As important as the information M. Girard had on the Game is to Bernice's current endeavors, she can't help but be curious about his more personal notes, too. Who is this Frenchman, really?
His journal, and even the margin notes he leaves in other books, are rife with little clues to his personality. As she adds up the clues, she finds the picture forming is ... unappealling.
In fact, in some cases, it's downright appalling. His own words indite him as a shallow, power-hungry, womanizing, immoral man whose grasp on ethics is dubious at best. It's hard to believe the man who penned these notes is the same one who was so concerned for his Companion's health that he withdrew from the Game.
Or the same one so worried for her that he bestowed these books upon her.
Yet it is. He writes of gaining Horus -- whom, of all things, he won in a poker game with the falcon's erstwhile owner! -- with great pride, but no more sentiment than if the falcon had been some valuable object. Little notes like "Have Horus explain this" and "Horus just as incrutable as this stupid book, why do I bother talking to the damned pigeon?" suggest that Horus was easily the smarter of the two.
His attitude towards his companion, who apparently tutored him extensively in some kind of hermetic magic tradition, ranges between annoyance, frustration, and indifference, with only the occasional expression of pleasure or affection.
Beyond that, the notes are full of the names of women. Apparently, whenever Girard's thoughts wandered -- which was obviously often -- they turned to whatever female, or females, had most recently caught his eye. His focus on women is not without feeling. In fact, many of his passages on the virtues and beauties of a lady would strike Bernice as romantic -- if only he didn't keep switching to new ones so frequently. He has the constancy of an alleycat. On one page, he makes extensive notes on how he plans to seduce a hapless maid named Marie. On the next, he describes in shocking detail his success ... and then he's on to Isabel. Judging by the journal, poor Marie never troubles his thoughts again.
When he came to Phillips Harbour, he set his sights briefly on Gretchen. But she must have spurned him forcefully, because he abuses her quite viciously in his notes a shortly thereafter: "wretched little village cow". Madame Mysteria garners a mention after that, and the name "Tesia" appears a few times later, whoever she is.
But the last few entries in the journal are, perhaps, the most interesting. October 2 3, 1868: It's stupid o'clock and the pigeon wants to investigate some arcane nightmare from that thrice-damned hill. Don't know why I'm going.
Then: /October ... I think. I don't know. When I am. Where I am. Alive. Ye gods, alive.
October 6, 1868. It's the 6th. We were in the Hill for 3 days. It seems longer. Like eternity. Or only an hour, perhaps. I should ... I don't want to write this./
Horus is better than I thought, thank God. I feared his mind was gone when we returned.
We gave away far too much before the lovely Mlle. Townes. I can't bring myself to care. She's a Player. I should care. She's an angel.
I am such a fool.
October 7, 1868. How could I have spent so much of my life rhapsodizing about love and never known what it was?
The next few pages have the same cryptic, disjointed quality, as if the Frenchman was having trouble organizing his thoughts, or sitting down to write a sentence and then leaving without finishing the thought. Prior to October 2, Girard's entries were organized around a few themes: magic, the Game, women, and his various schemes and plans to win all three. But in the pages after that date, all his plots and scheming have fallen away. Instead, he writes of his worries about Horus, who had once been able to read his mind nd speak through thoughts and is now reduced to writing in order to communicate.
In one paragraph, Girard mentions that he hasn't been able to work magic "since the Hill". For a man who's been obsessed with power and magic for years, this should have been a point of immense import, but he tosses it out as if it were almost irrelevant. When he mentions the Game, it's in contemplation of leaving it, not winning it.
Ah, Mlle. Townes. She did not even know the significance of the Death of the Moon. And yet she Plays. Are all the other Players in such a state? The reverend went to face the Hill alone; I don't know if that was courage or madness or ignorance or all three. Yet I acted to save him; what does that say of me?
Such small hands she had; such strong, sure fingers. What contradictions we mortals are. I'd like to see her smile again, those even white teeth against dark lips. Those lashes, fluttering with uncertainty and eyes nervous but determined. Terribly, terribly determined.
I wonder if she is an Opener or Closer?
What if she's a Closer?
