Friends have asked me to take care of their little old dog while they travel to the capital, there to try to persuade our leaders to actually do something to alleviate the intense suffering here.

I'd been writing madly for months, too possessed by it to pay much heed to what's happening around me, until yesterday, when my oldest friend suddenly appeared and dug me out of the hole I'd been living in.

Somehow he and his mate have managed to retain their humanity as well as their wealth in the midst of the terrible upheaval going on everywhere. I can't explain why he chose me, or how he even found me, to ask this seemingly absurd favor — I was surprised to see him at all, after so many years. And he seemed in a kind of flurry: once I agreed to do what he asked, he left quickly, calling over his shoulder to bring what I'd need for a short stay and come as soon as I could.

I look like nothing so much as a refugee — scraggly beard, wild hair, ratty clothes — and nothing to carry my stuff in but a filthy pillowcase. The only way I felt sure I could get here without being interfered with was to slink through the poorest neighborhoods, where, as it turned out, I saw no one: they've all disappeared, or else shut themselves in against the world.

When I finally arrived, my friends were already packed, and after giving me brief instructions, they were on their way immediately, saying they would keep in touch while they were gone. But the dust hadn't settled in their wake before I began to wonder if they really intended to come back at all. Well, whatever they're planning, it's just the dog and me now, for as long it takes one of us to have to abandon the other. That's me: always the optimist!

The dog sleeps most of the time, and will be little trouble, unless he gets sick; nor will I be bothering him in any way — I don't sleep much when I'm working, and I plan to continue that. Meantime, the place is crammed with food, enough to last for months; whether we'll remain unmolested that long is of course another matter.

What's happened in this place is anybody's guess. I've been buried in my work and paying no attention, but I get the impression everybody's either already gone or leaving — which of course makes me think I should do the same if I have any sense.

But I don't have any sense, or none of that kind. Never did. Pretty sure that's how I got this job.

Whatever the case, the dog's too old to make any kind of trek, and now he's got a claim on me, so I can't leave him behind — if life, then hope, else not, yes? — not that I'd know where to go anyway, except after my friends, and now they're out of sight, no telling which way they're really headed, no matter what they told me. There ought to be a wise saying about such a circumstance, but I can't think what it would be...

So maybe let's start off with a little feast. God knows I've been eating like stray mutt for weeks: just like always when I'm on this kind of binge. The writing life may look romantic to a civilian, but for me, more often than not, it's a forced march over rough terrain, and most of the time I have no real sense how long it'll last — until one day I get to the end and pitch on my face. It's the only time I sleep right, right after a long slog like this one. The move here might break things up some, but maybe not.

I can see real weather from up here! Just now, exploring with the dog, I found a parapet runs along this whole face of the house, way up high on the lake side. Out there, coming down from the mountains on the other side, there's a great slash of black cloud, lowering, dimming everything behind and beneath it. The dog's staying inside, whimpering, but it looks to me like the storm will pass off, up the lake — to the east, best I can reckon.

Down from here, at some boundary line I guess, there's a wall along a gully that must empty into the lake; the wall curves around and back up, enclosing all the houses on this hill. If I knew anything about fortifications, I'd say it looks as if this place was once a citadel; the lighthouse atop the higher corner of the wall might have been a watchtower, once upon a time...

Huh. Just the kind of thing a scribbler would think. For fun maybe the dog and me'll play fort and be brave soldiers holding off a siege. Except for the brave part and the soldier part, the rest may turn out true...

Long time since I've been in a home as fancy as this; can't remember ever actually *living* in a house so big. The dog's led me all over, the past couple days, but I'm still not sure I've found every room. And there are some places the dog just won't go.

Writing project's reached a resting point, which is good, because this latest development in my life story seems important to document. No word from my friends the dog's people, but he doesn't seem worried, and I figure there's time yet before we need to start fretting.

My old friend and I grew up together; we fell out of touch and then found each other again more than once over the years. Straight out of school he had a big success, then ups and downs like the rest of us, but on the whole he's done very well — and always tried, however he could, to spread his good fortune around.

