Chapter Text
Electricity is precious, as much as it was scarce, in Happy Camp, California.
But you found that with or without electricity, at a population of no less than 800 or 900 people or so, this village could survive without electricity. Falling back to olden practices of burning wood, talking outside houses, planting vegetables, and taking care of farm animals; which for some, would be the ideal life for ones in the big cities. It's why this town generates tourists regularly, from every aspect of life and reasons: to relax, to explore and find themselves, to be away from noise.
To remember how simple life could be. And still be sustained.
It's amusing, how much propaganda it took for the people in the big cities to realize this was, in fact, possible. A life without cellphones, without the internet, without the big brands, could be livable. It makes you wonder, would you turn out the same had you pursued your career in one of the most beloved, idolized places that is New York City?
You smiled, if you came to this town as one of the fleeting tourists looking for a way to find peace, would you find the lack of technological advancement boring? Would you think of the people here as primitive? Or maybe not primitive, that was too much of a word, hmm..
Conservative? Stubborn? “Or stuck in their ways?”
Reading the words from the page, you trailed a finger to follow the dance of words; the barely felt presence of heat moving beside you, flickering, the wax from the candle gathered at the bottom. Flame steadying once you glanced at it, you hummed, “but I suppose if I were to go to a city in the state of mine, wouldn't I go crazy in just half a day?”
You, who had become accustomed to the quiet creak of wood, the sight of deers surfacing at the entrance of forest, and the almost privacy given between closed doors and the world outside, would. You will definitely go crazy.
That was, like one of the many, another amusing thought. Familiarity truly breeds contempt or in this case, affection. Because clearly, you know the place you belonged to.
You were already happy to be where you are.
In some ways, ignoring the tiny voice of regret, you were glad to have stayed in this village. Even if initially, this hadn't been part of your plans. Your former life plans.
But what if you did go..?
That was the time you close the book, marking the page with a neatly folded paper, the span of pages dully colliding against each other. Adjusting your eyeglasses and raising it to your head, lips pursing. That was the time you pack your things and be ready to retire for the night, at the never absent whispering finally emerging from its confines with its illusions and daydreams—the ones your former self had aspired to fulfill back then.
You, like the paper you held frequently in your fingers that the paper had wrinkled, remembered the moisture and oil of your fingertips, had left it behind. The paper may remember, the ink may stain for a long time but that was not the life you could take anymore.
It's the lie you tell yourself at least. You know time doesn't wait for anyone. But you have time to turn things around because no one is ever truly late to start things all over again.
You can start over again.
A hand holding the edge of the book, it clenched briefly around the corners, you released it. Taking off the eyeglasses from your head, placing it a little too roughly on the table with a click, your hands rubbing your face, you sighed harshly.
That had been a long, long time ago.
Holding your face to your palms, eyes closing and head bowing, giving in to leaning the weight to your hands, the pressure around your jaw loosened, relaxing as you sighed, much softer than the last.
.. too long ago. You are happy here, you are content. You won't ask for anything more.
Taking your hands off your face like the darkness from your eyes closed and to the dim lightning of what your little candle can reach as if it made any difference—it didn't, you placed your eyeglasses back to your face, glancing outside the window, the sky was clear tonight.
Tucking the book to your arm and with the other hand, the candle to light a path, you glanced at the rows of different genres with the gentle thump of your footsteps left behind, reading the names and eventually stopping at fiction, raising the candle to illuminate some area ahead of you, you hummed, entering the aisle to find where you had taken the book from, “the tale of Little Andrew, written by Diego Louise who goes by the pen name Little El, published in 1990, a good read so far. I'll continue reading you tomorrow.”
A finger stroking the spine of the book, lingering, you turned away to look at the window, eyes narrowing at the darkening sky swallowing the moon. Great. It's going to rain soon, you need to close up the library quicker before you get wet.
A little, or for you, personally big downside with the unpopularity of electricity is one thing you lamented often: hot showers at a flick of wrist.
Because no, you definitely didn't want to wait for the water to boil while you are already dripping wet from cold rain and potentially falling sick from staying in wet clothes and then being nude in cold room, not drying yourself because you have to shower the rain off your body—or so your parents had told you repeatedly in the past.
In the end, you get sick because the water took too long to boil.
Cursing under your breath, you hastened your movements, going back to the counter to take an umbrella with you on the way out as you patted your pocket, hearing the jingle of keys, you shook your head, hissing, placing the candle to the table, “hurry.. hurry, gotta hurry home.”
Going around the counter to kneel on one knee, you felt for the cool metal of the lantern, taking it out and standing to place it close the candle; you glanced outside, cursing at the sight of tiny droplets of rain sliding down the windows as fingers unlocked the safety mechanism of the lantern to raise the glass and reveal its wick. Taking the candle in hand and carefully lighting the wick, the burst of a brighter flame illuminating the surroundings as you guide the glass back down to its base, locking it in place.
You blow out the candle, putting it under the counter and quickly picking the lantern by its handle, umbrella unfurling as you shake it lightly out of its fold, hooking the lantern on its handle and holding the two objects in one hand as you slip out of the door, you smoothly locked it behind. The cool wind immediately greeting your face that, in pure reflex, you turned away from it. Face feeling the dribbling bite of freezing cold as expression cringing, one hand pat your pocket for the key.
At the splatter of rain to your feet, the brick road gradually turning darker with each drop, wind picking up into the quiet hissing of tom cats about to attack each other from behind a dumpster; you wrinkled your face, eyeglasses fogging. You cursed yet again.
