Phillips Harbour
Friday, October 23, 1868. Afternoon
The forest guides Dr. Townes -- or at least, that's what she tells Caliban and Mr. Shaft -- to a secluded spot to bury the corpses of St. John and her Companion. Digging in the cold ground is a wearying task, especially without suitable tools. After a short while, Caliban is dispatched to fetch an actual shovel. He returns with two shovels in somewhat less time than a trip to the Babbage would be expected to take. Shaft wasn't entirely sure they had a shovel on the Babbage, in fact, and he's almost certain they didn't have these two particular shovels, but by this time taking care of the dead takes all precedence.
Even with the shovels it takes some time to bury the bodies deep enough that they won't be disturbed by scavengers. Caliban's neck injuries are clearly paining him and slowing him down. For that matter, all of three of them are worn out by the shocks and struggles of recent events, from smoke inhalation when fighting the fire to Dr. Townes's near-tumble down the hillside. Slate stands silent to one side while the people with hands work. By the time they finish with the corpses, the sun hangs low on the western horizon. While they've only been awake for twelve hours or so, the idea of bed and sleep sounds heavenly. Caliban regrets not packing more than lunch in the way of food -- although the bright side there is that Townes and Shaft have little appetite and he ends up eating most of their share.
Finally putting his coat back on, Herbert takes a little notebook out of the pocket and checks his schedule. "Thank providence, no work tonight that can't be put off until tomorrow," he says with a breath of exhaustion.
The monkey collects the shovels again and taps them to shake the dirt off. As tired as he looks and feels, there nevertheless appear to be certain points of propriety in order. "Ook ook," he suggests to his master, gesturing with them in the direction of the Babbage.
Herbert nods, even if he isn't quite sure what Caliban means. "Let's go straight home. We can leave the shovels in St. John's camp," he suggests.
Caliban gives Miss Townes a sideways glance, expectant.
Bernice looks drawn and pale, her hair loose around her shoulders, long since out of its customary braid. Much of the time, it's hung into her face as she's dug, ignored as she's worked. Physically, she's more sturdy than she looks, but clearly her mind is occupied. When the chimp glances at her, the doctor seems to make a connection late, and then starts a strange little in-between of nodding, then shaking her head. "That's.. I appreciate the thought, Mr. Caliban, but that won't be necessary. I should give you something for your neck, and then the both of you should return to your ship for rest. You've probably stressed your wounds too much already."
Herbert stands up a bit straighter at the doctor's comment, and goes to look over Caliban. "Are you bleeding?" he asks, trying to spot any dampness in the ape's fur. "Do you want me to carry you back?"
A few spots on Caliban's neck are oozing a little, even through the dressings.
"He is bleeding!" Herbert declares, and gives Bernice a terrified look. "What does it mean? Is it some sort of curse from St. John's bite?"
The chimpanzee winces at the mention of the wounds, as if he'd been deliberately trying not to notice them. "Ook? EeeEeek." He shakes his head at his master, then raises the shovels as if they should be explanation enough.
This time, Bernice's head shaking is more certain. "He's been pushing himself harder than he ought. If I'd had my druthers, he would have been resting this whole time, but under the circumstances... well, I doubt it's serious, if he isn't in too much pain, he likely just cracked some of the scabbing. I can check the sutures before I send you off, and give him something to dull the ache."
"Goodness, Cal, you should have said something," Herbert chides softly. To Bernice, he smiles and says, "Thank you, Doctor, I'd appreciate it. Does this mean I should tie him into his bed tomorrow as well?"
"Ook, eek eek ook," Caliban says to the doctor, his face a perfect simian rendition of British stoicism, keeping a stiff neck.
The woman smiles in return, though it's a bit weak. "He can be up and about, provided he doesn't do anything too strenuous, climbing, heavy lifting, and suchlike. Eat well, bedrest with head supported when possible." She listlessly tosses one last shovelfull of dirt on an already filled grave, gives the area a somewhat despondant look, then simply drives the shovel into the soil, leaving it standing as she goes to retrieve her doctor's bag.
Not far away, Slate shifts her position. She stares off into the middle distance, watching the lengthening shadows of the trees as the sun lowers in the west.
With the woman's back turned to them, Shaft whispers to Caliban, "Is Slate still snubbing her?"
The ape nods unhappily.
"Not sure if we can help that.. well, I probably couldn't," Shaft whispers. "But you can at least talk to Slate. Now isn't the time for divisiveness."
Caliban looks a little doubtful.
Bernice soon returns with that familiar black bag, the top already opened. She methodically picks out a bottle from it, pouring some strong-smelling liquid on her hands and scrubbing at them almost viciously, the dirt from the digging gradually dripping away. They're practiced motions, but the woman's eyes are a million miles away. Still, her hands are gentle when they reach for the dressing on Caliban's neck.
