"Oscar?"
"Good morning, Kate," he said, as if nothing was out of the ordinary.
"What's going on? Are you okay?"
"Of course I am. I was out for my morning stroll."
She looked him over, a look of doubt and prodding curiosity fixed on her face.
"Shouldn't you be at the library?" he asked, desperate to find a way to shift her focus away from him.
"I just came from there. I wanted to run a few things by you before I head off to class this afternoon. Oh, and don't think you're getting out of explaining this."
He grimaced but said nothing else as he ambled past her, opening the front door and politely inviting her inside with a simple gesture.
"It's nothing to worry about. Care for an egg? Slice of toast?"
She shook her head, and he made straight for the kitchen, setting to work on his own breakfast, goaded on by a rumbling stomach. He dove into the refrigerator and cupboards, gathering his ingredients, with a silent focus that made Kate wonder whether he was going to continue.
"The truth is," he finally said, "from time to time, I do a bit of sleepwalking."
"Seriously? Wow. I didn't realize that was a real thing."
"Of course it is, and I must say, it tends to get annoying when you wake up somewhere strange with an empty stomach. I think today is a two-egg day."
He cracked two eggs loudly, pouring the contents into a small white bowl to check for any small flecks of the shell that may have fallen into the yolk, then, with a dash of pepper dumped the whole thing into a heating skillet. It sizzled loudly at the moment of impact. Then, with an expertise that comes to those who prepare their own breakfast the same way every morning for years on end, Oscar swiftly slid two pieces of bread into the toaster, chopped several slices of green pepper and onion, which were then dumped on top of the eggs, and then stirred the scrambling concoction with a plastic spatula. The entire process took a little under three minutes and left Kate impressed, with a growing hunger of her own that made her regret turning down his offer.
"Where did you wake up this morning?"
He waited until he'd completely swallowed the bite of toast in his mouth before responding.
"The park. In the middle of the woods."
"That's kind of strange. Any idea what you were doing out there?"
"Not a clue."
"I can't even imagine what that must be like. No, really. I can barely comprehend waking up in my own bed every morning. If I opened my eyes to find myself in the woods, I would freak the hell right out."
"I can imagine."
"So where else do you wake up?"
Oscar thought about this carefully for a moment.
"In the cemetery," he said, "by my wife's grave."
She said nothing, instead staring at him with a distant, heartbroken look in her eyes and a mouth hung open. Her expression, as if frozen in time, temporarily distracted him from his eggs.
"It isn't as bad as it sounds," he added.
"Bad? No, that's not the word I'd use. Sad, tragic, depressing--those are a bit more fitting, I think. Oscar, that's terrible."
"Don't worry about it, my dear. I've gotten quite used to it, though the first time did leave me quite shaken."
"So what do you do for sleepwalking? Is there a cure or something?"
"Not that I'm aware of. Though I'm sure strapping myself to the bed might possibly work."
"Have you seen a doctor about this? There's got to be something you can do."
Oscar smiled.
"That's just the thing," he said. "I'm not certain I want to stop. That's not to say I consistently enjoy walking a mile or so in my pajamas every few days, but there's something natural about it. In an odd sort of way, I do like the unpredictability of it all."
"If you say so."
"Now then, I believe there was something you wanted to run by me?"
"Um, yeah... the theme, the main theme for the book."
"Go on."
She hesitated, but only for a brief moment. With a deep breath and a renewed sense of resolve, she pressed on.
"Fighting on, even in the face of overwhelming change and, well, the promise of death. The characters aren't stupid, after all. They realize what they're up against and the impossibility of surviving or renewing their culture, but they still go about their lives, as if they're making a difference because, ultimately, it's the only thing they can do."
When she finished, Oscar sullenly nodded.
"That sounds like a good start," he said.
"I should probably go. See you later?"
"Of course, dear. Though you really should try calling, save yourself from making the trip out here every time you have a question."
"Right, calling. Gotcha."
"Good day, Kate."
She gave a small, embarrassed wave, her face the shade of red normally reserved for overly ripened strawberries, and disappeared out the front door, leaving Oscar to finish the remaining bites of his breakfast in silence. After rinsing his dishes and going about the other mundane tasks to start his morning, he shuffled back to his study.
