Cyrus

Nobody quite knows how he ended up here. They say he came with the sun one day, went straight to the mayor’s residence, and asked for permission to set up shop in the town center. The mayor, a man by the name of Mr. Curry, gave his consent quite easily. Later, a significant segment of the townsfolk believed wholeheartedly that dear Curry was manipulated using a certain mental strength of our strange visitor. This was all well before my time here, but I have managed to piece together a likeness of the tale through long nights poring over the old records by lamplight and long days spent examining the memories of the remaining townsfolk who remember back that far.

He entered the town by the East Road wearing a black suit with a perfectly collared white shirt and black fedora, looking for all the world like a gentleman on his way to visit relations. In his right hand he carried a black suitcase that looked not new, but at least well cared for. He wore no glasses, but a pair always adorned his breast pocket. Black hair matched his suit, but his eyes were a gray, like February snow right at dusk, with a friendly light in them. He went from the East Road straight to the Curry residence, by way of Central Street at the center of town, onto Maple Street, where Mr. Curry lived a picturesque life with his wife and child, a daughter, barely three years old at the time. Nobody thought to ask back then why a complete stranger to the town of Brighton required no instruction as to the whereabouts of the Curry residence. Mr. Curry, perhaps unaccustomed to being woken just after daybreak by a perfect stranger, perhaps unaccustomed to meeting a stranger who knew Mr. Curry’s name and address, granted the man his wish to establish a small booth in the town without so much as asking his name or industry.

Our curious stranger spent the remainder of that first day familiarizing himself with the streets of the town, and seemed to pay particular attention to conversations happening nearby, more so than would be necessary, as one listens to find out whether or not one is being addressed by the speaker. At noontime, he had found his way to the inn, where he ate a simple lunch among the townsfolk who were disinclined to head home. Still, he spoke with no one, except, of course, to request a lunch and then to politely give thanks and payment before he left the inn.

Early afternoon found him in the town’s sole church built on the border of the town center. A modest building, vaguely cruciform, with a simple steeple that housed the bell. One of the two friars that lived in the church alongside the priest found him admiring the bell, or more specifically, the carvings that formed the lip of the bell. More specifically still, the carving depicting the sun and moon, surrounded by stars, facing each other in conversation. Our friar asked the stranger his business, and the stranger promptly left, moving on to explore the small cemetery, paying close attention to the symbols detailed on the stones, as if in search of a certain symbol in particular. He did not seem to find it, and late afternoon found him wandering the market, on the opposite end of the town center from the church and cemetery, the center being occupied by a small green area with a simple monument marking the founding of the town.

He bought nothing in his afternoon travels, and was in constant motion, never stopping to watch any of the various events happening around him.