Scream of Ultimate Doom

Dear Mother and Father,

I am badly frightened on behalf of my peers. I was recently practicing not blowing things up on the mountainside near the Gearbox residence (not spying on them at all or any such thing) when I heard a very loud, agonized scream. I ran down to be near the mill and saw Zaida's brothers sitting outside, but by then the screaming had stopped and there was no sign of who it was or what happened to them. The brothers were looking very unmoved (and unusually tidy). I circled the property as well as I could without being seen, but I could not see who had been hurt or get any other sort of clue as to their fate.
Am I right to be worried that one of the Gearboxes has been brutally murdered by the rest of the family and they are covering it up? Should I tell the police? What should I say? Or will that get me into trouble? Mr. Shadow says the Gearbox family would probably kill me next if I tattled.
I hope Zaida isn't dead because I knew her I know she existed and she was nice to me. I have started praying for her soul just in case.

Love,
Your Shaqad

Gaslight fantasy

Dear Mother and Father,

I think I am beginning to believe Mr. Shadow's story of having been the typist of your (Father's) most favorite Sparkperson. He knows many details about your visits that I remember, and also many details about his former avatar that I didn't know but was able to verify at the library. The librarian kept giving me accusing looks and asked me several times why such a young girl was in the occult section. (I hate it when people get upset like that. I hate upsetting people. Sometimes it feels like the whole of life is an enormous frozen lake I have to cross, but I keep stepping on weak spots that break when I step on them so that I fall into the icy, freezey potentially fatal water of Upsetting People.) When I tried to explain about the displaced typist who was with me, she gave me even more disturbed looks. She doesn't think typists work that way. Do typists work that way? Please write to me and tell me if typists work that way!

I was considering asking the good witches I've met at Mama Valdy's if they know anything about ectoplasmic beings beyond what's common knowledge, as long as Miss Blackheart and Ms. Narcisa are such nice and helpful sorts, but Mr. Shadow doesn't think there is any such thing as either of them. I only have one memory of Ms. Narcisa, so I thought, "That's all good and well; my mind has been playing a fine trick on me again!" But Miss Blackheart appears in many of my memories from the past year. How could she not be real? I told Mr. Shadow that it's more likely he is the one who isn't real. He laughed at me. I wish he would disappear or turn back into a pretty little bird and fly away. Why doesn't he disappear? Most things that aren't real disappear after a time, or else they warp and shift beyond recognition. That happened a lot when I stayed up too many days past my bedtime. But now, I'm rested (due to the nightmares settling back into their baseline groove) and I'm more or less fed (due to my mimmoth-cooking habit). He isn't going away. I am starting to worry that perhaps he is real after all. How can I make sure? Please tell me how I can make sure!

Anyhow, I got into a rather intense quarrel with him over the reality of my non-ectoplasmic friends. (You always did say I was a born instigator. It's such a shame when my nature comes out unchecked like that.) Mr. Shadow says I made up my playmates to make myself feel better about myself because I put my feelings before anything else, even objective reality. I told him about the dragon's wing I sometimes feel folded around me when I'm lonesome. He says it's no more real than the spanking I incorrectly remembered which my body felt for days after my mind caught up. I wish I were like normal people whose memories of reality are overwhelmingly factual! Normal people forget things like where they put their handkerchiefs, but this is a different kind of forgetting. Dragons aren't even real creatures! Why do I so vividly remember something--that is to say, someone--not permitted by reality? And why does it hurt so much when I give that inconvenient little fact serious consideration?
Mr. Shadow says that when I visited the family a few miles away from Dunwich whom I'm supposed to not discuss, my mind got a little bit broken after Lavinny showed me a portrait of her fiance. My mind didn't feel especially broken at the time, although a lot of people warned me. Of course, a madman never believes himself mad, as far as I know. But I so desperately want my flesh-and-blood friends to be real! If they're not, I suppose there is the benefit of my being able to sever the ridiculous heart-string inhibitions that prevent me from going back home to find you. (I still have not been able to convince Mr. Shadow that you are still alive.) I have, after all, seen little evidence of my alleged friends in the past season and a half. For that matter, I've seen little evidence of any specific familiar person, which is entirely my fault. Why was it I stopped going to call on them? I no longer recall.
I want my mind back.
Incidentally, should I change typists?

