《BLUD》


 How I Came To The End of The World. Mr. Blud Is Not To Be Seen. Raindrops On The Window.

    It was through my cousin, Rachel that I first came to live at the end of the world. She had a passing acquaintance with the owner of the house in which I came to live, Mr. Blud. It struck me as the perfect place for me to finish my book. I was ¡°going through difficulties¡± at the time, which was my euphemism for not having written a sentence in months. The house was not literally at the end of the world, though one could be forgiven for the mistake. It sat on a steely-gray cliff high above the ocean, the only house for miles around. No other human settlements were visible save one, the landlord¡¯s house across the channel, and only then in fine weather.


    My house was small, one floor and three bedrooms, but reasonably well-kept with the notable exception of the living room floor. The living room was my favorite room of the house, always where I did my writing, perched in front of the massive, arched windows looking out into the dark ocean; always so dark due to its tremendous depth near the cliffs. ¡°You¡¯d be drowned before you saw a percent of that water,¡± my cousin said in her cheery way. The living room floor was once something of which the owner must have been proud. It was a beautiful, dark wood, but so deeply scarred and damaged to be nearly unrecognizable as wood any longer. Nowhere else in the house was there the slightest damage to the floors, the wainscoting, or any other aspects of my delightful writing cottage. It was perfect. What did I care of what could be hidden by a few carpets? It would do just fine. Perhaps I would finally finish my book. That was my hope, though it proved in time to be fruitless.


    It was storming when I arrived, as it always seemed to be thereafter, and I was waiting to be let in the cottage, getting quite soaked by the salty rain, standing over the top of my lone suitcase and typewriter so that they would not be damaged further than their already dilapidated state. I stood on the cobblestone path, leaning against the siding of the house, hoping by mere proximity to become drier, despite the lack of any protective overhanging. It was when I was in this pitiable position that Riven finally arrived. He gave me the most cursory of nods before fitting the key in the lock and stepping into the darkened entryway. It was not until he lit a lamp that I was able to see much at all. I sat down my things by feel.


    ¡°No electricity, though I¡¯m sure your...cousin was it? Told you that already.¡±


    ¡°Grady. Thomas Grady.¡±


    I offered my hand and it was taken for the briefest of moments.


    ¡°Here¡¯s the key. I imagine you can find your way around. It¡¯s small enough anyway.¡±


    ¡°It certainly is compared to your house across the way. I¡¯ve only just glimpsed it when I arrived, but-¡±


    ¡°I am not Mr. Blud. I¡¯m Mr. Blud¡¯s assistant, Riven.¡±


    ¡°My apologies, Riven. I only just...¡±


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    Without ado, the blunt assistant turned towards the door to leave, clearly believing that his work was done. The two of us stood no more than a few feet from it, neither truly having the right to offer the other a place to sit. He passed the oil lamp to me, and in so doing displayed part of his visage for the first time. He was terribly scarred across the face, a patchwork of poor stitches and crude patch-ups. And he was only in possession of one eye, the other being covered by a black patch without string, that hung as if glued to his skull. I did my best not to ponder on it for long.


    ¡°No apologies necessary, Mr. Grady. I¡¯ll be going.¡±


    ¡°Wait, when will I have the chance to meet Mr. Blud?¡±


    ¡°Your dealings will be with me.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m never to meet him?¡±


    ¡°Mr. Blud is an exceedingly busy man. He was given to believe that you required solitude, not company.¡±


    ¡°Of course. Good day, then.¡±


    ¡°Good day, Mr. Grady.¡±


    It was not a welcoming parade, but the cottage, as I¡¯ve said, was more than suitable to my desires. I went about the house my first night, lighting the oil lamps in every room in order to get a good look at them in turn. Having few things, there was not much unpacking to be done, but this I did deliberately nonetheless. My few shirts and pants were folded carefully and put away, my lone heavy jacket hung from a hanger by its lonesome in the closet. There was only a small table in the kitchen, a wicker for two that belonged outside a cafe somewhere. I preferred to take my meals standing up those days, alone at the counter pondering my next pages. I moved the wicker table to the living room in front of the arched windows, as I¡¯ve mentioned. There I set up my typewriter, preferring to pull up the plush, high-backed chair away from the fireplace in front of my table.


    The cold seeped into me, showing early on the necessity for a fire at all times in such a place. I was far from an expert at starting fires, though I eventually succeeded, accomplishing a crackling blaze that did little to light the dark cottage. The windows themselves were less portals to the outside, and more the outer darkness pushing its way into my meager light. The dark of a place with no other humans is largely forgotten in our light-filled societies, but it is an oppressive force. The ocean was invisible in the inky black, a giant living organism, millions upon millions of gallons of water so close, but utterly lost to vision. For sights, there were only one the windows provided, and it was curious. Raindrops slid down the double panes with regularity as the ocean''s rage continued unabated to pelt the cliff top and my cottage. I noticed that near the top of the pane, for an inch or so, the drops glowed faintly red. Once they breached this particular patch of the window, they became clear streaks of wet once more, but new drops of glowing blood were always there to take their place. They were created by a red light in the distance across the channel. I would learn in good time that the light rested on the dock of my landlord, bolted firmly in place to the boards, safe from the buffeting waves, never to be displaced. Even when I learned the origin of the light, I was never entirely inured to the violence of those raindrops and typically avoided looking too close out the windows at night.


    When I was able to pull myself away from my desk, it was late in the morning. I had accomplished little writing, but I had only just arrived. First nights in new places can be difficult. My gas lamp having extinguished, from the flickering light of the fire I saw my watch was wrong, still reading just after three in the afternoon. Perhaps it needed a new spring. I left the fire to its own devices, already burning low, and slid my wool socks across the scarred floor for the first time on my way to bed. I went to sleep pleased that I had found a place of happy isolation where I could finish my work.

 The Assumption of Rain, Anabels Coffeehouse, and The Lone Walker Steals From Me

    In the morning, a slight drizzle was falling. It would behoove you, dear reader, to simply assume precipitation for the duration of my story, but if I slip into a description of the weather once more, I beg your forgiveness. Having fished around the kitchen in the early morning light and found nothing but cobwebs, a walk was no longer a ponderous activity with the benefit of exercise, but a necessity to garner some much-needed supplies.


    I stood at the living room windows just before I set out, my hands absentmindedly grasping at the lapels of my coat, staring into white fog. I had hoped the morning would bring with it the views from the cottage that had been promised, but I''d have to wait. I tightened my hood around my head and set out, the rusty key to the cottage grasped firmly in my fist. It was a three-mile walk to Hertledge, where my train had arrived the day before, but having already made the trek up, going down didn''t seem like such a chore. I watched my boots carefully as I stepped on the wet, rocky path. The fog was thick enough that even seeing to the toes of my boots was something of a chore. One advantage of a keen focus on the job of walking is that great distances can be covered in the blinking of an eye. It felt as if I had only just left my cottage when the hazy lights of Hertledge came into view. It wasn''t much: a few cars on the street, a grocery, a coffee house, and one or two hotels. I ventured first to the coffee house, making good use of the boot scraper just outside the entrance.


    ¡°A face I don¡¯t recognize. An unexpected pleasure, even when they aren¡¯t nearly so handsome.¡±


    ¡°Grady. Thomas Grady.¡±


    ¡°And a gentleman to boot. Be careful now, Mr. Liddell is mighty protective of his Anabel.¡±


    ¡°And who could possibly blame him?¡±


    ¡°You must stick around, Mr. Grady. The art of banter being sorely lost on most folks around.¡±


    ¡°If your coffee is half as good as your company, I¡¯ll never leave.¡±


    The proprietor and namesake of the coffee house disappeared with a grin on her face and came back a few moments later with a cup, a saucer, and a carafe.


    "It''s better," she said with a wink before going off to serve someone else. Anabel did not oversell her coffee, and I made a resolution to make a stop off as a regular part of my morning routine. It was a capital idea. I could take my exercise by walking down to town while enjoying both Anabel''s company and her coffee. I could retrieve any necessaries I needed from the grocery while I was in town. It suited me to the bones. A little conversation would be good for me, living up alone in the cottage. Isolation is necessary for good writing, but so is the continued observation of the human spirit. I would be inexorably stuck with my book if I was not able to talk to people. Perhaps that was my problem.


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    As I drank my carafe, my thoughts wandered to the book, my eyes unfocused out the greasy front window. It was a gloomy view that I would get to know well. The window was not truly slicked by grease, but only appeared so as the muddy street and the cliffs of my home beyond it offered nothing but shades of misty gray to look at, none of the landscape ever lit by enough sunlight to appear with any clarity. The view always seemed to me like an oil painting, as if a painted representation on canvas could convey the image with more accuracy than even a photograph. My solitary carafe of coffee finished, I paid and thanked Anabel, assuring her I would see her again the next morning. I made my way to the grocery to buy my dinner. I was ready to go home. My typewriter called to me. I was going to get some good work done. I could feel it.


    On my way home, even burdened as I was by my groceries, and going uphill as well, I was in a cheery mood. I was sure that my book would lurch with life for the first time in many months. As I neared a rounded top that meant I was a mile or so from home, I stopped to sit for a moment and catch my breath. I happened to see below me, another traveler. It appeared to be a man, wearing a long, blue coat and with a walking stick to help him navigate the treacherous rocks.


    ¡°Ahoy there!¡± I called.


    The man was some distance below, but I was not yet good at estimations of the sort. Yet, I saw him look at me. There was no doubt in my mind that he turned, saw me, and made note of it. He did not respond or even deign to wave. He turned and went about his way, ignoring me entirely. What a luxury it must have been, so able to ignore company on such a desolate stretch of rock. I picked up my groceries and finished my walk home, but an unfortunate thing happened.


