March the Twenty-Fourth, 18XX

Dear Mana,

This is Allen. Timcanpy came back to me with no letter attached to his foot, so I can only hope that means you are, in fact, all right. I also hope this one will reach you as well without much difficulty and in good health.

Because of the late rainy season, I have not been able to move as far as I would have liked, though the daylight has been getting slightly longer with the arrival of spring. However, it feels as if I have not seen the actual sun in weeks. I do not think foreigners could possibly understand how difficult it is to live in a country where it can rain for forty days and nights without an end in sight. It is funny how it seems like complaining about the lack of sun seems much more pleasant than my current situation. I doubt I would have ever said that before.

Food is getting rather hard to find, especially walking the long stretches of dirt roads overlooking many kilometers of farmland—empty farmland, no less. Because of the rain, many puddles have accumulated in the already-dismal corn and barley fields. There are still some cows here and there, lazily chewing on the fresh-spring grass, and part of me wants to go out and kill one. But I do not know the first thing on how to properly kill a cow, and the poor thing would die in so much pain. I do not even want to think about it.

I ought get to a city. There might be more mills that produce food and the like, and, perhaps, people. I am tired of feeling starved, wet, and cold. Though there is a stream nearby that I could possibly wash my filthy clothes in, it is swollen from the rain, and I could risk getting swept away. Would that not be ironic? To drown in a river instead of dying by cannibalistic predators that foam at the mouth?

My apologies. Given the current predicament, it is hard to write about anything particularly cheerful, when everything seems so grim.

Do you remember before all of this happened? In such a short amount of time, it feels like my prior childhood, days filled with the circus and schooling (with that harsh schoolmaster, no less), are nothing but distant dreams. As if the house we live in on the corner of the street, the one we decorate beautifully for Christmas-time, never existed. I do not even remember what it looks like right now. What color is it? The window panes? The roof? Is there a gate? Is there a fence? My memories are a haze, fogged up by the thoughts of gnashing, elongated teeth and flesh dangling off cracking bones.

Sorry, sorry. Such descriptions are not good for your heart. Forgive me.

I do wonder if the schoolmaster is all right, though. With his casual demeanor, it is hard to imagine him being able to survive, especially since he was such a drunkard. Did I ever tell you that one time, during class, he pulled out several bottles of wine from his desk during an arithmetic test? As if he had no care in the world! Afterward, he demanded that I go and make him some money to pay off his debt, "or else," he said. Or else what? Honestly, the very nerve of that man! What kind of integrity of a teacher does he have, if at all? To have a name like Cross and to act like that certainly does not live up to the Christian symbolism his name possesses.

Then again, he was the only one able to put up with my inability to learn things quickly. Without his help, I doubt I would be able to read, let alone write. I suppose I should be grateful, even if he did drag me several times to the seedy bars in town to help him play poker. What professional brings a young teenager to a bar to make money? And then leave said-teenager alone while hooking up with a lady, if not two?

He told me to never breathe a word of this to you. I do not think telling you now will change anything, seeing as how the world is slowly unraveling. Besides which, I am certain you would be willing to forgive him, seeing as how he is an "uncle," of sorts.

Maybe he is surviving. I have faith.

I have been stuck in the same place for several days now, waiting for the waters of the stream to level out. The road is completely inaccessible, with at least four-to-five meters deep of water cutting me off from the rest of the way towards—towards wherever I am going. The road goes up a rather daunting hill, so I cannot see beyond it. Fortunately, I am indoors, within a one-story house, and unlike the last time I wrote to you, the owners are long-gone. The fireplace has been fully-stocked with wood, and I keep a fire lit at night.

Oh, yes. A peculiar instance happened last week, late at night. While struggling with hunger and fatigue, I nearly succumbed to the cold, since the temperatures dropped unexpectedly with another cold front. It was late at night as well, near a rather large, industrial farm, and the diseased caught wind of me. I managed to get into the woods and, in my delirious state, I decided I absolutely needed a fire, because I would rather die getting eaten than of the cold. So, upon making one, those harsh hisses and awkward footsteps stopped, and they backed away. Even though I was quite like a weakened deer, they walked away from the fire, avoiding it completely.

Unfortunately, that took the last of my burning oil, and this house hasn't anymore to spare, but it is good to keep in mind what works to keep yourself alive several moments longer.

The stream has to stop swelling eventually, right? I am getting antsy, sitting in this wooden chair and constantly keeping watch for any oddities outside. The bread here is quickly growing green, but there is enough cheese here for the entire English army and the poor. If I eat anymore, I may turn into cheese myself. Maybe then the maddened will stop wanting to eat me.

It seems the people who used to live here took anything and everything they could with them in a short-notice, since so much was left behind. Or perhaps they went into the city the day when everything went wrong. Either way, there are still valuables inside glass cabinets on display—chinaware with those blue paisley flower designs you like so much, Mana. I wish I could forgo my morals and somehow send you one, but with the possibility of them still being alive, I cannot. Please forgive me. There is also a chest full of lovely dresses and other clothes, though none of them fit me. How I long to have something new to wear, something that is not full of holes and covered in dirt.

Timcanpy keeps pecking at the window. He often loves to go outside to fly for a little bit, and sometimes I think he will not come back, but he always does. Him being here helps me. Without him, I would look insane talking to myself. The lack of conversations with anyone is strange, and some days, I feel like I forgot what my own voice sounds like. I have to keep prompting myself to speak, for I fear that I might lose my voice entirely if I do not.

It is so quiet here, it is maddening. I hope to leave soon.

Should it be sunny tomorrow, I will send out this letter first thing in the morning, in hopes you will receive it. Pray to God that it is—I cannot stand it here any longer.

So while I have not found out any answers yet, stay hopeful for us both, Mana. I cannot wait to come back home to you and to the circus. Perhaps, once this is all over, we can go to London and treat ourselves to something extravagant. Usually I am against indulgence, but there is, as people say, a first time for everything.

Please, take care.

With much love,

Allen W.