"Ook, eek eek," the ape mumbles with a slight grin, holding still for her inspection.
"Is there anything more you'll need to prepare for the Banefire, Miss Townes?" Shaft asks while the woman works - if only to make sure she intends to stick around for the event.
Slate's head half-turns when Caliban ooks to Dr. Townes. She stands in profile to them, watching out of one eye.
Bernice's hands pause, as if she needs a moment to process Caliban's comment. "I wish that really were the case," she says, and continues, quickly undoing the bandages. She inspects the wounds, checking to see that none of the sutures have burst, and satisfied she gently swabs away drainage with a treated wad of gauze, and takes to binding a fresh and clean dressing.
Caliban winces a little during the proceedings, but stays quiet and docile. His eyes go toward Slate, and the wrinkles on his brow suggests sadness, or perhaps worry.
Once finished, the doctor looks over her handiwork, then packs up what little she took from her bag. "I shouldn't think so, Mr. Shaft. I still retain the Staff, and wonder if it shouldn't be passed on to more knowledgeable or safer hands."
"Well, our more knowledgeable hands are unfortunately not our safer ones at the moment," Shaft remarks. "Not so long as those... whatever they are... are hovering about Hale."
"Ook? Eek eek ook," says the ape with concern at this.
The Morgan horse walks across the ground, leaves crunching in her wake, and drops her muzzle to nuzzle the top of Townes's head. She turns back to where her tack is lying on the ground.
The ape looks up at the big horse, bigger from his perspective. His mouth is open, but then he closes it and nods his head in thanks to Miss Townes, slightly so as not to wreck her careful work. He goes to take his master's arm, ready to see him home.
"Will you two be alright returning home by yourselves?" Herbert asks, the two females, more out of concern for their emotional states than for their survival skills.
The young woman hesitates in reaching up to Slate. By the way her face is downcast, it doesn't seem she's reluctant to touch the horse, but more that she doesn't seem to know whether she should. Some guilty part gives way, and she lays a small, delicate hand on the side of the horse's face for a moment before moving to retrieve the tack. "Yes, Mr. Shaft. The two of you, and the Reverend as well need to recuperate just as much as we do. Please rest as soon as you're able, and don't worry about us."
Slate leans her cheek against Bernice's hand when they touch, and blows out a brath.
Herbert tips his hat then, and nods to Caliban. "We'd better get going, and hope nobody decides to ask us where we've been all day."
Caliban wrinkles his face as if to suggest there's precious little chance of that.
Caliban and Mr. Shaft return to the houseboat with enough time left to unmoor the boat and put it out to their usual sleeping place -- although halfway through the process Mr. Shaft wonders if the precaution is still necessary after St. John's death. Caliban relays the day's events to Islington, who appears satisfied with their results if not exultant. Both man and chimp sleep soundly until the sun is well above the horizon. The day dawns colder if less windy than the last couple, and a heavy mist hangs over the harbor.
Mr. Shaft wakens feeling much better than the previous day. His throat is sore and a little hoarse; possibly a coming cold, or possibly lingering effects from breathing in smoke during the fire. Caliban looks worse for wear. His neck injuries have scabbed over again but his throat obviously pains him, too, and his body is stiff and sore from all the exertions of the previous day.
"Mmmm, a taste of home," Shaft says of the foggy morning, and opens the chest of herbal teas to search for something that might help both of their throats. "I'll have to reorder some of the command cards for the Engine, if we're to try plotting without the extra power," he notes to Caliban.
The ape looks stiff and sore too, as he manfully sorts out breakfast for the two of them, moving with exaggerated care. This morning's breakfast looks like it will be cold, with slices of apple and cheese and buttered bread, a day old and crusty, but still good once one's bitten through the crust.
"What do you feel up to handling today, Caliban?" Herbert ventures after breakfast. "With your neck sore, we certainly can't use the helmet for running the Engine. I think we should check up on Miss Pau as well."
The ape considers, then nods slightly at this. He links his two hands and flaps them in a simulation of wings.
"Finding Lei would certainly simplify things, yes," Herbert agrees, drinking his tea and rubbing his throat. "Do you have some prearranged place where you can meet the nightingale?"
The monkey shakes his head. "Ook, ook," he suggests, gesturing to himself and his master, then making the walking gesture.
"Very well, I'll bring us in to dock then," the man says, casting another glance to the foggy morning through the porthole. "Perhaps the fog will burn off soon.."
Having risen before dawn yesterday and spending the rest of it in the wilderness outside town, Caliban and Herbert have seen little of the town since the day of the fire. The pall of suspicion still hangs in the air, with passerbys directing odd looks in their direction as they head for the Stevenson's farm. When they finally reach it, they find the house and barn both empty. A search of the partly-harvested fields around the house finally locates a couple of farmhands engaged in desultory labor. But Mrs. Stevenson and Miss Pau are still nowhere in sight.