    I could not get any work done. I sat in the high-backed chair, a fire roaring once more, an oil lamp standing near my typewriter on the wicker table. There I perched in front of the round top windows, the fog finally giving way by degrees, the black waters coming into view, the white tapering cutting through the dark water as they crested and crashed on the rocks below. My mind had latched onto a subject as it so often does, but this particular subject was anathema to all progress. It had nothing to do with my book and had only the effect of preventing my book from moving forward. I could not help but think of the lone man in the blue coat. It was not a great mystery, nor was it of any great concern to me personally, but it stuck like a craw in me and I couldn''t let it go. His spectre inevitably appeared when my fingers even grazed the tips of the keys. Literary thoughts were immediately dashed away by the sight of his walking stick and solitary gaze. His gaze! He had certainly looked at me, heard my call, given me a once-over and deemed me not worthy of a return call. It didn''t matter!


    Why should I care what a stranger thought? For all I knew, the man was mute, incapable of answering my call, but that thought was no comfort as it brought out the possibility of a wandering mute and that hardly put my mechanistic mind to bed. It whirred and buzzed uselessly into the evening, the white sheet of paper neatly tucked into the typewriter flapping gently on occasion, never to be stamped with the indelible ink of my once-creative mind. No, the lone walker had stolen all my creative energy for the day and I could not get it back for all I tried.

 A Blue Speck

    There was a fearsome storm that evening, and once I¡¯d resigned myself to my situation enough to move from the typewriter to the hearth, I was able to sit comfortably with my Melville, my back pleasantly warmed, pausing every few lines as a flash of lightning shone across my face. In those flashes, when I found my eyes wandering between the twin panes as I so often did, the dock across the channel was illuminated. A long, brassy structure, jutting out into the hardness of the sea with all the stubbornness of tree roots through pavement. And at the end, the red light cut through the maw of the storm, seeming never to flicker, falter, or be set upon by nature as my poor cottage was. Strongly built though my cottage seemed to be, the bones creaked in the storm. Even Jesus¡¯ wise builder must have felt the fear of the ocean dweller at some point. The little house was buffeted by the changing winds, the sudden redirection of masses of raindrops coming with the frightening slap of an emptied bucket.


    I became antsy in the storm, unable to focus on the madman''s search for the whale, I walked to the front of the house, to my bedroom, the room furthest from the ocean, perhaps thinking it would be quieter, afford some more sanity. My bed seemed a solitary rowboat upon an endless ocean and I found no comfort for my anxiety there. There was nothing to do but grin and bear it, to lean into the situation. I returned to the living room and once more stood in front of the great windows. The scarred grooves of the floor beneath my stockinged feet, I looked out into the blackness, and when a flash of lightning came, something caught my eye. A speck of blue, barely discernible from the nighttime, very near the glowing red light of my landlord''s dock. Could it be that this was the man I spied on my walk home? The man in the blue coat and walking stick, standing on Mr. Blud''s dock: was he Mr. Blud? In mere moments I had convinced myself that this must be the case and that my enigmatic landlord with the odd cycloptic manservant was standing at the end of his dock in the middle of a gale.


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    What could compel a man to do such a thing? He was liable to get himself swept away and drowned. This was not a sunbathing shoreline on which he built his property, as I was sure he must have known, but an unforgiving and rocky landscape giving way only to the equally cruel waters below. Yet here he stood, arms crossed behind his back, stoic against the onslaught. I could not see him and yet I knew he stood this way. A speck of blue, nothing more, but the rest supplied with ease by my restless imagination, which had lost its reliable outlet in my typewriter in those unproductive days. Arms crossed, eyes open and unblinking against the icy wind. Thick, seafaring boots planted firmly on the dock. He was waiting for something. Standing with patience...waiting for what? Nothing. No ships came so close to the rocky outcropping. Nothing to wait for but


    He waited.

 No Place For A Child

    The morning following the storm was calm, almost cheery by comparison. I let my coat flap about me without being buttoned-up on my walk down to Hertledge, the only precipitation a fine dusting hanging about the air through which I walked. I was disappointed that I had been unable to get any writing done, but I was scheduled to stay in my cottage above the channel for several months yet, and my hopes remained high. The solitary figure of my landlord at the tip of his dock still haunted me, though I could not have said what was particularly upsetting about a man making use of his own property,


    (waiting)


    nasty though the weather may have been. I was grateful to sit down at Anabel¡¯s, my table by the window ready for me, a steaming mug to my lips shortly. It was a quiet morning in the coffee house, the weather being as palatable as it was.


    "The real nasty days are what brings ¡®em into my little place. They''re looking for company. They have their own coffee at home, but weather, like we have around the channel, makes folks lonely."


    "I''ll drink to that. Up on the hill, it''s like the end of the world."


    ¡°What¡¯s that ye said?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s like the end of the world.¡±


    ¡°The bluffs? You¡¯re living up on the bluffs? Mr. Blud¡¯s old place?¡±


    ¡°That gentleman is my landlord, though I don¡¯t know much about the history of the cottage itself.¡±


    ¡°He lived there with his daughter before he built the place he has now. It was so far away from town as is, and he¡¯s gone and moved further, all the way across the channel. How are you liking it up there?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m trying to finish my book,¡± I said.


    ¡°Why Mr. Grady, just when I thought you¡¯d hit the ceiling for charm, you go and tell me that you¡¯re working on a book. An author in my shop.¡±


    ¡°Not so much of one to be honest. A few of my stories have found their way into print here and there but nothing much really.¡±


    ¡°I wish you the best of luck. Did you know that you¡¯re the first tenant he¡¯s ever taken on in the place? That ought to make you feel special. Maybe it says something about you. Could be a sign that you¡¯ll bring great accomplishment to the place. With your book!¡±


    Anabel went back into the kitchen, bustling about in a way that seems particular to women of a certain age. I''ve never seen a young person bustle with much effect, but Anabel was the queen of it I''m sure. With her back to the kitchen, I was able to get a look at the only other man in the dining room. He wore a shabby coat and had a steel gray moustache that rested on the lip of his mug when he took a drink. The smell of the ocean lingered near him strongly. The smell of the ocean was a constant presence in those parts; the brine attached itself to the nostrils of everyone present, but its smell was only noticeable when it was greatly multiplied as it was with this man. I took him to be a fisherman.


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    ¡°That¡¯s about the measure of it,¡± he told me.


    "I''ve not been since I was a boy, to tell the truth. I imagine my hazy memories of pond fishing would be quaint to you."


    ¡°Do you want to go out?¡±


    ¡°Fishing with you? That might be a bit much for me.¡±


    The man laughed a smoker¡¯s laugh, rumbles coming from deep in his chest.


    "I''ve a row boat tied up h''aint seen open water in years. Never have the stomach for a pleasant row after coming ashore. Good for the soul, a row."


    ¡°I would love to do that. Grady. Thomas Grady.¡±


    ¡°Ye can just call me Renny. Everybody else does.¡±


    When each of us was finished with our coffee, Renny walked me down to the docks to show me the rowboat. He told me not to go out if the weather was bad, because as he said (showing a flair for the dramatic) the bluffs were not pretty enough to be the last thing I saw before dying. As if a stringed-puppet, I looked up and saw my cottage from below for the first time. The view of it from the docks was partial, but it was undeniably my little getaway. Renny only grunted at it and pointed across the channel at the long dock I knew well, it¡¯s red light grounded in a visible reality, though no more pleasant to my mind.


    ¡°Why red, do you think?¡±


    ¡°Wive¡¯s tale.¡±


    ¡°I beg your pardon?¡±


    ¡°Blud¡¯s a bit superstitious. Weird cock if you ask me. Supposed to be that red¡¯s the only color deep sea creatures can see from the depths.¡±


    ¡°How deep is the channel?¡±


    Grunts.


    ¡°Why would he want them to see it?¡±


    (waiting)


    ¡°...¡±


    ¡°...¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t take it out in bad weather. Do ye understand?¡±


    ¡°Perfectly.¡±


    On my way back up to the cottage, I tried to see how long I could keep the docks in view, but they were lost before too long. Only Mr. Blud¡¯s dock across the channel extended far enough into the water to not be obscured by the bluffs, his absurd red light marking its place all the way up on the hill on which he evidently used to live with his daughter. That was one detail that Anabel dropped as if I should have known. Somehow in all my imaginings of my landlord, I had never considered that he might have a daughter. In my mind, he was always a solitary figure, a lone man who lived a hermit¡¯s life near rough waters. The thought of a child in pigtails skipping stones from the edge of the dock. It did not seem quite right. Wrong. The channel was no place for a child. A child needs sunlight and ponds. Aging, unaccomplished writers can get along just fine with dreary weather and unsociable fishermen, but a young girl?

 The Steel Door

    Over the next few days, I was able to piece together a few pages of my book. I refused to delude myself; they were not excellent pages. My heart was not in the work. My solitary retreat without distractions had turned out to be a veritable stew of them. My work suffered in part because I was more interested in the world around me than the world of my own creation. This, as any writer will tell you, is a death knell. I soldiered on in the hopes that things would turn around, but never during this time period did I consider isolating myself further. I continued my daily walks to Anabel¡¯s, and once gaining access, I also began to row myself about the channel. I found rowing to be even better exercise than my long walks. It was positively exhausting.


    On my third day out in the boat, resting somewhere near the middle of the channel, enjoying the low rhythm of bobbing, I was seized by an idea that wouldn''t let me go. Reader, you may find this hard to believe, as I have just told you that my creative energies were floundering, but they only seemed to flounder when I tried to put them to use. Otherwise, they were my most active faculty in those strange days. You may even consider the sudden striking of an idea as the most likely of all happenings in my exceedingly unlikely story. I grabbed hold of the oars and began to row with a deliberate speed towards my landlord''s dock. It did not take me long to reach it, and I tied the boat off very near the red light that caused my living room windows to bleed.


    Up close it was a curiously unimpressive artifact. No bigger round than my fist, it was the product of a single bulb the size of a golf ball. Its light was duller up close, muted by proximity, more like a reddish orb than a glowing bulb. Once able to cease my investigation into the bulb, I walked the length of Mr. Blud¡¯s dock for the first time. I found that it lead directly to another path, also slatted wood, that went through Mr. Blud¡¯s back property, lined by non-native fir trees the height of my shoulders. It seemed that Mr. Blud¡¯s dock, in truth, went all the way from near the middle of the channel to his back door.


