The Evemen Letters | II
Dear Faithful Reader,
As I write, a drizzle is building prompt momentum against my window while the steam from my cup is stolen by the draught from the gap I have left ajar. I trust you have been keeping toasty and healthy, especially during these last weeks where the frost lay siege upon us over night. Twas so bitter, cruel and icy, particularly on my walk home where my nose was reddened beyond compare, though the comparison could be to that of a reindeer, and my fingers frost-nipped so much so that I could have sworn tinklebobs started forming at the ends of them. But, unfortunately, it wasn’t cold enough yet for proper tinklebobs to form from the overhang of the roofs, and the ends of my fingers and nose.
I must admit though, between you and I, it is this season I have a fond appreciation for. It’s mannerisms strike a certain chord in my heart and I struggle to resist taking full pleasure in the brisk, fresh mornings and the ample variety of intense sunrises and sets that adorn the floors of Heaven. Mind you, not every January can be as full of colour, as we both know!
Regardless, I do have much to update you about. As you know I do like to keep myself off my toes, or on my toes, either way I thoroughly enjoy being as a busy as bee, what kind of bee I’m not sure, perhaps a bumblebee….no no, it would be far better to be a honey-….there I go again! My dear, you never seem to stop me in time before my tongue runs off the end of these lines! Let me begin to indulge you in last Thursday’s events!
As I mentioned briefly in my last letter, before I had to dash off as quickly as I typically do, I had intended to travel up to the City of Oolite, with a task in hand and mind. Yet, I must inform you what kind of place it is before I go on to explain why and how I couldn’t make it there.
It is…a perculiar place. A place with huge quantities of perculiarity, by the dozen! No no, a bakers dozen! Percularity by the bakers dozen.
The houses, marvellous in their design, are built as tall as mansions but as narrow as a post-box, with small-balconies on every other, almost acting as the letter box, though who might have a letter that big I’m not quite sure. Perhaps Jack’s friend would require such size, for he is rather large, not that I’m judging largness fot it is an esteemed quality, especially up North! But, he is so large in fact, so tall, much taller than these houses mind you, that he lives above, a close neighbourd to the astronaut I believe; we should have to pay him a visit when we go up. I think that would be the proper thing do. Anyhow, the staircases inside run up and down, like nonsenical slides, with twist and turns that make uncommon sense. It is the abundant quantity of tiny rooms that make up the interior, providing little space for creativity or joy, as they quite surely mimic the shape of a box, not a large box in any form. I safely can say Jack’s friend surely wouldn’t be able fit in them. So many rooms, some with no use at all. Left empty, bare, desolate, painfully abandoned! The walls, made of brick so uniformly enticing, so satisfying to the eye; with its clean edges and regularity. Though, the paths are neat and clear. There is little to be desired in regard to cleaniness, but sometimes out of a little bit of chaos comes good and decent order.
Ashamedly, I must say it is the people, from what I can recall from my last visit, that are most bizarre. Truly bizarre. Bizarre by the buckets. For lack of a better explanation, they reflect the sky, in its grey moods and greyer faces. Rarely do they smile and express God’s gift of laughter or joy, rather they store it all up as if afraid of committing a crime against Woe. No scowl lands on their face, rather complacency sits in their eyes and seems to encourage them back to bed, in one of their many small rooms. The plants weep ceaselessly from this as you can imagine, for we all know adventure is in their very souls. The trees, that adorn the avenues, parks and forests that line the edge of the city, transform pearls of rain into crystal tears that pour forth from their branches and bark; how I had wished to sooth their sorrowed hearts! For that was my very reason for going, this, though, I shall explain at another time. The flowers sing in unending ballads of melancholy, their petals unable to find reunion with the sun, and Oh! the dear sun! Seldom can it leave its habitation. It struggles, strives, and suffers so bitterly, desperately wanting to be free from the clouds stiffling hands. Amongst all the hubbub, if you find a quiet spot, a gentle location, where the rhymthic bustle of the city isn’t quite so profound, as it is a city of great nosie and hurrying, but hurrying to where I never did know. They seemed to be in such lax urgency, I was left more puzzled then before. But, it was where the grass meets the soil and the birds flying above, being the only traffic in the skies here, that you can hear it humming, the tune I cannot identify, overflowing with longing, and saturated with the purest platonic desires. One, if one has a heart made of flesh, would struggle not to shed a single tear upon hearing.
