The Last Philosopher

Less than possible

On the third morning after Earl's less than triumphant return. Charlie woke to find Herschel was up, but she wasn't sure what he was about. Facing the barred window, he was swaying slightly from side to side. A bit like one of the drunks she was used to seeing in the cells. Except he gave of a peaceful energy, instead of the smell of the morning after. In her many jobs, she'd smelled a little of everything. Still, there was nothing like the rotting from the inside reek of a hangover.

It annoyed Da that Charlie'd taken Rascal's example. They were both sleeping in the cell corridor. Because except for waking up to drink, and babble nonsense, the tall, dark stranger had been out for days. She regretted that her other jobs had gone undone as of late. But someone had to nurse Herschel back to health, and Rascal must have her reasons too. Since setting herself the task, Charlie even spent most of her birthday in the jail. It was yesterday, and Fannie'd been in to try and shoo them out for some fresh air and cake. Neither of them were very understanding. Rascal'd tilted her head, like Fannie was trying to sell water to a drowning dog.

Right now Herschel reminded her of an indecent tomcat soaking up the morning sun. Because the bedclothes wrapped over his shoulder weren't covering him properly. Not moving, she just laid there eyeing the improper backside.

What Da and Fannie couldn't see, was that this was the most exciting thing to ever happen in this two-horse town. Meeting a real-life Nontie, even if he was only part Áettar. It wasn't until Earl carried the tanned man into the office that she realised what the missing tracks had meant. As the peas-keeper, he was still hoping people would accept Herschel as human. But even with his round blue eyes, he still looked much too foreign.

Herschel was taller than most men she knew, but still managed to look frail. While he slept, she tried guessing his age. Earl'd taken to calling him the old man, and with the grey streak in Herschel's black hair, he might be right. Still, his skin was smooth, and its reddish-brown colour reminded Charlie of Fannie's precious bar-counter.

Remembering skin, her cheeks flashed red. She'd had to remove his leather gear to check for injuries. In hindsight she sure wasn't keeping her eyes closed was the more modest choice. Charlie was far from shy. Growing up around farmers and day labourers took that out of you real quick. Even so, she'd been uneasy about disrobing the unconscious man. And the feeling was making a comeback the longer she laid there watching his bare arse.

So, she summoned her courage, pulled the covers up to her nose, and squeaked, "gud mornin."

Herschel turned to face her, thank Zissmus the wardrobe malfunction was just in the back.

"Hello, it is certainly a morning. But what is it about it that makes it good?"

"I dunno, it's jus' somethin' people say. But ya've been asleep for three days. So wakin' up should be gud, rite?"

He raised a black eyebrow considering this for a moment. "Yes, I suppose that is good. Can you please tell me where I am?"

"Ya don't know? No, I reckon ya wouldn't, would ya? Ya're in the marshal's office."

Herschel scrutinised the cell, "this is the nicest prison I've ever been in."

The compliment caught Charlene off guard and her cheeks reddened again.

"It's too nicshe ifin ya aschks me!" Seamus saved her from having to respond.

"You get outta 'ere Seamus! Ya've been snoring in holding for two days! If ya're not sober by now, ya never will be!"

Charlene held up a finger to stop Herschel from talking. There were some grumbling noises, and the front door to holding opened and closed. She pointed at him to continue.