    I stood in front of this door for a very long, few moments. It was like the door to a large freezer, thick steel, completely seamless, and the strangest part: no outdoor handle. I knocked on the door, my clenched fist making neither sound nor echo, a feat while so close to the channel¡¯s shore. To my surprise, the door opened right away, and standing in the doorway, blocking any view, was Riven. He looked displeased to see me, or so I thought. His countenance was always frightening, but the set of his jaw spoke more for him than his other facial expressions, and it was set resolutely.


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    ¡°He¡¯s not expectin ya.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a social call. I was out rowing and...¡±


    ¡°Seen ya rowing out there.¡±


    ¡°Right, well...I¡¯d like Mr. Blud¡¯s assistance.¡±


    ¡°I told ya, it¡¯s me you deal with for the cottage. Ya leave a message with Anabel and I¡¯ll see to it.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not about the cottage. Everything satisfactory on that front.¡±


    ¡°...¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m writing a history of the channel and the surrounding area.¡±


    The lie came easily.


    ¡°I¡¯m a writer. It¡¯s what I do. Mr. Blud is an important personage in these parts and...¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, he can¡¯t help you with that. Good day, Mr. Grady.¡±


    ¡°Good day, R...¡±


    The door closed as silently as it opened, impressive even in its dismissal of me. I thought I might peek around the grounds a bit, but the thought occurred to me that a man whose back door looked like that might not take too kindly to any snooping. I walked back down the dock, first through the tunnel of fir trees and once again down to the red light and my borrowed rowboat.


    I don¡¯t know what came over me, what compelled me to row to that house, but it seemed at the time to be a capital idea, as if approaching from the water was the key to the puzzle, like an invasion of a hostile nation. I can¡¯t say I was surprised by the chilly reception I received, but it did nothing to blunt my interest in the goings on of my particularly secretive landlord. Who in God¡¯s name needed a door like that? As I rowed back to my side of the channel, a rain beginning to fall, first lightly and then soaking me to the bone, I made a resolution that would end my writer¡¯s block.


    Rowing.


    (waiting)


    I was going to write about the channel and its history. It had been a lie when it came out of my mouth, but it no longer had to be. There was no doubt in my mind that Mr. Blud played prominently in the history of the place, and if he didn¡¯t care to tell me himself...well I¡¯d find out one way or another. The rain fell in torrents, and the fisherman¡¯s warning of bad weather was ringing in my ears as I tied off back at the docks. A light was on in Anabel¡¯s, and I gave a thought to stopping in to dry off and warm up, but I couldn¡¯t. My typewriter was calling.


    My typewriter was calling, and for the first time in months, I didn''t think it was a false alarm.

 A Rash Action

    I resolved to speak to Anabel first on this matter, as she was the closest thing I had to a friend in the area. I didn¡¯t expect her to blow the lid off a conspiracy for me, but I¡¯ve always found it¡¯s best to start where one is most welcome. With this in mind, I began the now familiar descent from my cottage to the town below. It still took a great deal of focus to make the walk without seriously injuring myself, but I couldn''t help but look around at my surroundings as I walked. Ever since I saw


    (waiting)


    the man in the blue coat looking at me, I had been compulsively watching for any reappearance among the rocks. It had not yet come. I did see a young, red-headed man climbing into a skiff. I gave him a hearty wave, thinking of him as my neighbor in this strange part of the world, a kindred spirit in some small way. I received not even a curt nod in reply, though the man certainly saw me. It was beginning to seem like certain people about the channel simply looked through me to the other side, or as if I were a piece of the bluffs themselves.


    I expected Anabel would be as pleased to see me as ever, pulling out a chair and patting it, insisting that I sit right on down while she filled a carafe for me. I had come to look forward to these mornings. For all my struggles with writing, I found that sitting down deliberately to drink my coffee, doing nothing else: no reading the paper or perusing a book, was a delightful departure from my usual routines, and one that stewed creative juices in a most natural and pleasant way.


    The bell that hung above Anabel¡¯s door had all but ceased its ringing and the proprietor of Hertledge¡¯s finest coffee house was still nowhere to be seen. Usually, the door was barely opened before I was beset by her kindness and spirit of welcoming. I stood in the main sitting room of her establishment, finding it empty and eerily quiet. But not...entirely quiet. I could hear an occasional whimper coming from the kitchen. I made my way through the maze of circular tables and once reaching the door to the kitchen, the door I had so often seen opened by Anabel¡¯s shoulder or behind, and pushed it with the flat of my palm.


    On the floor, her back to the low cabinets, a sack of flour ripped and spilling out on the floor next to her, and crying fiercely, was Anabel. Her body heaved up and down with effort, her hands balled into fists rubbed at her eyes. Flour was caked to her face and run through with rivulets of tears, a sight that would have been worth a few chuckles were it not for the circumstances.


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    ¡°Oh, Mr. Grady, for you to see me like this. I could just die.¡±


    ¡°Come now, it¡¯s nothing. Tell me, what has happened.¡±


    ¡°...¡±


    ¡°Anabel, whatever it is, I¡¯m certain it¡¯s nothing to be ashamed of.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve been robbed!¡± she shrieked with sudden, uncontained emotion. ¡°The scoundrel took my seeds. My seeds!¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, but I don¡¯t understand. He didn¡¯t take your money.¡±


    ¡°Oh, he took that well enough. But I don¡¯t care a whit about the money compared to my seeds. They¡¯re my positive joy. Gone.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m afraid I¡¯m still a bit in the dark.¡±


    ¡°Seeds to grow things, Mr. Grady. I¡¯ve the finest garden for miles around. Everyone knows it. It¡¯s damned hard to grow things in this place, but I know all the secrets.¡±


    ¡°Do you know the man who robbed you? Did he wear a mask?¡±


    "Never seen him before in my days. Redheaded fellow."


    ¡°He had red hair?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve just said that haven¡¯t I?¡±


    I sprung into action more quickly than I ever have before. I was determined that I would do something to help Anabel. This crook had ruined the magic of the most idyllic place for miles and I¡¯d not forgive him for it.


    ¡°Are you alright, Anabel?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll recover, Mr. Grady. There¡¯s no need to worry so much on my account.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m going to get your seeds back.¡±


    ¡°Mr. Grady surely...¡±


    Her words were lost on me, as I set out on a rash course of action, the likes of which I had never taken before, and likely haven''t since. I fairly sprinted to the docks, untying my rowboat as I hopped aboard. He certainly had a head start in his skiff, but he''d not expect anyone to be following him. If I could get him within view on the horizon, I''d not let him disappear. Not for the world.

 Every Bit A Madman

    I rowed diligently until my arms were fit to fall off. Still, I did not quit. I was taken by an animal spirit that morning, the injustice done to Anabel striking me with a mandate like never before. The wind cut cruelly at my face, my still-soft cheeks not accustomed to the unprotected winds that gale on the open water. A squall was coming, this much I was attuned to from my short stay on the channel, and my situation in the small rowboat was not going to improve any time soon as I rowed directly into the heart of it.  I felt the cold first, the dramatic drop of the temperature that signified what was to come. It felt wonderful on my sweating body. I had stripped my shirt at this point, my hair whipping over my eyes, I looked every bit a madman. The dramatic winds came next, cutting at my already-reddened skin, the pain unlike any I had previously experienced. The rain was last and worst of all, as it made visibility limited in the extreme. I could see no further than the prow of my own, small craft, and could not hope to see anything of a red-headed thief in a skiff.


    I was breaking the only rule that had been handed down with the loan of the rowboat. I''d felt at the time that the fisherman was more concerned about losing his boat than my drowning, but he was sure to be upset either way, and the two were by no means mutually exclusive. On and on it went, my upper body moving in an ingrained rhythm separate from my brain, the sheltered organ that makes all the decisions and leaves its outer companions to take the brunt of the abuse.


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    Although the storm did not let up, I was soon able to get a better line of vision. My eyes had adjusted to the screaming wind, the pelting raindrops, and the darkened sky. And lo and behold, I saw something else too. It wasn¡¯t much. The briefest flash of red. As much as the sudden squall had hurt me, it had not been my enemy, but my friend. The thief had been forced to reef his sail and ride out the winds. He was doing no more than floating about, trying not to keel over. Meanwhile, I was making slow, arduous process and there was nothing he could do about it.


    As I gained on the thief, my presence eventually became known to him. It was not until I was within fifty fathoms or so that I saw the object in his hand. It was still pointed upwards, and he fired it twice in warning. What demon had gripped my soul? What led me to continue on unabated? I am not a brave man, although stupidity is certainly within my purview, and I am inclined to think that the latter won out. Perhaps it was madness brought on by the lack of coffee I¡¯d been able to drink that morning, but that seems a bit unlikely. What I can say with certainty is that the thief turned his shining pistol on me, aiming I know not how in the rocking boat, pelted by continuous sheets of rain. I remember the flash of the muzzle, white and spectacular, but not the sound of its shot. How it must have echoed off the bluffs! What a sound it must have made in the living room of my cottage, shaking the scarred floorboards, my wicker table¡­


    Blackness engulfed me. Death seemed to have taken me before I was able to write anything of consequence, and all for Anabel, my matronly coffee angel in this most desolate of places.

 Riven And I

    I awoke abruptly as if falling. I sat up in bed, my own bed, and found myself immediately lying back down. The pain in my gut was tremendous. Looking down, I saw my middle was wrapped thoroughly in gauzy covering.


    ¡°There you are then.¡±


    Riven was in the room with me, sitting in one of my unused kitchen chairs in the corner, his legs crossed in a decidedly feminine fashion, a tattered book across his lap. He was not wearing his patch on this occasion, and his empty socket showed. A skin growth of some kind was visible within the collapsed area, looking for all the world like the gnarled knot of a tree. He looked, characteristically, not pleased to see me.


    ¡°How long have I been out?¡±


    ¡°A few days. Lucky that Mr. Blud saw you when he did.¡±


    ¡°Mr. Blud saved me?¡±


    ¡°Aye. You weren¡¯t more than a few fathoms from his dock, but had he not been out there¡­¡±


    (waiting)


    ¡°His dock? No, that¡¯s impossible. I was much further out.¡±


    ¡°...¡±


    ¡°We were near the open ocean. I¡¯m sure of it.¡±


    As if the simple act of saying ¡°we¡± jolted his memory from me bodily, I choked out ¡°The thief...¡±


    "Escaped, unfortunately. It was you or him, really. I assume you approve of Mr. Blud''s choices."


