Mather's Odds

By Christopher Herbert Schallert

Cadence Colo is a student, struggling with a heritage he doesn't want and a beautiful girl he does.
Cadence Colo is a nightmare-ridden war veteran, struggling to rebuild his life but caught in the same war that ruined him before.  
Cadence Colo is a man on a mission to destroy the Old Gods, but what he must do may break him

• Language: English
• Publisher: Author Academy Elite
• Release date: Dec 28, 2019
• ISBN: 9781640856585

Book preview

Mather’s Odds

Chris Schallert

Copyright ©2019 Chris Schallert

All rights reserved.

Paperback: 978-1-64085-656-1

Hardback: 978-1-64085-657-8

Ebook: 978-1-64085-658-5

LCCN: 2019939030

With gratitude to my friends and family,

But dedicated to Cadence, wherever you are.

Thank you.

Table of Contents

Foreword

Part 1:

Catherine. Also, the Countdown to a Garbage Truck

Twenty-Twenty, I Suppose

Where I Met Catherine

Hindsight Again

Take It Back

Hmph

I Ran

Out of My Head

I Tried Anyways

As We Spoke

The Verge of Laughter

To Say That

And Garbage Trucks

Into Eternity

Heart

No Voice With Which to Speak

We Need to Talk

Live or Not

Color of Her Hair

See What They Do

Turned a Corner

Part 2:

Inheritance. Also, the Crescendo

Pianissimo, Back to Me

Piano, To Relax

Mezzo Piano, A Story Worth Knowing

Mezzo Forte, I’ll Wait

Forte, A Shower

Forte Accelerando, I Didn’t Trust Her

Fortissimo Largando, Changed

Part 3:

Mather’s Odds. Also, the Sun Ceremony

At Many Cliffs

Grand Expectations

Some Time

It Never Occurred to Me

Time Grows Short

A Few Hours

Sulk

Unexpected, Sort Of

So Colorful

Different Memories

Quite a Few Runners

The Business

Number 4, Solstice Street

With a Spring in My Step

Two Things

Golden, Warm, and Heavy

Returned

At the Piano

Hello, Charlie

I Hate You

Should Have Known

Next

Storykeepers

Welcoming the Sun

His Chance

It Was Time

In Half

Constructive

Easier

Going Back to War

Part 4:

Glass Knives. Also, the Silent War

8/5/3189

8/6/3189

8/7/3189

6/18/3189

8/7/3189

8/8/3189

6/19/3189

8/8/3189

8/9/3189

4/19/3189

8/9/3189. Adrian Blanc

8/15/3189

8/18/3189

8/19/3189

8/23/3189

8/23 or 24 (it was all blurry)/3189

8/24/3189

9/2/3189. Katarina Komet

9/3/3189

9/4/3189

9/5/3189

9/6/3189

9/7/3189

9/8/3189

7/30/3189

9/8/3189

9/11/3189

9/11 or 12/3189

9/14/3189

9/15/3189

9/15-16/3189. Caleb

9/16 and 22/3189

9/23/3189. Mallick Tordon

9/27/3189

9/28/3189

9/29/3189

10/1/3189

10/2/3189

7/29/3189

10/2/3189. Matthew Jass Orson

Then I Resumed My Sorrow

10/21/3189. Catherine venElgus

Foreword

I have never known what to call this story. It is a blend of myth and memoir, and you can add any further descriptors on your own.

My wife, however, had a good description. She said (her words, not mine), "Like in The Chronicles of Narnia, there’s a story, but the story isn’t the point. The philosophy is the point; the story is just an illustration."

Let that stand, then, as the best descriptor I’ve heard yet. There is a world, but the point wasn’t to build the world. There is a story, but the story isn’t the point. The thought behind the story is the important part. Perhaps it can be best illustrated by the image you will see later: a man by his motorcycle, remembering two days, one a good day and one a horrible day, and deciding that his life is too complicated to be fully good or fully bad; just as he is; just as his allies and enemies are.

Your life is complicated, though not (I pray) the way his was. You should, though, make the best decisions you can with what you have. Some decisions will be easy, but many will be hard. Learn the right way, the true way, and follow it.

And remember this great lesson, perhaps the one great lesson I have to impart in this story:

You always have control of yourself. Do with that control what you will not regret.