When the girl first proposed their collaboration, he was quite naturally taken aback, shocked not just by said proposal coming from a girl he'd just met, but because it never occurred to him that anyone still cared about his work. The other book he'd been working on was a labor of love, but he readily assumed that the manuscript would die with him, something lost to an ignorant world like a burned volume in the Great Library. The very notion that someone actively wanted to read his work, that someone wanted his help, his input, if only a tiny sliver of an idea from the dark bowels of his mind, was quite touching. Oscar Bruges, after all, already fancied himself a dead man. He accepted that his best days were far, far behind him and that everything sense had been a strange sort of dream. Now, even while awake, all he was doing was sleepwalking through the world around him.
He'd seen something in Kate the moment they met, though. Walter had been right. The old author saw the same sort of spark, the same sort fire--deep, unquenchable, unrelenting--in her that he felt in himself. For years, he had compared himself to the Ghost Orchid floating in his greenhouse--a solitary thing with fragile roots, slowly dying, and in meeting Kate, even for a brief moment, he believed he had found the one through which a part of him could survive. She would be the one to spread his ideas, to carry on the fight. She would be his moth.
Immediately after pondering this, he realized what a terrible metaphor it made.
Nevertheless, her enthusiasm for this project reinvigorated him, and he could feel the creative energy, long thought dormant or worse, again pulsing through his body. He resolved to pack away the laptop computer Walter had loaned him and return it as soon as possible, heralding a return to his old ways--the heavy click of a typewriter's keys, the long drag of the carriage as it moved from one line to the next. As if it all really had been a dream, he reckoned that the sleeper was nearly awake, but as Oscar stepped into his study, he was about to stumble upon the truth (or at least a small part thereof) about the nature of his dreams.
The laptop, which he specifically recalled setting at the front of his writing desk, had been moved, folded shut and placed neatly atop the nearest bookcase. The powder blue Royal typewriter, however, had been pulled forward in its place, and the blank page that resided within was now covered with several thick, printed paragraphs. He pulled the page from the carriage and began to read, surprised that everything was perfectly typed with no grammatical errors. It was brilliant, of course. After all, he wrote it. But there was nothing new about this particular combination of words and punctuation. This page was first written some forty years earlier. It was the prologue of his first novel, Here Comes a Revolution.
"Good morning, Kate," he said, as if nothing was out of the ordinary.
"What's going on? Are you okay?"
"Of course I am. I was out for my morning stroll."
She looked him over, a look of doubt and prodding curiosity fixed on her face.
"Shouldn't you be at the library?" he asked, desperate to find a way to shift her focus away from him.
"I just came from there. I wanted to run a few things by you before I head off to class this afternoon. Oh, and don't think you're getting out of explaining this."
He grimaced but said nothing else as he ambled past her, opening the front door and politely inviting her inside with a simple gesture.
"It's nothing to worry about. Care for an egg? Slice of toast?"
She shook her head, and he made straight for the kitchen, setting to work on his own breakfast, goaded on by a rumbling stomach. He dove into the refrigerator and cupboards, gathering his ingredients, with a silent focus that made Kate wonder whether he was going to continue.
"The truth is," he finally said, "from time to time, I do a bit of sleepwalking."
"Seriously? Wow. I didn't realize that was a real thing."
"Of course it is, and I must say, it tends to get annoying when you wake up somewhere strange with an empty stomach. I think today is a two-egg day."
He cracked two eggs loudly, pouring the contents into a small white bowl to check for any small flecks of the shell that may have fallen into the yolk, then, with a dash of pepper dumped the whole thing into a heating skillet. It sizzled loudly at the moment of impact. Then, with an expertise that comes to those who prepare their own breakfast the same way every morning for years on end, Oscar swiftly slid two pieces of bread into the toaster, chopped several slices of green pepper and onion, which were then dumped on top of the eggs, and then stirred the scrambling concoction with a plastic spatula. The entire process took a little under three minutes and left Kate impressed, with a growing hunger of her own that made her regret turning down his offer.
"Where did you wake up this morning?"
He waited until he'd completely swallowed the bite of toast in his mouth before responding.
"The park. In the middle of the woods."
"That's kind of strange. Any idea what you were doing out there?"
"Not a clue."
"I can't even imagine what that must be like. No, really. I can barely comprehend waking up in my own bed every morning. If I opened my eyes to find myself in the woods, I would freak the hell right out."
"I can imagine."
