Sometimes the observer is themselves observed, and such was the case with Oliver Row.
Ah, yes, the one and only Oliver Row.
In the grand scheme of things, not much of
a legendary figure. There were certainly
circles where he was, even when he was a she. A multitude of lives. All shared along a similar quest, a destiny
yet unwritten, vague, ambiguous, but somehow always lurking about.
Oliver Row belonged to that tradition
history on the planet Earth ascribes to such fictional luminaries as Van
Helsing, who in the pages of a book helped take down a vampire, and in that
lineage Oliver had been in pursuit of legends all his lives. He, too, had once helped take down a vampire,
and encountered many other monsters besides, some of them mere humans, although
in my humble estimation…Is there really such a distinction? Is it really necessary? Humans are such a mess. Though I suppose, it’s a trait shared on many
worlds by many so-called intelligent lifeforms…To be fair.
Oliver Row, as the traditions would have
it, was a shared sobriquet, and many individuals had given up their given name
to work under it, and in this particular story, the Oliver Row in question had
done so quite happily, driven to distraction on this occasion in the pursuit of
the mysterious “Agent,” whom Oliver had discovered in association with
something called the House of Stars, which if he hadn’t taken quite so long in
finding, would have led to me, one and the same “Agent,” in much shorter
fashion.
First he was going to have to find Sia,
but that, too, was going to have to wait, as was any real understanding of what
any of his lives meant.
Along the way to destiny, life tends to be
mundane. Actually, even destiny is
mundane as it’s happening; it only matters in hindsight, usually in terms of
regret and only sometimes in glory.
Sorry to be so melodramatic about it.
I’ve been following the careers of Oliver Row for too long not to be a little
nauseated by all of it, the way Oliver himself wonders at this very moment what’s
keeping our dear Sia.
Since neither of them will know of my
existence very soon, allow me to introduce myself: The woman Oliver knows only
as the “Agent” is in fact named Night, or so I’ve equally chosen to be
known. You’ll find out more as they do,
and that will do for now, thank you.
For now, revel in the mediocrities of
Oliver Row!
Oliver, whose namesake died a hundred
years ago, and whose detailed accounts of all activities fills a series of
notebooks that really only Oliver Row ever cares about, protected in
briefcases, satchels, whatever is currently at hand to protect them from the
elements and doubles visually for anyone at hand as probably the implements of
the trade, the doodads and gadgets used against monsters, weapons. Ha. If
only. Just a bunch of words, nonsense,
whatever makes such a life worth living.
Same as anyone else. Very much
like Sia, really. Oliver Row: nothing
much more than another hapless would-be published author. Memoir waiting to be accepted. Movie rights available!
When the original and only legal Oliver
Row passed away slumped in an alley, there had been a homeless youth made aware
from the sensationalized accounts accepted as fiction by the world at large who
happened to come across the body and collected works. This is how the legend really started, in
just such humble circumstances. The
youth spent years trying to make sense of it, and tracking down new challenges,
until he realized Oliver had belonged to an organization known as House Argos,
the history of which the original and neophyte was in total ignorance, Argos
being the dog who was the lone individual capable of recognizing Odysseus when
he returned in secret to Ithica. Suffice
to say, but House Argos is an ancient society dedicated mostly to keeping alive
the dim flame of learning. It is, in
Earth parlance, a bunch of nerds, nothing more.
Such is the background of Oliver Row as he
exists today. To claim the title, all
one has to do is become aware of the existence of the tradition, and merely be
deemed adequate by the current one to replace them. A fluke of circumstances, really. The files had been digitized over the years,
even published in limited editions never circulated due to popular disinterest,
under a variety of colorful titles, increasingly easy in modern times but with scarcely
different results.
The current Oliver Row inherited the title
from a woman, who relinquished the title.
In fact, in recent years the role has changed hands with alarming frequency. Interpret that with any amount of cynicism
you deem appropriate. This Oliver was
once known as Marty, but that was a lifetime ago, or so the months can
sometimes suggest.
He came across the existence of the “Agent”
by chance, on the internet, where all modern life on Earth plays out, and the
House of Stars, although he had no idea, as no one could on such a planet at
such a developmental level, no matter how alarmingly important such knowledge
happens to be, as so much fodder for mindless conspiracy theories. Oliver Row, by any name or face, though,
never lets good knowledge go to waste, and immediately suspected it was worth
following up.
Which is to say, he became obsessed.
It just so happened that a young woman
named Sia had developed the same mania, and her name, or her aliases, though
nothing so petty caused much difficulty for Oliver Row, quickly caught his
attention, too, and that was how they began their tumble down the rabbithole…
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