Alone, in the dark, in the rain, with only the dead for company.
[Dark hours of the morning, Wednesday, Day 17]
Tuesday was quiet, which is all to the good. Jenna left a little early (doesn't matter, she'll be in all day tomorrow, I know how hard this will be). I found an old milk-glass bottle, the size and shape of a large apple with a stubby neck and a stopper, and set on a witch-bottle. I know stories of them, but my mam was what that poor hamlet had for a witch, thin as it was, and I'd never had cause to try my hand at one, nor chance to be told of it.
Still, the shape and sense of it... Kate's nail. A scattering of pins, twisted. A little blood--I think I heard tales of spit being how the charm learns whose home it's set to guard, but blood seems more apt somehow. Sharp curves of glass, light frozen in air. And (after some consideration) an aged and wickedly sharp sliver of yew, the graveyard tree. I'll need to replace it, but Bluebeard's unlikely to need it tomorrow, and in any case I gathered it. I hope that makes some difference.
When I'm done, the thick white glass looks about as helpful as a soap bubble. I wrap it and put it in my jacket pocket; I'll go by the General Store tomorrow, see about picking up something for burying it at my threshold. For all the good it'll do... Well, no harm, at least.
And then Jack brings the man by, and I lock the front door and lay him out in the back. Kate comes, in a little, and leaves again. And I'm left doing what I can for him.
I hate the insects. Not their existence, or their sound, but needing to clean them out as much as possible. Pitiful little things, just carrying along, and then broken out of a warm dark combination of home and feast. I'm hardly soft enough to put them ahead of human sensibilities; I just wish it didn't so throw off folk to see them moving. I mean, it's not like this poor bastard is ever going to have an open coffin, and for all the good it does I could likely just pack him and wrap him up, but...
...but. We all have our rituals, our little sacred touchstones. We do the best we can by the dead. And Kate spoke for him, and gave his sins to me.
So. Dull pebbles of sin swallowed down with unleavened bread. Sliding flesh sworn at in a low and cursing drone. The sooty stink of rags that it's not worth cleaning, and that's better than the other reek, and I'm grateful that no-one passes along Main Street this late. The rain begins when I think I'm finally done with his drippings, and its steady whisper and cool breath help. Painted daisies and saltwort, ash and clay. His chest shifts like a bag of broken crockery and soup, the stab in his side is sending out questing tendrils to his sodden flesh, his hands are near to off above tattered forearms, and the cavern of what was his face...
I have to pause, once and again, and then once more. I'm dedicated, not inhuman.
I finish by listening to the rain, and by remembering what needs to be done, not what must have happened. Sometime towards the end I realize that I've turned the light off, minutes or hours ago, and been working in the dark; no difference to speak of to my eyes, and it feels more suited to him, anyway. I'd not expect any folk to want to be laid out and seen as he is, harsh glare leaving the ruin of his shape open to passing prying eyes.
Poor man, whoever he was.
Bandages and then a shroud, and I wake up to realize I was asleep on my feet, standing over him as he lay out on the cool stone floor. The last of the rags are near to done burning, and after all these hours, the smell is becoming frankly overwhelming.
I close the Apothecary up; it'd be best if I could leave it open, but the rain won't do any good if it blows in. Jenna can get the deputy to open the workroom windows for her tomorrow morning, I don't care. I let myself out the back and lock up, and stand leaning against the door for a minute in the blessedly cool and soothing air of the raining night.
Better. I'd like to go to the Tavern--I could really stand to be held about now, and I think Iago might still be up--or the Café, but I need a proper shower, and I'm mindful of not being too much of an imposition, and if I touch coffee right now my sleep will be shattered and I desperately need rest. So. Home.
[Open to Gaueko, who I think is the only person currently mad enough to be out and looking for Glass around oh-dark-thirty in the rain...]
[Closed]
Tuesday was quiet, which is all to the good. Jenna left a little early (doesn't matter, she'll be in all day tomorrow, I know how hard this will be). I found an old milk-glass bottle, the size and shape of a large apple with a stubby neck and a stopper, and set on a witch-bottle. I know stories of them, but my mam was what that poor hamlet had for a witch, thin as it was, and I'd never had cause to try my hand at one, nor chance to be told of it.
Still, the shape and sense of it... Kate's nail. A scattering of pins, twisted. A little blood--I think I heard tales of spit being how the charm learns whose home it's set to guard, but blood seems more apt somehow. Sharp curves of glass, light frozen in air. And (after some consideration) an aged and wickedly sharp sliver of yew, the graveyard tree. I'll need to replace it, but Bluebeard's unlikely to need it tomorrow, and in any case I gathered it. I hope that makes some difference.
When I'm done, the thick white glass looks about as helpful as a soap bubble. I wrap it and put it in my jacket pocket; I'll go by the General Store tomorrow, see about picking up something for burying it at my threshold. For all the good it'll do... Well, no harm, at least.
And then Jack brings the man by, and I lock the front door and lay him out in the back. Kate comes, in a little, and leaves again. And I'm left doing what I can for him.
I hate the insects. Not their existence, or their sound, but needing to clean them out as much as possible. Pitiful little things, just carrying along, and then broken out of a warm dark combination of home and feast. I'm hardly soft enough to put them ahead of human sensibilities; I just wish it didn't so throw off folk to see them moving. I mean, it's not like this poor bastard is ever going to have an open coffin, and for all the good it does I could likely just pack him and wrap him up, but...
...but. We all have our rituals, our little sacred touchstones. We do the best we can by the dead. And Kate spoke for him, and gave his sins to me.
So. Dull pebbles of sin swallowed down with unleavened bread. Sliding flesh sworn at in a low and cursing drone. The sooty stink of rags that it's not worth cleaning, and that's better than the other reek, and I'm grateful that no-one passes along Main Street this late. The rain begins when I think I'm finally done with his drippings, and its steady whisper and cool breath help. Painted daisies and saltwort, ash and clay. His chest shifts like a bag of broken crockery and soup, the stab in his side is sending out questing tendrils to his sodden flesh, his hands are near to off above tattered forearms, and the cavern of what was his face...
I have to pause, once and again, and then once more. I'm dedicated, not inhuman.
I finish by listening to the rain, and by remembering what needs to be done, not what must have happened. Sometime towards the end I realize that I've turned the light off, minutes or hours ago, and been working in the dark; no difference to speak of to my eyes, and it feels more suited to him, anyway. I'd not expect any folk to want to be laid out and seen as he is, harsh glare leaving the ruin of his shape open to passing prying eyes.
Poor man, whoever he was.
Bandages and then a shroud, and I wake up to realize I was asleep on my feet, standing over him as he lay out on the cool stone floor. The last of the rags are near to done burning, and after all these hours, the smell is becoming frankly overwhelming.
I close the Apothecary up; it'd be best if I could leave it open, but the rain won't do any good if it blows in. Jenna can get the deputy to open the workroom windows for her tomorrow morning, I don't care. I let myself out the back and lock up, and stand leaning against the door for a minute in the blessedly cool and soothing air of the raining night.
Better. I'd like to go to the Tavern--I could really stand to be held about now, and I think Iago might still be up--or the Café, but I need a proper shower, and I'm mindful of not being too much of an imposition, and if I touch coffee right now my sleep will be shattered and I desperately need rest. So. Home.
[Open to Gaueko, who I think is the only person currently mad enough to be out and looking for Glass around oh-dark-thirty in the rain...]
[Closed]