— Chris S

Author, Blogger, Musician, Philosopher, Creator

Part 1

Catherine.

Also, the Countdown to a Garbage Truck

We bless or blame the cosmos for the good or the bad that we observe in our lives. We call it God. We call it Luck. We call it Fate.

We once called it Mather’s Odds. The words, in their time, amounted to a curse. It was a fell omen. It was an odiferous happenstance that must have been caused by some being whose powers had no right to outstrip our own.

That phrase has long since been laid in a grave by the side of the road of time, and the feet of generations have carried us far past even the memory of it. The curse of it is gone. The superstition of it is gone. The generations who lived and died by Mather’s Odds have seen all but the most stalwart of their pure lines gone.

That one line remains at all is a testament, though, to the very power of those Mather’s odds. That line is the Storykeepers, the Colo family.

As they endured, so too did the words. And with the words, the curse they contained. Or the blessing. As with all things that make the world shudder like a beaten drumskin, it is neither good nor bad of itself but rather as it is perceived.

— History as a Reflection of Mythology,

a collection of essays by Belemnodan Harbrough

Twenty-Twenty, I Suppose

My gravestone will read, Here lies Cadence Colo, 19 years old. He was run over by a garbage truck. Idiot.

I know that’s what it will say. I’m looking at the garbage truck right now.

And I’m an idiot. I should have been paying closer attention to where I was going. In my defense, I had many concerning matters on my mind.

Approximately five months ago, the fourteenth day of the month of Darough, going through the dorms on the north side of Cathedral College campus, I saw Catherine venElgus help another student gather the books he had dropped. Swallowing a lump in my throat, I went and asked, Is everything alright here?

Catherine and the other guy nodded. Yeah, just tripped on the carpet, the student mumbled. He accepted the final book, thanked Catherine, mumbled a polite thanks to me, and walked off.

Actually, Cade? Catherine said. Can I get your help with something?

Yes, ma’am. I nodded a little too rapidly. What is it?

Well, I’m moving into my room—you’re an assistant dorm manager, right?—and there’s some water damage. Can you check it out?

Why, yes, I’ll come with you to your room. Uh . . . sure, let’s take a look.

Sweet, friendly, pretty-as-a-sunset red-headed Catherine had asked me to her room. My inner hopeless romantic danced about in elation. I shushed the traitorous thing and followed her.

She said she had just arrived and was bringing her stuff in when she saw some water dripping on the back wall. This surprised neither of us. These dorms were old and often sprang a leak or busted a window frame during the cold or the hot months. And whose idea was it to replace the wood-tile floors with carpets instead of bringing the whole building up to code for a change?

If you’ve been to college, you know the conversation. She’s talking about management, you’re trying not to put your foot in your mouth.

An armload of bags leaned on the wall outside her door. I had just come up with my first load of stuff. This— she opened the door and looked inside, —is worse than it was before.

Oh, my. Water was pouring down the walls. The only reason it wasn’t pooling too much on the floor was probably because it was leaking down to the room below it. That poor red carpeting. I had helped put it in.

So, yeah . . . She looked at me expectantly.

I gathered myself to answer, wilted under the beauty of her green eyes, gathered myself again, and started to say something.

Then the wall bulged and burst, spraying us with water.

We slammed the door shut, laughing and yelping. We were soaking wet on our fronts, and let me tell you, it looked nicer on her than on me. Focus! I gathered myself and actually said something this time. I’ll fetch someone from maintenance to fix this. In the meantime, we’ll find you somewhere else to stay. Let’s see, there are some rooms we reserve for late transfers . . . I trailed off, listing the locations from the top of my head as I wrung out my shirt.

I’ll take that one, Catherine said.

Which one?

The one kitty-corner to your room and near the doors? It’ll be easier to move into. Unless I misunderstood…?

I guess I looked reluctant. I was reluctant, but not because it was one of the rooms reserved for transfers. It was more the whole matter of proximity to her. Not that I minded it—quite the opposite. Very much the opposite. Yes! No! Having you nearer… but then again, having you nearer… It’s not too much trouble. Just a form to fill out.

Unless there’s somewhere else?

No. Yes. No! Yes. My brain-to-mouth filter goes down from time to time. Sometimes it outright rebels. Damn thing.