I am ill at the thought of it. I cannot do this any more. I have gone mad, perhaps, or suddenly recovered from a lifetime of madness. Horus is thousands of years old, and this Game has nearly cost him his life already. It's not worth it. I've treated life as a game and power as an end. I am such a fool.
I'm done.
Phillips Harbour.
October 18, 1868. Sunday morning.
Bernice's mind is still swimming with all the knowledge she's tried to absorb since Girard left on the the evening of the 15th. Latin and French phrases drift through her head, threatening to displace her native tongue. Dr. Greene and his wife arrive early in the morning to take her to church.
On the way to church, Dr. Greene catches her up on some of the events she'd missed while interred in her cabin with her books. The Englishman had been planning to launch some sort of balloon out of a field, but wild animals had attacked and destroyed it during the night. His chimpanzee had been with the crates at the time and been attacked, too. Dr. Greene treated the animal the next day for "some kind of bite, as if of a monstrous animal. The Englishman thought it was a wolf, but there's no way a wolf could have had a bite that large. A bear, perhaps? The poor ape had tooth marks on either side of his neck, and it looked for all the world as if from the same bite, not multiple ones."
Though she walks side by side with her friend, Townes' vivid green eyes seem to gaze at something miles away, the young woman preoccupied and lost in conflicted thought. She knows the most important information concerns the game, with the realization of a few nights ago that it concerned her very life a constant presense, like a clammy hand on the back of her neck. Yet, her mind keeps coming back to Girard's final notes, swirling around her heart, thin parchment carried in the whirlwind of her thoughts. She knew Gretchen feared him, recognized him as the powermonger and lech that he was, right up to his brush with death... or something deeper and colder than death. She can't stop thinking about the man she treated, who she fed, who set his hand on hers and sought to guide her, warn her... save her... and with a blink, her reverie breaks. Bernice realizes she's being addressed...
Something breaks through the filter of Bernice's busy mind. "Wh-... all this in the few days I was studying? Good gracious! A balloon! Attacked by wild animals! So then, the chimpanzee has survived its wounds? How is it faring? I almost wish the books hadn't told me anything. Everything seems to just go more and more mad. However, I fear they're of grave importance, and I feel you should be aware of what little I could decipher."
"I'm glad you've gotten something from all your studying, Dr. Townes. Yes, the chimp survived. He's in pretty good condition, in fact. To be honest with you, I'm thinking whatever attacked him can't have seriously been trying to kill the poor beast. If it had, he'd surely have been bitten in two. I'm sorry you weren't there to treat him. I don't know that there's anything more you could've done, but you've more experience working on animals than I do." Dr. Greene sets an easy pace for Bernice, noting her preoccupation. Mrs. Greene had an errand to run -- something about her mother -- and had taken the wagon by herself.
Bernice looks down at her feet in mild chagrin, watching the tips of her boots peek out from under her dress with each step. "I regret not being there to treat him." When she looks up again, it's to offer Dr. Greene a small smile. "Still, I've no doubt you did everything I could have. Primate physiology isn't so very different from ours. My expertise would have been put to most use keeping him calm and being prepared for his behavior under duress, but I take it that wasn't an issue?"
"No, he was quite well-behaved, in fact. Preternaturally so, really. I've had grown men put up more of a fuss under the needle." Dr. Greene looks thoughtful.
Bernice wags a finger in the air. "An indicator of the nature of our situation, doctor. We're dealing with, at the very least, very remarkable people converging for their own purposes. That won't be the strangest thing we'll see, mark my words." She sighs, and drops her gaze to the hem of her skirt again, wringing her hands. "My involvement ever deepens. I don't know if you or the townspeople have anything to fear directly, but I worry about it."
"Given what happened to your friends in Massachussets, I find it hard to imagine we don't have anything to fear." Dr. Greene's mouth twists. "Were there any insights in your French friend's volumes that might help us deal with that ... creature?"
