“Freedom is not worth having if it does not include the freedom to make mistakes.”
- Mahatma Gandhi
- Mahatma Gandhi
The baker's wife looked down at the piece of paper with clear confusion on her face. "You said this was an order for 'the sisters'? Which sisters would those be, dear?"
There seemed to be a lot of words on the paper, and the few the uneducated woman could understand didn't seem to have anything to do with baking, and she could only guess that it must be some sort of complicated recipe or some such that the great Count wanted as a special order. For the life of her she didn't know what it could mean though, or who it was meant for.
"All He said was that it is to go to the Sisters, and that you'd know exactly what that would mean." The goblin lady replied, a little unsure of her Master's commands herself. She was used to such requests from the old man however, as he rarely if ever explained the inner workings of his mind to her. "He also said to help myself to a bun."
The baker's wife smiled brightly at the last piece of news, tossing the parchment aside to show to her husband later. Unlike herself he was a man of letters, and perhaps he would understand the recipe and know who it was meant for. "Now that I can help you with," she went on to say, turning her attention back to the buns. "Any particular take your fancy? One copper each or five for three coppers."
"A lot of people ask me if I were shipwrecked, and could have only one book, what would it be?
I always say, "How to Build a Boat."
- Stephen Wright
I always say, "How to Build a Boat."
- Stephen Wright
The villagers seemed a little anxious as Widower Bartholomew wandered into the town square, the satchel on his back filled with trinkets and gewgaws with which to entertain the children of the small fishing outpost. It was rare to find such a community this far north, but somehow the hardy people had lived many years without attracting the attentions of any of the nearby powerful tribes, and Bartholomew was curious exactly how they managed that.
Today though many of the locals he had grown to recognise during his previous visits seemed to be giving him a wide birth, scurrying away as he approached down the path and quickly hiding themselves in their half-buried homes built just above the high tide mark of the nearby shore. Finally as he entered the square he was greeted by the elders who seemed to be the unofficial leaders of the community, who were too deep in talk amongst each other to notice his arrival until he was too close for them to easy avoid him.
"Well met brother?" The preacher called out to them, still a little unsure whether things truly were well or not. "Is something wrong?" As he spoke Widower Bartholomew waved his hand around the large open area of the square, which on most of his visits would've been lined with stalls trading homemade pottery, fish, handwoven baskets, fish, rustic artwork, fish, and fish.
Shuffling their feet, as if trying to find a way to scurry off in the same manner the other villagers had, the elders glanced at each other uncertainly for several long moments. After the uncomfortably long pause one of the men, an elder of a full thirty-five years who Bartholomew knew as Prickedfinger, finally stepped forwards. Or more accurately all his compatriots stepped back, leaving the man standing at their lead.
"The thing is..." the elder began, pausing and drawing out each word as he shuffled what he knew and what he could tell an outsider around inside his head, "...there's been an incident."
Around him the other elders all nodded their heads, muttering "incident" in deep, sagely tones, as if that explained everything.
"An incident, you say?" Widower Bartholomew replied, adding the same grave tone to his own voice as Prickedfinger had used to present the news. "I can understand how that could be upsetting." Watching the group's response carefully the preacher could tell they seemed to be impressed by his grasp of the situation, even though in reality all the man was doing was echoing their own thoughts back to them.
In his years of experience, the Widower had learnt that often this was the best way to gain a person's trust. Letting them think they were the ones leading the conversation when really he was guiding them to give him exactly what he wanted to hear. "I trust no-one was badly hurt, or in need of aid at all?"
"No-one local," piped up one of the other elders, a scruffier looking fellow Bartholomew recognised as Snappednet, only to be shushed down by the others. The preacher tried not to smile at the slip, now knowing far more about the situation than he had before.
Based on what he could observe from their behaviour, and the inferences he could make from those observation, the locals had found someone not from their community injured and now were wondering how to deal with him without alerting their less than friendly neighbours of their presence. While they could have just left the person to die, that wasn't something the kind-hearted folk would likely do, so the person was most likely being housed somewhere in the small village. Their wounds would be seen to by the local healers, but this would either lead to the man's recovery, which would then place the village in danger, or it would end with his far more likely death from his injuries.
If that were to happen the disposal of the body would need to be arranged, and since the tribe used their fish farms as a way of returning the body of their deceased to the tribe by allowing the fish to feed upon it over the course of weeks or months, if anyone were to find the body in that state they may not appreciate the loving care to be quite as soothing as a member of the tribe would.
"I understand your dilemma, my friend," Widower Bartholomew said in a gentle, soothing tone, "The customs of others can be strange, especially when it comes to dealing with the deceased." The reaction from the small crowd was mixed, with some eying the preacher suspiciously, but most seemed to breathe a sigh of relief at finally having someone else to pass the responsibility of the decision onto. "We wouldn't want to offend them, would we?"
"That was very much our thinking on the matter, Widower," spoke up Snappednet once more, although this time the crowd murmured their agreement with his statement, rather than trying to stop him from talking. "The man's a stranger here, and although we can do what we can for him, it's likely he’ll not see another tide."
