RT diary

Sunday

The sky was grey, as it was yesterday and the day before, and many more days before that. The wind was rough and prickly; it carried the tiny needles of water which bit into my skin. "Skin", I caught myself thinking ironically. "Skin", which was, in reality, a thin layer of polymer, stretched over a carcass of metal alloy. The sensors registered a drop in outside temperature; it has been a frosty night, turning into quite a miserable morning. I instinctively wrapped the coat tighter around myself, though of course there was no need. I wouldn't feel the icy cold even if I had nothing on at all.

I locked the front door, out of a strange habit, even though it was unnecessary. Nothing inside my nondescript dwelling at the foot of a hill was of any significance to anyone in the surrounding Community; it was bare on the surface, devoid of human touch, entirely appropriate for something like me. The few prized possessions that I treasured were a handful printed books, in the old style, with hard embellished covers, an LP player and a collection of vinyl records, and an authentic, ancient copy reproduction of an unknown impressionist painting. These were all carefully hidden out of plain sight; not that it was prohibited to possess something from the old world, but this would raise needless questions. I would hate having to answer the questions.

I proceeded up the steep hill. The time of the year was closer to autumn than real winter; therefore, the grass still retained some of its greenish hues. UV lamps are doing the job, I thought briefly. I don't know why I was particularly pleased to see that. The colour of green always lifted my spirits. There was some importance to it, something that I struggled to understand, like a person, who lost a vital bit of memory and would try to bring it back to mind over and over again in vain. I gave up my futile attempts. I would never be able to recollect something I never had in the first place. Memories. Not data, facts, numbers, bites of information, but memories. I closed my eyes for a second.

The eyelids - shutters - sealed off the vision cameras, and the system registered a loss of one sensory type of information feed, nothing more. The other senses compensated; focussing on sounds and smells, to process and build a picture of what was happening around me. I registered a faint presence of ozone molecules, hinting at a potential storm yet to come. Even without looking, I knew that the stately sycamores and spindly pine trees nearby were disturbed and rustled by the strengthening wind, swishing and whispering grudgingly amongst themselves.

I had a feeling of unexplained and savage joy at the thought of the approaching storm. I guess I hoped that it would help cleanse the stuffiness and clogged up unease, weighing me down.

At the crest of the hill, I could see the outskirts of the village in the valley below. The stout and squat cottages peppered the gently sloping sides of it, interspersed with clusters of burs, alders and beeches. The lazy moving brook in the middle added to the tranquil, sleepy serenity. The only objects that were alien in this otherwise perfect landscape were the enormous circular panels above, almost hidden by the thick clouds. I knew that in about two hours they would switch on and start emitting a purplish UV light, essential for everything alive in this settlement.

The village was just about to wake up fully, starting to show signs of activity. Some houses had thin puffs of smoke rising from their chimneys, indicating the start of the day for their inhabitants, who were most probably warming up their cottages and baking loaves of bread for the day ahead. My "nose" - an air filter in reality - discerned particles of hydrogen, sulphur, oxygen, and nitrogen; it was coal. However, there was also almost unnoticeable, but heady and fragrant smoke of burning wood. Wood! They were burning wood! Trees! Precious, guarded and protected, any chopping of which was strictly outlawed. Fools, I thought with great annoyance, risking permanent exile from the Community.

As I was approaching the first dwellings, I veered towards the backyards, avoiding the main road. I could not hazard an encounter with any humans lest I gave them an opportunity to mutter curses under their breath. They thought I wouldn't hear. Unfortunately for me, I always did. I habitually persuaded myself that I could not care less. Deep down, though, the pangs of bitterness, regret and jealousy told me otherwise. Oh, what would I give to trade places with any of those cursing! I felt one corner of my mouth twitch in a lopsided smirk.

I was making my way through the village when I saw a few sleepy children, running morning errands for their families. Some of them would notice me and wave a hand, though I did not rush to acknowledge them and even more, wave back. I knew the children would be reprimanded for doing so. "Don't meet the eyes of the Tin Man or he will come and get you!" was a typical scare amongst the kids. I also knew that in only a few years, those children would grow up into youngsters and, later on, adults, who would then be warning their offsprings against meeting the sight of the Tin Man. The familiar pang was still there.

One more turn and I would be at the back door of the church. The tallest and broadest building in the village boasted an impressive pointed spire of the bell-tower; however, the neo-gothic style, its lancet windows, soaring arches and an elegant round centrepiece of stained glass created an impression of lightness, incommensurate with the massive size. The edifice beckoned me.