    ¡°He wanted Anabel¡¯s seeds.¡±


    Riven snorted.


    ¡°I reckon he wanted the money he took as well.¡±


    ¡°It was the seeds he was after specifically.¡±


    ¡°...¡±


    ¡°Anabel told me so.¡±


    ¡°Yes, well Mrs. Liddell was by for you a few times.¡±


    With a vague nod, Riven indicated the flowers on my bedside table.


    ¡°With her husband,¡± he added.


    ¡°I¡¯ll have to remember to thank her for her kindness. And Mr. Blud, how can I thank him?¡±


    ¡°He accepts your gracious thanks. And offers my assistance for your recovery.¡±


    I was in no position to turn down Riven¡¯s help. I could, with his assistance, make it from my bedroom to the living room near the fire. It was an arrangement unlike I¡¯ve ever had before or since. I¡¯ve never been able to afford a maid, and I don¡¯t suppose I would choose one quite so frightening and unsupportive as Riven. Nonetheless, I was thankful that someone was there to brew me tea and make soup for my dinner. I must give him credit for being, if not a comforting presence, a competent keeper.


    In the evening, Riven brought my typewriter to me, and despite the uncomfortable weight on my knees, I was able to write without stopping or coming back into my own consciousness for nearly an hour. My own flight of madness and adventure in the rowboat with the thief provided me with a rousing beginning for my new book about the channel. Better than I could have hoped for in my gentle questioning of Anabel, though gotten at a more substantial price for certain.


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    That was a long slog for me in those days, and even more surprising given I was writing with a one-eyed manservant not twenty feet away thumbing through the dirtiest book I had ever seen. On occasion, I saw him lick his thumb before turning a page and I wondered whether the dirt originated on his own fingers or on the pages. It was a particularly vile version of chicken or egg.


    ¡°What did you do before you worked for Mr. Blud?¡±


    My question cracked the silence of the room that had existed for three hours or more.


    ¡°I took care of the gardens on a large estate.¡±


    ¡°Are you a gardener?¡±


    He looked as if I had just poked him in his one good eye.


    ¡°I am a horticulturist.¡±


    ¡°Did you plant the trees along the path in the back of Mr. Blud¡¯s estate?¡±


    ¡°I did.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve always loved fir trees. They remind me of warm, cheery times somehow.¡±


    ¡°Those would, yes. Douglas. Christmas trees to most folks.¡±


    ¡°Are they native to the area?¡±


    ¡°Certainly not. They were introduced in the early nineteenth century. They thrive in cold weather.¡±


    ¡°I can see why yours are growing so well.¡±


    My attempt at a joke was taken as a cue to end the conversation. As I returned to my typewriter, a new wind howled, rattling the arched windows, and a red light was vaguely visible, but it could have been nothing but a trick of the setting sun, a reflection or distortion.


    I hit return:


    That my sanguine landlord across the channel happened to be on his dock


    (waiting)


    Saved my life, but did nothing to blunt my curiosity about either the man or the channel. His subsequent refusal to show himself further heightened the mystery surrounding him. The proprietor of the coffee house once told me that Mr. Blud was an intensely private man. That wasn¡¯t a good enough excuse for me, not by a long shot.


    Return.


    I frowned at the paragraph. Other than my bloody pun, I wasn¡¯t particularly fond of it. I rolled the paper up so that only a blank whiteness greeted my eyes. I think now that perhaps I willed my recovery to its quickness by my sheer wish to be rid of Riven. I was becoming entirely too familiar with his habits and the intricacies of his physical appearance. In my short experiences with him in the past, I had attempted to look at him as little as possible, but such was no longer a luxury I had. I noticed a number of things about my caretaker in my recovery. Allow me to share a few, and I forgive any who might choose to skip ahead.


    His remaining eye was a gray color, a spot-on reflection of the constant sky above the channel. He was much shorter than I had previously thought. I was able to see the balding pate of his head when he helped me from room to room. Of his clothes, I can only say that I never saw him change them. It was ever the same gray, wool shirt, the dirty coat he wore when I first met him, pants of black cotton, and boots when he left the cottage. I kept an eye on him as to better describe him in my book, although I admit I feared he was too boring a person to make much of a character, whatever odd proclivities he might have had. On that front, other than the licking of his fingers while reading, which can hardly be called unusual as nearly one in two school teachers are also guilty of this vice, I saw nothing. After a week of sharing my cottage with him, I began to wonder if the man wasn''t intentionally hiding his true self from me, forever on guard for fear his face might slip. It was certainly true that he was guarded in conversation, so it seemed not such a stretch to imagine he had extended this care to his physical actions as well.


    What he might have to hide was beyond my ken. I hoped not forever.


    ¡°What are you reading?¡± I asked one afternoon several days into our shared incarceration.


    ¡°Charts on pollination,¡± he said, rubbing the side of his nose.


    I didn¡¯t believe him.


    ¡°Come off it.¡±


    ¡°You said you¡¯re a writer.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ve seen me working.¡±


    ¡°So nosiness is an occupational hazard then?¡±


    It was my turn to end a conversation by falling silent. It was that evening that I was first successful in walking from one place to another by myself. I made it from my chair by the fire to the kitchen to make myself a cup of coffee. That I had to use a fire poker as a cane had no dampening effect on my feeling of triumph. That same evening I had Riven fetch me a suitable walking stick.


    Two mornings later, I dismissed Riven with a typed note of gratitude to Mr. Blud which included an open invitation to stop by for tea or coffee. I did not expect him to accept. I was finally to be free once again, and not to be held captive anymore unless of course, I took it into my head to be a hero again. Not much chance of that.

 Down Down Down

    Following my dismissal of Riven from the cottage, I was yet unable to make the trek down to Hertledge for a long span. I spent my days much as I had originally intended to spend them. My original manuscript had been set aside, and I wrote feverishly of my initial reactions to the channel and its few inhabitants. In addition to writing, I was walking frequently. It was not unusual in those days for me to spend two to three hours wandering the bluffs, for it was easy to do so. My small, unelectrified cottage was but an island in the sea of rocky outcroppings. I found that it took no more than a few moments for it to be entirely out of sight. Think of it! A whole residence disappeared from view in no more than fifty steps from the door. I hardly gave any thought at all to the unsavory potential such privacy might affect.


    I enjoyed myself in those days. After the hectic beginning to my stay, things were, in their own way, starting to come around. It probably sounds utterly mad to say such a thing after being shot, but to a writer, whatever spark happens to move the story forward is a blessing full stop. While I had come to the channel to use its solitude for the benefit of a story of my own creation, the channel had butted in its head and made itself the story. I walked about the bluffs, an old moth-eaten hat from the cottage¡¯s closet on my head, my walking stick at my side, and usually a half-eaten croissant in my jacket pocket. Since I could not yet get to town, Riven was still doing my grocery shopping. I had tried to tip him once, and he had given me the same look he had when I suggested he might have been a gardener. It was not lost on me that in my rambles, walking stick in hand, I must have looked quite a bit like my landlord. I often wondered if I might run into him as if into a mirror image, two men on a rock with overcoats and walking sticks. More than likely he¡¯d turn his back and disappear once more. Disappearing seemed to be his specialty, even when saving my life.


    After one of my longer walks, my calves aching from the strain, I thought it would be refreshing to take a short nap before getting to the business of writing. I was in a particularly difficult section, having reached the point where I intended to lay out for the reader everything I knew about Mr. Blud. However, I found myself in the situation of dear Melville and his whales, that is an abundance of enthusiasm for the subject but lacking in concrete details. I found sometimes in the past that naps helped me write once I had thoroughly woken once again.


    My dream was not of the refreshing sort.


    I was in the rowboat again, although in corporeality I had not seen it since my misfortune. Truth be told, I could not say whether the boat had even been recovered. There I was in the rowboat, and the weather was unlike I had ever seen it in the channel. I might have been in the indies: the sun shone relentlessly, causing me to shield my eyes. There was not a cloud in the sky, no gray in sight, and the blue was positively oppressive. Similarly, the obsidian color of the water was gone, replaced by water clear enough to see a man drown in. I hunched over the side of the boat, looking down into these depths, searching for something


    (waiting)


    but I don''t know what. Whatever I was looking for, I''m sure it was not what did come out of the water. I saw it coming from a great distance, and for a reason that only my sleeping-self could answer, I awaited it eagerly and did not try to stop it or get out of the way. It burst from the water, making no splash, but shooting high into the air before landing on my lap. It was an old book and not just any old book, but Riven''s book. The one he had flipped through incessantly during his stay in the cottage and which I had never seen when it was not on his person. The one he told me was full of charts. I reached my hand out to turn the cover, eager to see what the cyclops had been hiding from me, but before I had a chance the book reached for me.


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    Its pages were folding themselves in a rapid, unpleasant manner, warping their once uniform order into grasping tentacles that wrapped around my wrists, pulling me down down down. The book was trying to take me down to where it had come from, to the bottom of the clear channel under the perfect sky but I didn''t want to go I didn''t want to go... I woke up to a pounding on the cottage door, my forehead beaded with sweat. I reached for my walking stick and stumped to the door. It was, of course, Riven with my groceries. He held the bag out as if afraid it might bite him at any moment.


    ¡°Thank you, Riven.¡±


    ¡°Mr. Grady.¡±


    He turned to go, the briefest possible interaction, as ever, good enough for him.


    ¡°Could you show me how to spruce up the cottage?¡±


    ¡°¡®Scuse me?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure how to grow things in this clime. The place is a bit gloomy, don¡¯t you think?¡±


    ¡°Plannin on stayin long enough for all that are ya?¡±


    ¡°I just might.¡±


    If Riven thought it was odd that I had chosen the moment I had been shot as the time to attach myself to the channel, he didn''t show it. For the first time, I detected a hint of something from him that wasn''t cold detachment or judgment. He genuinely loved the challenge of such a thing but didn''t know if propriety allowed him to do it.