Now she grinned mischievously. Are you trying to get rid of me?

No! Yes. No. Yes . . . uh, no—give me a second. I took a deep breath. "We—I’ll get the paperroom, it’s right in my work—paperwork is in my room, we can move your stuff in today if you need, if you want, that is . . . Stop laughing at me!"

All right, I’ll call some friends to help. She shook out her shirt a little and smiled thanks as she pulled out her cell phone and walked away.

I stayed behind, partly to shut off the local water main, partly to check on the room again, partly to watch her leave. Mostly to watch her leave. Damn, she left so nicely. Focus!

I ran to the nearest plumbing closet and cranked the floor valve shut. When the water had stopped splashing against the door, I opened it up to look inside.

Water poured all over my new shoes.

I cursed and jumped back, getting away from the flood that spilled from her room. I had just bought those for running, and getting them all soggy would be—

Except they weren’t wet.

Catherine disappeared from my mind as I watched the water cascade around the two footprints of dry carpet like a rock in a river. Two footprints where my feet had been five seconds ago.

Then the spots were gone, soaked like everything else.

Except my shoes.

And, now that I felt it, my shirt and pants, too.

But I had been soaked.

Generations of Colos cried out in alarm, far in the back of my soul. My brain, in a sudden panic, turned away and focused again on Catherine—sweet and friendly and pretty-as-a-sunset red-headed Catherine—and getting her set up in her new room. Right kitty-corner from my room. Yeah, that might be nice.

God knows what I thought of for the rest of the afternoon. God knows I thought of everything I could to avoid thinking about those dry spots on the carpet and the dry clothes I was wearing.

If I’d been thinking clearly, of course, I would have driven to the nearest cliff and jumped off, just ended it all right there, because some things should not be allowed to return. Hindsight is twenty-twenty, I suppose.

Where I Met Catherine

Some people say they want to see the light of the sun on the day they die so they have something pleasant to hold in their hands on the way to eternity.

I am not going to get that. Crater City is a city in a crater where the sun doesn’t shine. There would be no sunshine on the day of my death, or on any other day. Hell, even if it wasn’t cloudy, it was so early in the morning that the sun’s wife hadn’t woken up yet, much less given the sun its cup of coffee and kicked it out the door and across the sky.

Crater City was a city in a crater where the sun does not shine. Because it does not shine, people do not shine. There is little smiling unless it is accompanied by warm drink or food or hearth. Laughter is subdued unless the children are laughing. Playgrounds are rarely used. Parks are mostly left to the homeless and the wanderers. Even Cathedral College finds its joys in the cerebral rather than the artistic.

Other than the lack of sunlight, the general dampness of the clouds, and, well, the lack of sunlight, it’s not a bad spot. A long history of being a rotten location turned it into a neutral ground for negotiation when the Elkhart DiRegency fell. Negotiations were long, so people set up shop, set up families, set up Crater City. It’s a healthy town, with the College in the center of it. Lots of history.

Let me say something about myself, while I’m in an introductory mood: I am a Colo. Colos aren’t historians. We are Storykeepers. A historian will tell you that the plague killed off a full seventy percent of the population of the country. A Storykeeper will tell you how there were no tears left to mourn the elders after the children had died, how the survivors weren’t even strong enough to build graves, and the grass still won’t grow where they burned the bodies on pyres that kept the night skies lit for a month. A Storykeeper will remind you that each person was a child like you had been, was an adult like you were, was an elder like you would be, and none of them had thought it could happen, either. A Storykeeper will keep that story forever, pass it down to his children, and the names of the seventeen villages in Haria and the exact dates of the Middle Mourning Plague (745 Unne through 760 Unne) will not be forgotten.

My family of Storykeepers could tell you more than that. We could tell you why some of the rivers flow backwards, who made the Taghs (what scientists merely call freak mountains jutting high above the clouds), and who else around the world could expect to look at dry spots in the carpets where their shoes had been five seconds before.

My family, I write, so easily. My family is myself and my brother David halfway around the globe. The last two Colos.

So, Cathedral College. Crater City. Elkhart DiRegency, if you like maps and want to look for the little slip remaining of it between the younger kingdoms of Jnew and Elkhart High.