His mate, whom I only just met as they were leaving, was very kind, if a little distant (or maybe just shy). They seem quite devoted to each other — a nice change from my friend's previous companions, not one of whom was any damn good for him.

Every time we get back together I'm awed all over again by his passion for art. He turns every place he lives into a museum, just packed with unusual and original stuff, and with every object, even the most ordinary utensils, you can just tell he thought and thought about what he wanted, then deliberately chose a piece that did something *to* him, not just *for* him. Or so it always seemed to me. I didn't always like what he picked, but always believed (or always did before) that I could guess what that something was, if I pondered it long enough.

He never showed much enthusiasm for the writings I can't seem to stop churning out, although he never fails to encourage me to keep on doing it. Beyond the remote chance that my "product" simply stinks (ha ha), I get the idea he just doesn't trust words, or maybe just the written ones. And now I think of this, I remember once, when we were quite young men, I accused him of hating literature — of course I was fishing: I wanted him to refute me lovingly by saying how much he admired my work. Instead, he laughed and admitted there was some truth to this: he found reading stories fun for a while, but then it all got to seem so perpetrated, faked-up, and for what? Entertainment? What's that for? But then he said (and I can't verify his exact words, as we were very very drunk) what really worried him was that text could be killed, but it never died a natural death, like every other thing that lived. I don't remember what was said after that — we might have passed out; or his spouse at the time drove me away for being a bad influence; I can't remember — in any case, I still cannot think of a thing to say back to that.

The dog slept with me last night; as I've said, he's old, and a little shaky in the hind legs. When I crawled under the covers, he couldn't quite get settled on the floor next to me as he's always done before, but kept fussing and whining until I finally figured out that he wanted to be up on the bed with me. So I hauled him up by grabbing him under his elbows and he settled down between my feet, and in just a few minutes was snoring like a sawmill.

It always takes me a long time to fall asleep, which is one reason I stay up so late. I was just starting to doze when the dog began snuffling, his paws twitching like he was chasing something, or something was chasing him. I tried petting him, which calmed him as long as I kept it up, but as soon as I stopped he sank back into his dream and started wriggling and whimpering again. So I gave up on going to sleep myself and just watched him — it was a gorgeous night, moonlight pouring across the floor at the foot of the bed — and tried to imagine what was going on behind those skittering eyes.

Suddenly he jerked upright, aimed himself right at me, ears back, growling, his tail straight out behind him, all aquiver. In my calmest voice I asked him what was wrong, and I swear when he heard me speak, he smiled, silly with relief, wagging furiously and cringing up to me. I got him settled down, which took a good while, and eventually he curled up with his back against my chest and my arm over him and we both went right to sleep.

It's stupid to think this, I know, but then it seemed as if the dog's bad dream passed into me. I found myself driving along a street with someone else, and we had to slow for an intersection; a man on foot came toward us on my side, and I just drove right into him, running him down and speeding away. The person with me, whoever it was, told me not to worry, it was the only thing to do. But later in the dream a woman appeared and told us that the man was her brother, and she showed me why (though I can't remember how she did this) it hadn't been necessary to run him down: he had been coming over to offer us help. My companion tried to argue with her, but I was devastated, and then it was my turn to wake up shaking.

It's hazy this morning, the mountains a mere sketch on the horizon, and the surface of the lake is empty, which is strange, because my best recollection is that it's been busy with boats ever since I first saw it when I came here. And now that I listen, I don't hear any roosters — every other morning they've been so many and so loud I couldn't stay asleep once the first one woke me...

The living room has a high ceiling; over the fireplace is a life-sized mask of a woman with an ecstatic expression — lips parted and wall-eyed in trance (or death?) — her head haloed in flowering leaves; on a hoop around her neck is fastened a tiny baby's face with wings instead of ears; and from this necklace hangs a rainbow of arm-long ribbons, like streams of multicolored blood from a severed head.

