The Fable of Dr Isaiah Pryce
Here's a random story I started writing. I sort of want to write more on it. But I dunno yet.
It was one of those days. The type where the clouds release their raindrops, but it's more like a cold, thin sheet of water because there's a cold wind blowing from the west. It's a dreary kind of weather, full of mundane greys and hazy fog, and visibility is horrible. It's the kind of day where the best thing to do is to sit in at home with a book written for dreary, damp days - preferably one set in a sunny place, like the beach - or to catch up on the work that's been put off. There's little to do outside, and even less to do between the walls of home or work. But people make do.
The weather had been like this for days. The ground was soggy, saturated, and it felt as though the clouds would never clear - this was of course a ridiculous notion, but when trapped indoors things always seemed far more dramatic than they really were. And that's how it was even for young Dr Isaiah Pryce, a physician from a little town just west of London. He was well-known in the hamlet he had come to live in, being the only doctor of any repute and he was very good at his job. His patients almost always made full recoveries, though there were always unfortunate deaths that could not be stopped. Despite the occasional loss, Dr Pryce was successful and content, and charged very little for his services - enough to live on and to bring in his supplies. What the locals didn't know, and what Dr Pryce knew better than to tell them, was how he was so successful. It never passed his lips that he was an enchanter, one blessed with the gift of spell craft and incantations. He doubted it would be well-received, especially considering how barely twenty years before his own mother had been burned as a witch. Such a short time was hardly long enough for acceptance.
And so he kept it secret, covered up his magical healings with mundane medicines, and did little to draw attention to his actual methods. He practiced in his own home, though more often he travelled to the homes of his patients - many were elderly and walking the long road to Dr Pryce's home was difficult for them.
He was returning from one such home visit in the wet; his boots sloshed in the mud on the road, puddles reforming in each as he trudged forward with little focus on his surroundings. He'd seen it all hundreds of times before, after all. To his left, a large green pasture partially concealed by the line of canopied trees, cherry and elm among others, all devoid of leaves, that followed the path. To his right, more trees hiding a rushing stream and the wooded area that almost surrounded his home. There was very little mystery left in the little town, and he found that to be just fine with him. Who needed mystery when there was contentment and a largely event-free life? Isaiah Pryce was fine without, thank you very much, and hoped to continue the life he had built for himself for many more years.
If he ever got back to his house, at least. The mud seemed intent, had it possessed such a thing, to drag him down and slow his steps, and Dr Pryce grumbled to himself as he put one foot in front of the other with conviction, daring the mud to hold him back further. The mud took him on his dare, and even one step further. The young doctor lost his balance, and in a flurry of motion (that would have been hilarious had anyone been there to see it) dropped his bag, his over-coat, and most unfortunate of all, his eyeglasses. With a curse to any god that may have been listening (he hoped it reached the rain gods), he bent over, careful not to dirty his breeches. It was already too late for his coat; the water and grim of the mud seemed to embrace the wool welcomingly, and Dr Pryce wished that it had been most unwelcome. At least then he wouldn't need to clean the blasted thing.
The bag was splattered in mud, but it wasn't a problem - as long as the contents were unharmed, he couldn't be too upset over the bag. After all, his coat was already a mess and with a shrug he wiped the grime from the bottom of the bag with a sleeve of the coat - he didn't bother to check which one - before snatching up his glasses with a forlorn look. He couldn't wipe them on the coat, and his kerchief had just been cleaned the day before. Had he not been blind as a bat, he simply would have slipped them into a pocket on the coat. So it was with a heavy sigh that the doctor slipped the muddy lenses back onto his face. They were splotched, but he could see through them and that was much more important - he didn't want to trip again.
"Oh, bollocks it. What's the point?" he muttered to himself, getting to his feet once more and continuing to trudge along. He wasn't even that far from home; a few more steps and he would have turned onto the lane winding towards his unobtrusive house nestled amongst the trees.
A sigh of pure relief rushed from his lips as he entered his warm and blessedly dry house. There wasn't even a moment of hesitation before he dropped his muddied belongs and pulled off his boots. Home sweet home. Home dry home. It hadn't quite hit him how tired he was until he had crossed over the threshold, and who was he to deny sleep his due? Certainly, there was more work to be done before he could comfortably curl up and rest, but all of it could be done indoors where he was safe from the dreary drizzle that rained down from the heavens - and most especially away from the grime that covered the roads.
There was little pause between actions as he set about tidying up. It always astounded him how messy his foyer would become despite him being the only resident of the house. There was no need for a servant or a maid, of course, and it would be risky to have one present, anyway. Dr Pryce instead chose the anonymity - and hassle - of cleaning up after himself.
