THE SILENT CARVING

Sep 29

Eben says a man like me ought to try writing down the things in his head if he hopes on keeping it all straight so here it is.

Near sundown we got word from the young Aster kid, that someone had slipped off with a few bolts of his mother’s cloth. Donovan would’ve handled it, but he came in with a rattle in his lungs and a stiff leg, so I’ve kept him indoors till Saidi can see him.

Sep 30

Donovan’s cough is deeper today, and the stiffness worries me. Saidi isn’t sure what’s causing it either. 

The cloth thief turned up today, Senuna Hans. Her mind seems to wander further from herself these days and with the crowds in town these last few weeks, I imagine it’s hard for her to keep faces and places straight. Apparently, she’d wandered past Orin’s cart, and the fabric must’ve reminded her of her own seamstress days. Her daughter was mighty embarrassed once she found the fabric in her front room and made amends. 

All this and we received a missing person report: Roscoe Alden. According to his wife, Nora, he left for a pint Sunday evening and never returned. I’ll start interviews tomorrow.

Oct 1

Donovan’s hand is grey, skin pulled tight as old rawhide. He said, “Feels like my guts are drying up.” Saidi plans to travel to the next town for help.

Nora, Mrs Alden, was already waiting for me at the station. According to our brief interview, she and Roscoe had been having a “heated conversation” though importantly ‘not an argument’. The subject was Roscoe’s hunting; it seems he made a promise that he’d give it up, something he agreed to as a condition of their engagement. Yet lately, he’d taken to insisting that three years of marriage had surely put some of those conditions up for reconsideration. When I asked Nora where she thought he might have gone, she was adamant that it was the tavern to ‘clear his head’.

Oct 3

Saidi left a note not to disturb Donovan, so I focused on interviewing people about Mr Alden. Twelve talked to me. Four were no help, two confirmed Roscoe had never stopped hunting, and six had seen him at the tavern that night.

One fellow, said Roscoe stopped by the tavern, claiming his joints felt like old millstones. He meant to fetch his rifle from a friend and head out after rabbits. His companions gave me a list of places he favoured.

Oct 4

Saidi returned with medicines from another town where they had seen similar cases before. No cure, though. Donovan’s fingers are curling in like dried twigs, his skin cracking apart at the knuckles. 

I checked the first five hunting locations. All were empty except one, where a rabbit had been torn apart, a bullet in its chest. If this was Roscoe, it was a few days ago. 

Oct 6

I checked the final spots today. The last, a dark clearing by the western river, held a small pile of sharp grey rocks, of a mineral I don’t believe is found in the local area.  Roscoe’s rifle was lying beside them. The hammer was cocked, as if he'd aimed it and left it behind. 

I sent word to Nora, though it ain’t much comfort.

Oct 9

Saidi let me see Donovan today. His veins twist beneath his now grey skin like black roots in winter soil and his body feels just as cold. When she pressed his arm, the top layer crumbled under her fingers. The whole affair made the dry bread at supper rather unappetizing.

Oct 10

The morning cold splits my lips easy, the corners of my smile beading with blood if I don’t keep my mouth closed.

Eben slept far from me last night. I told her Donovan’s condition isn’t contagious, but I can’t blame her. 

Nora comes by the station every day.

Oct 12

Donovan tried to speak; his jaw barely moved. His breath howled out of his throat like wind through a cave. If not for the faint rise of his chest, I’d swear he’d turned to a corpse already. Saidi says no needle she owns can pierce him now.

I can't taste the blood on my lips anymore.

Oct 24

Bought gloves from the young Aster boy today. My hands ache, my knuckles crack. The cold shouldn’t bother me, but it has this season. 

Still, I hope in part the weather stays, Eben promised pumpkin stew.

Oct 26

Whatever Donovan has, has reached his face. His eyes have gone milky, his hair snaps like dead grass. He looks to me less like a man than a statue, one carved from a grey rock, that is not found in the local area.

Oct 27

I returned to the clearing where I found the rifle. The stones had softened from the rain of the last few nights, but I could still piece them together. It took minutes to form six fragments into what I feared: Mr Alden’s face, frozen in place, cracked apart, shattered stone. 

I buried every piece in the clearing. 

I do not know what to tell Nora.

Oct 28

Eben made her stew. I didn’t mention it tasted like nothing. 

Oct 30

I called in sick for the first time in my life. Eben would let me leave. Saidi visited and told me Donovan no longer moves yet she can still hear a heartbeat deep inside him.

Oct 31

Eben is writing this for me. She says a man like me ought to have the things in his head written down if he hopes on keeping it all straight and my hands will no longer close around my pen. My jaw is one of the last hinges of my body which still persists and with my tongue  there's enough movement left for me to dictate this message, though I can’t hear her if she asks for clarification, and I can’t see if she writes it down as I’d hoped. 

I worry about what her face looks like as she sits by my side, worry that I’m speaking now to an empty room, and she’s left me here alone. My neck is locked, my head held at an unnatural angle I can’t adjust. My hands are cold, dead weights attached to me, no longer a part of my body. They lie lifeless against the sheets, fingers splayed in an agonizing mimicry of their former dexterity. Every inch of me feels like it’s cracking and crumbling from the inside out.

My last wish is for you, Eben: please leave me if you have not already. It is too late for the pillar besides you to be rescued, but at least I may save you.