The Journal of Mortimer Anhingas
October 22nd
My apologies for not being more consistent. Life has been… interesting.
It is very strange, what love can do to you. One day, all you can focus on is the dimness of life. The grayness of the trees once they lose color. How long it will be until spring. The painful dichotomy of your body being best suited for the long, dark months of winter and yet being so dragged down by the loss of color and life.
But then there is something as special and simple as love. Not the kind they show in the movies, although I have to admit, I do like kissing Iris. It’s the smaller things. Sitting in the back of a library together. Spending study time in a quiet cafe. Walks in the courtyard. The other day I found a flight feather from a Barnacle goose, a stunning slate color with a black tip. I left it in her notebook when she wasn’t looking. It’s things like that. It’s little things that don’t feel natural and at the same time feel so right.
I’m at a loss at how to love her well, sometimes. It doesn’t come naturally. Love wasn’t something I grew up with– it’s something I have to learn.
I have a great teacher in her, though.
Clancee has gotten too big for his inside brooder. I’m reluctantly moving him to a shed near the green houses. He won’t be happy– he likes to follow me wherever I go, usually causing chaos wherever he goes. He’ll be a menace once he reaches adulthood.
I’m not sure what I’m going to do with him once I leave for holiday break…
Phone is buzzing. It’s Phineas. Odd. He never calls. Must be something important.
~Mortimer Anhingas
***
The Mental Observations of Iris Gray
October 22nd
Autumn comes and goes like a phoenix– out of the brittle, sun-bleached land, it explodes into violent fiery colors, lives for a few weeks, and then you wake up one morning to find it has died into a long hibernation, leaving its ashes to cloak the ground in preparation for a long winter. Never to be seen until the world is weary again.
… or maybe that’s just my poetic literature studies talking. Poetry has always been a fascination, but deep-diving in poets from the past has steeped my brain in rhyme and reason, poetic prose and linguistic rhythm…
And there I go again.
I laugh, settling myself back against the big tree that has been one of my favorite after-class study spots. It’s surprisingly warm today, even with a cool wind nipping at my cardigan, and with the few leaves still cloaked in crimson glory I have the perfect amount of shade and sunlight for studying.
I chew on the end of my pencil, resettling my mind into the works of Alfred Tennyson–
“Iris!”
My head snaps up. Mortimer runs across the lawn, gaining a few stares from passing students for his trouble. I grin, putting a leaf inside the textbook as a marker.
“Shouldn’t you be studying for that chemistry paper?” I tease as he staggers to a stop, hands braced on his knees and panting hard.
“He has it,” he chokes, not answering my question. The terror in his voice, however, stops any further quips.
“Who has what?”
He slumps down to the ground, dragging a hand down his face and skewing his sunglasses. I can finally see the tears at the corners of his eyes that he’s desperately holding back.
“Phineas,” he croaks. “Phineas has the Altered virus.”
My skin goes cold.
“How?”
“I don’t know!” he hisses. “He just… he called me today. And he was scared… Iris, Phineas isn’t afraid of anything and he never calls me for anything but he did and if our dad found out that he has the Alteration virus–”
With every word, his breath comes in shorter, tighter rasps, and I gently grip his arms, trying to steady him. He shudders, shaking his head. “I don’t… I don’t know what…”
“Take a breath,” I murmur. “You record all your calls, don’t you?”
He nods. “Yeah.”
“Do you have a recording of that call?”
He nods again and fumbles to pull out his phone. He adjusts the volume so only we can hear the recording. I quietly pull out a notebook, preparing to make observations should they come up.
He presses play on the recording.
Clic-click.
“Hello? Phin?”
“Mort?”
Mortimer shudders a bit across from me, and I can’t blame him. I’ve rarely heard his brother’s voice, but when I have, it’s always been cocky, full of himself– now it wavers, and it sounds muted, hushed. Like he’s hiding in the corner, and shaking so hard he can hardly speak.
“… Phin? What’s wrong?”
“Are you alone?”
A brief pause.
“Yeah, I’m the only one in the dorm and the walls are pretty thick.” Sounds of shuffling. “What’s wrong?”
A few seconds of choked, rasping breaths.
“I think I have it, Mort.”
Pause.
“Have what?”
“The… the Altered virus.” Shuffling and rustling noises. “I… I didn’t know who else to call.”
“How do you know what the Altered virus is?”
“It’s all Dad can TALK about, idiot.” There’s some of the snark I know from Phineas. “And if he finds out…”
He trails off. Mortimer takes a deep breath.
“What are the symptoms? Do you know what type you have?”
“It’s hard to explain… um…” There are a few tapping noises. “I think it just affects my head though. How I talk.”
“Clarify?”
“I don’t know what that means.” The irritation is very apparent.
“I mean, explain more.”
Phineas pauses. “Like, Dad and I got into an argument, and normally I just… well, you know–”
“Bite his head off and walk away?”
“Exactly. Except I didn’t. I found myself… persuading. Like he does but… it didn’t feel the same way. The argument was over me ditching English class yesterday, and before I knew it, I had twisted the conversation… I don’t even know how… and he was agreeing with me. He never agrees with me and I’m the favorite.”
The blunt words make Mortimer wince even now.
“Maybe you’ve learned something from him by accident.”
“But I’ve done it with everyone today. Not just Dad. Mom, Silas, my friends, even some of the girls at school. I got a DATE, Mort. It’s like I know all the right things to say now and I can say them and get people to do whatever I want.”
“No offense… but how come you’re not doing it with me right now?”
“You’re my brother. It doesn’t work the same way.”
Mortimer grunts. “Anything else?”
“I was more tired than usual when I came home.” He lowers his voice even more. “I actually ended up accidentally falling asleep. Other than that, nothing.”
Brief silence. Scratching of a pen on paper.
“Okay, Phin, this is what I’m going to say. Don’t tell ANYONE about this. Record everything unusual and keep sending it to me. I’ll… I’ll see what I can do about it.”
“And if Dad finds out?” Phineas croaks.
“I’ll handle it. But we won’t let him find out, will we?”
Phineas struggles to take a breath.
“I don’t want to die, Mort.”
Across from me, Mortimer presses a clenched hand against his mouth, lightly biting on his index finger.
“You’re not going to die, Phin.” Mortimer’s voice is rough with resolution. “I promise, I won’t let anything happen to you. I’ll figure something out. Just hang on.”
“Okay.”
There’s a hesitant pause.
“I love you, Phin.” The phrase comes out jolted and awkward, like he’s not very used to saying it.
Phineas sniffles.
“Thanks.”
And the line clicks dead.
Mortimer sinks back, trembling. My eyes burn and I wrap an arm around him, leaning my head against his shoulder. He stiffens for a second, but as he readjusts to slump against me, his shaking eases.
“I don’t know how I’m going to help him,” he admits. “I… ack… I hate feeling so… powerless.”
“I wish I had answers for you, Mor.”
“You don’t have to come up with the answers.” He exhales. “I just… I had to tell you. If nothing else to get it off my chest a bit.”
“But we will figure something out.” I look up at him. “Together.”
Mortimer’s good eye watches with me with a deep, affectionate love, and he kisses my forehead. “I don’t deserve someone like you, Iris.” He presses his forehead against mine, the last of the tension easing from his body as he sighs.
“Yes. We’ll figure this out together.”