    ¡°I¡¯ll think on it.¡±


    ¡°Thank you again, Riven. I¡¯ll be around.¡±


    ¡°...¡±


    ¡°Bye now.¡±


    It had not been my plan all along to ask Riven to come back by the cottage, in fact, I had only just gotten rid of him. I did not enjoy his company, but I desperately wanted to see what was in his book. Of all the burning questions on my mind, this seemed the one I could most probably answer. I was quite wrong, as I often am. The contents of the book were to be the very last thing I figured out during my time living on the channel. But I didn''t know that yet. My dream hung about me for the rest of that day, making me useless as a writer except for copying down what I could remember. I wondered if the dream had subconsciously prompted me to ask Riven to help me garden. There was no way to tell, and to be honest, I''ve never been a very big fan of Freud. One thing I could tell with absolute certainty was that I did not want to go back to the world of my dream. It had shaken me. I feared sleeping like a child after his first nightmare. It had been too real, too wrong, and the transition between sleep and wakefulness had been too smooth. Had the knocking woken me up? It hadn''t felt that way. One action had simply melted into the other, just the way time always does. I stayed awake as long as possible that night, brewing cup after cup of coffee, my eyes drooping while my heart hammered wildly. It was far from pleasant, but preferable to being dragged to the depths by a tentacular book. When I fell asleep I couldn''t say, but I did not wake until the late afternoon the next day--the pounding rain my alarm clock.


    I was comforted by the downpour. It was an effective harbinger of reality, a sure sign that I was in my cottage on the channel, the real channel.

 All This Time

    My body strengthened, the hole in my gut giving way to something that more resembled a permanent dent in my outer shell. On my rambles about the bluffs, I could not bring myself to part with my walking stick, though I no longer needed it. It had become, like the mouldy hat, an irreplaceable part of my adventuring experience. I liked to imagine myself as the lone creature in an oil painting, staring plaintively towards the wild ocean, jacket whipping in the gale, staff clutched tightly in hand. The lack of truth in this image did nothing to tarnish its power over me. Some men like to imagine themselves as great and successful businessmen, while still others would be champions of the Thoreauvian American Idyll, but for my part, I want only to be falsely remembered as a great subject for muted oils on canvas.


    On one such day when I struck a pose above the dark waters, allowing the light but consistent rain to drip from the bill of my hat, and gripping my stick like the subject I wanted to be, reality butted in the form of a yelp. Setting my walking stick against the rock wall at my back, I made to look over the edge by the undignified manner of stooping to all fours. When I looked over, what I saw through the falling rain was another solitary walker, collapsed. He was splayed in a manner that suggested he had not simply fallen over while walking but had tumbled from a distance down the slippery rocks before coming to a rest at his current spot.


    ¡°Hold still!¡± I called, thinking it good advice. ¡°I¡¯ll make my way down to you!¡±


    I made my way down to my fellow bluff walker with considerably more care than I would have ordinarily taken, being affected by the sight of the fallen man. When I reached him, I found him responsive and sitting upright, though undoubtedly worse for wear.


    ¡°My walking stick is lost,¡± he said as I kneeled near him.


    ¡°I think you¡¯ll find it infinitely more replaceable than your limbs which appear to be in remarkably good order.¡±


    ¡°Yes, let¡¯s test that out. Would you?¡±


    I helped him to his feet, and despite the obvious pain he was in, he had been lucky. Over his complaints, I insisted that he raise his shirt and coat above his head so that I could make sure he was not pooling blood internally. Once this task was finished to my satisfaction, we were just two walkers having met on the bluffs. We sat down with our back to the hill and my companion pulled out a flask. He offered it to me and I took a fiery sip and grimaced.


    "You''re going to feel like Lucifer himself took his stick to you in the morning."


    ¡°I¡¯ve always imagined him using a cane.¡±


    We both laughed freely at his biblical pun, our echoes prevented from traveling by the ever-present rain.


    ¡°Tell me, does it ever stop raining?¡±


    ¡°Not in my experience, and I¡¯ve been here a long while.¡±


    ¡°Your slip was from the wet?¡±


    ¡°In technicality. An amateur mistake. I¡¯ve been walking these bluffs for years. There¡¯s hardly been a day when they could be called dry in all that time.¡±


    ¡°How long have you lived in the area, if you don¡¯t mind my asking?¡±


    ¡°I moved here with my wife and my daughter thirty years ago last summer.¡±


    His words hung between us, spoken in plain terms.


    ¡°All this time sitting here and I¡¯ve not introduced myself. You must think me rude. Grady. Thomas Grady.¡±


    ¡°Blud. Theophilius Blud.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ve known me this whole while.¡±


    ¡°Guilty, Mr. Grady.¡±


    ¡°And here I¡¯ve thought myself the rescuer, when if it were not for you, I¡¯d not be walking at all, nor breathing. I am in great debt to you, Mr. Blud, not least of which for your cottage which I currently have the pleasure to call home.¡±


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    Mr. Blud smiled, turning to me and putting a gentle hand on my knee. His face was kind, ruddy, like one, might expect a favorite uncle to look, his hair a downy blonde peeking out from his hat. His looks and bearing denied all my mental accounts of his fearsome mystery.


    ¡°There¡¯s no need to thank me, Mr. Grady. You¡¯ve accounted yourself every bit the hero today. Let¡¯s consider all accounts settled.¡±


    ¡°On one condition.¡±


    ¡°Very well.¡±


    ¡°You must come have a cup of tea with me in the cottage.¡±


    For the briefest flash his face changed at hearing the suggestion, his composure shattered, and utter terror lay behind his eyes. It was gone as quickly as I could mark it, so fast as to make me doubt I had seen it at all.


    ¡°It would be my pleasure, Mr. Grady. Besides, I fear if I don¡¯t walk some more I will stiffen like an hours-dead corpse.¡±


    My landlord and I walked together back to the cottage. I offered my walking stick once, which he politely declined. Our conversation was free and easy, each of us willing to speak on the most inconsequential of subjects during a shared walk, knowing that any true object would be got to over tea. I will admit to being taken aback by Mr. Blud''s person. I had quite built him up in my mind as the most sinister of characters, though there was nothing I could say he had done wrong by me. In fact, a careful tabulation of accounts would show he had been incredibly generous towards me at every turn. I wondered at my rush to judgment in his case and thought perhaps I had unfairly maligned the character of Riven as well, although the latter had none of the natural charms of his employer.


    Once we reached the cottage, Mr. Blud sat down in the chair by the fire that I often favored, low embers still present from my morning stoking. He crossed his legs and settled back into the chair as easily as a man may when he finds himself in a home that was once his. I set out to make tea and returned to his presence shortly with a tray. I found Mr. Blud unusually quiet for a few moments, sipping his tea and looking about the old place, his eyes lingering on the heavily- striated floor.


    ¡°It seems a lifetime since I built this cottage. Did you know you¡¯re my first tenant?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯d heard as much.¡±


    ¡°Sentimental foolishness of course.¡±


    ¡°A man has a right to his sentimentality, and it¡¯s a lovely property at that.¡±


    ¡°Do you think so?¡± he said, turning to me with a look of shocking earnestness. It seemed that he needed me to confirm the worth of the cottage.


    ¡°I¡¯ve grown rather fond of it, though Riven doesn¡¯t much care for it I don¡¯t think.¡±


    Mr. Blud chuckled at this, taking a sip of tea to wet his throat afterward.


    ¡°I did mean to apologize to you for him. I can only imagine how he¡¯s treated you. He¡¯s a bit rough about the edges. He¡¯s a good soul, Riven. I owe everything to him.¡±


    He did not elaborate.


    ¡°He has never been unkind.¡±


    We drank our tea in silence for a few moments before I was able to come up with what I felt would be a suitable topic of conversation.


    ¡°Did you move across the channel because your family outgrew the cottage?¡±


    ¡°My family?¡±


    ¡°Did you need more room I mean.¡±


    ¡°I think we¡¯ve misunderstood each other, Mr. Grady. My wife and daughter are both deceased.¡±


    In the span of a single second, my mind raced back to any mention of his family by Anabel or others and I could not remember anyone mentioning they were dead.


    ¡°You¡¯ve not offended me. It¡¯s common knowledge around the channel, so I assumed you knew as well. I apologize.¡±


    ¡°My apologies are what are needed, not yours, sir. I am very sorry for your loss.¡±


    ¡°It has been many years now. I manage okay on my own, though it has not been easy. You¡¯ll forgive my unwillingness to socialize before our...chance meeting. I¡¯ve become accustomed to solitude in these last years. Often folks around the channel mistake this for some kind of secrecy or furtive dealings. I¡¯m sure you can understand.¡±


    ¡°Of course,¡± I choked, embarrassed to the core at the musings about his private life I had written only that morning, still sitting in a pile on the wicker table by my typewriter. I wondered wildly if he had read them while I made tea, but of course not.


    His fear of returning to the cottage made all too much sense in light of these revelations. If only I had gotten to have one conversation with Anabel before the disaster. She would have told me right off.


    ¡°Riven tells me you¡¯re here to write a book.¡±


    ¡°Yes, or rather attempt to.¡±


    ¡°A novel?¡±


    ¡°A history. Of the channel. A narrative history perhaps. Forgive me, for some details are still a bit hazy.¡±


    ¡°Why, that¡¯s a wonderful idea. Capital. You must make use of my personal library. You¡¯ll not find more books about wherein the channel plays a part anywhere in the world. I insist. It¡¯s really the least I can do after today.¡±


    I couldn¡¯t understand Mr. Blud¡¯s sudden enthusiasm for my project, especially given what had happened up until this point, but having just learned about all he had been through, I took it as a compliment that I had made it into his inner circle. The truth was...something like that.

 The Unfinished Manor

    I rose early to a misty morning, unable to see much more than a foot past the wide windows in the living room. On top of the hill above the channel, unable to see anything but vague whiteness was a stifling, unnerving feeling. It was three days after my rescue of Mr. Blud and I was going to be making my first trip down to the coffee house in far too long. Every sip of coffee I had taken in my cottage had paled in comparison to Anabel¡¯s brew, no matter how I slaved over the details. Atmosphere matters. I trussed myself up in my walking gear, the mouldy hat now resting comfortably on my head, having reformed itself to a new wearer after years of disuse. My walking stick had the beginnings of a groove where my hand gripped it. I had even considered adding a rubber cap to the bottom.


