October 6, 1868. Tuesday
Phillips Harbour
Dr. Townes conducts her examination of Mr. Girard with characteristic thoroughness and professionalism. Her patient's demeanor, on the other hand, is ... peculiar. He is patient and compliant enough, breathing and coughing and standing upon request. But he spends rather more time watching her thatn she'd like, and he has pleased, amused expression that makes her wonder if he's enjoying some private joke.
Physically, he seems in much better shape than the reverend. He's a little dehydrated and there are indications that he hasn't been eating well recently, but otherwise he is a young, healthy man in good condition.
Bernice gathers most of her instruments back up and stows them in her bag again, neat and orderly as always. She's grateful that they're easy, practiced motions, because that certain part of her mind that trips her up around other people seems to be more mischievous than usual. She manages to avoid fumbling anything, but is all too aware of the flush creeping across her cheeks. The doctor gamely tries to ignore it. "Well, Monsieur Girard, you seem more or less all right... please be sure you have a complete meal as I outlined. I'm sure Dr. Greene will want to ask you some questions, just to be certain, but I think the Pastor will be reassured to know you're hale and whole." She allows an uncomfortable silence to stretch, avoiding the frenchman's eye and letting her gaze stray back to the raptor. "Er, you said you'd like me to have a look at your falcon? What's his name?"
"Please, if you would be so kind. His name is Horus," Girard answers, looking troubled as his gaze following hers to the falcon. The bird still looks asleep, but his beak twitches beneath one wing, fitfully. "It puzzles me; I should have thought him more resilient than I, but he seems the worse for our little adventure."
The woman conceals her relief at this excuse to focus attention elsewhere, and instead lets her countenance turn to concern as she studies the bird, approaching slowly. "Adventure? Do you hunt with him?" asks Bernice, moving to stand by the perch. Her voice smoothes itself, becoming low and soothing. "Hello, Horus. You're a handsome one. Are you asleep?"
The falcon twitches again as she starts toward him. He definitely looks asleep, or trying to sleep; he might be waking up now, or merely dreaming. "Do be carful, madamoiselle," the Frenchman cautions. "He's normally well-behaved but ... well, I think he's a bit more unpredictable lately."
The falcon rouses for a moment, and lifts his head from beneath his wing. He looks between the two humans briefly, then makes some disgruntled bird noises and tucks his head back under his wing.
Bernice nods somewhat distantly, moving as gradually and unthreateningly as she can toward the falcon, looking him over as she approaches. "They can certainly give you a good gash," she murmurs. "I've dealt some with falconers, so I should be alright." She doesn't move to touch Horus yet, simply looking him over, inspecting his plumage and gauging his weight. "Birds are sensitive creatures, and their metabolisms are demanding. Do you fly him daily? How has he been eating, lately?"
"Horus?" Girard says, when the bird lifts his head. The man sighs when the bird tucks his head beneath his wing again. "He was flying just this morning. Physically ... " He pauses, searching for words. "The last several days are rather a blur for me, madamoiselle. I know that while I was out, Horus got quite a bit of exercise, perhaps too much, I don't know ... " Girard shakes his head, looking morose. "I don't know what happened to us, to be quite honest."
The bird looks fine -- better than the man, in fact. His plumage is clean and well-preened. While she studies him, the falcon untucks his head again to stare back at her.
The doctor bites her lip, shifting a little to look the bird over from several angles, still not touching him. "He looks to be a healthy weight, plumage is clean, no injuries that I can see, and no characteristics of illness. His eyes are clear and focused. Physically, I don't think there's anything wrong with him." She turns a little to look over her shoulder. "Birds are intelligent and sensitive creatures, however... you say you don't know what happened to you, sir? When was the last clear memory you had.. the date you can recall?"
Before Girard can answer, she turns back to Horus, meeting his eyes again. "And you say he's flown.. and I assume hunted. He does this independantly of you?"
"Friday evening, October 2," Girard answers. "I was out for an evening ride with Horus. Yes, he's quit independent. Normally." The Frenchman frowns, looking morose.
Bernice looks all the more puzzled, taking a lock of her hair and absently twisting it around a finger. "Four days. Something happened and you must have retained enough consciousness to return here. I didn't see any evidence of poison or snakebite, not that a snake could reach you on your horse. Where were you riding, and what was the last thing you remembered?"
"I rode up to the Hill," the Frenchman says. "I had ... this feeling that something was wrong with the reverend, the one from out of town. And then ... somehow I lost my horse, and some hours seemed to have past when I walked back into town. Except that it wasn't some hours, it was some days." Girard makes a face.
The bird continues to stare at Bernice, with his strangely unreadable manner, as if he were trying as hard to understand her as she is to understand him -- and having as little success.
Townes nods thoughtfully. "Well... the reverend seems to have had the feeling something was wrong with you, it was at his behest I came to check on you. Was he behaving strangely, and you went to look after him?" She glances back at the falcon again, eyeing him. Her expression holds worry, but of a vague kind. "Hm... as I say, birds are very intelligent, and you seem to have a remarkable relationship with Horus. Perhaps he has been distressed over what happened to you." She doesn't sound convinced.