Love,
Your Shaqad

Fiends forever

Dear Mother and Father,

I have a few urgent questions, and I really wish I knew where to send these letters so that you could answer them. I've passed the post office many times, each time growing more frustrated at being so close to communicating with you and yet unable to do so, until I stopped going down that street.
My dreams have been marginally stranger than usual lately. I'm not sure what to make of the sudden change. People speak in non-sequiturs and ask ask me for incomprehensible favors. Whippoorwills are everywhere, talking to me and rhyming at me in foreign languages. Funny shapes that must mean something but that I have no meaning for show up on the scenery. Sometimes I hear music that makes me sick to my stomach. (Why would music do that?)
I tried to draw some of the symbols and work out the notes to some of the songs, and I tried to remember the strange words I heard, but when I did, Mr. Shadow showed up and interrupted me. I told him that I thought that mirages like him could only be seen when a person was awake for many days at a time, but he said that he can be seen by people who are sleepy OR utterly mad. I know that sometimes I remember things that never happened, like when you didn't spank me but I thought you did, and sometimes I don't remember things that did happen, like some of the parties I've been to, but I don't think I'm utterly mad, do you? It would be so dreadfully inconvenient if I were! If I were utterly mad, I would never be able to find out what was real and what was imaginary!
I asked Mr. Shadow if he would please go away, but he wouldn't. It's so peculiar to see him side-by-side with an undistorted world. Nothing is inexplicably melting or floating or shifting or breathing, and yet here he is! He says he wants to be my friend--and maybe even marry me when I grow up. He says he really, really needs to be somebody's typist and if I could get the scary cape lady to go away, he and I could help each other. He says his last avatar isn't living in the Steamlands anymore, so without me he's just a disembodied bit of ectoplasm. He also still thinks you two are dead. He says that his last avatar was my godfather and the same Sparkperson we often visited for your (Father's) studies, and so he also says that he inherited guardianship of my person. I don't remember ever hearing that that man was my godfather. Is that true? I'm can't imagine how my subconscious comes up with all of this madness.
But if you ever, ever, ever get any communication from me, please answer and straighten everything out!
I love you and I miss your insight.

Love,
Your Shaqad

Lost time

Dear Mother and Father,

Although the mountain and the city were snowy not too long ago, it's gotten much warmer recently and almost all of the snow has become water. It's been flowing down into the river and then into the ocean, or else just flowing down to the ocean. Normally I wouldn't think much of this, only delight in the fact that I don't need to bundle up whenever I'm out of doors in my threadbare remnant of a dress, but there is also a sad implication. My birthday is in the winter, but if it's no longer winter, it must be past my birthday. I must be twelve.
What does a twelve-year-old do? Is it different than what an eleven-year-old does? Should I dress differently? Should I learn to speak more eloquently? Should I become betrothed? It's difficult because I don't sense anything intrinsically different about myself. I'm not even one hundred percent certain that I'm twelve. If only I had you to explain everything to me!
I'm also disappointed that I missed the opportunity to throw a party. I know you would have invited important people and introduced them to me. I haven't even gone to the parties of the important people I already know in quite some time! I really wish that you were here to sort out my life. I sometimes think it's losing its shape and running out of my hands like melting snow.

Love always,
Your Shaqad

Rejection! And also a monster

Dear Mother and Father,

The all-consuming chasm that forms my social skills has gotten me into trouble again. I thought you would want to know.
Several days ago, Loki from the mines informed me that he had met an unusual humanoid on the tip-top of the mountain. He was frightened by its appearance and fled from it before they could get acquainted, even though the Steamlands are absolutely full of people who look intimidating but are perfectly kind. From his account, it was unusually massive and very spiky like armor. It was just standing around by itself up there!
Naturally, I thought to myself that it must be awfully cold and hungry up there, so I killed several dozen mimmoths to make a blanket and meat for it. I bundled all those up in the skins of more mimmoths and took a long walk up the mountain. I've never had to climb to the top before, so it took extra time for me to find a way up. At one point, I even had to tie my skins and meat onto my back and crawl with my hands and feet against the rocks like a bug. (I'm very glad my shoes and gloves are flexible!)
But when I reached the top where the armored person was, and I introduced myself and offered him his blanket and his grilled mimmoth, he roared and made angry fighting gestures at me! Then he came toward me, so I dropped everything I had and ran away as fast as possible. I didn't mean to upset him so much! I've met other intimidating-looking people before, but I managed never to make them angry! I had no idea he would want to fight with me!
Thus I got down to the bottom of the mountain with as much speed as I could manage (which resulted in me accidentally running further on into the river, but I don't think anyone saw that), fleeing my responsibility to un-offend the mountain person.
Now I'm trying my hardest to sort out how I might make it up to the mountain person, but as I'm not sure how I offended him or her or it in the first place, there is a very big risk that my apology would offend him or her or it even more. What should I do?