There is much more I have left unsaid but I’m aware of the fingers on the clock. I’ll now attempt to indulge you with what occured on Thursday morning, which resulted in my inability to travel to the City of Oolite, and which caused my heart and plans to fall into such dismay and disorganisation. You truly won’t believe what a foul situation subsequently took place later that morning before I was able to even get there!
The morning, though sharp and wet in all its aspect, lent to me an initial pleasent walk to the train station. My journey so productive, timely, and uneventful, I scarcely recognised the day. I left my home promptly at 8:30am, and was directly inbound to Matravers Train Station. It was within the hands of 9am that prosperity of travel had left me all alone, leaving me truly vulnearable. It was only when I was but a few yards away from the station, that as I turned a corner, just before the row of shops and the market place, you know the spot, right near Potters Road. Well, it just in this exact spot that I-I-.....I tripped. It is, I can safely say, not in my disposition at all to be inclined to this sort of behaviour. Rarely, if not ever, does the event of…tripping…bestow itself upon me in all its embarassing relations. Upon what I fell over, I scarecely can answer, for my fall was so ferocious, so intense; with such aggression did I meet the ground, tumbling so much so I worried if I should survive…!
I can recall hearing, in the midst of my present falling, Mr. Archet exclaim, for he was to travel with me. Well, my dearest reader, I know if you had been there my situation would have been for the better, but it was, to my misfortune, only me and Mr. Archet, who, try as he might, had little strength against the foe that had placed such a cunning trap to ensare me, for I know I could not by any means upon the ground we walk on, could have tripped in any other way unless it be a planned form of attack.
It was only until I opened my eyes that I realised I had fallen into, none other then, a….wevvet? (I believe the term is spiders web for my foreign folks, though correct if I find myself wrong, unlikely as that might be).
My astonishment nearly exceeded my fear, my mind locked behind the bars of stupefaction and my hands frozen by bafflement. I could hardly cry for help, my voice had abandoned me in my time of need. My arms, legs, fingers, feet, head, toes, fortunately not my nose, all were now all stuck fast to the intertwining ribbons that made up the web.
I pulled and tugged at all my legs and limbs, but I got into such a cockle, truly a right situation. Said legs became entangled in a weave of nonsenical string, that seemed to have a proper mind of its own. I tossed, turned, fell about in all sorts of bizarre mannerisms that I’m sure I would be deemed truly mad if anyone had been around, luckily the streets were barren. This, at the time, was the only positive aspect of my situation I could identify.
The hours swept on quickly and rapidly, leaving me all alone to miss my train and misson. All my commotion caused such a fuss and fiddle, an ado of the highest kind, that I must have awoken the owner of the home, for I felt the vibrations of the web change.
It was no other then the Spider who wove this intricately designed trap, or wevvet if I’m being polite. Quite quickly did I ask why why he had laid a tra- wevvet so sinister and requested for my immediate release. Though urgency had walked off by now for my train had left hours ago, so truly I was in no rush.
“Oh my goodness! My-my-my goodness gracious me!” He exclaimed, right next to my ear, as he began to unravel my legs, arms, fingers, toes, but, again quite fortunately, not my nose. “I didn’t mean for all this to occur, on a Thursday morning no less!”
“A Thursday morning, indeed!” I retorted, for you know how I am about Thursdays. “Why on earth, my gentle fellow, did you in set up this convoluted ‘trap’ in the first place?” Mr. Archet furiously agreed with my very logical question (his verbal support was very much needed).
