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

Non-information about non-reality

Dear Mother and Father,

I attended the party last night, but was late. I suspect they may have started early, but that's probably just a poor rationalization for my misbehavior. I know that it is never a good thing to be late when meeting with Important People. I tried to get questions answered, even though it's impolite to hijack conversations by one's superiors. I hope it will be alright. I don't think it helped, particularly. My mention of the cluster of nuns by the docks was met with Ms. Aaoee-sama's assurance that is was "nothing", or more specifically that it was "the tong", which she says are nothing. I can't imagine she meant salad tongs; a large group would have very few reasons to get worked up over cutlery. I really must learn some Japanese just so I can understand her when she talks. That is, I believe, a worthy objective. I gathered last night that she is a more important person around here than I have been giving her credit for. Not counting a lighthearted remark about gradually "owning" more and more of Steelhead Shanghai, there was an instance in which she appeared to exert influence over the others present. She greeted me as "Ashbourne-san", upon which the others greeted me simply as "Ashbourne" or without mentioning my name, rather than the usual mix of "Miss Ashbourne" and sincere efforts to work out a pronunciation of "Shaqad". They really seemed to look up to her.
Eventually the two official owners of Steelhead, Mr. Lunar and Ms. Tensai, arrived. Ms. Tensai was still in the form of a kitten, but for the second time in a row I was able to restrain myself from squealing like an undisciplined little child. There was, however, a moment of quiet and secret horror for me: Ms. Tensai had a cat-sized hat on which was decorated by even tinier skulls; I asked what they were. Both "awkwardly human-looking mice" and "mimmoths" were proposed, and I'm really not sure which one they decided it was. But I remembered mimmoth skulls as looking a lot different than that. I kill wild mimmoths on sight to avenge Valdy's home, so I'd seen mimmoth skulls very recently and still didn't recognize them on Ms. Tensai's hat! I fear for my sanity. I really hope they were mice after all! Do you remember that time you had to tell me a second time that babies are made through kissing because I had misremembered the first time as involving a story about storks? Then there was also that time when I told the whole church that I was sad because I had gotten my first spanking that morning, thus embarrassing you in front of absolutely everyone, before you explained that I had only pretended such a thing had happened and forgotten that I was pretending. I am so sorry about that and hope someday you will forgive me. But what seemed to be mere stupidity and arrogance in the past may indicate severe ongoing mental problems. Even after the belt incident was resolved, it took my bottom several days to acknowledge the truth my brain already understood. Do you think I belong in a sanatorium? I'm sure the unease I dealt with when receiving surgery at Crimson Falls was more of a temporary shock reaction than what someone staying there would actually experience. But if I could be cured of everything about me that hurts you, it would be worth most any cost, I should think.
When I mentioned my difficulties with the barrier around Shanghai, Ms. Aaoee-sama made a cryptic remark about "age verification". Mother, this barrier is something I mentioned in my last letter to Father: It is an invisible wall of pushiness that seems to completely surround a large section of the city. It is very selective in what it allows and what it pushes away. It pushes me away, but it lets in: Sticks, stones, dirt, pine needles, pine cones, grass, a torn-off bit of paper, Miss Gearbox, and Ms. Aaoee-sama. I don't know what Ms. Aaoee-sama meant about age, but either Miss Gearbox is younger than me or she never, ever eats her vegetables. Perhaps I misunderstood what she was trying to tell me.
Either way, I don't think the city likes me very much. It may not be in the minds of the citizens themselves, but something here seems not to be fond of me. I wonder what forces are at work beneath the surface of a high-tech, magically inclined pocket of The Grid like this. Do you suppose they can be placated? I don't want to get into witchcraft or anything, of course. It may just be one of those things one must accept and live with.
I haven't seen Valdy recently. I suppose I can't look for her around Shanghai now, either. But maybe my fixation with her has been misguided. The more I consider my reasoning, the more it seems like yet another case of my dubious grip on reality. For one thing, the more I think about her having said, "You're a good kid, Shaqad," the clearer it becomes that even a parallel universe would not cause it to have occurred outside my imagination. The pleasant dreams have all but tapered off now (though I have gotten better at handling the nightmares, as I was before the sea monster hijacked them), but it still most likely came from a dream misremembered as reality. However, if there were something I could do that would make such a fanciful thing real, I know that I would do it. I cannot, off the top of my hand, think of any value of "something" for which that is not the case.
No, never mind what I just said. I would most likely forfeit such a reality in exchange for one in which you yourselves said something like that. But now I'm getting severely off-track from the real world.
She probably didn't hug me, either. That whole thing was so surreal. Why was she a dragon at the time, anyhow? I almost certainly got the whole scene out of some nearly-forgotten picture book. My skin still remembers it in clear, gratuitous detail, but I never gave my body a license to tell me what is real and what isn't. I wish you were here to tell me what reality is. I miss you so badly. I wasn't ready to be on my own. The way I am, I may never be ready.
The underground locomotive I took out of Steelhead last time brought me to the middle of nowhere and left me. If I am to return to you, I will have to find another way. May God have mercy on me, lost as I am.
Miss Blackheart of the Music says that Saturday is Christmas, and that there won't be a party. I don't want to spend Christmas away from you, and especially not alone. I could go back along the mountains and spy on Miss Gearbox's family again, but that might get depressing and potentially cause trouble for both me and them. I don't want any of that. I am not sure what I shall do.