Love and repentance,
Your Shaqad

False alarm

Dear Mother and Father,

I have some positive news, though it's not so much my doing as an assurance regarding my previous doings. The sawmill man is setting up his residence right across the river near where Miss Gearbox's family lives, which is still within my explosion testing territory. It wasn't my fault that he moved after all! I suppose this means that my efforts to keep my Ashbourne curse experiments out of sight and earshot of the locals have been successful after all.
I've returned to practicing not making things explode, and I am delighted to report that the time it takes for an explosion to happen is slowly but surely increasing. At this rate I might someday be able to seriously study machines without endangering everyone around me!
Someday I will make you proud, I promise.

Love always,
Your Shaqad

It's all about me

Dear Mother and Father,

I have another sin to confess. I had gotten a strange idea in my head that the Ashbourne curse might possibly be broken with sufficient training and practice, so I got in the habit of going into the mountainous wilderness and trying to fix discarded, broken pocketwatches. They usually explode, but as time has gone on, they have gradually exploded slightly less. I have learned several ways to handle them that make them slightly less likely to slip from my grasp and considerably less likely to explode due to things other than fumbling. But here is where my sin comes in: A man who lives between the mountain and the river--near where I sometimes go to practice not making things explode--has started packing up his things to move away. It's not just a trip; he's even disassembling his sawmill. The only reason I can think of that he might leave the area is my explosions. I saw him close up once, and he almost looks like you, Father, without your mask. His face is all burnt up as if he has his own clumsy fool of a daughter to blow up the steam engine she's asked to fix. (By the way, I'm still very, very sorry about that, Father. To this day I cannot believe my own incompetence in blowing up the first thing I was ever asked to salvage into a giant clank. If I live to be one hundred years old, the fourth year of my life will still be burned vividly in my memory and in my regrets.) I think I made a small sad-noise when I first noticed it, and then he yelled at me to get away even though I had been sure I was well hidden in the brush. I hope I didn't offend him personally--but I had thought he wasn't showing signs of committing that incident to memory, so I think it must be the explosions. He probably doesn't like explosions. I didn't like explosions at all for the first few months after blowing up the locomotive, and it was only desensitization from your own frequent Sparkish endeavors that took the edge off of them. (By the way, I am very sorry I failed to be a Spark and forced you to become an inventor yourself. If I were a better daughter, you wouldn't have to waste your adult years on things that should be started from the earliest age possible.)
In any case, I'm thinking of apologizing to the sawmill man for disturbing the peace and for maybe scaring him, but I don't want to upset him all over again. What do you think I should do?

Love always,
Your Shaqad

A cup of memories

Dear Mother and Father,

The boy who sent me out of the mines seems not to have held a grudge against me, for today he brought me (along with several other people) a drink he made all by himself. It was very nice of him!
Unfortunately, when I tasted the drink and immediately recognized it as a kind that was several times tested in order to see if my behavior could be improved, suddenly I was back home with you and Steelhead was nowhere around and it was just as though I had never been lost and I miss you and I miss you so much and I apologize for the run-on sentence. What I mean to say is that my memories were, at the moment, too much to bear, and as soon as I could process the fact that they were only memories and I was actually someplace else, my guilt was too much to bear. I think some people were speaking to me at the time, and I think perhaps I tried to get up and go somewhere, but I can't be sure and it isn't important. I must have walked some more afterward, because I'm no longer in the place where I was given the drink, but I don't remember walking. I remember being with you, and I remember all the things I've ever done to make you need to correct me with tonics and pills, and I remember that I still do those things even now. Do you think that while I'm here I should look for more pills and tonics and try them on myself to see if they help me? I do, as you know, want more than anything else in the world to be a good daughter to impeccable parents like you.
It's a bit sad that it took a drink to remind me how much I love you.

Love always and forever and ever,
Your Shaqad

Evicted!