The woman nods, then glances surreptitiously over her shoulder and moves to walk a little closer to her companion, leaning in slightly to murmur to him, though it doesn't seem as though anybody could hear her quiet voice from any more than a few feet away already. "Frustratingly vague things, but a good deal of insight into the nature of the conflict itself... and conflict it is, doctor. I believe that there are forces at work here beyound our ken. It's against everything we know to recognize that, but if we don't, we'll surely be swept aside by it. Those beasts that attacked the balloon, for instance. To dismiss that as a freak occurance would be burying our heads in the sand. Who witnessed the event?"
"No one, I'm afraid. Well, no one apart from that unfortunate ape, at any rate. All the rest of us saw was the aftermath. Even that was quite impressive, I'm told. The field was covered in torn silk. Most unusual behavior for animals, what with there being no food involved," Greene remarks.
Another nod from Bernice. "With bite marks on the ape from a beast the size of a bear, yet the creature lives. Intelligent direction is at work, the kind of direction I'm reluctant to ascribe to simple trained animals, as smart as they can be. Monsieur Girard's books are collected tomes and notes concerning a ritual that appears to have existed for centuries. Translating what bits of Latin I could, I came to understand there are rules to this "game". It seems I've become a participant in it, and in my ignorance I've already bent some guidelines in muddling up you and the townsfolk in things. The texts admonish against harming other participants, but it doesn't seem to be a hard rule... there are clearly documented cases of violence in past games. The grace period, October 15th, whereby it is forbidden to harm others, has passed. The whole thing comes to a head at the end of the month. I haven't much time to get a handle on this, or to track down St. John."
"At the end of the month?" Dr. Greene's eyes widen. "That's only twelve days away. What happens then?"
Townes hesitates. "I... don't fully understand it, but there are two sides to the conflict. From what little I can gather, one outcome is harmless, referred to as 'closing'. The other outcome is called 'opening', and seems to have more dire connotations." The nurse shrugs helplessly. "More than that, I wouldn't dare to speculate. I'm in well over my head, sir."
The older doctor sighs. "Best you keep swimming for the surface, then. Would you like me to have a look at these books? I've no notion how much use I'd be with this stuff, but I hate to leave you floundering alone with against such odds."
Bernice nods thoughtfully, tapping her lower lip. "I've dragged you this far into things, I think you have every right to see them, if not for insights you might offer then at least as some precaution, whatever you may be able to glean from it. I just.." The hand wringing again, dexterious fingers worrying at one another. "...I have to thank you for keeping a scientific view about all this, doctor. I felt you'd be the one to seek out, who could look at the situation the most objectively. I've lived in fear of being associated with this mess and getting myself burned at the stake."
At church, the regular pastor, Rev. Milton, gives the sermon. It's more of the hellfire and brimstone variety. Last week's sermon by Rev. Hale was about charity and generosity to strangers, but Milton's is on the danger posed by the Devil and those who'd consort with him. He lectures the congregation to be vigilant against the threat of witchcraft and devilry. It's the sort of sermon she'd've expected from a century prior, but his congregation accepts it with solemn nods and sober looks. In light of her earlier remark about being "burned at the stake" Bernice finds it especially disturbing.
The Englishman is at church today, but without his chimpanzee. Others of the "usual suspects" are there, too: the reverend that Girard rescued, the old woman, her young assistant, and their gypsy friend -- Girard's notes indicated he was sure at least one of the three was Playing. The tall blond Nordic siblings. The Chinese woman and the redheaded American widow she was staying with. Bernice can't help but wonder if this sermon on witchcraft is aimed at some of them, too. Perhaps it's just as well that Girard, with all his books on working magic and supplies of reagents and artifacts, has left town.
After the service, Dr. Greene is buttonholed by one of the parishioners seeking medical advice. After a quarter of an hour and some subtle hints from the doctor that she should save herself, Bernice extricates herself from the conversation. By the time she makes it outside, the Rev. Hale and the Englishman are no longer in sight. The Chinese woman is walking east along Craft Street, away from her friend who's headed west. The Nordic siblings are talking to Rev. Milton, while the old woman and her friends are talking to a couple of townspeople.
Bernice ambles out the front of the church, then glances in through the doors before she takes a few steps down. She folds her hands in front of herself, and takes a few steps out into the sunlight, appearing to be in no hurry to go anywhere just yet.