This is where I am about to die. Where I lived. Where I went to school. Where I met Catherine.

Hindsight Again

Timothy Cyers and I go back a long way, to before my parents died. In fact, his clan adopted me, and we’d come to feel like family. This meant that, for better or worse, I was now going to college with an adopted brother.

When it came to girls, it was for worse.

He was available when Catherine was looking for help to move her stuff into her new room, so he and I and one of her friends moved all her stuff out of the rent-a-van. The whole time he kept grinning at me like he was just dying to say something. And when we had left Catherine to her unpacking, he certainly said it:

A wet t-shirt contest with Catherine venElgus? Cadence, you dog.

Shut up, it wasn’t like that. I refused to blush—refused! to blush.

Uh-huh. We were sipping water and generally catching up on the stairs in my room (which is a level-and-a-half room, meaning about half of it was a raised loft with storage below and bed and bathroom above). If we could have skipped the part where we rib each other and moved on to actually catching up, that would have been a mercy. Timothy was not the merciful type. With those round glasses, those freckles, that tawny hair and lanky build, you would think he was, but he wasn’t.

I’m guessing she won the contest? he ribbed me again.

Shut up.

I’d rather look at hers than yours any day.

Timothy…

Sorry, he said, without apologizing at all. I didn’t mean to poke your morals. I’m sure she didn’t, either.

I let it slide. How long have you been back?

Got in this morning. I’m at the south dorm. I was coming over to check in, but I had to stop by the Cathedral first. Something about that place . . . so mysterious. Ah! I love it! Intense, distractible, Timothy. You busy now?

I have to check other students in and log a few maintenance reports. Anyhow, that’s what I’ve been up to. You?

An assistant dorm manager’s work is never done, eh?

Not in these dorms.

I’ve been busy, too. Got my book list. You gone shopping yet?

No. I almost forgot we had classes. That was a sad lie. What’s your schedule look like?

I studied history and philosophy like my parents had; he studied archeology and architecture like his clan usually did. We shared our Second- and Third-Language Refinement courses in Blushk and Artwen. In Cathedral College, you were expected to have at least two trade languages in your curriculum, but these were old languages, too, so they worked for both of us.

He asked, Do you know if we have classes with anyone else?

I shrugged.

As in, a certain someone—

Lay off it, Timothy.

He shook his head. Still crushing, eh? Man, you gotta let yourself enjoy this more. And, you know, maybe talk to her.

Well, now she’s living right across the hall. I put the bottle of water on my forehead to cool down. Who knows? I might actually get to know her, get this damned . . . infatuation or whatever out of my head.

Timothy sat up straight and gestured with his finger, Facts are ground, feelings are water. Choose your anchor point. He said it as pompously as possible.

I had to laugh. Corman’s famous quote. It’s better in the original Skandi.

You know what else he said, right?

Besides his entire lecture series on Subjectivism versus Objective Reality?

Every tree begins as a seed that resembles it not, and every lie begins as a truth.

That should have scared me more than it did. Hindsight again.

Take It Back

All motion is sound. Much of it is low-volume sound, so low that you don’t register it as sound at all, but as touch, pulse, wind. The sound of an engine is right on the border of sound and feeling. A screaming horn is quite definitely sound, albeit far from musical.

There is a music store downtown called Thunder Hall on the Strip Mall. It’s been there a little longer than the strip mall, as far as I know. I like that place. I’ll miss it when I’m dead.

I needed some new strings for my guitar because I inevitably wear out my old set every three months and those things are cheap enough I can afford to do it (there’s nothing like that new-string sound once they’re just broken in—about a month before they break). Thunder Hall on the Strip Mall always has them cheap. So, after successfully avoiding any further awkward encounters with Catherine for several days, I rewarded myself with a walk downtown.

Everything in downtown Crater City is old brick. It is every old town in history: art galleries next to pharmacies, lawyers next to land sales, realtors next to veterinarians, and all no more than three floors high. Each building is a different elder, bewitching students and visitors with stories of how much better life used to be here before such and such and the years moved on.

Thunder Hall could be heard a block away. More than once they had been asked to reduce their noise pollution level, but regulars said they shouldn’t, so they never did. They also had the weight of seniority in the area to throw around. I could appreciate that.

