"Listen Very Carefully to Me."

He makes himself right at home.

I was very startled to see another person, after Selidon and Voessi slipped away under cover of night so long ago. That is, I assume they fled. They could easily have been devoured by night creatures, but that would have had to have been a very thorough job, as I've been over this territory dozens of times and haven't found so much as a blood stain or a fingertip left behind.

The stranger walked right into my little house, and immediately I had a flashback of days gone by. Back in Massachusetts, that is: it was known among my acquaintances that they had but to walk right through my door and make themselves at home. If I were not in, they would leave a little note saying they'd missed me, or would entwine a small grass ring they'd crafted while waiting for me. It saddened me to recall these suddenly, for at the time I acted very haughty and cool about it, though inwardly I was rather delighted and charmed by their thoughtfulness. Now, of course, I'm exceedingly famished for friendly social discourse and I miss those past interactions with a keen longing.

The Corruption of Society

The author's writing desk, replete with hovering journal and quill.

All right, I want it known that I don't wholly reject technology. I hope I made that clear last time, but just in case there is any room for misunderstanding... I wish to record, in my own hand, that there are allowances to be made. I don't like the concept of energy-slaves, which is essentially what these devices are that we contrive to do our labor for us, but inasmuch as these mechanisms (trains, printing press, Morse's telegraph, &c.) do not exploit sentient beings or animals—who possess their own sentience, I quite assure you, but this is grist for another entry—I suppose I can overlook them to a degree.

I maintain that we should endeavor to enjoy these while maintaining a balance with the natural world: just because we have this miraculous, lightning-fast telegraph, let us not forget how to settle down with our neighbors and share some ripping yarns over a few beers (especially if someone else is paying: beer, like information, wishes to be free). Yes, we may avail ourselves of the "steel-horse" upon its gleaming rails, but let us not lose the appreciation of a restorative autumn's walk from house to neighbor's house, listening to the birds and watching the musquash scamper across the banks of-...

The Underground Railroad

Terminus: Ellery Island (Bartram, another day).

That is done. It is done, my one major craft, and hopefully the penultimate miracle I manage in this insane and contradictory world. I have recreated the Underground Railroad...

Hmm. As accurate as that may be in a strictly geological sense, my meager joke seems to me disrespectful of the endeavors of my family and our actual support to facilitate the escape and liberation of fellow enslaved humans. While I do like a petty witticism now and then, it should not be the dispensation of one class to mock the plight and suffering of those in a disadvantaged class. It is neither brave nor clever—and certainly it is in no sense noble—to capitalize upon the misery of others for one's idle amusement. Mock yourself, poke holes in those above you, but do not admire yourself for ridiculing human tragedy.

To bring the reader up to date, should one be so inclined to hear a whole lot of nothing, I have been laid up a fortnight while my sorely tried body manages its miracle of healing and regeneration. The diligent reader will no doubt be familiar with my misgivings against wanton advances in technology. I'll assume this is true, for the sake of my little observation now, though my book sales would suggest a less-than-rapt audience.

Happy Hallowe'en

Happy Hallowe'en from Waldencraft! Thoreau will dig his way out soon, with lots to say about his adventures.

Guest Commentary: Albert Camus

Bonsoir à tous. Albert Camus here, filling in for Thoreau just for the interim.

Sorry for the disruption, but maybe you guys haven't noticed. That'd be fitting, wouldn't it. Poor guy's out there, busting his hump on his little chain of islands, or somewhere on the Lost Continent or whatever. His last message to the world is that he's going deep into some mysterious caverns near the bottom of the world, trying to create an amazing transcontinental railway on his lonesome. His only obstacle, after the crushing loneliness and astounding geographical distances he has to cross, is an unending horde of horrifying monsters that defy rational understanding. And he says, "Back in a bit," and then we never hear from him again, and you don't even bat an eye. That's priceless. Isn't that just the way?

Thoreau's Crazy Train

The fanning method of mining.

Many days have been spent on the back-breaking labor of digging the underground railway. While the activity itself is entirely uninteresting, affording me a liberal week of neglecting my journal (for what is there to update? Pontificating upon the blisters of my hands? The unchanging scenery of a one-meter-by-two-meter corridor in stone?), there are in fact a few aspects and discoveries I would like to record here for my own benefit.

Mind you, this is intensely boring work. To create a railway, I carve out just enough room to run a minecart down, plus headroom for myself. This has been a trial-and-error process: I stand two meters tall in this realm, and when I sit in the minecart, I still require two meters height and one meter in width. This is the barest necessity for a gangway. While digging this out, of course, it is advantageous to start "fanning", that is, mining large side passages as far as I may reach in all directions, at intervals of two meters, to advance my odds of finding mineral deposits. While this triples my work time, it is essential for personal development and acquisition of resources, so for the present time I see no alternate route about this.

The Beginning of a Plan

I have sighed many times over this article which now I write. My spine has cramped with my scribe's position, sitting on the oaken floorboards in the cabin which once Selidon and Voessi inhabited. I did not sleep last night but paced the floor, attempting to sort in my head the various thoughts and dreams and half-baked notions which ramble about in there like a pack of feral children. There is no tea to be had, nor pipe to be smoked, none of the usual distractions or vices, even if I should break with convention and take one up. Because why not, in this world where nothing makes sense?

The author entertains himself by
mocking the skeleton for 15 minutes.

When I press my cheek against the coarse glass of the cabin's windows, it is cold. The sky is dark, though I see the pink hues beginning to form on the horizon. An archer-skeleton ambles past the window, bow at the ready, sounding for all the world like someone has kicked a xylophone down a staircase; soon he will burst into flames, if he does not find a sheltering tree. I watch the back of his bleached skull round the corner of the cabin as he stalks off, and I have no emotional attachment to his presence. Not fear, not revulsion, even my academic curiosity wanes.

Oh. He has fallen into the well, in a misguided attempt at self-preservation. Surely, there is enough shade in there to guard him from the sun, and should he catch fire, he is perpetually bathed in cool water. But now he can't climb out nor operate his bow to pluck out the eyes of casual observers.

I could draw an analogy between us, but honestly, it would take too much out of me.