2023

My Dearest Clementine—

I can scarce begin to convey what I have seen lo these many months since last we embraced. The memory of your touch has been my strength during my travels. To be once again within the warm confines of your large, strangely strong hands is what has given me the hope I need to be sustained.

When last we spoke, I had been taken in by a family near as lost as I. The wife was an agreeable sort, a woman doctor, if you can believe such a thing, gifted with the healing touch, and cursed with a dolt of a husband whose wastrel ways rendered her nothing more than an indentured servant to their children.

Oh, their children. Clementine, I have dreamt of a day when you and I would welcome a brood of whelps to call our own, but after time spent with the family Thurman, I no longer harbour such desires. Not even in the depths of the war have I encountered such evil. Man’s cruelty to his fellow man is but a glimmer of joy compared to the terror these children hath wrought upon their family.

The eldest was given the name Zoe, meaning Joy in the ancient Greek, but Mormo would have been a more fitting sobriquet. A ghost who frightens small children, or grown adults who know not what they hath brought forth upon this innocent world. A mere girl of twelve, whose schooling was both proper and full, but whose countenance was nothing short of distasteful. In a moment, charming, followed shortly by a twisted rage of which I hath not seen in my many years of turmoil. Her tutors claim she is a delight, but to those trapped within the confines of their hearth, a devil.

The twins. Ah, my sweet Clementine, their twins. Angelic, demonic; loyal, disreputable. Dearest friends whose first love is hate. Willa, the tall one, has blond hair that reminds me of fields of grass in the autumn, whose eyes burn with the fires of insanity. Alexa is a touch smaller, owing to the abundance of energy she must consume to exist as some form of Tasmanian devil. If they are not possessed of the evil spirits the great Reverend Anglicott warned us about as children, then may God have mercy upon is all. Nine years of age, and already capable of crimes against the civilized world that is unprepared for their skills.

I traveled with this family, from whence they encountered me in their village of Bonney, near a lake of similar name. A pond, really. The sort of brackish water source I’ve found all too often to be the only potable water. We began our year in the warmth of the home fire as winter shed its angry chill, leaving behind a spring of reticence and sculpritude. We made our way south, to a magical world of lights and sounds called Disney, though I fear it was really hell upon which we trod. A mass of humans, bereft of humanity, plaguing a land of make-believe and wonder. And the prices. My sweet Clementine, the prices. We have spent less on sustenance in a year than these foolish Thurmans spent on jocularities at this Disney. Though the mouse ear hats are quite a delight.

As spring was eaten by summer, they traveled to Europe, a land I hadn’t expected to see in my lifetime. A journey much like the one I took during the war, after I was captured by the enemy and forced to march those many miles just ahead of the men I’d sworn allegiance to. Like then as now, we moved from country to country, city to city, in search of knowledge and experience, and receiving many distasteful words from the children. The presence of their grandmother—who’d foolishly agreed to accompany us—did seem to dampen their rage. Vienna, Buda Pesht, Bratislava, Prague, Salzburg, Neuschwanstein, Munich, these are but the names of cities that felt the unbridled ire of these people. Far-away lands who’s noble residents will speak of our journey in the manner one speaks of any invading force that lays waste.

Upon our return, we traveled once again to the south. The husband’s mother passed many months before, and a service was held in her honour. A somber affair, but necessary. Those who attended spoke well of it, and the children behaved in a manner that made me question my earlier assessment of their character.

Then we traveled further south, to the Side of the Ocean, and I realized my original assessment was the correct one.

Upon our return, the children returned to their studies. Like Janus of yore, they gave a face to their tutors, one of joy and diligence; upon returning home, a second face emerged, one of annoyance and expulgitude. I fear their parents have lost what little resolve they once carried, having been exhausted by these three. I pray for them, for us all. But I fear even as loving of a God as our own can do little to stymie their malevolent insolence.

The mother, the right honourable Doctor Thurman, has made many an inquiry into returning to Europe in winter. Her future travel is also my own, as she has agreed that it is best if at least two of us make it out alive. Her husband, the lout, will remain behind, oblivious to his abandonment until the letter arrives informing him she has made her escape. She has told me in bravest confidence that she will meet friends in Europe, and they will adventure without their men folk. In pants, no less. I expect them to be burned at the stake for their witchcraft, but still, a far better end than to be consumed by the pugnacious turmoil of the home in Bonney, near the Lake. That poor bastard.

By the time you receive this letter, my dearest sweet Clementine, I shall be nearly home. I shall look forward to your embrace, and the warmth of your bosom. And the chill of your smile. And the lukewarm stew, the one you claim has the healing properties.

Your little mole,

Kurt Ek