Inside was the way it always was; over-the-top rock ’n’ roll legend posters on every non-vending surface, the kitschy ‘this thing was there when it happened, so you should buy it’ advertising, the old seven-inch vinyl records that haven’t sold yet, even the walls full of every type of instrument and music accessory.

Truth is, you walk in and you belong. You walk in, and you’re one of them. One of the legends, one of the fans, one of the roadies. This place wasn’t home—it was the carbonated version of home that I thought was great in small doses.

After I grabbed my strings, I wandered the old music files a little. One of those days, I swore, I was going to buy an old record player and a few seven-inch vinyls and make my own Thunder Hall somewhere.

Excuse me?

I turned around to see who had beckoned. It took me a moment to realize that most grown adults would not have grabbed my pocket to get my attention, so I looked down to see a pony-tailed girl who only came as high as my waist. She tugged again, more insistently. Excuuuuse me!

You’re excused?

Are you Cadence Colo?

Am I under arrest? (Hey, I thought I was funny.)

My mommy wants to talk to you.

Mommy?

That would be me. A woman whose age I couldn’t guess caught up to her. I wanted to catch you and thank you f’ helping Catherine out. Been meanin’ t’ swing by and say hi—

I’m sorry, uh . . .

She squinted, confused, then laughed. Oh, sorry. She held out her hand. Tuli. Catherine’s friend. Live in town. Catherine told me ‘bout her room. She could’ve come stay with me, but I was out of town.

Oh. I shook her hand. Oh. Hi, I’m Cadence—you already knew that.

Yip. Catherine showed me your picture. She picked up the little girl, who was to a detail a smaller version of her, ponytail and all. This is my daughter, Amy.

Catherine had a picture of me? That would explain why she called you ‘Mommy.’

Tuli laughed again. Catherine said y’ had a way with words.

It’s a curse. Gift! I got my filter back under control, but not until it let out, Catherine has my picture?

She put down her daughter, told her not to get lost, and turned her attention back to me. It looked like something she found online. The light must have been weird, though.

Weird?

Oh, nothing bad. You’re not as tall as I thought, your hair is brown and not black, and you’re skinny, is all.

My mother would have said ‘lithe’ or ‘wiry.’ I wasn’t skinny then.

Tuli was still talking. . . . didn’t recognize you right away, but thought I should come over and say hi anyways, you bein’ one of her friends and all that. Amy beat me here, though. Young legs and all that. Boss is good t’ let me bring her in. But yeah, y’ find what you’re lookin’ for?

It took me a moment to realize it was my turn to talk. I held up the cardboard package. Yeah, just came for strings.

You play guitar?

Only when it has strings.

We walked to the register and she began to check me out.

Oh, that’s nice. I’m trying to get Amy to learn an instrument, but lessons are expensive, unless you teach? Good rates, friend-of-a-friend sort of thing?

Surprisingly forward, I thought. I wonder if Catherine is that forward, I also thought. Too busy as it is, sorry.

Oh, well. She looked a little downcast.

I turned the conversation. I can ask around, though. I’ll tell Catherine if I find anything. You were out of town?

She sighed and looked out the window of the store. Academic conference. It was actually really great. Lots of great thinkers, the keynote speaker was incredible. I haven’t heard Berk’s Hypothesis ’splained so well before. There was—

I cut her off while I still had a chance. Berk’s Hypothesis? That’s about molecular motion in a vacuum?

Her face lit up with new appreciation. I’m surprised you know! Y’ really are an all-tradesman, ain’t ya? That’s usually higher-level physics.

I shrugged. Truth is, I read it in an encyclopedia. You’re into science?

She nodded. I’m working on my dissertation in physics.

Dissertation? For your Mastery? And you work in a place like this?

Now she laughed a little ruefully. Yip, funny, ain’t it? Y’ get your Journeyman’s, find a job in a lab; get your Teacher’s, work in the field; work on your Mastery, and work two jobs to cover the bills ’cause no one can afford to hire you. Crazy, innit?

Indeed. I held up the strings like, I have what I came for, then said, I have to get back. I’ll tell Catherine I saw you.

You do that. As I walked to the door, she said, "And tell her I say you’re not that cute."

My left foot chose that moment to stop working and I fell against a record bin. That happens sometimes.