As Bernice loiters near the entrance, she catches snatches of the conversations around her. The brother and sister from Norway are asking the preacher about miracles, and how one distinguishes between witchcraft and an act of, or gift from, God. Milton is treating this line of inquiry seriously, suggesting that one can usually judge by results -- "you shall know him by his fruits" -- but that the devil sometimes feigns to do what people think is good, though in the end it will bring out evil.
Bernice curiously wanders a few steps closer, though she spares a furtive glance in Everchild's direction. Though she may not be able to hear from here, she's willing to guess she'll simply see the pleasant countenance the elderly lady wore before.
In fact, the conversation that Mrs. Everchild and Madame Mysteria are involved in with the other townies sounds rather less benign. The voices of a older, portly man confronting her rises as he says, "'bout you, woman!" His voice falls out of audible range, then picks back up again with "wicked ways" then "move on." Mrs. Everchild's normally pleasant, grandmotherly face is drawn and wrinkled with frown lines and her eyes are cool.
Bernice makes a mental note of this. Opener or closer, she thinks some distance is going to be adviseable here. She adds another note to speak with the townsfolk later, and begins gravitating toward the siblings and Reverend Milton.
"What if something impossible happened, but it seemed neither good nor evil?" the fair-haired sister is ask Rev. Milton. "Just unusual?"
"The Lord's hand would not be hard to discern, Miss Mikkelsen," Rev. Milton replies. "If you cannot tell, I'd say it's the devil's work. Is there something in particular troubling you, my child?"
"No ... no," Rae Mikkelsen says, shaking her head. "Only I am curious. I appreciate your sermon, reverend. And your suggestions. Thank you."
"You are most welcome, miss," Milton says. As Rae touches her brother's hand and the two start to moves away, he adds, "The church's door is always open, Mr. Mikkelsen, Miss Mikkelsen. If you have need of me, I am here."
Bernice's gaze lifts up from where she was studying a tuft of grass growing through the road. She casts one last glance back at the church, and as Milton is left behind, she begins ambling in the direction the twins are travelling.
Everchild's aide is shifting uncomfortably at her mistress's side. Abruptly, Madame Mysteria spins on her heels and turns away from the confrontation. "I'm not done with you!" the portly man yells after her.
"I think she's done with you," Mrs. Everchild says sharply, then turns to follow her friend.
Bernice hides a wince at the outburst as she turns to follow the fair visitors, and resists the temptation to look after the older ladies moving away. She underlines the mental note she made earlier, and draws a couple circles around it.
It's hard to say if the two Norwegians are twins or not. They look close enough in age that they might be, though obviously they are not identical twins. As they walk up the far side of Love Street, opposite Everchild and Mysteria, they converse in Norwegian.
As the duo and their trailing third wheel pull away from the dispersing folk around the church, Bernice steps up her pace to close the distance. "Um... hallo. Mister and Miss Mikkelsen, wasn't it?"
The two turn around at the sound of their names. The brother has a wary, almost hostile expression, but Rae offers a smile. "Yes, miss ...?"
Bernice quails a little under the tall man's guarded look, but nevertheless presses on. "I'm terribly sorry to interrupt, I didn't mean to be rude. I merely.. that is, I've seen the pair of you around town before, and.. oh, my name! I'm making a mess of this, aren't I? I'm Miss Townes, Dr. Greene's assistant." She hurriedly curtsies. "I was wondering if you had a moment to talk."
Rae curtsies in return, while her brother offers a stiff bow. "It is good to meet you, Miss Townes. I am happy to talk," Rae replies, her accent strong but her words perfectly intelligible. She watches the shorter, darker woman curiously.
Bernice steps to the side to offer to continue along the siblings path. "Don't let me slow your walk, I don't wish to keep you." Her pause to fall into step affords her a brief, envious glance at the taller lady's fair complexion and graceful height, but she pushes thoughts of her own stature and skin aside. "I couldn't help noticing your curiousity about good works, and I recalled you were among the people trying to help with the search for Reverend Hale. It seemed to me to speak of a great concern for others."