Other objects here have this same double effect: they're exquisite, but also shocking. On the wall opposite the mask is a small print of a mother and her babe looking tenderly at each other, and behind them a city blazes so bright it might be in flames; another in which the sun is just rising, a jeweled sword stuck into it; a huge painting of a little girl's face, many times life-size, looking right at you with an unsure expression; a grinning carved figure twisted into an impossible position, and, nearby, a person emerging from a cocoon of stone, weapon in hand; nailed to the garden gate, wings expanded, a ragged clay owlet.

I have enough experience in at least talking about such creations to be wary of reading too much into them, as I've been taught to think, or at least say. Still, it's hard not to have a strong feeling in reaction to what seems to be happening in the moment depicted — a moment depicted just this way, I have to think, in order to invoke just such a response.

My friend and I had another friend, a musician, a singer. We were in school together; we met him the very first day. The three of us were inseparable from the first, even though — what am I saying? — *because* we argued all the time. Each found his match in each of the other two, because there was never anything that all three of us could agree on — and, I think now, none of us had ever until then been pushed so hard so intelligently to defend what meant the most to him.

Of the three of us, the singer was the strongest in dispute — he could hold off us other two by himself — while my other friend, the one who loved art, was almost always the first to yield, perhaps because he felt he could not create art himself but "only" appreciate it. We called him the critic, a term of abuse in our discourse, and although he bore it as well as he could, I knew it hurt him. He also had the sweetest temper of us all, while the singer could be arrogant to the point of belligerence, claiming music was the purest art, because it did not require words or images to have its effect.

In truth, each of us had his strength which could not be overthrown without ganging up, and for years, even after we'd left the heady atmosphere of study, we would make a point of gathering, somewhere, just to join our minds in battle.

But everything flows, as some old crank said, which sounds like a song, and a sad one, as it would have to be. The musician went off to war and was never heard from again; my friend the aesthete prospered in the world, but his personal life was one disaster after another — until now, or so I hope.

I became a kind of mole, burrowing away under mountains of words for months and months at a time, only emerging when I was finished with some seemingly endless project — or it was finished with me, which was more what it felt like. This made all but the most fleeting relations with others nearly impossible for me, which in fact I was just as happy about, being terribly shy (except with my two friends), and every social engagement utterly depleted me.

The world made with others never seemed quite real to me — in company I learned how to manage, but often felt afterwards that I hadn't been myself: said things I didn't mean, played up to people I didn't like, forgot or ignored those I actually did love or admire, made mistake after mistake, always dodging from one jolly or catty exchange to another, ever on the alert for signs of disapproval. Maybe it's the same for others, I don't know; writing lets me get every one of those exchanges just right — which didn't necessarily help the next time I was thrown together with others, but did calm me somewhat afterwards, when I could revise and revise...

And so I find my present solitary circumstance quite agreeable — and more: an adventure, in pleasant surroundings for a change. The dog is affectionate in a matter-of-fact sort of way, and as I said he sleeps much of the time, so I am not often bothered by his attentions, which indeed he is most gentlemanly in offering. The castle, as I cannot help but call it now, continues to intrigue me; its story, I think, must be long and, well, enchanting. Even after days of exploring I know I have not reached to its full extent: a good deal more than I thought is underground.

I've spent some time watching from the top-floor balcony, which in fact encircles the whole house, as in a true castle. The lake is eerily quiet. A few boats float here and there, but they look as if they're actually adrift: no movement on the lake looks like deliberate travel from one place to another. What has increased is the number of waterbirds gathering in the shallows towards the western end, off to the left from here. It used to be I'd only see one or two gliding down from behind the shoulder of this hilltop, which juts into the bow of the quayside below; I've never seen them flock like this — maybe they're holding a parliament — like in the old story!

It's not really possible to see streets from up here, only the quiet estates on our plateau and down a little, to the wall, but it seems to me that the noise is less than when I arrived, however long ago that was — the city-type hubbub of vehicles and machines, the general babel of a place full of people. There is more wind, which whistles during the day and roars at night. In addition, I think the season is changing — mornings are warmer, and by mid-afternoon it gets quite hot — which may in some way quiet things, though I don't know how that would work.