Dear Mother and Father,

I'm afraid my habitation in the mines has been slightly compromised. I finally met the owner of the furniture I had seen down there, who happens to be a boy not too far from my age. I may have awakened him to introduce myself, which was in itself a rather foolish idea, and he may have become a bit territorial upon waking up. He told me to stay out of the mines. I've moved my things out, except for the animalcules which I threw in the water. I think they will be happier there, anyhow. I had to make a couple of trips just to move all of my possessions! I have quite a bit to my name right now, especially considering that I left home with only the clothes I was wearing, a needle, some spools of thread, and a few pieces of candy. It's remarkable how far I've come. Of course, having too many things to carry at once, I was forced to let a few of them go in order to go about looking for a new shelter without dropping everything continually. I left my pointy tusk pole, four out of five mimmoth-bone knives, one of my textbooks, both of my Landmark devices, and all of my unfinished sewing projects in a rubbish bin. I'm now carrying one textbook, my cheese gun, one knife, my needle, and what remains of my thread. Soon I may have to discard the needle as well, as I won't have any thread left to use it with. I'm glad I already made myself a shawl and boots!
I know in my head that this is a good thing because it will force me to get out more and interact with people, but instead, I keep trying to worry about where I shall go to be warm. It is bitterly cold out here. I wonder if Zaida Gearbox's mother would let me stay in her attic or basement or some such. After all the nightmares I've had about that--about interrupting the Gearbox family's life, I mean--I seem to be rather more nervous than I should be. You always helped me when I was afraid to do things, making sure I did them whether I wanted to or not, and now I don't have you around anymore. I'll just have to do my best. In the meantime, maybe I can at least build a campfire in the woods. I wish I had made a blanket out of all the mimmoths I've squashed. Then I could build a tent out of it, I think, somehow or other.
I know for sure that I can't get overly close to Steelhead Shanghai in the near future. Yesterday I asked a boy coming out of it whether he was Good or Evil, and he got a bit insulted at the question and struck me. My reflection in ice and windows is alarmingly discolored right this moment, but I'm sure it will get better. In any case, I should steer clear of the person or persons I insulted for the next few days.
Looking over the last paragraph, this is so unreal! I did something bad, and I am making no effort to correct it or atone for it! My self-discipline has gone down almost to nothing and I am frightened. Please pray for my wayward soul!

Love,
Your Shaqad

Pieces of the puzzle jammed into place

Dear Mother and Father,

Remember when I got so terribly shaken up because the sea monster was terrorizing Steelhead and all the Sparkpeople and Jaegerpeople and magical folks couldn't defeat him for a long time? I'm feeling like that again now, but I'm afraid perhaps it's in a more enduring sort of way. I mean, a lack of defeating a monster could be and was revoked eventually. But I think my universe has fallen a bit harder now than before and will have trouble repairing itself. I read a newspaper article today, which I wish I could send to you. (Unfortunately, I can't afford to purchase a copy.)
The article said that the "Tong" (as mentioned by Ms. Aaoee-sama) is a group of Shanghai people who go around violencing people. One of their people got killed by someone else, and that's why so many people were around the docks before. It also said there are two other groups competing for power in that area (one of which is identified with a dragon), in addition to a vigilante organization called the Fox Battalion. I already know Ms. Aaoee-sama is a major influence in that area, but I don't think she's associated with dragons or foxes (other than casual shapeshifting by people whose identities are based on other things). She might be the third power the article talked about. It did say that the new people were fairly well-liked, and everyone likes Ms. Aaoee-sama! But still, what am I to think of her group being mentioned along with crime organizations, if indeed she is who they meant? I hope I am misinterpreting everything. The article went on to say that the Jaegerpeople have been sent into the Shanghai district to fight evil twenty-four hours a day. The article says that place is very unsafe for normal folks. All along I had thought the invisible wall keeping me out was there to keep the city safe from me, but perhaps it's been the other way around. Perhaps it's made of angels! Do you think there's any reason in the world why an angel would bother with me? I can't think of any reason at all, but the fact remains that the wall is there protecting me. It's so strange. The Fox Battalion had a notice translated and reproduced in the article which accused the gang folks of all manner of awful things. Did they mean all gang folks, or just the Tong that Ms. Aaoee-sama considers "nothing"? They weren't accusing her of bad things, were they? Or does she actually do bad things?