It was one of those days. The type where the clouds release their raindrops, but it's more like a cold, thin sheet of water because there's a cold wind blowing from the west. It's a dreary kind of weather, full of mundane greys and hazy fog, and visibility is horrible. It's the kind of day where the best thing to do is to sit in at home with a book written for dreary, damp days - preferably one set in a sunny place, like the beach - or to catch up on the work that's been put off. There's little to do outside, and even less to do between the walls of home or work. But people make do.
The weather had been like this for days. The ground was soggy, saturated, and it felt as though the clouds would never clear - this was of course a ridiculous notion, but when trapped indoors things always seemed far more dramatic than they really were. And that's how it was even for young Dr Isaiah Pryce, a physician from a little town just west of London. He was well-known in the hamlet he had come to live in, being the only doctor of any repute and he was very good at his job. His patients almost always made full recoveries, though there were always unfortunate deaths that could not be stopped. Despite the occasional loss, Dr Pryce was successful and content, and charged very little for his services - enough to live on and to bring in his supplies. What the locals didn't know, and what Dr Pryce knew better than to tell them, was how he was so successful. It never passed his lips that he was an enchanter, one blessed with the gift of spell craft and incantations. He doubted it would be well-received, especially considering how barely twenty years before his own mother had been burned as a witch. Such a short time was hardly long enough for acceptance.
And so he kept it secret, covered up his magical healings with mundane medicines, and did little to draw attention to his actual methods. He practiced in his own home, though more often he travelled to the homes of his patients - many were elderly and walking the long road to Dr Pryce's home was difficult for them.
He was returning from one such home visit in the wet; his boots sloshed in the mud on the road, puddles reforming in each as he trudged forward with little focus on his surroundings. He'd seen it all hundreds of times before, after all. To his left, a large green pasture partially concealed by the line of canopied trees, cherry and elm among others, all devoid of leaves, that followed the path. To his right, more trees hiding a rushing stream and the wooded area that almost surrounded his home. There was very little mystery left in the little town, and he found that to be just fine with him. Who needed mystery when there was contentment and a largely event-free life? Isaiah Pryce was fine without, thank you very much, and hoped to continue the life he had built for himself for many more years.
If he ever got back to his house, at least. The mud seemed intent, had it possessed such a thing, to drag him down and slow his steps, and Dr Pryce grumbled to himself as he put one foot in front of the other with conviction, daring the mud to hold him back further. The mud took him on his dare, and even one step further. The young doctor lost his balance, and in a flurry of motion (that would have been hilarious had anyone been there to see it) dropped his bag, his over-coat, and most unfortunate of all, his eyeglasses. With a curse to any god that may have been listening (he hoped it reached the rain gods), he bent over, careful not to dirty his breeches. It was already too late for his coat; the water and grim of the mud seemed to embrace the wool welcomingly, and Dr Pryce wished that it had been most unwelcome. At least then he wouldn't need to clean the blasted thing.
The bag was splattered in mud, but it wasn't a problem - as long as the contents were unharmed, he couldn't be too upset over the bag. After all, his coat was already a mess and with a shrug he wiped the grime from the bottom of the bag with a sleeve of the coat - he didn't bother to check which one - before snatching up his glasses with a forlorn look. He couldn't wipe them on the coat, and his kerchief had just been cleaned the day before. Had he not been blind as a bat, he simply would have slipped them into a pocket on the coat. So it was with a heavy sigh that the doctor slipped the muddy lenses back onto his face. They were splotched, but he could see through them and that was much more important - he didn't want to trip again.
"Oh, bollocks it. What's the point?" he muttered to himself, getting to his feet once more and continuing to trudge along. He wasn't even that far from home; a few more steps and he would have turned onto the lane winding towards his unobtrusive house nestled amongst the trees.
A sigh of pure relief rushed from his lips as he entered his warm and blessedly dry house. There wasn't even a moment of hesitation before he dropped his muddied belongs and pulled off his boots. Home sweet home. Home dry home. It hadn't quite hit him how tired he was until he had crossed over the threshold, and who was he to deny sleep his due? Certainly, there was more work to be done before he could comfortably curl up and rest, but all of it could be done indoors where he was safe from the dreary drizzle that rained down from the heavens - and most especially away from the grime that covered the roads.
There was little pause between actions as he set about tidying up. It always astounded him how messy his foyer would become despite him being the only resident of the house. There was no need for a servant or a maid, of course, and it would be risky to have one present, anyway. Dr Pryce instead chose the anonymity - and hassle - of cleaning up after himself.