The Father of our City Paperjack has perhaps the darkest skin you have seen on a man- an amazing ebony that seems to swallow light. He is in his mid-sixties you'd guess, short cork-screw hair all gone grey. The dark suits he wears are thread bare and out of fashion, but always clean. Under his suit jacket he susually wears a white t-shirt that flashes so brightly in the sun it almost hurts your eyes- just like his teeth do when he gives you that lopsided grin of his. And if his skin absorbs light, then you know where his goes. His black eyes are always shining with an inner light that it warms to the soul just to look into them. Nobody knows his real name and he never talks. You don't know if he is mute, or if he just doesn't have anything to say, but the only sounds you have heard him make are a chuckle or a laugh. People started calling him Paperjack because he works oragami from his usual spot on the front stairs of the Clinic. He is a master at folding paper into shapes. He keeps an envelope of brightly coloured paper carefully tucked away in the inside pocket of his blazer; people would pick their colour and then tell him what they wanted and he'd make it- no cuts, just folding. And he can make anything. From simple flower and animal shapes to things so complex it doesn't seem possible for him to capture their essence in a piece of folded paper. So far as you know, he has yet to disappoint a single customer. Everyday he arrives for lunch at the Clinic, have a bowl of soup and then sits on the front stairs if the weather is fair. There he would sit all afternoon and into the evening, smoking his hand-rolled cigarettes, folding his paper and listening to any stories anyone would want to share. People seem naturally drawn to him- they would tell him their tales of woe, children would scramble onto his lap and tell him their fanciful stories, and the staff would go outside to sit with him on their cigarette breaks. He is a welcome and familiar part of the Clinic. Almost everyone knows him and looks forward to seeing that familiar grin each day. But lately, over the past few months, there have been changes in Paperjack. He seems to be getting thinner, and he doesn't get around as easily as he once did, walking as if gravity suddenly doubled on him. His fingers now tremble as he holds his thin smoke, and he breaks a sweat on his forehead when holding a small child on his knee. And the cough... a sharp crack that seems to resonate from deep within him. The doctors at the Clinic offer to take a look at him, but he just smiles sadly and shakes his head, a haunted look hiding behind his eyes. That was a week ago. Two days later Paperjack doesn't arrive for his noon-time meal. He doesn't sit on the steps that afternoon... or any of the afternoons to follow. No-one seems to know where he lives or how to find him... but now it is though a dark cloud has settled over the clinic. - based on the writings of Charles de Lint. GO! Read his stuff! Support this excellent Canadian author! "... you call him Paperjack, but I want to help you understand him. A name can't begin to encompass all his parts. But that's the magic of names, isn't it? That the complex, contradictory individuals we all are can be called up complete and whole in another mind through the simple sorcery of a name. And connected to the complete person we call up in our mind with the alchemy of their name comes all the baggage of memory: times you were together, the music you listened to this morning or that night, conversation and jokes and private moments- all the good and bad times you've shared. All of you have these memories of Paperjack... you have more memories of him than you realize. He is around you in every brick of every building, in every whisper of a every wind as it scurries down an empty street. He's a cab's lights at 3am, a siren near dawn, a shuffling bag lady pushing a squeaky grocery cart, a dark-eyed cat sitting a shadowed stoop. You are so very young with so much to learn... in time you will see him for what he is. Someday you will be able to see a building and know not only its shape and form, but its history. You will be able to hear its breathing and know its thoughts. It's the same for a street or a park, an abandoned car or some secret garden hidden behind a wall, a late night cafe or an empty lot. You will know them. You will know him. Some in the past have wondered where he came from... if he was here first and the city grew up around him, or if the city created him. I can't tell you his origin. He simply is... Not a ghost but a spirit all the same: the city's heart and soul. But he needs you now... he needs your help. He is like a rose bush grown old, gone wild; untrimmed, neglected for years. The thorns have become sharper, more bitter; his foliage spreading, growing out of control, reaching high and wild... while the center chokes and dies. The blossoms that remain are just small now, hidden in the wild growth, memories of what they once were. Yes, you are young... but I can see that you have strong spirits and good hearts. It is up to you now... " - based on the story "Tallulah", from the book "Dreams Underfoot" written by Charles deLint