With all their technology and all their niceness, why haven't the Steamfolks prevented things from getting this bad?? Nobody in Boston ever got murdered! I very, very badly miss when I first arrived and everything was cheerful and sunny and high-tech and everyone knew how to solve any sort of problem. It was never really like that, was it? I miss my delusions.
I must confess that whether or not she is a friend of Valdy, I am more frightened of Ms. Aaoee-sama than ever. I'm not frightened of people very often: Usually I only ever have to be among trustworthy individuals whom I meet through people who are sensible in selecting friends. I suppose I still get nervous in their presence, but that is because I don't trust myself, of course. I know that even the most wonderful people in the world have their limits. Even God Himself has limits after which a person may be flung into Hell!
The word "suspisshion" comes to mind to describe my sentiments right now. Am I using that word correctly? It's the same thing as when the rabbi-person gave us an explanation of the meaning and pronunciation of my name, and you both said afterward that he probably wasn't telling the truth, right? How do you handle suspisshion? What do you do in that case? It needs to be resolved somehow, doesn't it? And yet the same suspisshion makes me more reluctant than usual to interact with her. It started before the article, I know, but now it's worse than before.
I have to interact with somebody in the near future or else I may go mad again. I don't like going mad again. A few days ago I woke up from a lengthy rest to find a small army of evil glowing animalcules singing a Christmas carol at me, each at a different pace so it took awhile to figure out that they were singing the same song. That may have been one of the more confusing moments in my life. I examined the stitching on one of the more clearly stitchy ones and determined it was my own handiwork, done sometime I don't remember. I'll have to look over my older letters to you to see if I made any notes on it. On a related subject, I can't find Squeezy anywhere. He must have gotten away. I hope he's alright, wherever he is.
I also hope my friends are alright, wherever they are. Who are my friends, for that matter? I don't think I can cross Valdy off the list, or Mrs. Lowey or Miss Captain Nacht, and I know I am fortunate to be acquainted with the President of Europe. A lot of other people seem nice, quite possibly up to "friend" levels, although that also has little to do with whether or not they really are nice under the surface. Why can't people be neatly coded by looks like in storybooks? Or why can't you be here to tell me who my friends are and who is safe to be around? That's entirely my fault, I know. I ran away from home in the first place, and now I've all but stopped trying to get to anywhere from which I can't return to Steelhead. It's as if there's an invisible string pulling me back here by the heart. Silly heart-strings. Yet, I'm rather lacking anything else to show me the way right now.
That brings me to an important subject: What will I do now that I know Steelhead Shanghai is far more dangerous than the fairy princess had let on?
What would you advise me to do?
What would Valdy want me to do?
I have some mimmoth-smiting weapons. There's a small chance that I could fight evil if I really, really had to. Would it be a good thing to go near the outside of Shanghai and try to fight evil? I don't want anyone upset at me for overstepping my bounds, and I also don't want to cause a global cataclysm with my clumsiness. But perhaps I should fight evil. Valdy is doing so, after all.
It would be horrible if I tried to fight evil and ended up coming between friends, wouldn't it? I am considering that after so much time assuming things about the people around me, I should just ask who is good and who is evil. That would solve a lot of problems, don't you think? I only wish you were around to be asked.