I take it back, she called after me.

Hmph

The saying goes, "Armu atra, armu atrada glestin." Date someone, date their life-friends. It has many shades of meaning, and each one of them is true. Granted, I absolutely did/did not want to date Catherine, so it did/did not help that one of her friends approved of me. And Timothy wasn’t helping, either. He knew what I’d gone through with Kard, and still he was ribbing me.

Catherine had a picture of me. Catherine showed a picture of me to Tuli. Catherine told Tuli I was cute. Really cute, maybe. This was good/bad. This was better/worse than I expected.

Maybe something good could happen.

Good things don’t happen to things like me.

I needed a break.

I printed off my book list for a pretext to get out, threw on a light jacket, and walked down to Nod’s Books. It was in the opposite quarter of town from Thunder Hall, where the older stores and storefronts cycled through this or that vendor depending on the season and the rent and the propensities of the landlords. Old brick buildings, old stores, old stone streets, and one of my friends: Nod.

Okay, he wasn’t exactly a life-friend. Timothy was more that than Nod, and my brother David more than him. But to Nod, everyone was glestin.

The door jingled when I opened it. That jingle, and the smells of old books, new books, and fresh coffee greeted everyone when they came in. If Nod was anywhere in the store, he would also greet them.

Welcome! Welcome! I’ll be in front in just a moment, if you’ll wait for me.

Every burden lifts a little in Nod’s shop. Mine certainly do. Did.

I was comparing my list to the textbooks he had on display when he found his way to the coffee counter. Ah, Cadence, my good man! And how are you this fine day?

It’s cloudier outside than inside, Nod, I answered without looking. How are you?

I am as well as one can expect.

Wait for it . . . there it was. Coffee poured, the cup set on a saucer, the saucer slid on the counter towards me. Might I interest you in a cup of today’s brew? Honeywheat coffee, from a shipment earlier this week.

Sadly, I’m here on business today, I said.

So am I, he replied. Your business is the purchasing, and mine the providing of coffee.

Books.

Those too.

I let the laughter out and looked at him. How I leave here with my bank account intact, I will never know.

Because I price coffee inexpensively, I would guess.

He was exactly how you would expect him to look: long and gaunt and tall, with much of the vitality gone from his features but not his eyes. He was wrinkled like a prune, stretched like a skeleton, and he walked like a man only half his age (whatever his age was; I’d never asked because that’s just rude). His pale blue eyes always glowed a little with secrets and memories. He was, perhaps, my favorite person in the whole city, and I’d only known him for four years.

I shook my head. I’m here for books today. The coffee will have to wait for another time.

It’s only one dollar for you.

I laughed again. Fine, you old con. One cup, one dollar.

I’ll ring everything up together.

It was incredibly smooth coffee. Honeywheat?

Only the best, he said. Then we settled down to the business of buying my textbooks. Despite my best efforts to do my own legwork, he wound up with my book list in hand, pushing a cart through the aisles to collect my books. I resigned myself to sitting and sipping and catching up with him. I remember thinking then that if it weren’t for me and the maybe twenty other people I ever saw in this store, he might not have much family at all. He certainly never spoke of any children or grandchildren. If it weren’t for the store, all that grandfatherliness might have gone to waste.

He was certainly an old-school sort of proprietor. He treated his clientele as family, and he knew the owners of the other shops as well as anyone. He could turn us from one store to the next if we were searching for affordable vehicle insurance or a pleasing piece of wall art, and his name was good for discounts and deals.

Speaking with him could be downright addicting, too. He was always sharing stories of the past, lessons learned from the achievements or mistakes of others. He appealed to the Colo in me.

Hey, Cade.

The voice came from behind me, and my stomach identified the speaker before my brain did.

Hi, Catherine, was what I wanted to say. What I said was, Uhhhh, hey.

Whatchadoin’? She set her jacket on the back of the chair next to mine.

What are you doing? Here, that is? I mean… Damn filter.

She held up her book list. The same thing as you, I think. Timothy said you got your books cheap here, so I thought I’d check it out.

I was going to exact grateful revenge on that man if I could just figure out what grateful revenge was. Uh, yeah. Book prices are great here.

What’re you drinking?

I took a defensive sip and set the cup down. Coffee. Honeywheat coffee.