I don't believe I've paid attention to such things in a very long while: most of the time, whatever the season, I'm inside, working and working. But the current project continues to hibernate, for which I'm grateful — I almost feel alive again, instead of always on the verge of getting sick, the way I get to be, particularly near the end of a long slog.

Now I remember! I dreamed about my friend the singer last night, or rather just before waking, but had forgotten until just now. There was a performance or service we had to prepare; he was unperturbed as we went about it, but I didn't know my part and was very agitated, accusing him of not helping me on purpose, of being a bad friend. And then, as this person never did in life, he accepted my accusation, and begged my forgiveness. I was taken aback, and felt I had gone too far, but just as I was about to start falling all over myself apologizing, the event abruptly started up — or rather the others for whom we were getting things ready suddenly appeared in the room, and began to berate us for getting everything wrong, sending us flying in every direction, frantic to please them. But then the dream dissolved in confusion and I woke up to the dog nuzzling my arm nervously — I wonder if maybe I was moaning or twitching, as when he kept me awake with his restless dreaming some nights back.

And so one goes away, another comes; the worlds we inhabit slide over each other like clouds in the sky: day and night, winter and summer, youth and age. Springtime and harvest, the hunt and the feast, gathering and loosing, fighting and rest.

What am I talking about? What am I thinking? Where is this coming from, these words and their rhythm, rise and fall, call and response? Idea and phrase, image and music, nothing and everything, all in between.

I've got to get out.

So I went down to the lake, after much delay and indecision. Afraid of what I would find, or wouldn't...

I'm not sure it was a great idea: there's no one anywhere. The dog and I are the only — well, we're not the only creatures left around here; as I mentioned, the water birds have been massing at the end of the lake, and the feral cats have found a way over the walls and are prowling the estates — that much I can see from the balcony. But once I was down in the streets beyond, it was eerie, the moreso once I neared the docks, and along the quay itself: the empty boats just bob and bump aimlessly, no one in sight. I got so spooked I ran all the way back up here.

The dog's philosophical: he recognized how agitated I was and just followed me patiently, pacing back and forth with me when I couldn't keep still, until I finally turned my attention to him and stopped, plunked down on the floor, and let him sit in my lap, pin me down. He accepts my absent-minded petting, which calms me as well, and listens politely while I try to work out what to do.

If I understand his what-we-used-to-call nonverbal communication, the dog's advice is to do nothing. If there's going to be trouble, let it come to us: we're fortified, we're provisioned, and we can see it coming long before it gets here. I put it to him that the others who left must have had information we don't, which he had to admit seems to be true, but such information can't possibly do us any good unless we know what it is, and we don't, so, until it or the danger it warned everybody else about turns up, it makes better sense (to him, at least), to wait and see.

But what do we do while waiting? I asked him.

He thought this over, or appeared to, maybe just to reassure me that he takes my distress seriously. At last he proposed that he take a nap, while I, should I not feel ready to join him, could maybe make sure our defenses are secure, and then, satisfied of that, I might search out likely places where my friend may have left clues behind, either to what really motivated him and his mate to leave (in addition to, or instead of, the reasons they gave me), or where they (and possibly everyone else) really went.

This plan was so sensible I immediately felt better. The dog retired to his daytime sleeping perch, up on the back of the overstuffed chair, and let me know, giving me a last long look before he curled up, that he would take the next watch whenever I needed him to.

I wish my friend had told me what the dog's name is, but I don't suppose it matters, since the dog doesn't know mine either — if one wants the other's attention, it's easy enough to get, with just the two of us here.

When we were boys, playing alone together, my friend and I would mount elaborate missions aimed at solving a mystery; such a mission would often start when some otherwise innocent event or utterance made us prick up our ears, we didn't know why. But thereafter, in the game that was now afoot, we were unable to dismiss a feeling of unease, given our understanding that whatever everyone else understood was not, in fact, the case. And of course it would turn out that there was a major flaw in the running of things, and the welfare of the community — if not the absolute survival of humanity— was under threat.