Love,
Your Shaqad

Progress?

Dear Mother and Father,

As I said I would, I located a warehouse full of spice boxes. It's in Steelhead Harborside, and was less guarded than the Shanghai warehouses. The bad news is that it's too chilly to sleep there at this point. I am in the process of creating a quilt out of mimmoth pelts so that that won't be a problem. But in the meantime, when I can drift off under other circumstances, I've been trying to deal with my dreams now more than ever. The you-mirages think I'm being ridiculous. The shadow-Whippoorwill-person-thing is even more irked. He promised to give me back my kidney if I let him stay in me. (I think he meant "with" me but misspoke.) I said, "No!" Then he told me more about himself. I think he wanted me to feel bad for him. He says he is a typist from pair of Grids, but they both apocalypsed and now he has nowhere to go. Mother, you may not remember about typists; they're something Father would sometimes talk about in relation to the Steamlands. In places where the environmental aether is too unstable (probably due to mad science), it's customary to allow parasitic aether-beings from another Grid to attach to one's personal aetheric field to shift it into the "type" that best matches the environment, in essence anchoring a person to their own Grid so they don't spontaneously drift away into another dimension. The activity of typists is especially important when a lot of people are in the same place with their mismatched aetheric fields rubbing up close to each other. (There is a lot of speculation about the nature of typists. Mr. Captain Veles considers his to be a monkey of some sort, and a few others have referred to theirs as humans. Mine has shown itself to me in the form of a scary blonde lady in a rainbow cat-eared cloak. She also claims to be human, but I don't have any evidence she's trustworthy. She's not very good at keeping my aether field stable, anyhow. I guess I oughtn't complain about a mere parasite. She's fairly unobtrusive, except for one time when the Jaegerladies were discussing photographs of a colleague named Oggie, and she got to twittering like a little bird until I threw water on her. That was embarrassing. Miss Steamweaver made me clean it up right away, of course.)
I'm sorry for my tangent. My original point was that the dark creature claims to be a typist in need of a host. He knows I already have a typist, and while I've heard of multiple people sharing a typist, I've yet to hear of different typist sharing the same person. It might not even be physically possible. So he has to understand that it's not out of spite that I would rather get my brains in order and shut off the mirages: I don't think I can help him anyway. In any case, you--the real you, I mean, and not the mirages of you--are more of a priority than he is. I'm your daughter, after all.
As I said I would, I thawed out Squeezy, but he hasn't awakened. I was afraid to bury him, just in case, but I did unstitch him from his raccoon pelt and set him adrift on the Pacific Ocean. Animalcules like water, don't they? If he ever wakes up, he can swim around and be happy. If not, the water will bury his remains, I think. (It works that way, right?) I shall miss him deeply.
I tried to make a new Squeezy. In fact, I tried more times than I tried to make the original Squeezy. I didn't have as many materials left from outside The Grid to work with this time and had to be careful to reclaim every little bit from the failures. Ultimately, I got something more or less alive, but which has a very short natural lifespan. After a lot of foolish dead ends and a trip to the library, I found a way to make the cells divide so that there will be a new animalcule right before the other dies. It's depressing, but it works. I don't know how I shall transport them, though. I could fit Squeezy in my pocket even though he was heavy, but I can't very well have a five-pound organism dividing in my pocket. I won't be able to take my new line of Squeezies out very much. Nor do they make very good pillows. Squeezy made an excellent pillow. I miss him.
I have tried to teach the new Squeezies to sing, but as soon as they learn a few notes, they reproduce and die. It isn't a very productive exercise.
As I said I would, I experimented with some discarded machinery to get a better idea of how the Ashbourne Curse works. Of the four hundred and eleven explosions I documented (mostly with tally marks), three hundred and seventy-eight involved my fingers slipping due to the lack of coordination. Thirty-one involved bits pushing on each other from awkward angles. (I tried to sketch a few of those configurations from memory, but I'll not send them right away. I need to learn more about this.) The last two involved mimmoths. These are promising results, though, aren't they? If I can improve my coordination a lot, I should be able to decrease or at least delay my making-things-explode rate to less than a tenth of what it usually is! I'm sure that would have the side effect of reducing my falling-out-the-window-when-I-try-to-take-a-slice-of-cake risk as well. Do you think it's possible for me to improve in this area? I know my life would be so much better! I would be able to make a name for myself and maybe even be a more competent marriage candidate!
Although I said I would, I never did talk to Ms. Aaoee-sama. I suppose I really am afraid. I'm so sorry. Heaven help me.
I miss my friends. My mirages keep saying that they should be my family and friends and I shouldn't waste my energy on others, but it doesn't work that way inside my head. I want to know how the people who are nice to me are doing. What are they up to? How has the European government been? There is only one way to find out and I am too pathetic to do so. I am despairing over the state of my mind, heart, and soul at this point because I keep failing to make myself improve in this area. It's not that I don't know I need to improve, I just keep not doing so. Who in all the universes is going to want to marry me if I'm too afraid to talk to him? (Not counting imaginary folks like Miss Whateley's Mr. Yog-Sothoth, I mean.) I'm sorry, I forgot I wasn't supposed to talk to or about that family. It won't happen again. I'll wash my mouth with soap as soon as I can find some, if you like.
I had better just quit this letter before I say anything worse.
I love you both--the real you, I mean!

