleep on top of my feet. I almost pushed him off again, until my toes felt the temperature of the mattress even 10 inches away from the warm nest he had formed around his body.
Hmm. Possibly I'd be flexible. Possibly I'd change my mind about bed-mates. I let him sleep undisturbed.
The next morning during my check-up, the timing was just right. I actually watched as the last thin sliver of the normal 'aura-representation' disappeared into a pool of turquoise. I winced and braced myself, dreading what was to follow, but nothing did. My view while inside the triangle was full turquoise now, with grainy bits of orange. But I still didn't know what to expect, being a guinea pig, of sorts, to the course of this infection. Lady Vet hadn't known either. Maybe the damn Colony itself didn't even know. What I did know was that I felt like I was moving through water these days. Every action required effort. I felt like a kid's wind-up toy coming just about to the end of the motion stored in its spring. Life was slowing down…
Sitting there, I became uncharacteristically pensive again. Well. I guess that's it, then… Staring up dispassionately at the full-level turquoise around me, my life started re-playing in my mind.
Oh, how cliché, I thought.
I watched myself as a youngster. I saw Bruni again, Monkey Skull Creek, High school… The War –– and the Stars and Stripes. The first flirt of what it tasted like to follow a story. I'd been hooked.
After that; newspapers, ink, the clack of the tele-type which was the heartbeat of the newsroom. I felt again the percussive vibrations of hot presses and could still smell the mechanical, greasy smell of the public receiving their news. I saw the fight for the story, the corruption, being sacked (how often had it been?) because the higher-ups didn't want to hear what I had to say, a long series of other papers; my standards always got me in trouble.
I glanced around the inside of my cabin. No, Horace's cabin. Did I really even have a place? Really? What a bizarre life I'd been saddled with! I had spent my whole adult life on the move. Moving from city to city, from job to job. Never really settled, never putting down 'roots' as people like to say. Just accumulating miles on my Mustang. Accumulating grit in my gut, with all I saw.
And scar tissue on my world-view…
Then came Vegas. After that crazy story, the flood gates had opened. Terror became my constant companion. I forgot what it was to live without my weekly dose of adrenaline, what it felt like to feel safe, to be care-free with no responsibilities to anyone but myself. After Vegas I had suddenly felt responsible to all the victims of the Odd Stuff that came across my path. I couldn't even have told you why, but I had felt... I owed it to them somehow, to see their number kept low. No matter what it took.
It had been a good life, all things considered. Not a lot – at all – to show for it materially, no Pulitzer in the end after all; but you couldn't claim I hadn't made a difference. Somehow, knowing that part was very satisfying.
I sat watching my life-retold catch up with the present. Regrets? I guess a few. Sinatra's voice answered in my head seamlessly; But then again; too few to mention. My face pulled into a crooked smile at the song. And at its message.
Nothing was happening. I finally pulled myself out of the triangle to get on with life, because what else can you do? My turquoise bubble was not visible outside the triangle, but I could feel the lethargy. I glanced at the typewriter, but I couldn't summon up the energy to work on the novel. Ach, poor sap! My character would have to be left in the lurch… no closure after all. I set out to do only the most necessary of the chores.
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
It finally happened that day, in the early afternoon. I was next to the cabin, drawing up water, minding my own business – when Bam!
Something hit critical mass.
My vision actually winked out for a moment, replaced by a violent, turquoise... well… 'presence' is the best word I have for it. I must have cried out, too, but I don't remember. The pail of water fell to the side, spilling its contents down the side of the well. I wavered unsteady on my feet with the force of it, and grabbed the pail-winch for support. I was enveloped inside visible turquoise; drowned, consumed.
Bloom.