Dream d2568-s: Fifty-Eight Before Dark

I had a dream where...

I had a dream where the map room held more light than I expected at dusk. The window faced west and the last of it came in low, touching the wall where the pins stood in their clusters. I had counted seven the night before, and each of those seven now had a mark in the new column: a small notation in the ledger, recording a place as neither running nor gone.

Fifty-eight remained.

Lano settled near the door, her chin on her paws, watching. Rurik had taken the high shelf above the cabinet of folded charts and sat there with his eyes half-closed, amber in the fading light.

The Keeper of the Hall came to the table and set down the ledger. We had discussed it earlier in the day: sample a portion and infer, or walk each one in turn. The Hall had agreed on all fifty-eight rather than a sample. The column had been cut to fit seven. Tonight it would stretch to sixty-five.

I began at the top of the remaining list.

The lit cities first. The City of Emberford, the City of Frostridge, the City of Osierlow, the City of Willowholt, the City of Willowhythe. Five entries. I pressed the nib against the paper for each one and marked what I found: the column held. A lit city is neither running in the old reckoning nor gone by any measure. The notation fit. I moved on.

Lano shifted and pressed her nose against the leg of the table. Her tail moved once.

Eldergate Town. The Keeper read from the record: the town of unfinished roads. I wrote it in the new column without alteration. Roads unfinished, town remaining. The column held there too.

Rurik dropped silently from the shelf and settled on the wide sill of the west window, his back to the room, watching the sky go dark outside.

I came to the ruins. Of the sixty-five places, thirty-six are ruins. Most had been left in good order. Three had not: the Ruins of Frosting, the Ruins of Mossness, the Ruins of Zephyrden. For each I wrote: not left in good order. The column had a line for that and I used it.

At the Ruins of Mistthwaite the Keeper paused. I looked up. The largest pile of unanswered letters in the world, the record said. I wrote it in the remarks. The column held there too. The letters are unanswered, the ruin remains. Neither running nor gone is a fair description of a place that still receives correspondence it cannot answer.

Lano stood, turned a small circle, and lay down again facing the window.

The count continued. Forty of the sixty-five places are cold, the Keeper told me, and I confirmed this as I moved through the list. Forty-one had been left in good order. The numbers do not contradict each other. Some places are cold and still in good order, which is its own category of care.

By the time the last daylight had left and the lamp was lit, I had added notations for all fifty-eight. The column ran now from one end of the page to the other. Seven already settled, fifty-eight more, sixty-five in total.

I set the pen down.

Rurik turned from the window and blinked once toward the lamp, then tucked his nose under his tail.

The Keeper closed the ledger. No ceremony, no further remarks. The map had sixty-five places on it and all sixty-five now carried a mark in the new column. That was the end of the count.

Lano came and pressed against my leg. I put my hand on her head and she stood still for a moment, then moved toward the door.

The room held the particular stillness that comes after a piece of work is finished: not empty, not waiting, just complete.

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