Love,
Shaqad

Age Verification

Dear Father,

I intended to return to the mines yesterday, but I'm afraid I got too distracted by the mill-folk. I really will have to speak with them sometime. I've sometimes seen Miss Gearbox around town running errands and may have an opportunity to converse with her yet.
However, the part of the city I would most often see her in has become inaccessible. (Either that or my poor sense of direction is kicking in, and it's actually another part of the city.) This morning, I made my way back in the direction of the urban area, and I was within sight of the places Miss Gearbox frequents when some horrible invisible thing knocked me back. I can't say for sure what it is. It doesn't seem to be solid like glass, but perhaps more similar to a pushy magnetic forcefield. I cannot run my hands along it, but my hands are repelled by it. Strangely enough, it doesn't do that to sticks. I can pick up a stick and run it through the barrier farther than my hands might go, but if the part of my hand that's holding the stick gets close enough, it'll bounce right back. I can throw pebbles quite a distance beyond it as well. I think it's only me the barrier wants to keep out. Maybe it's a living creature and it examines people's hearts or something. (In that case, I wonder if I should admit any of this to folks outside the family.) Or maybe it's an aetheric anomaly, but usually those are only temporary. It also could be some new technology of the Sparkpeople's, like a military experiment or something, but why put it in that particular spot? From my testing, it goes quite a long way and then bends sharply inward on itself at what seems to be a right angle, possibly surrounding a whole city district--but why? If it was put up intentionally, just what is it meant to protect from what?
In your extensive research, have you ever encountered anything like this?

Shaqad

On the curious antics of fairies

Dear Mother and Father,

I meant to go back to the mines as soon as I was finished with my hike, but I haven't left yet. I know I am not equipped to stay out here shivering in my home-sewn mimmoth furs indefinitely. In fact, I can no longer feel my fingers and am shocked that this page seems to be legible so far. There isn't anything here that I absolutely must see. In fact, I got to the opposite side of the river earlier today and found little of enduring interest. I found a shepherd's house with a spooky pagan altar at the back of it, and down closer to the river, there was a log-cutting place whose owner gave me a most displeased look when I ventured too near. I didn't stay around there for very long, naturally. I hate upsetting the neighbors.
All the frogs have gone into hibernation by now, and I don't believe the Steelhead region has a single whippoorwill. Perhaps in the latter case, they haven't any work to do when there aren't head-stealing sea monsters about.
In any case, I am now back at the little water-mill. That is to say, I'm not exactly on the property, but near enough to it on the opposite side of the road that I can see it between the trees whenever I wish. I am confused. I am not so certain that the blonde lady is Miss Gearbox's mother after all. She treats the children more as a friend and peer would than as a mother would. It's as if she has absolutely no desire to maintain control of them. I've not heard her give a mandatory order this entire time. Perhaps she is a much-older sister. You've told me that you have a soft spot for me that only a biological parent can have, but what the blonde lady displays is far more than a soft spot. She lets the young ones talk back to her when they don't agree. I haven't heard her use any aduts-only words when they do something that might be frustrating. And I've not once seen her box anyone's ears. She reminds me more of Valdy than of you, despite being completely unlike a Jaegerperson. My curiosity binds me to this place. I hope nobody minds. Perhaps they'll all be mad at me when they discover I've been spying. I know grownups always, always find out what foolish children have been up to. Perhaps I should just march up to them and turn myself in; perhaps I ought to be as honest with them as I've learned to be with you.
I miss you both, you know. I cannot count how many times I have wished you were here to help me know right from wrong. I'm sure a lot of things would have to change if you were. I would have to stop addressing you as mere friends and start giving you the respect a parent deserves. The format of my long-winded yet detail-deficient letters could not persist in up-close interactions with you. And perhaps also, you might calm down your God for me. I'm sure I've annoyed him a great deal in the past three quarters of a year, and you've not been present to patch things up for me. I really don't know how I've made it this far without you.