"To be quite frank, madamoiselle, I think I am more distressed over what's happened to him," Girard says with a wry smile. The bird mantles his wings suddenly, lifting them over his head as if to shield himself. Girard winces and steps forward, reaching out to stroke the bird's head soothingly. He says some French words, including the bird's name in the midst of them.
The bird settles at the man's touch, relaxing a little and pressing his head against Girard's hand. The Frenchman continues to mumur soothingly to the falcon in French.
Bernice steps closer, hovering near Girard's elbow, her worry more plain now, as the bird's distress is. She pauses, then glances at the frenchmen then back at the bird. A moment more of hesitation, and then she whispers, "Horus..? Are you... all right?"
Girard sighs softly. "You can tell it too, can't you, Mlle. Townes? That's there's something wrong with him, even if his body is sound?"
The falcon cocks his head to the side to peer at the woman with one eye. As if to show he is paying attention and can hear, he makes a noise back at her ... but if he's trying to speak, Bernice cannot understand him.
Bernice nods slowly, still looking intently at the falcon. "There is. He.. I don't know how to explain it exactly, but..." She looks up, glancing sidelong at Girard, then down at the bird again. "His behavior is... I've never seen anything quite like this. Have you known him a long time, sir? You'd know better than I the difference in his normal behavior and what he's exhibiting now." She tries speaking to the raptor again. "Yes, that's it. Talk to me, Horus..."
Girard transfers Horus from the perch to his arm, still stroking the falcon's head and back. He shakes his head at the woman. "I've had him several months. He's never been like this before. I do not know, madamoiselle ... " He sighs. "He seems a little better today than this morning. Perhaps with time he will recover. I am sorry to have taken so much of your time Mlle. Townes. I do much appreciate your efforts and consideration," he adds, quite sincerely.
Suddenly, the bird jerks its head upright, startling the Frenchman. "Horus?" the man says, as the falcon preens loose one of his feathers. Holding it in his beak, the bird glances about the room until his eyes light on the nearby desk.
The doctor lets a few quiet seconds pass, then nods solemnly, bagging up the rest of her instruments. "He... I will venture this, sir. He is acting unlike any bird I have ever met. Most falcons, there is a certain body language, and Horus shows no.." She suddenly looks intently at the raptor, then strides to the desk.
Bernice's skirts swirl after her in her rush, carrying loose papers behind her, and she dumps her carefully packed doctor's bag aside, the insides complaining with a jingle. Her delicate hands snatch an inkwell up from the desk and takes the stopper out, then paw around the shelf over the desk until they come up with some blank parchment. One hand lays the paper down while the other arm is held up and level, outstretched.
The falcon lands on the desk before the blank parchment, dips the pen into an inkwell, and hurriedly crafts ... a heiroglyphic on the page? He pauses after the first one, and then adds several more.
Girard claps one hand over his mouth. "Mon Dieu!" He hurries to the desk, then glances at Dr. Townes. "Ah ... I did say he was a very intelligent bird, did I not?"
He starts to say something to Horus, then stops himself, a puzzled frown on his face. He reaches for a pen of his own.
"Very intelligent indeed," murmurs the doctor. She squints at the characters on the page, then avidly watches Girard, leaning down to catch every stroke of pen on paper, thoroughly fascinated now.
Girard writes in French, in excellent hand. Bernice isn't remotely fluent in French, but she's had enough training in Latin to guess at a few of his words: Something 'think' something 'try again in French'?
The falcon looks at Girard's words, and then begins to write again himself, this time in French. Thank you, Bernice recognizes. I don't understand what you are saying, is her next guess, followed by a single word she can't read, and then I am something broken.
Excitedly, Girard writes, You are something less broken something I thought! Followed by another sentence with not enough words she recognizes to translate.
Townes looks on, both curiousity and a somewhat knowing expression on her face, but she says nothing, letting both man and bird continue their strange conversation. She remains where she is, peering at the script and occasionally mouthing things out to herself.
I was several unknown words -- dumb. More unfamiliar words, then lost many memories, the bird writes. How are you, Girard?
I am fine, the Frenchman replies. Much better for seeing you writing. Except something I don't seem to something -- then his writing trails off abruptly, as he glances over his shoulder at Bernice. He says something to her in French, closing with, "Mlle. Townes?"
The bird is watching her now, too. He writes, Who is she? without looking at his paper.
"I.." For the first time, Bernice seems to realize she's intruding on what could be construed a private moment, and she shifts awkwardly, standing up. "My French is very limited," she says. "But I was trying to read. In my curiousity, I overstepped my bounds. Please forgive me."
The Frenchman chuckles. "No, no, madamoiselle, it is I who should ask your forgiveness. I hardly think that I could resist the temptation to try reading in your place. You are remarkably sanguine about this, I must say, Miss Townes."