“Well, you see…it just happened that…” He stuttered into resignation, then, after a moments pause, started again. “I had hoped to capture…a friend. A proper friend. The kind that you eat museums with and visit spaghetti, or is it the other way round? I’m getting in such a twist and tangle. You see, the other spiders don’t like to spend time with me, for I don’t eat flys. In fact, I’m rather fond of them and their little idiosyncrasies. I try ever so hard to be their friend but they all seem to avoid me, they fly away ever so quickly I don’t even get the chance to explain myself. The spiders think I’m most odd, that there’s something wrong with me. They all live in the water spout but I prefer to live in a brick wall, where it’s dry and my home isn’t constantly being washed away.” (I thought this a very practical idea).
He began to explain the entirity of the situation, though you’ll have wait for another time for the full explanation for I’ve only just realised the weight and size of this letter! I’ll be brief from now on!
He was most apologetic, profusely apologetic if I do say so.
“I am ever so sorry Mr—, I really didn’t mean to cause such a fuss, a mess, a-a-a heap of turmoiled mishmash.”
“It is quite alright, Mr-..I don’t appear to have your name?”
“Oh oh, right yes, of course!”
“Well?”
“Oh goodness! Yes, it’s Mr. Vleeson. Mr. Vleeson is my name, sir”.
“Mr. Vleeson, a pleasure to meet you, but I must make you aware that you’re very fortunate that it’s me you’ve captured over anyone else. You see, I’m a gentlemen so this sort of thing happens quite a bit to me, but I’m well equipped now to deal with such affairs.”
We laughed and chuckled away some of Afternoon’s hours before the sun began to bid us adieu. This is the moment, in the quietness of twilight, where we discussed the proper way, the right way, to make a steadfast companion for life.
“For you must find a common interest, the places where you would linger, so there they will as well”, I stated with great confidence, and then went onto to say “Confidence is also a must for it can be a fearful endeavour. But, more then this you must recognise Passion, Love, Patience, Grace and Kindness in their very being, they are gifts given to us for free and we can exercise them with great liberty. Others may waffle and tuffle about money and cars, but these are friviolous, fruitless things. A good deal of nonsense that you must justly ignore. Finding, and keeping, a friend can be a tricky business, full of brambles and gorse bushes but your pursuit will be worth every minute and penny. Truly, I say Mr. Vleeson, that it is in the storms, the wind and the rain, the dark, blustery nights that friendship is found. In the bottom of barrels and upon the green rolling hills made in Spring. It is uneathered by the rhythmic tides of Summer, hidden under seashells and nestled between cockles. It is caught by the falling leaves of Autumn, and it rides on the back of gusts of wind. It lies deep within Laughter and Joy, and walks among us during Sorrow and Sadness. It is a ship both sail together, journeying across the oceans of life, travellers joined together in the similarity of their souls. You needn’t worry if you don’t find it straight away, for it is like a Maine Coon cat. You must sit and wait ever so patiently with something enticing in your hand. Slowly but surely, it will approach and settle within your lap, falling asleep as quickly as it might run away. It’ll purr and be content. This is the right way, my good sir.”
As much as I was looking forward to the City of Oolite, we both know the opportunity to make a steadfast friend is beyond price or jewel. Thus, Mr. Vleeson has become a frequent visitor to my abode. We have spent many a evening recently excercising our minds with puzzles and board games beyond count. Of course, Mr. Archet was there as well. We’ve found he’s very good at Scrabble, while Mr. Vleeson is particularly good at twister! I couldn’t have guessed this. Mrs. Heather baked an especially good spiced apple cake, with cream, and all, which we everyone enjoyed on multiple occassions. I believe I sent a generious, generious in the most generious sense, slice to you as soon as it came out the oven. Do tell me if you recieved it well and I’ll send another right away.
The weather has grown for the better, with it now pouring and the wind chattering away. Hopefully, I can be assured, we are both spending the present evening in the only acceptable way this time. With a good book, a steaming cup of camomile and a warm blanket by a calm fire.
Until next time
Your most Faithful Friend
Mr. Evemen