Love,
Shaqad

Sorting things out

My Dear Mother and Father,

I confess I'm a bit confused at the moment. Ever since the man expressed fear of Ms. Aaoee-sama and the Jaegerlady agreed, I haven't known what to think about people. All the other grownups I've met so far have gotten along beautifully; I have no precedent for such antagonism. Going back to basics, I've considered that:
a) just because Ms. Aaoee-sama is dangerous doesn't mean she's bad. It's a matter of when and to whom someone is dangerous. I'm sure there are some people who would consider Valdy dangerous.
b) just because two people don't get along doesn't mean either one is bad. Just look at you two!
c) Ms. Aaoee-sama and Valdy are on overtly friendly terms. Valdy is obviously a good person and wouldn't be friends with someone bad.
There's much of the fairy princess's business that I don't understand yet due to never having learned Japanese. Maybe someday someone will point out a yucoozah to me in the harbor or explain what the craft of purosutityushon involves. I hope to learn many more things about the Steamlands and my friends. Until then, though, all I have to go on is trust. It's all I've ever had to go on, really. You, as adults, have always had a wide range of things you understood better than me and which I had to accept due to my trust in you. I love you, and this is the nature of love. (I also know that "Honor thy father and mother," is the first of the Ten Commandments, which is another good reason.) There are places Ms. Aaoee-sama goes where I can't follow on a physical level. But on a metaphorical level, I think I have enough information to stay close to her whenever there are sides to choose. Of course, there can't be a lot of important things a silly, half-mad runaway can do for a fairy princess of great beauty, grace, and power. But if she needs something, I should try my best to be there for her. I just hope the Ashbourne Curse doesn't come into play in the process. I would hate to blow up something important to her.
I did take the important step of returning to Steelhead. I'm afraid to go back to Mama Valdy's because I'm afraid the man who wanted to see me in private will find me. I still can't fathom what me might have wanted. Winding up in private with a new acquaintance by accident is one thing, but being specifically taken aside is a whole different matter. I suppose this will need to resolved someday...or maybe not. Is it possible to avoid someone for the rest of one's life?
With Steelhead Shanghai inaccessible, it's been a trifle harder to find the warehouses full of minty spice, and thus I haven't had greatly improved luck sleeping. The mirages are still with me. However, they've changed significantly. The mirages of you, which have been with me almost constantly, underwent a slow transition to something quite visually different from you. They still act like you, but now they resemble great spidery things made of lace and trees, so it's quite a bit easier to remember that they are not the real you. Isn't that wonderful? The King of the Whippoorwills slowly merged with that shadowy creature with the sharp tools, but we're no longer fighting. He explained to me that he's a Sparkperson from another universe, and he came here to study humans. I let him borrow my kidney, but only if he promised to return it within an hour. He now claims he already returned it, although I don't remember hallucinating that part. I'm sure my kidney isn't really gone, with his not being real and all. Still, I don't think I'll let him mirage-borrow any of my other organs. As soon as I learn how to handle the new wave of nightmares, I'll move on from this silliness and never look back. My subconscious mind is eerie and I don't much like it. But perhaps there's a silver lining: It'll teach me to stop being so skittish around things that seem unusual.
I have mapped out the rest of my week: I will search day and night to find another minty spice warehouse, and then I will do my best to sleep in it to clear my mind. I will fight the scariness of my dreams in any way I can think of. I will place Squeezy in a comfortable spot by the stoves in the mine, as he is currently frozen solid, and if he doesn't wake up after thawing, I will make a new squeezy and cover it in many layers of mimmoth furs. I will collect discarded machines from rubbish bins and scientifically analyze the Ashbourne Curse, taking note of what does and does not immediately precede the sudden explosions we are all familiar with. And then I will ask Ms. Aaoee-sama if she needs anything. (Or at least I will try. I'm feeling oddly apprehensive about the whole matter, for whatever reason. Perhaps I let that man's fear rub off on me too much. This is not acceptable.) I will make myself organized, informed, and lucid for my next letter.

