Holes in The History of The Universe

7: In Which Samual Meets Alastair's Family

Samual squatted, shaking on the ground in the fetal position. He would never mention it to anyone, but he was silently screaming to the world, for someone to come and scoop him up and take him back to his time, but not God, no, if God existed, Samual held a grudge so huge against him that he would rather live with Alastair all his life and then be damned to Hell, then have him be the one to deliver him back home. Alastair was ridicules to think that any power that high would care about simple human events. Those who had their prayers answered were simply victims of coincidence, it seemed he was also one of those victims, for even though he had been a firm atheist almost all his life, he still dared to use religion's off brand title known as hope, at least he had tried not to use it since his father died.

He felt a woman's thin, delicate hand rub his back, and he slowly lifted his head up to it. She was young, only in her late twenties, and wore a tightly wrapped, white headdress to cover her hair, the same one that all Alastair's married female patients wore. She took his hand and lifted him to his feet, then spoke,

"Hello Samual, I'm Alastair's sister, Mrs. Créadhadair, I have come to take you back to his home." Her voice was warm and smooth, with a slightly thicker accent Alastair, who could almost pass as British if he spoke softly enough.

They began stepping slowly up the dirt road, and once he felt comfortable enough, which took almost half the journey, Samual dared himself to ask the questions that had been annoying him for answers since the queer woman showed up, "Isn't he mad at me?" Asked he.

Mrs. Créadhadair turned to him, looking disappointed, but only for the smallest moment, "Indeed he is, But I have spoken to him, and he's agreed to forgive you."

Samual nodded, and they fell silent once again until it came time to hike up the hill to the village, "it should be mentioned," she said between pants, "that Alastair is currently preparing dinner at my house, so I thought it would make more sense for us to go straight there."

"You look much younger than him," he responded with a nod, unlike most of his comments regarding peoples' ages, it was meant as a genuine question.

She sighed, "I am, in actuality, only three years younger. I fear that his medical work has permanently changed him, goodness, he hardly goes a month without catching cold somewhere. Well, he chose this life for himself, he was just too generous as a child not to. Come along, we're almost there."

As it turned out, the family lived only a few houses away from them, in a small shack she lived in with her husband. When they stepped in the door, a pig ran over and bit Samual on the ankle.Taking notice, Mr. Crédahair, who sat next to it with Alastair on a bench almost identical to the ones in their home, leaned over and silently gave it a gentle slap to herd it away. He then gave Samual a nod, and alastair briefly took his attention away from the baby in his lap which he was bouncing on his knee to give him a smile. The sight made Samual feel awfully discomforted, and he seemed to feel the same way, but at least they were both willing to drop the subject.

"Hello Samual," said he, "me and Craig here were just waiting for supper to cook," his eyes glanced to the man next to him, who waved to him, conforming the name's owner.

"I see you both have taken good care of Chatton while I was gone," said Mrs. Cre'adahair.

Samual took a step into the house, and sat down on a second bench in the room's corner, and he couldn't deny, the warm family bond was there, between the hearty chatter and smell of stew brewing in the cauldron, he couldn't help but accept its presence, even through his random thoughts. It made him sad, in a way, so he ignored the events of that evening the best he could, and then continued to ignore it after he had left, and was tucked deeply into Alastair's bed, when he noticed him writing in a large, leather book.

"What are you doing?" He asked faintly, his voice already adapting a distinct, half asleep, slur.

"I am writing today's illness quota, I just jot down the amount of deaths I handled, and what they were caused by. Go to sleep now, I'll be there in a minute."