Seeing his opportunity, Bartholomew allowed himself to smile this time, using the genuine emotion blur with his intentions to help carry his argument forward. "As you know I'm a well-travelled man. Perhaps if I could speak with him I might be able to recognise his people and be able to advise you on a course to set?"
The group began shuffling their feet again, murmuring together as they discussed their options. Bartholomew simply waited nearby patiently. He'd done all he could to influence the tides, and now it was simply a matter of waiting until they washed him to shore. As he thought over the matter the preacher noticed the nautical metaphors which had begun to slip into his thought patterns, and for a moment worried that perhaps he'd spent too much time with these simple savages.
His self-reflection was stymied as Prickedfinger stepped forwards once more, this time far more confidently than his last approach. "There's no harm in trying, we suppose," he announced in a less than overwhelmingly positive manner. Bartholomew couldn't care less about the nuances of the man's speech however, since he'd gotten what he wanted from the man regardless of his feelings.
Following the man between the sunken houses Bartholomew soon found himself on the outskirts of the rustic settlement, which made sense as the home looked recently built and so was probably intended for a young couple who had yet to take up residence, minimising the impact of the stranger's stay on the locals. Waving his thanks to Prickedfinger in a way which inferred that the preacher would prefer to speak with the man alone, Bartholomew crouched down and slipped inside the hovel closing the door behind him with a finality sure to dismiss the local elder more assuredly.
It took a few moments for the Widower's eyes to become accustomed to the dim light conditions. The only natural light came from two small windows in the front of the house, and both had been covered with thick cloth either to make the visitor's stay more comfortable or to prevent curious prying eyes from peeking inside. The only other light sources were oil burning lanterns, but from the look of them no-one had filled their reservoirs for some time, and Bartholomew wouldn't be surprised if they had yet to be used at all. The locals may be caring when it came to saving lives, but they were also frugal with their limited supplies.
When he could finally see clearly the preacher looked across the room to where a man lay resting on a small cot. He'd been stripped of his clothing and bandaged as best as the locals could manage with seaweed wraps, but it was clear from the absence of bulges beneath the sheets that both his legs were gone, along with an arm. The man was certainly dying, and Bartholomew was surprised he'd survived this long given the standards of the local healers.
Moving closer Bartholomew spotted the man's clothes piled neatly at the foot of the bed. His keen eyes recognised various styles in the clothing, but predominant were the Northmarch fashions common amongst sailors. If he were to guess the preacher would say the man was a trader of some sort, and given the mixture of clothing a low ranking crewman aboard a long distance vessel which put to port all along the northern coast.
Kneeling beside the bed the Widower leaned in close over the man, close enough to ensure his whispered breaths would be heard by him. "Brother, you're safe now. The raiders are gone and we'll soon be making port." The deception was a risk, if the man was lucid and sane he might already know that he wasn't still at sea, but the ploy could be worthwhile given the man's condition and was the most expedient way to learn more about him.
Springing to life the man grabbed at Bartholomew’s clothes, lifting himself up off the sheets. "We're safe? What about the girl?"
"The girl?" The preacher replied, confused at the sailor's words and wondering if they weren't just the insane ramblings of an addled mind. "What girl would that be, Brother?"
"The Captain's girl! The one we were told to protect at all costs." The seaman was becoming frantic now, his crippled body rocking on the cot as she tried to lift himself higher.
As the sheets feel away Bartholomew saw that the man's wounds were even worse than he'd first thought. The entire lower portion of the sailor's body was simply gone, and the tissue around the critical wound was marred by the tell-tale marks of shark bites. Whatever this man had gone through it was a miracle he was still alive at all, let alone as coherent as he was. Keeping him alive like this wasn't mercy, it was torture.
"Don't worry Brother, she's safe with the Captain. We know how important she is." As he spoke Bartholomew reached inside his robe and pulled out his dagger. "Now let me ease your suffering." Placing his hand against the back of the sailor's head, lowering it down onto his shoulder, the preacher plunged the blade up between his ribs and into his heart. For several long seconds neither man moved, until finally the sailor collapsed into Bartholomew’s arms with one final relieved sigh, his body falling limp and lifeless.
Taking a moment to clean his blade, Bartholomew quickly tucked it back away inside his robe before heading out of the hovel. Ducking through the doorway he blinked a few times in the bright sunlight until he saw Prickedfinger still standing where the preacher had left him.
"He's finally passed," Widower Bartholomew said in a sombre tone, "but I know his people. Take his body out into the ocean, weigh it down and drop it into the depths. Let him re-join his crew in death, so they may sail together for eternity. There is no greater peace you could give to him."
Not waiting to see the man's acknowledgement the Widower turned away and began to make his long march home. Things were afoot in the north and the Brides of Daigon needed to know about it before mysteries and whispers became something darker and deadly. A dark feeling settled over Bartholomew as he pondered on the sailor's last words, hoping someone in his order knew where the ship carrying a precious girl had sailed from, and who the child might be.