"So where else do you wake up?"
Oscar thought about this carefully for a moment.
"In the cemetery," he said, "by my wife's grave."
She said nothing, instead staring at him with a distant, heartbroken look in her eyes and a mouth hung open. Her expression, as if frozen in time, temporarily distracted him from his eggs.
"It isn't as bad as it sounds," he added.
"Bad? No, that's not the word I'd use. Sad, tragic, depressing--those are a bit more fitting, I think. Oscar, that's terrible."
"Don't worry about it, my dear. I've gotten quite used to it, though the first time did leave me quite shaken."
"So what do you do for sleepwalking? Is there a cure or something?"
"Not that I'm aware of. Though I'm sure strapping myself to the bed might possibly work."
"Have you seen a doctor about this? There's got to be something you can do."
Oscar smiled.
"That's just the thing," he said. "I'm not certain I want to stop. That's not to say I consistently enjoy walking a mile or so in my pajamas every few days, but there's something natural about it. In an odd sort of way, I do like the unpredictability of it all."
"If you say so."
"Now then, I believe there was something you wanted to run by me?"
"Um, yeah... the theme, the main theme for the book."
"Go on."
She hesitated, but only for a brief moment. With a deep breath and a renewed sense of resolve, she pressed on.
"Fighting on, even in the face of overwhelming change and, well, the promise of death. The characters aren't stupid, after all. They realize what they're up against and the impossibility of surviving or renewing their culture, but they still go about their lives, as if they're making a difference because, ultimately, it's the only thing they can do."
When she finished, Oscar sullenly nodded.
"That sounds like a good start," he said.
"I should probably go. See you later?"
"Of course, dear. Though you really should try calling, save yourself from making the trip out here every time you have a question."
"Right, calling. Gotcha."
"Good day, Kate."
She gave a small, embarrassed wave, her face the shade of red normally reserved for overly ripened strawberries, and disappeared out the front door, leaving Oscar to finish the remaining bites of his breakfast in silence. After rinsing his dishes and going about the other mundane tasks to start his morning, he shuffled back to his study.
When the girl first proposed their collaboration, he was quite naturally taken aback, shocked not just by said proposal coming from a girl he'd just met, but because it never occurred to him that anyone still cared about his work. The other book he'd been working on was a labor of love, but he readily assumed that the manuscript would die with him, something lost to an ignorant world like a burned volume in the Great Library. The very notion that someone actively wanted to read his work, that someone wanted his help, his input, if only a tiny sliver of an idea from the dark bowels of his mind, was quite touching. Oscar Bruges, after all, already fancied himself a dead man. He accepted that his best days were far, far behind him and that everything sense had been a strange sort of dream. Now, even while awake, all he was doing was sleepwalking through the world around him.
He'd seen something in Kate the moment they met, though. Walter had been right. The old author saw the same sort of spark, the same sort fire--deep, unquenchable, unrelenting--in her that he felt in himself. For years, he had compared himself to the Ghost Orchid floating in his greenhouse--a solitary thing with fragile roots, slowly dying, and in meeting Kate, even for a brief moment, he believed he had found the one through which a part of him could survive. She would be the one to spread his ideas, to carry on the fight. She would be his moth.
Immediately after pondering this, he realized what a terrible metaphor it made.
Nevertheless, her enthusiasm for this project reinvigorated him, and he could feel the creative energy, long thought dormant or worse, again pulsing through his body. He resolved to pack away the laptop computer Walter had loaned him and return it as soon as possible, heralding a return to his old ways--the heavy click of a typewriter's keys, the long drag of the carriage as it moved from one line to the next. As if it all really had been a dream, he reckoned that the sleeper was nearly awake, but as Oscar stepped into his study, he was about to stumble upon the truth (or at least a small part thereof) about the nature of his dreams.
The laptop, which he specifically recalled setting at the front of his writing desk, had been moved, folded shut and placed neatly atop the nearest bookcase. The powder blue Royal typewriter, however, had been pulled forward in its place, and the blank page that resided within was now covered with several thick, printed paragraphs. He pulled the page from the carriage and began to read, surprised that everything was perfectly typed with no grammatical errors. It was brilliant, of course. After all, he wrote it. But there was nothing new about this particular combination of words and punctuation. This page was first written some forty years earlier. It was the prologue of his first novel, Here Comes a Revolution.
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