Memoirs of a Fallen God

Chapter 12

Memory is a fickle thing. Why does it cling with such stubborn tenacity to some things, and yet seem content to let others drift away without a struggle? Where is the distinction? I fail to see it.

Perhaps it seems so strange to me because I have always had a knack for remembering things. I take pleasure in the easy use of a very long, well-cataloged library of memory. From the great events in my life to the very small, in the main, it is all there.

I can remember endless bits of pointless trivia. A million tidbits utterly unworthy of recollection. Small, stupid things. Names and dates. Faces. Casual conversations. They sit there, ready and waiting, every bit as clear and true as the memories of things that actually mattered. There is no divergence. I remember scoring my first goal in breakerball every bit as clearly as I remember my first kiss, though the one meant nothing and the other meant everything.

Yet I can’t remember what I said to my best friend that night after we came home. I do remember words were exchanged, though it is hazy. I suppose exhaustion has combined with the nervous tension of the evening to wipe the slate clean. Or my memory just decided the scene was of no consequence. Whatever the cause, I fail to bring a word of that conversation to mind.

I’m sure it was nothing of great import. Probably nothing more significant than a mumbled “goodnight, Scratch,” and an equally lethargic, uninspired response. Maybe a tired wave. Maybe a last, forced smile for a friend, as we turned and parted ways there in the hallway.

Still, I wish I had it. I very dearly wish I had it. But it is gone.

A damned shame.

***

The next morning I awoke tired and sore, but no longer plagued by worry as I had been the night before. The memory of yesterday’s showdown with the overseer seemed more nightmare than fact, terrifying but vague and somehow distant. In the light of day it was busy fading away, as nightmares are want to do.

I’d already made my decision; I would act as my master had bid. I would avoid the man.

I’d already learned to live with my hatred for him, what was a little more added to that? Besides, there was little else I could do.

In any case, I was left with little time to whittle away in idle worry. It was the day of the Imperial inspection. Every worker in the household would be hard at work setting the mansion to readiness. Imperial representatives were a rarity in sleepy Caladon, and it seemed the Count meant to make a good impression.

Usually, as Briar’s personal servant, I was exempt from such things. My duty was generally to stick to my master and do as he bid, regardless of the state of the household. But not today; today I was conscripted right along with the ranks of free servants and field hands and set to work with a mop and a bucket. Clean, I was told. So I cleaned.

Cleaning is a skill, an art form like any other. Among the household servants there were some true masters of the craft, wise in the ways of broom and mop and rag. They could fly through a room like a cleansing tornado, leaving nary a speck of dust or grime in their wake. But I was not one of those masters. I subscribed to the brute force method: drench, scrub, repeat. Mostly it worked, but it was slow and laborious and earned me a scolding for wasting time and water more than once.

We were hours at it, but it was not altogether unpleasant. There was a certain festive fervor to the work, and I found myself caught up in it; it was not often we had a chance to show off. Visitors were rare enough, but an imperial visitor was unheard of. We were nearly as eager as the Count to make a good impression, though we had far less reason.

Finally, all was in readiness. The floors were spotless, the furniture gleamed, and the grounds were neat and well groomed. We servants and slaves, worked to the bone all day, were finally dismissed to a late dinner. Then, of course, we were hurried out of sight, well before the guests were expected to arrive.