A Day in the Life: Thanksgiving in Omentown, Part II

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Dear Readers,

  Last time, I started a story about Thanksgiving in a Maine town that I study.  Port End, which I like to call "Omentown" in my notes, is a place where the fields that give rise to augury are strong enough to actually affect the natural world.

  As a result, omens in that place are real, and they often come true.  The people who live there have adjusted accordingly.  We followed Omentown resident Ed while he saved his smaller friend Carl from a destitute man who attacked him.  Ed did it to prevent the realization of an omen he saw earlier in the day, but felt unsure if he really interpreted the omen in the right way.

  And now, the conclusion.  When we rejoin Ed, a day has passed, and we are at his family home for Thanksgiving.  Below the cut.

  Always,

  Dr. John Skylar
  Chairman
  Department of Anachronism
  University of Constantinople


   Ed tossed the cut wood into his wheelbarrow under cover of twilight.  The quartered logs splintered when they slammed into each other, and left flecks in the frost at the container's top edge.  One of them got into his finger.  "Dammit! Why did I leave the gloves in the house?" Ed cursed.

  He looked at his load of wood and then back at the woodpile, then started to push the cart back to his house.  A week ago, he cut almost a full cord, so they would be all right for some time.

  The scent of turkey gravy filled the air, the only part of Theresa's feast that could travel so far on the crisp November air.  Almost December air.  He left the wheelbarrow at the foot of their porch stairs, and started to carry the wood inside.  He felt the steps bow under his feet while he tromped up.  Ed pushed the door open, and the smells of cinnamon and nutmeg joined the turkey-gravy scent.

  "Theresa, I'm going to go start the fire!" he called through the house.

  Something came in reply.  He could not make out the words, but they did not sound like "Don't," so Ed decided not to waste time on more.  He thought he heard something else from outside, but when he stopped to listen, he heard no sound.  Not a good sign, but not an omen, either.

  When he passed by his ladder on the way to their fireplace, it fell against the wall and enclosed him in a lean-to of unluck.  "Damn again.  Ever since that owl."  Ed spit three times through the ladder's rungs while he stepped backwards, then rerouted to put down the load of lumber.  He hoped that would work.  Ed still was not sure if just the omens worked, or if the old ways around them worked too.

  He put down the wood and he heard the sound from outside once more.  Ed rushed to his door, this time concerned that he would see his bad luck realized.  On the way to the door his foot caught the corner of his entry hall rug, which sent him sprawling.  In the air, he caught a glimpse of the ladder and had to grin.

  Ed crunched onto his hardwood floors.  His door swung open, and he saw muddy boots.  In places, the dye on the leather gave way to total roughness.  It looked like the footwear saw no love since its days as part of a calf.  Ed looked up, and he saw the hobo who attacked Carl the other day.

  "Hey, what are you doing in my-"

  The hobo bent down and picked him up.  Ed backed away a little from the dirty man.

  From an opening in his scraggly beard, the hobo said, "Y'read the signs right, sir.  And you did the right thing, protecting your friend.  Wasn't always a hobo, you know.  Some people don't read their omens as well as you.  I've come to ask you if I can join your table."

  Ed smiled, "Of course.  It would be bad luck to say no."