Augury of Miso en Place

They came first for Chef, who named his dishes by the wrong names.

They came for him in the night before the Feastday of Saint Martina of Rome, when they thought no one could be watching.  They interrupted his preparations and ignored his protestations.  Their passing left an orange stain in the air, a smear of light that did not dissipate.  

As days passed, I watched citizens walk apparently unknowing through these tracks, these weird passages, without disturbing them in the slightest.  Nor did wind or rain seem to disturb the record.  And I alone seemed aware of this record.
Just as no one saw them come for Chef.  Not even me.

But the Candleman saw, and the silence of his scream in that moment drowned the entire City.  Had anyone else been awake, they might have made a note of it.
I noted the silence.  
And I knew what it meant.
I saw the stain, and I knew what that meant.

And I found that they had somehow taken my voice.
I could not speak what I knew.

And I alone could see and hear the Candleman.

Feast of Saint Andrew (Corsini, not Crete)

They came for Mrs. Malloy.  They took the landlady openly in the sharp light of the frosty morning, for she had borne no sons, nor any daughters.

The Candleman screamed again, his ever-gaping mouth unable to stretch sufficiently to release the full force of his emotion, the silence of his cry once more unheard over the groaning silence of the City.

I wonder if they will turn me onto the street, now that the ownership of the House is in question?

The record of their passage weaves everywhere across the City now.  Smears of orange light, through which all must pass.  The stain begins to cling to the persons of the citizens.  I must adopt the most awkward positions to avoid being stained myself.  And the citizens note my curious way of walking through the City, even if they do not so note the orange smear clinging to their own skins.
But then again, they never see the Candleman, who now spends his days weeping tears of blue flame instead of retiring to whatever business he once pursued when not standing in front of my bedroom door.

The candle of my soul, already diminished, begins to flicker.  As if the events recently perceived were a draft and my skull was a shattered chimney.

Feast of the Sainted Dalmatian

I see them preening now on every corner.  As I walk the silent City, I see no others.  They have even taken Montgomery, as firm and stalwart a republican as anyone could ask.  Only they remain, basking in their own invisible stain.  Them, and my own reflection shining in the shop windows.  
Why, even the cats have gone; I feel their absence as a pressure upon the interior of my skull.

When they come for me, there will be no one left – for they do not see the Candleman.  The Candleman who perhaps never existed.
It is a measure of my discomfiture that I forget the evidence of my senses, ignore the nightly deposits of warm sulfurous sand and the voiceless words in my mind.

Another Day, All Unknown

Perhaps I must be more like the Candleman.
But it is difficult, to never have existed.
A great effort.  And I am so tired.
Exhausted by the requirement that I be all the people, the Chef and the Landlady and the Candleman.

I wish now that I were a cat.  For while the Candleman is unseen, and while he may pass Elsewhere at will, he is still tethered to this City.  As am I.  Whereas the cats have no such strictures.  I feel that they must all have passed that Frozen Plain to whatever other realms they inhabit.  I feel that they must be safe and happy there, unstained by clinging orange light.

But where there is life, there is hope.  A wise man, long gone now, said this.

In the present moment, when none are left to hope except me, I can only hope that They will produce within Themselves the seeds of Their own undoing.  They have removed all others until only They remain.  They no longer have any “enemies,” and so must inevitably turn on Themselves.
Someday, the City might be rebuilt.
Until then, the City of Lights is dark.
Silent.
Empty.