The ape tries a few ooks and eeks around the farm, casting about for clues.
"Good morning, Gentlemen," Herbert addresses the workers. "Could you tell me where I might find Mrs. Stephenson and her houseguest this morning?"
The hands take the opportunity to slack off at the question, although neither man answers immediately. One man is chewing tobacco; he switches the wad from one cheek to the other as he gives Herbert an appraising look. Finally, "Witch's been arrested. Missus Stevenson's tryin' ta get 'em ta let 'er go." He spits to one side.
The simian assistant appears to be inspecting the trees near the farm, perhaps looking for fresh fruit.
"Arrested?" Herbert asks, looking surprised. "I suppose they'd be at.. the sheriff's office then?" he asks, unsure if the town has anything like an actual jail.
The disappointed-looking monkey returns to his master's side, shrugging.
"Guess so," the tobacco-chewer says, as if he hadn't considered the question himself. "Reckon if they'd sent her to Innsmouth Missus Stevenson'd be back."
The second man volunteers, "Heard they weren't gonna send her ta Innsham. The preachers want her here so they can break 'er curses on the town."
Caliban looks up at his master worriedly.
"Thank you, Gentlemen," Shaft says, tipping his hat. "Best of luck with the harvest," he adds, before turning away with Caliban. Curses? he thinks, and tries not to look too worried for Caliban's sake. Once they're out of range of the men, he asks, "No signs of Lei?"
Caliban shakes his head.
"That is troubling, indeed," the man comments, and chews on his moustache unconsciously. "For something like this, I'd have thought Lei would be sent for help to another Player.. unless she was, and we just don't know to whom."
Caliban ooks in agreement.
"Let us see what we can see in town," Shaft says. "Although we can't openly appear to be too sympathetic to Miss Pau, lest we draw even more suspicion onto ourselves."
Caliban makes the sign of the cross.
On the way back to town, Herbert starts to turn up a cross street to head for the Red Flag, but Caliban tugs at his sleeve, trying to get him to continue down Craft.
"I know, Caliban, but regardless of what Hale feels about this, we need to be seen with the townsfolk right now and not with outsiders," Herbert whispers.
The ape wrinkles his nose, but follows his master obediently.
It's early for lunch at the Red Flag, but there's nonetheless a substantial gathering of people inside. The conversation is loud enough for Herbert and Caliban to pick out some words even before they open the door. The word "witch" carries a certain vehemence, along with "deserved" and "knew". But after they open the door and the wind blows in a gust of cold fog around them, the room falls silent. Everyone looks at man and chimpanzee, and most of those looks are hostile.
Caliban gives his master a sidelong look, then doffs his fez politely and tucks it away into his jacket before holding out his hands to help his master with his jacket.
Shaft removes his hat and hands his jacket to Caliban, before smiling to the crowd and commenting, "Quite an exciting day, I hear. An arrest has been made in regard to the fire, is it?"
The trained monkey hangs the jackets up and perches Mr. Shaft's hat on a hook, though he needs to toss the latter up to reach it.
"Ayup," one thick-set, weathered man says, eyeing them. "Chink woman's a witch. Preachers done caught her. Figure they'll get the rest of the story from her."
"She weren't workin' alone, y'know. They never do. Witches work in covens," a lumberer adds with an air of certainty.
"Miss Pau? Witchcraft?" Herbert asks, with the air one whose leg is being pulled. "That tiny woman started the fire? With.. witchcraft?"
Gertie shoulders her way through the crowd to give Mr. Shaft and his friend a nervous but genuine smile. "Good day Mr. Shaft. Do take a seat, sir, and make yourself comfortable." She lays her tray before the speakers, handing out drinks and steaming bowls of pale clam chowder.
Nodding to Caliban, Shaft takes a seat. "Forgive me for asking, but are you saying that a serious arson is being attributed to magic?" he asks those nearest.
The monkey looks relieved at Gertie's welcome.
The people closest look a little uncomfortable to be so addressed. But the lumberer speaks in their place. "Fire wasn't natural," he says. "Anyone could tell that. Any natural fire shoulda burned out afore that. Burned out or spread. That morning, we kept it contained but the houses jes' kept burnin'. Shoulda burned down, burned out, But they didn't. Folks on the engine, they saw it too, they'd figured if they got here afore the fire was out then half the town'd be gone. But it wasn't, was it?" There's a general murmur of approval from the others in the room.
"I'll grant that fire seemed unusual, but I wouldn't go so far as to claim it was therefore supernatural," Shaft comments. "I don't mean to bring up any ill thoughts, but your nation has just come out of a war that saw a great number of innovations in weapons technology. Something that burns like that, without blowing out or exhausting itself, seems more like something from the battlefield than from a bubbling cauldron."