    Once the image of myself as the lone writer on the hill was sufficiently close to the rendering in my mind, I set out for Hertledge. I had informed Riven the night before that fetching my groceries would no longer be necessary, and he had seemed very pleased. I did not bring up my request of him again, though I still held out hope he would say yes. In addition to the library that had dropped in my lap, it seemed obvious to me that Riven could be a tremendous source of information if made to speak. What Riven must have been privy to and what he had witnessed was the main thought that cluttered and occupied my mind on my descent.


    It is difficult to explain the joy I felt at seeing the steamy windows of Anabel¡¯s coffee house. I stopped for a moment just outside to appreciate it. The simple routines of our lives take on more meaning than we can possibly understand until they are taken from us.


    ¡°Who is this old man with his cane coming in here?¡±


    ¡°Methuselah needs his coffee too.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s on the house today, dear. How are you? I came...¡±


    ¡°Riven told me. You¡¯ve done plenty. Thank you, Anabel.¡±


    ¡°And all on my account, when really...I was being hysterical and there¡¯s no...¡±


    ¡°Please, please.¡±


    I put my hand up.


    ¡°We¡¯ll hear no more of it. Like I¡¯ve never been gone. How about that?¡±


    ¡°I like that, Mr. Grady. I like that plenty.¡±


    When Anabel returned with a carafe, cup, and saucer, she sat down across from me and asked what I was up to now that I was out and about once again. To tell the truth, I hadn¡¯t been thinking much past my cup of coffee, but the answer came to my lips as if they had been there all along.


    ¡°Working,¡± I said. ¡°Going along to Mr. Blud¡¯s library. He invited me to peruse his shelves for the book I¡¯m working on.¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t know Mr. Blud had a library.¡±


    ¡°He seems rather fond of it.¡±


    ¡°Likes to keep things for himself, that Theophilius. You ought to feel honored. Other than that...man he employs, he¡¯s a ghost.¡±


    Due to recent events, I was inclined to think of Mr. Blud with kindness, so I simply smiled at Anabel and let her comments roll harmlessly off my back.


    After finishing my erstwhile morning routine, I bid goodbye to Anabel with a tip of my mouldy cap and ambled towards the docks, only realizing during my walk that I could by no means be certain of finding the rowboat tied up there. To my delight, there it sat, ebbing gently against the docks, tied up as before, charmingly unaware of the hell it had been through. It was lucky that the bastard thief with his gunshots hadn''t put a hole in its side. It lived to cut more waters. It was a calm day, dark and somnolent on the channel, the only breaking of the black glass surface caused by the occasional puff of the barest wind. I rowed easily across and tied off in the shadow of the bloody light, taking care not to look at it, for it still made me uneasy. I cut around the path, leaving the Douglas firs to my left, and going around to the front of the house. While on this short trek, I found a small, gated cemetery of the family variety. It''s wrought iron was new yet, the grass clipped short, and flowers lay on the two headstones side by side. I knew what this place was. Most disconcerting to my mind was the clearly delineated third plot, staked out and strung with red string. All that was missing was a hole and an occupant. I shivered, hoping it was from the mist, though strongly doubting my conclusions.


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    I walked uneasily to the front of the grand house.  I care not to describe it in detail. If you have seen one patrician waterside house you have seen them all. What really set Mr. Blud¡¯s apart was the interior rooms which will get there due. There were two flower boxes on each side of the double front doors. In one of these, Riven was in the process of pulling up rhododendrons. He favored me with a grunt and I paused a moment.


    ¡°Have you given any thought to what I asked?¡±


    ¡°Have.¡±


    ¡°Will you help me?¡±


    ¡°Still thinkin on it.¡±


    He was evidently done speaking, as he went back to his work. I rang the bell, sidling back a few steps out of polite habit, and looked up at the second story windows. A reading nook jutted from the second-floor landing. The windows were barred in brass and brought to mind an uncanny resemblance to the funereal brass I had just passed. Before I could think on this unsavory comparison any longer, the door opened and warmth flooded out.


    Mr. Blud invited me inside quickly, beckoning that I should make haste. I sidestepped past him and inside so that he could shut the door. He was very concerned that the door be closed. He looked...well, terrible. His skin was waxy, pale, and unhealthful. He wore a manic, unslept look and a bathrobe. Still, outwardly he maintained a deranged positivity.


    ¡°Mr. Grady, to what do I owe the pleasure?¡±


    ¡°Your unit broken?¡±


    ¡°Pardon?¡±


    ¡°The heat.¡±


    ¡°Ah that. I prefer it very warm and as I live alone and don¡¯t entertain much...you¡¯ll forgive me.¡±


    ¡°Of course, of course. I¡¯m fairly handy...well for a writer. I thought I¡¯d offer my pitiful assistance.¡±


    Even as I spoke, Mr. Blud pulled his robe around him and I thought I saw him stifle a shiver.


    ¡°The library?¡±


    ¡°The very thing I¡¯ve come for. If I could get some early background on the channel, it would help me tremendously. I love the color stuff you know, speaking to the residents and getting their oral history, but I¡¯ll need to flesh it out a bit with some historical detail.¡±


    ¡°That shouldn¡¯t be a problem at all. I went through a bit of an amateur historian phase. Wanted to know all about the channel. All its little secrets.¡±


    ¡°Just need the basics.¡±


    ¡°Of course, of course.¡±


    On my first visit to the house, I was unable to get a very good idea of its layout, so quickly was I raced through its corridors by my manic host. What little I was able to deduce was this: it was not as it appeared from the outside. I have said that it appeared every bit the expensive waterside manor. The inside did not match that description in the slightest. There were no gilded portraits hung on the walls, nor tapestries, or plush carpets on the floors. The floors were plain boards, well laid, but not even finished properly. The walls were not papered, and light bulbs hung from strings without decoration. It was haphazardly furnished, with some rooms being entirely empty, while another appeared to be stacked to the ceiling with nothing but chairs. In short, it was a strange house, made all the stranger by Mr. Blud¡¯s library.


    The library was another universe entirely. A Persian carpet covered the floor, and three of four walls were wall to wall shelves full of tomes, with a small cut-out window with a view of the channel the only exception. Two high-backed red, reading chairs sat on either side of a mahogany end table on which rested an ashtray, a stubbed cigar in its bowels. Here was a room that fit with what the house should have looked like.


    ¡°Do you like it?¡±


    I was nearly too astonished to respond.


    ¡°Mr. Blud, this is a room to dream about.¡±


    Mr. Blud beamed at me, and when he did the crinkles at the corners of his eyes appeared as if they were going to crack open and allow the skin of his face to simply fall down the front of his robe. He was shivering again I realized, noticing that the library was a much more comfortable temperature, likely to preserve the books.


    ¡°I¡¯ve something to attend to. You¡¯ll make yourself at home won¡¯t you?¡±


    ¡°Thank you, Mr. Blud. I can hardly say how much this means.¡±


    ¡°Your readers will thank me more.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll have my mother send you a card in that case.¡±


    He smiled humorlessly at my parting joke and closed the door of the library behind him, leaving me cloistered in the room.


    Where to begin?

 Dubose

    From Medical Myths by Albert Runch, pgs 92-7.


    (.......)Channel is primarily famous for being the supposed birthplace of William Alexander Dubose, the forefather of bloodletting, or "bleeding" of patients as a medical practice in Europe. The history of bloodletting goes back to antiquity and the historical accuracy of the so-called "Dubose" myths have long been in question. Dubose is said to have been a priest with multiple illegitimate children. His favorite of these was a young girl named Alexandria. Alexandria became very ill, most likely with a blood disorder based on the sketchy accounts available of her symptoms. Histiocytosis has been suggested by some, but cannot be confirmed in light of lacking evidence. Enraged and impotent at God''s lack of intervention in Alexandria''s plight, Dubose rowed into the middle of the channel late at night, overcome with emotion. He berated God and renounced his faith in the midst of a mighty storm. It was likely that his boat would capsize and kill him. If his darling Alexandria had to die, then he would die too. He would accept such a fate. But Dubose did not die. His boat was capsized and he nearly drowned. Had it not been for a gardener trying to save his plants from being drowned in the storm, Dubose would have perished. The gardener pulled him from the channel, Dubose long since unconscious. He lay unconscious for weeks, and it was widely believed that he would never wake up. When he did wake up, it is said that he sat bolt upright and declared:


    ¡°I can save her!¡±


    He immediately got up from the bed, naked as the day he came from the womb and started telling the first person he saw what wonders he had discovered. This unfortunate soul was likely only a house servant.


    "God has given me the answer! I can not only save Alexandria but the world from suffering!"


    Dubose was shocked and appalled to learn that no one wanted to listen to him, especially once they heard what he had to say. He told anyone who would listen, and this was increasingly few, though never none as many remembered him as a man of God, that he had been shown at the bottom of the channel, the future. In the future, he said, great trees would grow at the bottom of the channel, and in these trees would live great birds, nesting ocean creatures. It was in this world he had learned of the importance of human blood and its effect upon the humours.


    ¡°It is imperative!¡± he shouted, ¡°That we bleed the sick, and let their blood run into the channel freely. Only then will they be cured.¡±


    While others were unmoved-


    A crash rang out in the house, bringing me back from the twelfth century to Mr. Blud¡¯s library. I stood up, careful to mark my place in the delicate, old tome. Its pages were brittle and its binding tenuous, though the words crackled with life. I stood and opened the door into the hallway, calling out.


    ¡°Mr. Blud, is that you?¡±


    ¡°Nothing to worry about!¡±


    ¡°Are you alright?¡±


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    Receiving no answer, I walked down the hall and turned a corner, trying my best to recall the layout of the strange house. To my great luck, or perhaps not, Mr. Blud was around that corner. He was on the floor, trying in vain to pick up the many pieces of the vase that had smashed to the floor, clearly the noise that had awoken me from my reverie. His work was not going well. He was shaking fiercely, his body vibrating in alarming undulations.