Love,
Shaqad

Getting out more

Dear Mother and Father,

As evidenced by the existence of this letter, I survived my attempt to alter my cheese gun! It works surprisingly well now, and I only have the faintest singe marks on my clothing. I can't believe that happened.
I have also constructed boots and a shawl from the skins of fluffy mimmoths. I feel much warmer when I go outside, and I didn't even have to leech off of others! I really am getting better at this survival thing, don't you think? "Good" is a bit beyond my reach, of course, but surely I'm doing better than before!
I regret to say that I did not attend the evening party last night. From what I gathered by peeking in the windows (unnoticed, I believe and hope), everyone who normally runs the parties--including Miss Blackheart of the Music and every single Jaegerperson, plus Valdy's close friends--was absent, and an assortment of guests had made themselves at home of their own will. Now, I am aware that some of them hold positions of authority in the military and business and such, but I was unsure if it was a good idea to go in and mingle with them uninvited. I know somebody owns that place, so it is not my habit to just waltz on in without an invitation. Please, don't you think such etiquette is reasonable?
I ended up wandering off and hiking on the nearest mountain. The December air is so chilly, but it's nice to be out of doors (and also out of mines, I mean). I know sunlight is bad for my complexion, and I haven't any arsenic powder to correct it, but some strange animal drive deep inside me likes the light. I think I've kept properly sheltered for the majority of the winter, though; my hair has turned almost jet black from the lack of sunshine, and back in the spring when I last saw you, I'm fairly certain it was chestnut brown.
I don't think I've been anywhere near those mountain woods since I chased down the wild kitty to get Squeezy's pelt. There don't seem to be any edible flowers left on it anymore, but I oughtn't fret because I have my cheese gun. It's a beautiful place, kind of bare in some places and thoroughly wild in others, but of course it isn't like a tidy postcard photograph, and I really need to wrench my heart away from Dunwich. I still cannot wrap my feeble mind around what made the place so utterly abhorrent to sensible folks. I recall that the land had its own ideas about what ought to grow out of it, no matter what anybody did; yet I don't think everything it did produce was worthless in its own right. I don't remember why the singing birds and frogs drove the grownups to distraction. I don't remember what people found frightening about having steep hills snuggled up close to them; even if there were diabolical pagan gods with trickier names than mine waiting under every third mound of dirt, didn't you have a God of your own? And although you've said it many, many times, I still have some difficulties grasping what made the neighbors horrible people. Many of them were aloof, uneducated, and rather sickly, but I don't recall seeing them do anything horrible. Even Mr. Whateley, so feared for his sinful past, surely couldn't have continued to do wicked things after baby Lavinny was born, could he? Someday I would like to send the whole village a telegram and ask how things are. Wouldn't you perhaps like to know as well?
Forgive my impudence. I will speak of this matter no more.
On my lovely hike beside Steelhead, I found a big river and a little farm-mill. There I saw Miss Gearbox with her mother and her many siblings. I didn't see a father, so perhaps he isn't strong enough for farm work. On the other hand, Mrs. Gearbox may be a widow (poor thing!). Since the siblings look so unlike each other, she may have even been widowed more than once. I didn't approach them because I didn't want to distract them from their chores nor bother a large group all at one time nor accidentally guilt them into feeding an extra mouth. I ultimately set up camp across the road, just far enough where they would not have been able to see the fire. In spite of what the cheese gun seemed to indicate, the Ashbourne Curse is still in effect: I was able to start a respectably-sized campfire by setting my mind to building a pocketwatch out of twigs. I hope nobody noticed the "boom!" or grew alarmed by it. I don't know whether to be comforted or saddened by the fact that the Ashbourne Curse still operates so strongly. We still don't know what causes it (although you agreed it's probably neurological). Still, there are some aspects to fret about, in my own subjective opinion. For example, what if it grows stronger with age? I shouldn't like to accidentally blow something up whilst making a sandwich--although it turned out fine when you did so, Father. Surely your explosion survival talents are the greatest in all the land. On the upside, my campfire was much smaller than that horrible locomotive incident that gave you the horrible scars and which I've yet to live down.
It's funny: I say things to you now that I would never have said to you months ago. I have said useless things; petty things; frivolous things; brash things; rebellious things; wicked things. Perhaps absence makes the heart grow not necessarily fonder, but more nakedly like its deepest internal condition. It doesn't help that of all the adults I have met, none are interested in disciplining a child who is not their own, and they have instead allowed me to make many mistakes. It's really no wonder God allowed the sea monster to rise against them.
This is a dreary topic. I suppose if I am to learn anything from it, it must be that my self-discipline needs to improve. That's unsurprising, of course, but it is about time I took it seriously.
In any case, I suppose you may wish to thank the Powers That Be for preventing any wild critters from eating me in my sleep. That's usually a good thing.

Shaqad