Bone and Feather

Bone and Feather -9- {The Doctor}

Later, as the sun had fallen from grace and the merchants of the market had all slipped away, Michael showed Cora the way to the apothecary shop. They rode the way upon an aging wagon pulled by a defeated, gray-speckled horse. In the back, the apothecary vials in their cases clinked with each dip in the road. They were quite far from the square now, the streets growing dimmer, yet somehow more curious, with each turn. 

Almost abruptly, there were no more torches glowing beside them, leaving only a faint moonlight to give depth to the darkness of the crooked building they had stopped before; but even still, in the dim, blue-tinted glow, one could see the layer of grime streaking down its ruddy bricks. Cora could tell they were close to the ocean now, for a sharp, salt-tinged breeze stung the air. 

A sign made of driftwood, swinging on rusted hinges over a darkened doorway, flashed a crude depiction of a mortar and pestle. As it swung in the breeze, small flakes of paint spiraled to the ground, like black snow. 

“The shop herself,” came Michael, lifting his legs over the side of the wagon, and landing upon the dampened street with no more than a faint echo. From his patchwork pockets, he produced a simple key of brass that winked at Cora in the moonlight. With the shadow of the shop crossing her face, she stepped down from the wagon at the call of Michael’s herb-stained fingers. 

“You may open it,” Michael said, handing Cora the key. 

Tentatively she fit the key into the lock, feeling the locking mechanism tremble from the grip of the key’s teeth. The door groaned open before Cora, a wake of musty air brushing her cheeks. The scent of herbs was strong, far stronger than the booth in the square was, and she coughed violently against it, stirring up a turbulence of dust. She stepped inside after Michael, suspended in darkness for a heartbeat until he struck a match and lit a company of candles. 

In the wavering candlelight, the shop glowed before her. The ceiling hung low over their heads, bushels of dried herbs draping from the wooden rafters.

 Two windows, small and clouded slates of glass, pressed tightly into their frames nestled by the door.  A table was pressed against the far wall with deep scars, that could only be made by something sharp and heavy, engraved into the swarthy wood. Upon it was a legion of tools; some made of stone with rounded edges, others copper and bronze with narrow blades. Much like the booth, vials and jars of every shape and size imaginable occupied shelves and other crooks and corners of the room, choked with substances and specimens. 

“Wait here while I take the wagon around back,” came Michael from behind her and with a whisper of air, he was gone, closing the door behind him.

Quietly, Cora took a seat upon a bench, braiding her hands together as she waited. The silence in the room was powerful, like it possessed life and Cora began to feel very small in this new, strange environment. She lifted herself from the bench and inspected a large book situated on the counter. The cover was gritty and discolored, bound simply to the yellowing pages tucked inside.  She opened it, summoning an attack of dust, to a diagram of what looked like a human male. Cora flipped through several more pages; past brightly colored depictions of dissection, instructions for brewing tonics and cramped notes scrawled beside plant anatomy, until she came to rest upon another ink-crafted man. Tracing the aging ink, she noticed a curious alteration in the man’s parchment flesh. It struck a chord of familiarity in her, for between the grove of his shoulder blades, wings flourished. 

“Now who, are you?” came a voice suddenly, sifting from the darkness the candlelight could not touch. Cora started, slamming the book recklessly so that a few pages curled away from their binding and spiraled to the floor.

Her eyes found a man, standing where just a few fingertips of light could just touch him.  He had a weathered face that whispered of great age; one wrought with creviced wrinkles and skull-sunken eyes the color of flint. He was just below heavyset, with the beginnings of a beard and salt and pepper hair bound at the nape of his neck with a leather cord. 

“Not another one of Michael’s playthings, are we?” the old man’s gaze narrowed as he inspected Cora from behind oval-shaped spectacles. She clenched her teeth at the statement, fearful of what the answer may be and with unease sweeping through her veins, she took a step towards the door. 

“There is no reason for retreat,” he smiled, revealing yellowed teeth. This attempt to staunch her uneasiness was made in vain, for his keen smile could not calm Cora’s worry-strained heart. She stood statue still then, quietly reaching behind to grasp the brass handle of the door. But before she had the chance to flee, it swung open from the outside and Michael stepped into the doorway, creating a barricade of flesh. His pale, eerie eyes passed between her own wide, worried eyes and the strange grin upon the man’s face. Then, she watched as his own humored grin began to tug at the corner of his lips.

“I see you’ve scared her already,” he said to the man, closing the door behind him and sealing off her chances for escape. 

“Why is she here?” He narrowed his gaze at Michael, “you know quite well that I don’t like anyone, especially young women, poking around my shop.”

Michael took Cora’s hands delicately in his own and unraveled the cloth that cloaked her injuries. He held them face up,  so the gashes lay underneath the elder man’s gaze. Almost abruptly, his entire keen and defensive composure vanished. Now, a strange curiosity took hold of him at sight of the wounds and a fevered intent graced his face as he brought her wrists closer for inspection. Cora, surprising herself, did not struggle, for it then occurred to her, as she watched the elder man examine her wounds, that this man possessed an incredible depth of knowledge.

“I put some salve on the wounds earlier to stifle the redness, but the infection is still no better,” came Michael. “I thought you might be able to do much more.”

“You were quite right, boy. Quite right indeed.”

He set her wrists on the table and shuffled down to the farther end where the mess of tools and herbs gathered. As Cora waited, Michael caught her eye and gave her a slight nod, as if to say she would be alright. While she wasn’t too sure it was quite true, something in his expression had a calming effect. But through this serenity, she did not see the butcher knife until it was already raised in the air, arching down towards the vulnerability of her flesh.

It was far too late to move away from it’s path, so she clamped her eyes shut, as if it would somehow halt the blade and spare her hands. When the knife struck, the table shook with it’s bite. But as no pain took hold of her, she slowly allowed her eyes to crack open. And there, a whisper of an inch away from her fingertips, the blade had sunk into the wood. 

Cora yanked her hands back quickly, holding them close to her body, watching the man sharply in case he dared to lift another blade to her flesh. He returned her glare with a sharp, hardened gaze.

“If it were any other doctor of this age, that blade would’ve landed much closer and hacked your hands off. Lucky for you, my dear, I am no ordinary doctor. You may keep your hands, if you tell me where you came by those wounds.”

“There’s no need to scare her,” came Michael beside her with a burning, yet collected, glare at the elder man, all humor evaporated. 

The man ignored Michael and simply looked at Cora with an expectation for an answer. But now, her fear had worn away and she discovered a heft of anger had taken it’s place. 

“These are not self-inflicted wounds, if that’s what you believed,” she spit. 

“It crossed my mind,” he scoffed.

She hesitated a moment, for she would have to reveal her own evil if she told the secret of her wounds and she did not wish to be bound on the stake once more. She could not cheat Death twice. But alas, secrets carried great weight and if she voiced them, perhaps she could be free. So Cora took a large breath and put words to her tale. 

But as soon as the fist words barely passed her lips, a chorus of cries began to echo off the narrowed streets outside, shattering the silence of the night. It was a rising sound, turning wildly from a mild disruption to a nefarious uproar in a few heartbeats. 

Michael rushed to the door, Cora close behind, and ran out on the streets. A few people almost careened into them, torches in hand, gravitating to the source of the chaos.

The square. 

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Hey everyone.  I'm sorry for the large gaps between updates. I've been quite busy. This was quite a slow chapter, so I apologize for that. But anyways, tell me your thoughts and thanks for staying with this story. :)