Love,
Shaqad

Afraid of everything

Dear Mother and Father,

I'm sorry I haven't written to you lately. The mirages of you came back and have been with me continually, so I almost forgot that you wouldn't know what was going on around me. Even now the mirages are looking over my shoulder and demanding that I cease treating them as separate people from you. I really need to get some rest.
I don't remember when a new nightmare pattern started, but it must have been on, slightly before, or slightly after Christmas. Days blend together if I spend them in the mines, unfortunately. They also blend more than they should when I'm out of touch with reality. I've not learned to handle the new dreams yet and can barely handle the old ones. This may take a lot more practice.
The new dream pattern, which alternates with the usual dream patterns, involves the Gearbox family. It starts out with me as one of Zaida's siblings at the little mill, and I make up my mind to be a good daughter for the blonde lady, but I just keep being my dysfunctional self all day long. Even though she tries to be patient, eventually I wear her down and make her cry. It floods the whole mill, and we all get swept away. I lose sight of everyone else as the saltwater carries me to Steelhead Shanghai. There a wall of mimmoth souls pushes me away to the island of the head-stealing sea monsters. Some of the dreams end there, but others go further to where they eat my brains and get sick and die.
I don't think the idea that the forcefield around Shanghai is made up of vengeful mimmoth souls is entirely farfetched. Perhaps their plan is to squish me against something until I die of flatness, just as I did to many of them.
So that explains why the mirages came back, anyhow. But I'm sure you would rather hear about recent events. I'm in Winterfell now, hiding among the trees and shrubs just as I used to when I was tiny and wanted to avoid punishment. I'm avoiding punishment now, you see. Recently (though I can't say how recently, as the sun never moves here), I went to another dance at Mama Valdy's. I still haven't seen Valdy herself recently. I think I might have made her a wreath out of mimmoth skulls around Christmas, but I left it out near her home for her and I'm almost certain some wild critter took it away before she did. She probably doesn't even know (or notice) whether I've been in Steelhead at all. I don't think there were very many people at that dance party, but it was hard to tell with all the mirages competing for my attention. The mirages of you were, in fact, very talkative. I could barely hear any of the music over their voices. But I did see that a man I didn't know came in and played a fancy form of checkers with Ms. Aaoee-sama over ownership of an aircraft. They both looked very serious, so I made sure not to interrupt them.
The party ended almost as soon as they finished, and everyone left except for the man and the barmaid. Then they talked about how scary Ms. Aaoee-sama was. The man was really, truly afraid she would hurt him. The Jaegerlady told me she's "not as dainty as she seems". She can't be a bad person if she's Valdy's friend, can she? I don't know what to believe or who to trust now. She seemed so nice. She was always so polite and friendly! Why do people around here keep climbing off their pedestals? It's been such a confusing year so far (if it's still 1890, which it may not be anymore).
Then the man turned to me and asked me to come with him to the airship in Shanghai. I don't think "There's an invisible wall that keeps me out of that part of town but doesn't affect anybody else," would have been a good answer. In any case, I cannot imagine what abominable thing I must have done to make a near-stranger want to talk to me in private. I don't want to imagine it. I didn't want to imagine it and I didn't want to find out. If it were only a mild punishment I had earned, he would have gotten it over with right then and there. I do not want to know what someone without the heart-weakening ties of blood to hinder him might be capable of enacting on the wicked. I still had the Landmark Miss Gearbox gave me in my pocket (as it's rather small and I'd forgotten to remove it), so I slipped my hand in while he was waiting for me to come with him and click-clacked it. I just poofed away without a goodbye or an apology. I'm so sorry. In spite of what I say, in spite of my resolutions and my seeming sincerity in keeping them, I just keep running away from people. I should probably study the neurology section of Do-It-Yourself Construct Construction and see if I can get some idea how to remove that part of my brain. It is only a hindrance to my functioning as a responsible moral agent.
I don't know what to do now. I thought I could not bring myself to leave Steelhead, possibly due to my overactive imagination making me feel unrealistically connected to other people, but I just left. This could be important. Maybe I will be able to find a way home from here. It looks like there may be other towns on the other side of the water in some directions, so I might be able to progress a little bit toward you. I'm not sure if I can swim that far, but maybe I can build a raft.
There are mimmoths looking at me. It makes me sad and kind of frightened. I wonder if they know what I've done to their friends. They must know, since I'm wearing a shawl and boots made out of mimmoth fur. They must think I'm very evil. I hope they don't try to hurt me. Do you think the mimmoth-soul-wall will follow me and block off a part of Winterfell?
I don't think Valdy and Ms. Aaoee-sama ever started up a mimmoth farm. Either that or they decided I wasn't trustworthy enough to talk about it to. That's reasonable. I don't trust myself as far as I could throw myself.
I wonder when my birthday is. It must be January either now or soon. It will be difficult to throw a party for myself with all the most important people, as I'm not sure where I can send invitations. For that matter, I don't know how to throw myself a party. I could blow up some mimmoths as refreshments, but beyond that, I'm completely lost. I don't even have anything nice to wear. That beautiful black gown I got from the charity bin is in tatters and has become browner than my hair. I can't keep anything nice, can I? Sometimes I think that if I ever did something right or failed to spoil something, the universe would become confused and implode.
My cheese gun and Squeezy and my shawl and my boots must be very confusing to the universe. They certainly confuse me. They're so diametrically opposed to the rest of reality that it's easy to forget them. Do you think they mean anything, or are they just examples of The Grid taking pity and forcing there to be exceptions to the rule?
Never mind, the mirages of you just explained it: I am merely overlooking their flaws as a psychological defense mechanism. Fair enough.
To conclude, I am disappointed with myself on many levels, but almost equally disappointed in The Grid. I miss being at home with you and always knowing what was real, who was trustworthy, and what to do. It's been a very stressful year full of uncertainty without your counterbalancing wisdom. The mirages help me feel a little bit better, but in the end, they're nothing more than figments of my imagination infused with memory. They're yelling at me to go to bed now, so I might as well make some effort to sleep again. I don't think it will work, but they're very insistent. So, farewell, wherever you are. I hope you have a wonderful new year.

Love forever,
Your Shaqad