    ¡°Let me help you.¡±


    ¡°No, no I¡¯ve got it. Nothing to worry about. Quite under control.¡±


    ¡°Did you knock it over?¡±


    ¡°I can be terribly clumsy sometimes.¡±


    It would have been charitable to call him clumsy at that moment, as every bit of evidence pointed to the greater likelihood being his own frailty and uncertainty on his feet being the cause of the break. I dared not to venture any such theory.


    "Mr. Blud," I ventured. "I think you might need to go to bed and allow Riven to take care of you?  If you will accept my intrusion. I don''t mean to presume."


    Mr. Blud was...crying. No, crying would not quite do it justice, reader. My landlord was sobbing balefully, his robe coming off his shoulders and revealing a frighteningly bony frame, his ribs protruding like so many chins, his skin translucent, his heartbeat clearly visible. He fumbled to return his robe to his shoulders, his shaking hands finding the job difficult.


    ¡°You¡¯re right, of course, Grady. You¡¯re right. Could you¡­¡±


    ¡°Of course, Mr. Blud. Of course. The work of a moment.¡±


    I found my way through the scarcely furnished house back to the front and out into the garden where Riven was still working.


    ¡°Mr. Blud needs your assistance.¡±


    ¡°I know that.¡±


    ¡°I mean to say that he requests it.¡±


    ¡°Are you certain?¡±


    ¡°I believe I convinced him of it, yes.¡±


    Riven stood up and dusted himself off. He was wearing the natural clothes of a gardener, clothes which I had never seen him in before; overalls and wader boots, a bandanna tied around his head, his empty socket in the open air. He looked me over with his eye, meeting my own two and showing if I was not very much mistaken, an emotion I had not seen in him before. I believe it was respect.


    ¡°Very well. Will you need anything in the library after I¡¯ve finished?¡±


    ¡°I think I¡¯m going to go home for the day. Do thank Mr. Blud for his hospitality, but it leaves a sour taste with me to presume to use a fellow¡¯s library while he lies ill.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll let him know.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, Riven.¡±


    ¡°Mr. Grady.¡±


    I left disappointed, but not in doubt as to my decision. I desperately wanted to keep reading about Dubose the priest and his near-drowning and subsequent coma and madness, but decorum required me to finish it later. I believed Mr. Blud to be ill, but I did not give it the thought I should have, did not mark the seriousness of his symptoms as I normally might have, had my mind not been so otherwise occupied. The retelling of the beginning of the Dubose myth took up the better part of my evening in the cottage. A fierce storm hit that night, lashing the windowpanes and even creating enough draft to put out the fire in my grate twice while I worked late into the night. The raindrops dyed artificially red by the light across the channel were blurred in my vision as my occasional break from the typewriter left my eyes foggy and unfocused, fixed out the window but unseeing. They looked inward, at the same channel, the same opaque water, the same myth-laden corner of the world, ruled by blood.

 Thicker Than Water

    I would not see Mr. Blud again for nearly two weeks. It was a task simply to keep myself from swimming across the channel every day just to get back in his library. I felt as if the thing I had wanted most had been given to me a spoonful, only to be taken away before the spoon could return to my lips. At times I felt a near-physical longing to be back in the high-backed chair in the only well-furnished room in the waterfront manor. It was only when I was able to gain perspective that I took a few deep breaths and my patience deepened.


    When I came to the channel with the help of my cousin Rachel, I had harbored no intention to write a history of the channel or to spend any time in my landlord¡¯s house, much less a library. I had come only to write. I had imagined my novel would find new legs if I changed my location, that a sudden jolt to my daily consciousness would knock something loose that was needed to finish that effort. Obviously, this is not how things played out. All things considered, I was writing. I had come to write, and I had a cool thirty pages in a stack next to my typewriter. It hardly mattered that I had not done what I set out to do. That¡¯s life. Things change.


    I sat on a bluff not far below my cottage, my feet dangling from the edge, but my back firmly planted against the back of a rock. I wouldn''t have imagined doing such a thing on my first day on the channel, much less on a rainy day. Of course, then I had not known the comfort with which I would walk about the slippery rocks. I had not known the agreement that had been reached between the bluffs and I. We had our Treaty of Paris of sorts. I was at ease on the rocks as I was in front of the fire in the cottage, waiting for water to boil for tea or coffee. It was home. I also, it tickled me to the brink of a smile to think of it, did not know that every day was to be a rainy day, so the slickness of the rocks was hardly an issue to be given extra consideration.


    I held my walking stick across my knees and looked out at the channel. A choppy, inconsistent wind caused triangular shapes in the water that disappeared as quickly as they formed, knifing into the dark. I looked at the impenetrable surface, looking every bit as solid as a marble cutting board, and tried to imagine tall fir trees growing from the bottom instead of seaweed. I tried to imagine octopi clinging to the branches, fish swimming under and over bird¡¯s nests resting precariously on thin, high branches. A sea turtle, rubbing its back along the scratchy bark. A fir forest under the water, the bottom of the channel. Dubose¡¯s mad hallucinations.


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    I had something in common with Dubose I knew. Each of us had suffered out in the harshness of the channel during a squall. I had been shot. He had been...well I wasn''t sure what he had been. It seemed to me at that moment, appearing quickly as ideas ever did, that I would have to parallel my own experience on the channel with that of its patron saint. My book would become something more like a historical memoir, but it would be better for it. I was sure of it. I slapped my leg in enthusiasm. These walks were good for the mind; they stimulated my creative senses. It occurred to me that it might be necessary for me to embellish my own experiences, if only slightly so that the parallel narrative did not fall flat in its unevenness. That would be alright. I assured myself that all great memoirs are exaggerated in a few places. Creative license it''s called. It''s expected even.


    Swinging my legs back to solid ground, I left my spot tremendously pleased with myself. I would get a few solid pages of rewrites in that night setting the groundwork for my historical memoir. My relationship with Anabel might need to be spiced up a bit for drama. With luck, I had been shot, a dramatic scene for any book. With luck! Yes, that is how my mind was working in those days, reader. You can see what my time on the edge of the world was doing to me. My powers of logic were working perfectly in relation to my writing, but hemorrhaging brain power when it came to common sense. It is only now, so removed from the events of those months on the channel that I can look at my own actions thusly for the benefit of all. Let us not judge me too harshly, nor too easily either.


    I made my way down to Anabel''s in no great hurry. I knew she was not manning the shop, only the sullen, young girl who could not have differed more greatly from her employer. I drank my coffee in a pleasant silence, watching the well-worn ruts in the road get worn even further by the soft rain. Images of rain streaming down windows, roads, plunking into puddles, the channel, these were old hat for me now, allowing my mind to type out the pages of hours later before even beginning the stretch home. I had always thought of water as a powerful metaphor, capable of heavy fictional lifting, but now that I had found myself forever engulfed in it, it held less sway over me, became ordinary, even boring at times. I wore down like the road, sitting high above the channel in my cottage, writing a book, not about the water itself, but about two people, two lives so insignificant in the scope of the life of the channel, or of the cyclical rain. My only excuse was the old standby.


    Blood is a great deal thicker than water.

 Not The Man I Imagined

    I was quickly running out of things to say about my own time in the channel, the longer my absence from my landlord went on. The first stirrings of what later became perfectly clear to me were happening in those febrile days of solitude and mental squall: Mr. Blud was my book¡¯s muse. Without him, the mill wheel did not turn, but clung stubbornly in place as if rusted by barnacles. I was loath to give the impression of rushing back to use the library when my host had seemed so very ill on my last visit, lest it look rude. But at the same time, my brain was clawing ceaselessly against its cranial cage with its desire to know more about William Alexander Dubose and his doomed daughter.


    I paced the living room floor of my cottage, my walking stick in hand, reveling in the solid thunk it made against the deeply-scarred hardwoods. I do not know how long I was engaged in this activity, although I am confident that on soft ground I would have long since been walking in a rut of my own creation.  I finally stopped in order to see the remains of the day outside draining from the round-topped windows like the color from a condemned man¡¯s face when the gallows came-a- calling. It must have been nigh on an hour I stood there in reverie, but in remembrance it was but a few moments, the darkness descending rapidly before my eyes. It was with the absolute last dregs of daylight, released from my stupor, that I happened to look down at the path I had been wearing on the floor and noticed something I never had before.


    I dropped to my knees abruptly, dropping my walking stick with an alarming clatter. There was a lone needle from a fir tree on the floor, or rather in the floor as I realized when I tried to pinch it between my fingers to pick up. The floor had no doubt been lacquered many times over after...whatever had so damaged it, in order to make it safe for walking. Some of the gouges in the floor were deep enough to stub a toe or catch a nasty splinter had they not been chemically smoothed over. It was in this chrysalis of floor varnish that the needle had been caught. I sat down on the floor and looked at it. There were no trees near the cottage. I¡¯d been truthful with Riven about that much; nothing grew nearby in the rocky outcroppings save moss and the occasional weed. No, someone had brought this with them to the cottage on their boot bottom likely.


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    It was such a small thing, the needle. It oughtn¡¯t have bothered me at all. Reader, I cannot in good conscience give myself credit for foresight, yet something ineffable told me this needle was a stowaway from something shameful and hidden, and that all its brothers and sisters had been carefully swept away before the scene was sealed off forever. My fire was banked low and the embers glowed, casting my unmoving shadow across the room as I stared, a man possessed by something infinitely more powerful than fairytale ghosts and demons. I was possessed of an idea, an idea that would not let me go no matter how I tried to slither from its grasp. When I could tear myself away, I returned to my restless pacing, more determined than ever that the next day I would return to Mr. Blud¡¯s, invited or not, and camp in the library for some proper research.