She sniffed it and wrinkled her nose a little. I don’t like coffee. It smells good, though.

Who is it who invades my shop and doesn’t appreciate a good cup of coffee? Nod was looking at us. I hoped I wasn’t blushing.

Catherine laughed. I’m more of a tea drinker.

Well, I have tea, too. He made his way over to us, setting the books on a table along the way. Well, now, Cadence, since this lovely lady seems to know you, would you please introduce us?

I cast a glance at her. Nod, this is Catherine. Catherine, Nod.

Nice to meet you, she said.

He held out his hand, which she took. He surprised her by holding her hand up and kissing the air above it. Catherine, it is my pleasure to make your acquaintance. He released her hand. Pardon my old ways. That was how men of my generation made veneration to a lovely woman.

Now she was blushing. I’m . . . honored.

Would you prefer to be called ‘Cathy?’ he asked.

Just Catherine, she said, still blushing.

Ah, your full name. He nodded. You respect yourself quite as completely as any queen would. And now to me, Cadence, I swear I cannot turn my back on you for a moment. You shall have to tell me how you met such a lady as this. But first, business. Back to her, You mentioned the purchasing of books?

And you mentioned tea.

Now it was his turn to laugh.

Everyone wants to laugh here. I think that’s why I like it. It’s the one place in Crater City always filled with sunshine.

We spoke of warm drinks. We discovered a few classes we shared. We looked at the opening passages of our History of Southern Philosophy textbook and had a good laugh at it. We even bought a few books to read for fun. Catherine tried a sip of the honeywheat coffee. Then a longer sip. We choked up the money for our textbooks without blanching because college is expensive.

It was a good afternoon. Good enough that I worried. Maybe, I told myself, she’ll just think you’re a bore in some other way. She won’t get involved. Nothing will happen.

Hmph.

I Ran

What was I doing in front of a garbage truck, you might ask. Well, I was running. I’ve known quite a few runners in my time. Many of them did it for the enjoyment of it. Some of them ran to compete, with themselves or others or some invisible goal. Most did it for the health benefits. And no doubt there is something to enjoy, something competitive, and many health benefits.

I run to escape. Escape what, you might ask? I don’t like not being in control of my emotions, so I run from them instead. Is that candid enough for you? Can’t control me if you can’t catch me, the famous general Cariac said (albeit, right before his jailors shot him). This normally means that when I’m running, I’m trying not to think about what I’m running from—which means I’m thinking about it, because my mind is a traitor.

Timothy worried about me. Cade, you look exhausted, he said when he caught me after a morning run.

It was a good workout, I said while I stretched out against a wall.

He shook his head. When it’s been a good workout, you smile. You’re not smiling. Not smiling more than you usually don’t smile, that is.

My mouth is tired.

Yeah, he didn’t buy that, either. "You’re running from something again. Or is it someone?"

Obesity.

Cade. You can’t do this to yourself again.

Hey, I protested, I didn’t even do it to myself the first time. She did it to me.

I went inside and stopped listening to him. It was nice that he cared, but I didn’t think I could explain it to him. I could barely explain it to myself. I sure as hell didn’t want to explain it to Catherine.

Classes began.

Ah. I am remiss. I’ve forgotten to actually tell you about the college. I guess I assume that everyone knows about Cathedral College in Crater City, but anyway.

In the middle of this city where the sun doesn’t shine, there is a cathedral. Imagine, if you will, a long hall, a sloped roof, and bells that never ring at the top of each steeple on both ends. Imagine further that it looks not so much constructed as grown, if rock could grow, and shaped not with tools but with breath and tears. The outside is a dull variety of reds and umbers, and the inside, shaped to match the outside, is whites and silvers. This is the Cathedral. There are no written records of how it was built, or who built it, or when. Colos know, of course, but we know better than to tell.

Around it are buildings of the college campus, of a much later design than the Cathedral itself, if the Cathedral was designed at all. As things go, one building was for faculty and staff, then a new one for faculty and staff was built and that one became classrooms, and so on and so forth. Some are older brick and mortar, some are newer brick and mortar. The paths and roads outside the campus are newly paved, but those inside are etched by the centuries of student footsteps. There are always student groups meeting to study, converse, complain (mostly