Trying to open the door, it didn't budge. You left it at that, it was already locked. You are not getting another fever this month, dammit—you promised yourself you wouldn't get sick!
Heels spinning to turn around, angling the umbrella to shield you from the worst of the foul weather, the fogging of your eyeglasses worsening as the drastic drop in temperature settled in, you picked up your pace, lantern drawing the orange tint path of the rain fall.
No one stayed on the streets, every villager knew better than to stay outside when the inside of their home is abundantly more comfortable than anywhere else in the world right now. The smell of hot cocoa, the heat of the fire pit, being wrapped in blankets, and from the inside, watching the rain with a smile.
From here, you were not smiling. Nor were you about to, for the record.
Picking up pace, you navigated the empty dark street. On each side, were houses with its candles blown off, windows glistening as your blurry reflection jogged past—not like your foggy eyeglasses could hope to catch onto anything more than the weak silhouette of the flame flickering, providing a vivid color of orange that's easy to pick out from the gloom and doom.
You should have worn a hood, the dampness you felt gathering at the sides of your head and to your exposed neck frequently caressed by the winds like some lovesick lover you're about to commit the most horrible break up with, adjusting the lantern to be ahead of you and sacrificing your back to be drenched from the rain—you're already wet, and if visibility is gonna reveal itself in the form of some rock tripping you off your feet and slamming your face down the wet ground, you think you're better off with a wet back than a shattered eyeglass that's gonna be hard to be repaired with how bad your eyesight is—so yeah, tough luck. You're picking the lesser evil between the two.
And besides, it's just a couple of minutes before you arrive home—a jingle of bells.
You continued jogging, foot falling to the little puddle of rain and trying to make as little splatter as much as possible. You didn't hear anything.
Another jingle of unmistakable bells, once, twice. You didn't hear anything.
And then a velvety, smooth voice. “Hello, my dear, would you be interested in watching the freak circus?”
.. that seems to have intelligence. Not a mimicry of common phrases heard from people. You paused. If it was a mimic, it must be a traveling one because that was the first time you heard a phrase like that. Ever.
The rain fell down heavier, your umbrella echoed from the harshness of its pitter-patter. You looked over your shoulder, eyes squinting as the lantern turned at your movements, shining a light on someone's very dark silhouette with.. huh, you couldn't be seeing wrong, or maybe you are, but why are you seeing little purple lights to where you think should be eyes?
Other hand raising to take your eyeglasses off as you answered, it was a fruitless attempt to see so you folded it at the collar of your shirt, making do with what you have at the present, “oh, I'm terribly sorry. Let me just.. I don't see very well. Let me just clean my glasses and—” realizing, with eyes squinting twice as hard to observe that the figure before you, casting shadows behind him, had the rain falling on him. Directly. There was no space between him and the rain.
“—are you, perhaps, wearing a raincoat? I couldn't help but notice that, without one, you are about as drenched as a seal.”
“...” The figure didn't answer for a moment, you felt eyes on you, “would you watch the freak circus, my dear?”
Is that a yes?
Frowning, you clenched the umbrella and lantern to you, is this a tourist? But why is he walking around like a wet puppy? Did he wanted to get sick so badly?
And if he was, could he possibly take it from you? Because from how things are shaping up, you really were going to fall sick sooner than later.
“I don't think I've heard that event,” you said, wordlessly shifting the umbrella to the front as rain fell to your back and then shoulders and eventually, your head. It was cold. You smiled, “our village typically does the events here, have you heard of the labor day festival? It's a community get-together in other words, a socializing party. We celebrate the myth of Big Foot—”
“You are getting yourself wet, my dear.”
That you are. “And you, too. Big time. How long have you been standing in the rain? Inviting people to a show?”
A longer pause, a jingle of bells—..? Is he moving his head to make that noise? A chuckle answered you, seemingly and painfully amused, the glow of purple moving closer as your blurry sight—not miraculously improving—saw the intensity of two lights. Did he lean forward to make sure you're not as drenched as him? “How sweet you are. I am already, as you said, drenched as a seal, my dear. You are not. Who will take care of you when you get sick?”
You, of course. Who else?
.. only you now.
Other hand slicking your hair back, you threw your head back, eyes closing as you laughed softly, ears fleetingly hearing the distant sounds of laughter you couldn't longer hold in your hands, tug forwards to your arms and falling to the same ground together. Wow, you didn't realize you were this miserable that you forgot one important thing. “You're right. I've been miserable about being drenched this whole time that I forget how fun it was to play in the rain.”
You loved playing in the rain. You loved playing with someone in the rain.
When did grief turn a memory so happy, so precious into a worry?
You were already going to be sick, why not make the most of it then?
“..?”
Eyes opening, you smiled at the tourist and with a quick work of closing the umbrella and standing in the pouring rain with him, you hooked the handle of the umbrella to your arm and adjusting your hold to the lantern, you shone a path ahead of you, glancing at the vaguely dark figure beside you, “if you'd like, would you please enlighten me with the freak circus? There's a library not too far from here to dry ourselves in and chat for a little while?”
For a moment, you felt many gazes on you. Glaring, staring, searching. It was heavy. Judging.
“What do you say..?”
“Jester, my dear.”
A peculiar name. You continued, a tilt of your head and still with a small smile on your face as you politely held out your arm to take, “Jester?”
A low chuckle, a pressure daintily wrapped around your arm, squeaking—a leather glove? Jester squeezed your arm, feeling something more solid than fingers flatly pressed down, claws?
Quite long nails he has, don't he?
“It would be my pleasure, my dear. Lead the way.”