The Fence Mender

Chapter Six

The mission district was a place Xander rarely went. With six blocks of low rent housing on the far side of the city, 20 story stacks of bland brown brick built for efficiency, it was more of a storage unit for the elderly and sick than a habitable home. There was nothing inviting about them. Architecturally, it conveyed the same sense of boredom as those it housed. This was not a place for the living; it was a place for those waiting to die. Even in a day and age where life was so precious, there were still those who were forgotten and spent the remainder of their days in solitude. The mission district wasn't a place that anyone went to willingly.

From the looks of his apartment, Horatio Clark hadn't left it in quite some time. It was as dusty as the library and twice as cluttered. The hardwood floors were covered with stacks of boxes; every inch of wall space was taken up by old framed photos and pieces of artwork. It resembled more of a museum than a habitable living space.

"Hello?" Xander said, minding the many obstacles by the door.

"Yes...," replied a hard, raspy voice from around the corner.

"My name is Xander, I had a question about your work."

There was a long pause, the sound of the wooden beams creaked under some weight.

"My work?"

"Your maps."

"Ahhhh yes," the Librarian said, finally getting a grasp on the moment. "Come in, come in."

Upon his entrance, he could see Horatio sitting in an old soft chair, a cane pressed against the floor as he leaned forward to get a look at Xander. His shaking hand rose slowly, adjusting the coke-bottle-thick glasses he wore, resting them on his crooked nose.

"You've seen my work?" he said, settling back in the chair with the hint of a smile from the compliment.

"At the library, your historical texts."

"You liked them?" he asked.

Xander didn't have an answer. It had never crossed his mind to think whether or not he liked them. They were maps.

"Very much," he replied, navigating through the living room.

"I haven't put a pen to paper in a long time, not since my eyes went screwy."

Xander took a seat on the one end of the coffee table not covered in paper.

"So you're interested in cartography?" asked Horatio. "Cartography means map making, by the way."

"Yes, I am, and yes, I know."

"I'm glad someone does. No one seems to care much anymore, but it's important."

"What is?"

"Preservation," he replied, pushing his weight against the cane and propping himself up. "Follow me."

He walked as fast as his tired legs could carry him, deeper into the apartment. Xander picked up bits and pieces as he walked by, old newspapers with dates going back 80 years containing photographs of younger men in military uniforms holding their weapons up over their heads in celebration. The further he followed into the apartment, the darker it became, not only in clarity but in tone. The pictures turned from heroic to grim, at least five frames contained pictures of burnt corpses en masse, piled into mounds of dead bodies showing the charred black bones contrasting against the bright orange flame. One photo, in particular, caused him to stop and take a second look: a lone body in a burnt bed, the walls and floors scorched to an ashen grey. The black and white finish brought about a certain morbid beauty.