"But that is only natural, is it not? If you were lost and alone, would you not hope that others would seek you?" Rae says. "So many set their time aside to join the search. You searched yourself, did you not?"
The tan woman nods, and tugs a wisp of errant hair out of her face when it wafts over her nose. "Yes, I did. I also treated him when he was discovered, and wanted to thank you for your help. I wish I could share your faith in people, but I've been very guarded in giving it, as I don't think everyone would give be as kind to it. Your regard for others made me hopeful I could approach you... you're here to do like the others, aren't you? The month is drawing to a close."
Rae and her brother exchange a glance. The brother stiffens at Bernice's words. "Like the others?" Rae says, politely. "Maybe I do not understand you. My English, it is not so good."
Bernice's green eyes flick between the two, her expression somber. She starts and stops again, then gathers her courage and simply spits it out. "You're... you're here to Play the Game. Aren't you?"
Another exchange of looks. Gustav still looks tense, but Rae replies with a confusion that seems sincere. "Ve are only simple tourists, Miss Townes. Ve are not .... playing any games. Unless I do not understand vat you mean?"
A flush begins creeping into Townes' cheeks, and she fidgets. "It may be that I'm mistaken. I'm sorry if I'm confusing you. If you do perhaps know what I'm speaking of, I believe the Game rules state we must be frank about our participation if asked. It may be that I should ask both of you. Are you playing the Game?"
Gustav shakes his head, as does Rae. "No, miss. Vat are the rules to this Game?"
"Ve not haf time for games," Gustav says, his jaw set. His accent is much stronger than his sister's.
Rae pats her brother's arm, perhaps to soothe him or perhaps to ask him to behave.
Bernice lets out a sigh, and touches her hand to her unruly hair. "I apologize, I didn't mean to waste your time. I.. I thought you might have been with the other unusual visitors we've had here, and I thought I overheard talk of a game. I was... curious, and hoped I could be of assistance."
"I am sorry to dissappoint you, Miss Townes." Rae curtsies. "I do hope you find these players you seek. Good day."
"Th-.. thank you again for helping with Reverend Hale." Bernice curtsies in turn, and sheepishly slinks along her way.
The Mikkelsens continue on their way, leaving a sheepish Bernice to slink back to the church and Dr. Greene. Dr. Greene has managed to escape the church, but not yet the clutches of the plaintive parishioner. Just as the sickly woman finally leaves him, Bernice notices the Englishman coming up the street to the square.
"Ah, pardon me, ma'am," Herbert says to the woman as he approaches, doffing his hat cordially. "But I was hoping to bend the good doctor's ear for a moment, while he's here, if you don't mind?"
"Ah, Mr. Shaft," Dr. Greene says. "Good morning ... or, er, afternoon, is it now? This is my nurse, Miss Townes. How is your pet doing, Mr. Shaft?"
Bernice perks her head up at the sight of both gentlemen, a trace of blush still fading from her round cheeks as she sidles up to the doctor. "By all means, sir! I'm the doctor's assistant, I assure you I shan't interrupt."
"His wounds are closing, and he doesn't appear to be in any severe pain, but he is a bit weak," Herbert says, hoping he hadn't interrupted something more private. "I was hoping you'd be available to check up on him today, to make sure he isn't suffering from any infection."
"By all means, Mr. Shaft. In fact, I was telling Miss Townes this morning about your case. I'd like for her to have a look at your ape; she's more experience with animals I do," Dr. Greene says. "If you've time, Miss Townes?"
Bernice glances between the two men, and at Dr. Greene's suggestion she nods brightly. "Of course! I'd be happy to. I've had a good deal of veterinary training in addition to conventional medicine, and I'd just been telling the good doctor how I'd regretted not being on hand to be of assistance."
"Ah, I am certain her presence would cheer up Caliban," Herbert says, a bit surprised that the nurse would have veterinary skills, and hoping he'd cleaned up the cabin sufficiently.
The Englishman leads the way. As Miss Townes had heard, he's living in a steam-powered houseboat moored by the docks, and he leads them on board, then down a stairwell that's more akin to a ladder. In one of the small cabins belowdeck, a chimpanzee lays upon a bunk, bandages wrapped about his neck.