The chimpanzee settles in next to the boss and folds his hands, patiently awaiting the next round of chowder.
"You think so?" The lumberjack lays an arm against the table. "I seen gunpowder burn fast an' I seen it explode hard, but I ain't never seen it burn slow. But mebbe you know somethin' we don't, eh, Brit? You know about the kinda weapons that can make one house burn for hours?" More than just his eyes are upon the Englishman.
Gertie interposes her body between Shaft and the speakers. "What can I get for you gentle -- today, sir?" Her eyes dart between Caliban and Shaft for a moment, then rest on Mr. Shaft with a sort of desperation in them.
"Well, no, I don't, but that doesn't mean it isn't scientifically possible," Shaft concedes. "I just find it difficult to attribute such a thing to malign, invisible for- oh, just the chowder Gertie," the man says at the interruption.
The monkey had been giving his master an intent look, but relaxes as his master denies knowledge of dangerous weapons. He nods approvingly at this choice.
"Certainly, sir. And you, Mac?" She whirls about to look the speaker in the eye. "You need anything else?"
"Naw, I'm fine, Gert," Mac says, momentarily derailed. She inquires of others nearby, getting additional orders and distracting them from the conversation with Herbert.
A bit sotto-voce, Herbert leans towards Mac and whispers, "If you ask me, it all smacks of being staged. We had this sort of thing in the 1600's back in England too. Scams, we called them. A town has a bit of bad luck, some 'experts' arrive spreading rumors of witches, and then calamity conveniently happens, they string up some poor woman and go off to collect a fat bounty from the king. I'd wonder if these four men who just arrived in town are expecting a hefty reward for their capture - of a foreigner, no less. Not a local, who might be defended." He taps the side of his nose and gives the man a wink.
Mac sits back, looking stunned at this suggestion. "Are you sayin' they set the fire?" he asks incredulously. He's making no effort to be quiet.
"I'm only saying it was very convenient for them," Shaft mutters. "Happening right after they arrived, giving them the excuse to haul in whomever they wanted. If there hadn't been a convenient foreigner, they'd probably have gone for the Widow Stephenson herself, simply because she's a single woman on her own now - with land, mind you. Land that'd be forfeit."
The ape looks surprised as well, and perhaps a touch worried.
"But -- but they're preachers. An' Rev. Milton vouched for 'em.
"But -- but they're preachers. An' Rev. Milton vouched for 'em," the thick-set man who'd spoken earlier interjects. "Men of God wouldn't do something like that."
"And strange things'd been happening even afore they turned up," another points out. "Like poor Mrs. Albertson's body bein' stolen right outta the grave." This meets with a rumble of concurrence.
"They don't act like any clergy I've met, and I photograph churches for my work," Shaft notes, then leans in again to lower his voice. "And that Mr. Bolton gives me the shivers, I don't mind admitting. I wouldn't want to imagine what his role is in getting 'confessions' out of accused witches."
Picking up on the note about the missing body, Herbert wonders, "And there's that as well. I imagine the body found in the remains was burnt beyond recognition, too."
"Well, yeah, but ... what's that got ta do with it?" Mac looks perplexed by this turn in the conversation. The others in the room don't look exactly receptive to Shaft's suggestions -- although a couple of people do give an agreeable snort at his comment on Mr. Bolton -- but they're not interrupting him, either.
"I'm just saying, that there may be more human causes to these things than inhuman ones," Herbert says. "Just because some men claim to have found the cause of it all is no reason to stop looking for a more reasonable one. I mean, if any of you were a witch, would you start a fire right under the noses of witch hunters? It would be like a rabbit dancing around a wire trap while you were setting it."
Still not obviously any closer to receiving his food, the chimpanzee looks around the room curiously, then settles on keeping an eye on the door.
That gets some approving chuckles from the trappers in the room. Gertie returns at last, bearing a tray full of fresh bread, more bowls of soup, and mugs of hot tea. Mac says, a bit scornfully, "Witches don't care. They think they've got it all, with the devil hisself on their side. Prolly like tauntin' preachers."
After Gertie serves Caliban and Mr. Shaft, she presses the soupspoon into the Englishman's hand. When he takes it, he can feel a bit of paper wrapped around the handle.
"I can't say I know much about the behaviour of witches," the Englishman admits, with a bit of a grin. "I'm still a bachelor, after all." He switches the spoon to his other hand and covers slipping the paper into his pocket with the little joke.
The chimp ooks and eeks happily, not noticing anything unusual about this. He begins ladling soup up with alacrity.
The joke gets another round of laughter, though it leaves Mac redfaced when of his companions turns to him and says, "So is that why you know so much about 'em?"
"Eat up, Caliban," Herbert says, before digging into his chowder. "Witch or not, it is certainly an event that should be recorded on film. We shouldn't tarry too much."