Day 142,

Mists are out this morning.  It’s been hard to track the moon phases to predict them with all the cloudcover lately.  No class then today I suppose.  No rain either.  Even the weather takes a break for the mists it seems.

It may be ill-advised, but I think I’ll take the opportunity to stop by and pay Pat a visit.  It feels strange to just stop by for a social visit unannounced, but I’ve gotten the impression that’s fairly normal around here; I just don’t get much of it myself living in the outskirts.  And if showing up while the mists are out makes it strange even by local standards, well, despite his age - or perhaps because of it - Pat seems less bothered by breaches of tradition than most.

The visit with Pat went well, and I only got a little bit lost on my way back to the library.  He was surprised to see me, sure, but welcoming.  To his question as to if I wasn’t afraid of the shades I replied that I was but that I also had come to realize I needn’t worry overmuch about actually encountering them as long as I take proper precautions.  Within the Village anyway.

When he asked what the occasion was, I said there wasn’t one, only that it occurred to me we hadn’t talked in a while and I ought to check up on him.  It can get lonely on mist days with your plans for the day suspended.  That answer wasn’t even entirely a lie; I’d already resolved to save my questions about births and deaths for another time.

And so it was that we whiled away the morning hours into the afternoon sipping tea and helping ourselves to small baked goods in Pat’s living room, warming ourselves against the damp outside.  

I spoke of my new experiences teaching.  Of the children.  Of the tablets.  Of keeping towels at the library to help dry the ones who lingered outside too long at recess and return drenched by rain.  Of the blackboard.  Of Cass’s assistance.  Of this week’s plan to try the tutoring system.  

Pat spoke of his own nostalgic memories of those classes.  Of the hazy recollection of his own youth there.  Of dropping off and picking up his children.  Of his grandchildren staying with him during the rainy seasons.  Of the time an outsider washed up unusually young and wound up attending those classes herself.  Of the passing of the mantle of archivist multiple times.  Of the previous archivist’s early days, much like mine save for the lack of an assistant and a stronger desire to keep with tradition.  Of his own brief stint teaching alongside Theo (who’s apparently less intimidating around Village kids than with outsiders, if still an old grump).

None of it was in that chronological of an order though.  It’s a little surreal at times listening to him reminisce; without context you can never tell what happened a few days ago and what was over a century.  A testament to how little this place changes.  Will my own experiments last or will they be forgotten with the next archivist?  Or the one after?  Or will I find my own reasons a few years down the line to return to tradition?  Thoughts too existential to bring up and bring down the mood of the moment.

As the afternoon wore on Pat started to ask if I’d tell him a story for once, but then noticed it was getting dim out and it’d be best to save it for another time so I could get back home.  Without thinking, I made a promise to do so next time and not to wait so long until the next visit.  With a chuckle he said he’d hold me to that and added that he had a specific story in mind.  When I asked which his only response was a grin that said keeping me guessing was part of the game.

Fair enough then.  An excuse to do some more reading.