The following short story is in response to a brief twitter exchange between myself and my girlfriend. The google doc in which I wrote was created within 6 minutes of the initial tweet (4 minutes of my reply) at 1:05am after working on finals papers since 10:00am the previous morning. It was finished by 3:05am. As such, please note the text you will read was written across two hours from someone deliriously tired and mentally fatigued for no other reason than "it would be funny".
Also note the odd perspective choices were done to better mimic the retelling being done in a tweet format, as part of the "bit".
I would sit on a bench near your grave. It would be old and worn, but clearly cared for. Cleaned often enough that the erosion many other stones face would be less pronounced. Flowers which had bloomed from generations upon generations reaching back to the first seeds planted with absolute precision; pushed into the soil by the fingertips of still young hands like a needle passing through taut skin.
“An angel?” I’d ask, my voice cheery but clearly strained and caught by the ravages of age. My generation is few and far between now; those who came before the grain wars. The last generation to reap the benefits of glut and rot while still paying for the carnivorous whims of scavengers upon the carrion of modern society. So weary, with eyes that were pickled in the socket by time and brine.
“There was an angel here once, yes. But she was never the type you speak of.”
I’d rifle through my coat pocket, nearly displacing stitches that seemed to act as final vestiges of a rescue party for fabric that should have long ago ripped apart. I’d pull out a lighter and a stained box of cigarettes, offering one to my listeners, which would be declined. My leathery hands, crossed by scars left like the wake of a figure skater's waltz, shook in a tremble that had worsened in recent years. It would take two clicks from the faithful lighter to relieve my dear cigarette, which was brought to chapped lips and eagerly embraced.
“Long before that word became what you know it as, it meant a being that was pure. Holy, full of light and good tidings. It was originally co-opted for those… husks as a sprinkling of irony with a healthy dose of cynicism. They said that those who became taken by the radiation sickness and the mental deterioration that came with it were truly ascendant; saved in the ongoing rapture our world had fallen to. They said they were God’s chosen. The lucky ones. Maybe they were right.”
I would take another long drag of my cigarette before giving my rapt listeners a toothy grin.
“Ah, if the angel I tell you of could see me now. She’d not expect me to be a smoker nowadays. I wonder if she would find it enjoyable or be concerned for what made me break my streaks. Bad lungs, you see. Always tried to avoid it, rather than making the problem worse. But she had a fascination with the things. Makes me feel closer to her side when I smoke ‘em.”
“Yes, she was an angel of the old kind. So whimsical and kind, with a smile and laugh that made you feel like a million rations when you brought them out of her. Gentle when she needed to be, but certainly eager to be rough around the edges. The kind of woman you turn your life around just by being in her eyes.”
I’d pause for a time, just long enough for one of my young listeners to ask in a hushed whisper what had happened to the angel. My gaze would move to the sunset, a hazy red display that served as a permanent reminder to those who subsisted on what had been done to our world. A brand which had been seared to our hopes and dreams for the foreseeable future, as even the human tradition of looking to the sky for clarity was met with the cruel transformation that had taken us all.
“It was early days. Pre-world governments still just about kicking. Before water alternatives. Before the mutations, back when Grok was barely a blip. There was no standard procedure for the sicknesses. No treatment. Just the cold, hard truth of what would happen to you once it took hold. That's always been true about us humans; we all knew every anecdote and preliminary study result by heart. We craved knowledge of the grim and painful variety.”
“The angel and I were young lovers here, who fled north before the first hydrogen war. But when she got the sickness, we came back. It was a special place for us. The last time it all made sense. Seemed fitting we see it together again one last time.”
My cigarette had gone out from the chilled wind, and I took a moment to snap the lighter once again and relight it before continuing.
“The lake used to be bigger. Bluer too, of course. A nice river fed it good and healthy, up about a mile from here. Fish called salmon used to rove the place. We’d spend days sat beside that river, trying to fit a lifetime into a few weeks. But it got far enough along. No one had recovered from the sicknesses back then, and the things you became were even less pleasant than they are now. She didn’t want that, and I didn’t want it for her. So one night, we watched the sunset together. We hugged for a good while, and in that embrace, I did what I promised her I would. I drove a blade into her neck, hard and fast. One last kiss.”
I chuckled darkly, though it would seem that my throat was quite dry. My listeners were completely silent.