He writes something else on the page, although Bernice doesn't see what since she's stopped looking at it.
The young woman lays her hands on the desk, regarding both the bird and the frenchman with a serious look. Still, she fidgets a little, and it seems likely she's laid her hands out to keep from wringing her apron. "I'm sure my reaction isn't what many would expect from.. from a woman. But I know... something strange is happening. Unusual people are gathering here, special people. I mean to know what your intentions are."
Girard smiles again. "It's a little early to be asking that, isn't it? I thought we were supposed to wait until after the 15th for those sorts of questions."
Bernice looks a little taken aback. "Wh-what happens on the fifteenth?" She glances down at the parchment on the table again.
Her grasp on the language isn't good enough to piece out most of what's been written in the last few minutes. Something about sanity, the reverend, rescue, and worry. The falcon unflexes his taloned foot from around the quill to set it down, then clenches and unclenches his talons, shaking them out. Girard says to her, very seriously, "The Death of the Moon, Mlle. Townes. Did you not know?"
Bernice shakes her head, wisps of her hair whipping across her face. "It'll be the new moon, but... I don't know its significance."
Girard looks even more serious. "Are you a Player, madamoiselle?" he asks, and she can hear the capital letter on the word.
Townes almost shies back at this open question, and she hesitates again. After a moment or two, she nods. "Y-yes... I think?" She squirms under Girard's eyes now, but this time for different reasons. "I feel it dangerous to even admit having some part in this, but.. you are making that much plain, so it's only fair I give that back. But obviously, I know less than you."
"Indeed, it is," Girard admits. "But it is rather late for me to claim innocence and normalacy after holding a conversation in writing with my pet falcon." He smiles again, gently. "It's a dangerous Game, Mlle. Townes. It is not too late for you to quit. All that I know -- and all that I suspect our good Reverend Hale knows -- was not enough to keep us out of trouble these last few days. I do not say this to frighten you, my dear ... only to warn you." He looks down at the page again, and jots a note out.
Bernice looks down again, but it's not at the note. Her voice is quiet, still tremulous, but there's a resolve in it. "I know it's dangerous. I've seen.. terrible things. I know of a horrible person, a killer. My means and knowledge are limited, so I don't know that I can have an impact on this... this "game". But I know someone has to answer for what she's done, at least that much is clear, and I have obligations on top of that."
Girard nods, sober once more. "Then I understand, and I admire your courage, madamoiselle." He pauses to write something to Horus, then says, "I wish you fortune in the Game, Miss Townes." He extends his right hand to her.
Townes' gaze levels out again, and she eyes the frenchman's hand warily, rather unsure now of what to do. "You don't say it to frighten me, but I'm afraid."
"Then you have sense as well as courage, madamoiselle," he says, simply. He lets his hand fall back to the table. "But I have no wish to be your enemy, nor to see you harmed." Girard lifts his hands in a small helpless motion, then drops them again. "I am sure you have other plans for this day than entertaining this pair of convalescents. I do not wish to detain you."
The falcon starts writing something on a new piece of paper, and holds it up for Miss Townes to see while Girard is still talking to her. It reads something like He's a nice man, if he is something of women -- you can hold his hand.
Bernice seems to consider this, then nods, a little jerkily. The words begin rolling out, quickly, as though she wanted to keep from stopping herself. "I.. perhaps it's hasty of me or foolish of me, but it seems like there isn't much time left. I feel as though I can at least accept that you're a... good person, and so I feel I can accept that you wish me no harm. You sought to rescue somebody, and you care for Horus. Before this, I was... no, I -am- a doctor. I swore an oath to do no harm, and to help those in need, and I stand by it. And... and your bird says so. So... so I guess that means I.. that is to say, I submit that.. I guess we're..." The lady tightens her lips, and then abruptly juts her hand out, offering to shake again. "Maybe we're allies or maybe we're opposed, but I'm sure we can be... civil?"
Girard smiles again, with genuine warmth. "I am sure we can be at least civil, Mlle. Townes." He shakes her hand, firmly, as an equal. Then bows like the Frenchman that he is, turning her hand over to brushes a kiss over the air above her wrist. "Good day to you, madamoiselle."
"Keep well, Monsieur Girard," murmurs Dr. Townes, who then finally allows herself a smile, and a nod at the bird. "And you too, Horus." With that, the woman gathers up her doctor's bag, and shuffles to the door.
The falcon writes a quick "Good day", which she catches when she turns to exit, and finds Girard has followed her to get the door for her.
The doctor steps aside to allow Girard's gesture, offering him the smile this time. "Perhaps... we'll talk again?"
"I certainly hope to, my good doctor," Girard says, looking pleased.
Rowan says, "Yeah, and everyone's playing that way. :D"
Rowan says, "It's the end of October. You're sure that's what he said. You're not sure what's up with this October 15th stuff."
Rowan has to scoot off now. "G'night!"
Rowan says, "You're welcome. Thanks for Playing! zip"