    With my priorities for the next day so clear, it would have been wise to simply go to bed and wake up with a fresh mind for work the next day. But I could not sleep. All night I paced, my walking stick sounding the alarm of my unrest thunk thunk thunk. It was hardly the first time a writing project kept me up at night, but I was a novelist, a fairly tame occupation in comparison to what then took hold of me, which was a powerful obsession with a single, real individual. In my mind, I was desperate to learn more about Dubose. I was so certain that he was the key to my book about the channel, the thing that would frame the whole story, the single lifethread. But as was so often the case those months I spent on the channel, I was wrong. You see, my obsession was misplaced, though it took me where I needed to go in its own ponderous way. I was indeed on a collision course with a singularly haunted man who lived on the channel, a man with a daughter who meant more to him than anything else in the world. It just wasn¡¯t the man I imagined.

 A Pale Face

    I managed to get dressed in the morning in spite of my near-catatonic state brought on by my night of pacing and thinking. The bags under my eyes were large as potato sacks, so I pulled my mouldy hat down low over my forehead. As I made ready to leave the cabin, I noticed my coat was buttoned unevenly, giving me a lopsided and slovenly sort of look. With my walk down to town imminent, I decided I could not spare the energy and would simply have to look a bit more homeless than usual. With my lack of shaving equipment at the cabin, and the tendency of my beard to grow in gray tufts like moss on boulders, the homeless look was only amplified. With no one to listen, I grumbled to my reflection in the greasy window by the cottage¡¯s door. Talking to myself was a habit I picked up slowly during my time living on the channel. Slowly but surely.


    It was something close to a miracle that I made it down from the bluffs and into a chair at Anabel¡¯s without falling and killing myself, but it happened. The ruddy face and kind smile I liked so much hovered over me and poured my first cup into the mug for me. As I took my first sips, Anabel sat down across from me.


    ¡°How¡¯s my favorite customer?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve been better, Anabel. I¡¯ve been better.¡±


    ¡°You look as if you haven¡¯t slept a wink.¡±


    ¡°Am I that obvious?¡± I asked, though I knew full-well exactly what I looked like.


    ¡°I expect you¡¯re making good progress on your book then. All those sleepless nights.¡±


    I tried to smile at my friend and hoped that it didn¡¯t look more like a grimace.


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    ¡°Yeah,¡± I said, taking another sip of her delightful brew. ¡°What do you put in this coffee to make it so good?¡±


    Her broad smile, which showed her crooked but somehow still endearing teeth told me that my change of subject had been successful. For a reason I had not yet come to terms with, I no longer wanted to publicly discuss my writing project unless I absolutely had to.


    ¡°You know I can¡¯t go telling you that, even if you¡¯re my hero.¡±


    She patted me on the back and re-tied her apron around her ample waist before bustling back to the kitchen where someone, probably that awful young waitress, was making a god-awful racket.


    I finished my coffee leisurely, filling my cup from the carafe each time it was empty, but never before. There was a tingling in my fingers and a warmth in my chest that told me I was finally coming to life for the day. I knew it was caffeine-fueled, and sure to be short-lived, so it was time to get rowing.


    It was a nice day on the channel, which is to say it was overcast and the wind was not particularly biting. The waves were gentle and lapped at the sides of my boat as I rowed out towards the dock with the red light. When the house came into view, I made sure the prow was facing the right way and closed my eyes. I let the rhythm of rowing take over and before long I opened my eyes to find that if I didn¡¯t slow down I¡¯d crash into the dock rather than gently bump up against it. I used one oar as a makeshift rudder and used my remaining momentum to slide towards the dock. As my boat bobbed into its oceanic parking spot, my gaze drifted upwards to the house. At first glance, I saw the row of fir trees, the family burial plot which so distressed me on my first visit, and the curious, steel door on the back of the house. The last thing which drew my eye was an upper floor window. Having been inside the house, I knew that most rooms contained nothing more than excess furniture and dust, but what greeted me from the window was neither of those mundane things. I saw a pale face framed by long, black hair.


    And then it was gone. Dearest reader, I tied my boat to the dock while continually casting my eyes back up to that window, as if the element of surprise would scare the ghostly face back into view. But it did not appear. It was not the face of my landlord, nor Riven. I could not say with certainty that it was a woman or a girl, but it certainly wasn¡¯t either of the two residents of the house that I knew of. With a last look at my boat and the red light, I made my way up the path, through the tunnel of fir trees and to the front steps.

 Rivens Lie

    After several minutes of knocking and refusing to go away, Riven cracked open the door enough to look me over with his eye.


    ¡°He¡¯s not home. ¡®S just me.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s no one else here?¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s on holiday.¡±


    ¡°Is he feeling okay?¡±


    Riven looked momentarily confused, but seemed to remember the events of my last visit eventually. It surprised me that his boss¡¯s behavior on my last visit did not prove to be more memorable for him.


    ¡°Ah, yes. Well. he¡¯s better now. Just on holiday.¡±


    It was clear that Riven wanted me to simply leave, but I hadn¡¯t stayed up all night and then rowed across the channel to be turned away at the door.


    ¡°He did say I could use his library.¡±


    ¡°The library?¡±


    He blinked several times at this. I wondered absurdly if his empty socket blinked, the eyelid closing over an empty flesh hole.


    ¡°He said I could use it,¡± I repeated. ¡°I¡¯m working on my book.¡±


    The door groaned on its hinges as Riven opened it just enough for me to pass by him, but not nearly enough for me to do so comfortably.


    ¡°You remember where it is?¡±


    I nodded. As he stumped down the hallway I called after him.


    ¡°Are you still considering my request?¡±


    ¡°Still thinkin on it.¡±


    It was better than I could have hoped for, really. I made my way to the library, my desire to get to the older mysteries of this strange place only slightly outweighing the more immediate curiosity of the face in the window. It was none of my business if Riven had friends or lovers or children or whoever the face might have been...although he did say there was no one else around. It was probably just something he said to get me to leave.


    I settled down in a comfy wingback chair in the library and selected Dubose: A Life now that I knew his connection to the channel. The few paragraphs in Mr. Runch¡¯s Medical Myths would not be enough to flesh out my story. For many reasons, I cannot transmit all of what I read that day to you here, but the important details are as follows:


    Dubose: A Life (pp. 87-109)


    ...after he died simply removed that aspect of his writings completely. Dubose¡¯s writings were sanitized to fit the narrative of the humors that medical men all over Europe clung to so strongly. Thousands upon thousands of country doctors¡¯ livelihoods depended on the efficacy of bleeding patients for a whole host of ailments from toothaches to uncontrollable bowels. Upset stomach? Let a little blood. Pain behind your ear? Let a little blood. On and on it went, and so certain were these men of their craft that even kings and queens were bled for their health. By and large, these medical men of their age were inquisitive and well-meaning, following along with the dictates of their field.


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    It is only the men of Dubose¡¯s own generation that are to blame for the needless pain of generations of sick people, many of whom thereafter died of a grisly infection from an unclean incision made by their doctor for letting. The solution to the infection? We need not say. Dubose himself, in spite of his tattered reputation as a philanderer and an apostate and a lunatic, was very clear about his revelations:


    The blood¡¯s stream must not be broken before it reaches the water of the channel. It may


    drip directly down into the water, or be funneled by any device near at hand, but it must


    maintain clear, unbroken lines of a river or stream. Any break in the stream, and the letting


    must be begun over with a new point of bodily entry. [Modern Translation, Roberts, 14-19.


    <ol start="1976">


    <li> Oxford University Press].</li>


    </ol>


    It is clear that Dubose was not speaking in general terms about the efficacy of bloodletting, but rather doing something more akin to keeping a diary of what he believed to be an effective treatment for his daughter¡¯s particular case, and only as it pertained to the particular channel on which they lived, and in which he had his revelation. The attribution of bloodletting as a concept to Dubose is based on inherently flawed logic. More accurately, medical men of his generation, despite vilifying him as a madman, stole his methods and applied them incorrectly. It is without


    I was torn away from my history lesson in the unfair maligning of Dubose by a loud crash above my head. I stood up, carefully placing the book on the arm of the wingback chair. The weather had changed while I was engrossed in my reading and the rain slapped in hard waves against the small library windows. They were like portholes on a ship in the midst of a storm.


    ¡°Riven? Riven was that you?¡± I called out, stepping gingerly into the hallway, listening for another crash. ¡°Is everything alright?¡±


    While the crash was still echoing in my ears, there was a new noise. It was a sort of skittering, like an animal with claws trying to find purchase on a slick, wooden floor. This too was short lived and silence reigned in the house as I stepped into the entryway and grasped the knob at the end of the staircase railing. It was an elaborate carving of a squid engulfing the globe. My fingers rested in the notches between tentacles as I took the first step up the stairs. A tremendous squeak echoed from the warped and faulty board. A door slammed above me and boots slapped on wood grain as Riven huffed into view. He glared down at me from the top of the stairs; I had frozen in place.


    ¡°Thought you were using the library.¡±


    ¡°I wanted to make sure everything was okay. I heard a loud--¡±


    ¡°I had a tumble is all. Don¡¯t have great depth perception these days,¡± he said, rubbing his ear behind the empty eye socket.


    It was the first I had ever witnessed Riven reference his disability in any way and it struck me as hollow and unfelt. He was entirely capable and did not seem to suffer any inconvenience he could not easily overcome. I was not brave or stupid enough to call Riven a liar, but I believed him to be so at that moment.


    ¡°Sorry to hear that. You¡¯re alright though I hope?¡±


    ¡°Perfectly fine, Mr. Grady.¡±


    We parted awkwardly and I returned to the library to write up my notes of what I¡¯d read so far. It was clear that Mr. Blud¡¯s house was proving to be entirely too interesting of its own accord for me to get much more research done. On a whim, I picked up the book I had been reading and stowed it in the deep, oilcloth pocket safe from the rain. Mr. Blud had told me his materials were at my disposal and he hadn¡¯t been entirely clear on the terms. I was making my own terms.


    I rowed back to town through a clinging mist, never seeing further than the prow of my small boat cutting through the shimmering droplets hanging in the air.  As I rowed, my mind revolved around Dubose¡¯s obsession with the channel and with the strange events at Mr. Blud¡¯s: the pale face in the window, the loud crash, and Riven¡¯s lie. I was going to get to the bottom of all these mysteries, one way or another. The bottom...where in my dreams the fir trees waved in current winds deep beneath the dark, cresting waves.