“By that time, graveyards were popping up everywhere. Lucky for us, this one got mandated right around that time. There used to be a school here, what they called a “higher learning institution”. Old world nonsense. But even when we hated it, we loved it there. That’s where we began to truly fall for one another, truly discover ourselves. So when they set up a little graveyard right next to a statue of our old school’s mascot, we thought it was too ironic a setup to pass up. That’s just how we were, making jokes out of anything to let the world pass by.”
“And in the coming years, she wouldn’t be left alone. I stayed right by her side. Ended up taking an old building from our schooling days over. Thought it would be funny, since I started helping peace runners hide out from stalkers. My house used to be set aside for a reserve officer training program from the old world; just so happened to be made of good ol’ bricks. Survived everything up until then, and I figured my old friends would get a kick out of the place ending up home to a soul like me.”
My eyes seemed to catch somewhere across the hill, before scanning up and down methodically.
“She’s got other friends too. Over time, some of our old schooling buddies ended up in this same joint. Just a few. Most of ‘em scattered to the winds even before it all fell apart. Hope they died nice and quiet, wherever they went. The last one of our old crew I knew of ended up as a shell pilot for the CGM militia. United Communes of the Green Mountains. She was a bona fide legend in this region. Once held off a military convoy from the south with half a battery of charge and a busted left arm mechanism.”
One of the young listeners let out a surprised exclamation of recognition, and I nodded proudly as I thought of my old friend.
“Yes, that’s her. Last I heard of her, she was heading northeast. But if you know anything more about her nowadays, please keep it to yourselves. Indulge an old soul in having one last bit of mystery in the last chapters of their life.”
One of the other listeners spoke up, explaining to me why they had come here. They had traveled on half-clues and wishful dreams, and were at the end of their wits. They had been unable to decipher the last parts of the cryptic directions given to them and feared the failure of their quest.
A line they recited in a memorized drone gave me pause, and I furrowed my wrinkled brow in thought.
“Hmm. I do wonder… You may have followed the correct route after all. Just taken one wrong turn near the end. You’re right; you are near the highest point in Burlington. But look at this here,”
I pressed the sharp fingernail at the end of a bony digit to the faded text on a stained canvas that served as these brave travelers’ directions.
“This here. Easy to miss, but the space before “Burlington” is larger than it should be. And given the blotch just above it, I’d wonder if it used to read “S. Burlington” for South Burlington instead. And if that’s the case, then I would wager the wording of the other piece is deliberate. It does not say go to the “highest point”, but to “Higher Ground”. Those capitalizations aren’t random. There used to be a venue very close to here, within the territory that was South Burlington. It was called Higher Ground.”
I saw the traveling group’s faces flicker with hope that quickly grew to a blaze, and I smiled to myself. Even after all these years, making others smile like that still felt like a small piece of what the angel used to grant me.
“And if that’s the case, I’d guess that the part of your letter that’s been obscured before the word “Angel” is telling you to find “Vermont Wings Of An Angel”; a little old building right by that place.”
“You should leave the cemetery through the southern gate and follow the old road east and south. Walk straight through the junction, and keep going until you see the obelisk. You could keep following the road, but I wouldn’t try it. There’s an old place up there on the road that used to be called Al’s, but a gaggle of automation cult nutjobs insist it says “A.I.” and hold themselves up there. They’re kept in line by the militias, but all bets are off once you’re in their turf. I’d see if you can get off the road to the left at the obelisk and duck through the ruins for cover. It’s night now, so you’d have more cover. The place you’re looking for is on the opposite side of the road, across from the Al’s sign, tucked away to the left of a fork in the road. Easy to miss, so keep your eyes out.”
The traveler who seemed to be a leader by virtue of personality shot to their feet, insisting that the group begin that way at once. I found myself being thanked profusely, and I waved off their gratefulness dismissively.
“Please. Consider it repayment for indulging an old world relic in their reminiscing.”
They left after a few more pleasantries, though I saw them glance back at me more than once before fading out of sight. For my part, I finished my cigarette in silence, watching the ashes flow on the currents of an invisible river formed on a cool breeze of night air.
I used my finger to push the top of the cigarette box open again, frowning at the sight of an empty container.
“Ah, looks like I’m finally out of them too,” I would smile fondly, sharing a conversation that, to any outside observer, would have seemed to be with nothing to listen but the empty darkness.
“Oh well. Lasted me quite a while. Can’t complain too much.”
And with my final words in a dialogue that spanned worlds, I departed my bench and walked west into the shadows of evening. To all in that forgotten land, this was the last trace any soul ever saw of the Keeper of Catamount Cemetery.