We knew well the stories of great sleuths of the past, but, for us at least, it was not their methods or skills or even consummate brainpower that were so inspiring, but rather their distrustful attitude toward appearances. Our axiom in every investigation we then pursued was: this isn't what you think it is. Whatever this looks like; whatever the experts say; whatever your own experience of life tells you; you don't (yet) fully understand what's going on.

My friend and I were never adversaries in this game; if there was an opponent, it was the entrenched opinion of powerful people — though naturally the motives of the authorities *could* be dark as well as benighted. In any event, by the time we arrived on the scene, matters had reached a crisis; if we did not turn the tide of events, everything would be destroyed.

Hardly an original plot, for boys of that age. My friend and I both confided that when we were apart we also tried this game with others, but never with much success: either that other partner was too slow, or too dull, or too competitive, or else really wanted to play a different game, one with fewer unknowns — or, more to the point, indeterminables. The kind of game we best loved could not be won outright, but was doomed to an inconclusive end, in which the opposing forces might be foiled for the moment, but never for good.

Trying to explain to others why this was the proper end for such a game never did any good: why even start a game that couldn't be won? Things are depressing enough as it is — who needs more of that kind of grief, especially when *we* get to make up the rules? What's the matter with you?

I'm reminded of this game constantly as I go through the castle: its walls covered with artwork, the view from the battlements, the maze of rooms with hidden doors and secret passageways (I've already found a couple of those), not to mention, underneath it all, a vast dungeon complex. If I can keep my sanity in the face of total human solitude in a world that once sustained millions of souls, I might be able to... — do what? save whom? from what?

Talk about inconclusive indeterminables!

And then I saw it: my friend wants me to play the game with him one last time.

He has gone to fetch supplies, or resources, or confederates — of whom I, after his mate, am the closest — or to gain intelligence of the enemy's position, assets, and strategy. Or all of these.

I am to hold the fort, literally, to render it secure and prepared for the hostile engagement that has already begun.

The first thing of which I am immediately certain: I need the dog for this.

As mentioned, he is old, and doesn't get around very well, though he's always willing to try if it seems that I really want him to do something. Except to go into the rooms he won't go into. Until now I haven't pressed the matter: it's his house, after all.

And as I said, he sleeps most of the time, but that could be out of boredom — maybe what he needs just now is a Mission...

The situation also bears some resemblance to the beginning of one of my writing projects: often I'm deep in the middle of an intense period of work when the germ of a totally different thing presents itself and demands my attention. At such a time I'll jot a few notes — to put the damn thing off, first of all, because I have *work* to get done — but also to keep from losing the idea, which like as not is just a *feeling*, as in our mystery game, and often the first words that come don't even *begin* to express what's luring me, so I have to put everything down and give it full focus until enough of the right words come that I know I'll remember when I return, and only then can I go back to work on what I was doing before.

But I'll be distracted, because in part of my mind still I'll be thinking about the new thing, which I'll have to keep open on the side just in case more important stuff comes up, and it always does. This straddling can go on for a while, and sometimes the new thing steals me away from the old thing, and once I never went back — that old project never did get finished, and it was very close to being done.

I can't believe it isn't the same for everybody else, and not just writers like me, but everyone who goes from project to project — always more than one ball in the air, never (or hardly ever) the luxury of being able to work on just one piece from beginning to end. Maybe this isn't a bad thing; but it can be very frustrating, and I'm always worried, when I'm in this kind of situation, that the thing I'm working on is the *wrong* thing, and that the other one will get away from me if I don't — well, you get the idea.

No wonder I have to live alone.

But what I started to say is that I've got that feeling my friend and I would get just at the beginning of a new round of the game we always played. And this feeling's really strong: something is very wrong here — and this time it's not like everybody else is either oblivious to it or in denial. There *is* nobody else.

Just me and the dog.