A Fine Black Sky
CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR
A curious streak fed the faltering stroll of the frequense spider. It detected something of a shadow, following one boy in particular, but not exclusively. The shadow was much like the frequense spider, in that it kept out of trouble, was distracted by any light, and only became affected when someone wandered close. Though the differences occurred only when that shadow moved from one small figure to the next, undetected by all but the frequense spider, it seemed, even as the one broken boy alluded to a notion or two that he too was aware of the absence of light, which hopped upon his own shadow and piggy-backed a jaunt, ever watchful, but of many at once.
It too seemed curious, adventurous and guarded. The only difference between the frequense spider and the shadow was that the frequense spider would ferociously protect its environment, but when it had the opportunity to investigate the broken boy, it too detected something avidly unique about him, though it had no way of expressing this, being bereft of all but the curiosity and the instinct to drive it.
The frequense spider was upon its delicious adventure now, inspecting its traps and testing the liquidity of its stored captives, moving onwards to the furthest of its webs. The frequense spider, though largely solitary, was voracious with its web-building, and often a half dozen of the same could bind a small room in sticky web in less than a day. But this was not the time to build, only repair and examine, much as occurred in the scene below it, for the frequense spider made its home in the Medical Station of the South Tower, because of the constant warmth it imbued the air with, along with the ripe odour of disinfectant, cloying the walls with an impermeable gauze of the same.
Just arriving, being led by an Orderly, was the injury from the floor below, yet the Orderly was in no hurry, despite the immense pain his charge felt, and described through the whimpering noises he made, still clutching the bloody tunic around the wound.
The Orderly sidled up to the Nurse who was even then turning her back on him. This fired something in the Orderly and he was caused to speak.
“Alright. I get it.” he said, dispirited, “Just tell me, what is it you see in Doctor Gage, that you don’t see in me?”
The Nurse looked on at the Orderly with exacerbated resignation, “Alger, not now? I have a patient -“ she explained, gesturing to the bleeding Worker she had taken from Alger the Orderly.
Alger pushed the patient aside, “Synnove, if you just tried, I know you’d -“
Synnove took hold once again of the patient, angrily jerking him from Alger’s grasp, “Just forget it, Alger. I simply don’t have time for this.”
“Come on.” pleaded Alger, a little desperately, “Just one visit to the Merchantery?”
Synnove baulked, “Eww, no! I wouldn't go into that pit of vipers for anyone!”
“What, not even Doctor Gage?” tried Alger with a wickedness in his eyes, “Come on, Synnove! Give me a chance!”
“This man is bleeding to death -“ explained Synnove again. She did not pause this time when Alger spoke. She simply rolled her eyes skyward.
“And I burn for you, Synnove.” he managed at last.
Synnove shook her head, “This is absurd.”
“So are you!” spoke Alger, before he could stop himself. He attempted to mend the mistake, but he was already watching the disappearing figure of the Nurse, “Damn it, I didn't mean that -“ Alger shrugged, only partially disappointed, but upon seeing a colleague, his pride and ego was piqued, “See that? I’m in there.” he expressed, with thumb and a smile.
The next Orderly merely watched him with crossed arms, leaning upon the wall and very much amused, “You sure? Because it looked like you struck out, my friend.”
“Wow. Everyone’s a critic.” muttered Alger, pushing past the definitely amused Westlin. His passage was further accented by the smirk of Westlin, a snorting derision his musical accompaniment.
The frequense spider observed casually as it plodded onward, that the Nurse had taken from the Orderly the attention of the bleeding man and walked him to a seat, whereupon she looked upon the cut, washed and bathed it. The frequense spider had only a passive interest in the action, principally for the concept of whether it would interfere with the frequense spider’s progress. Noting it would not, the frequense spider moved on.
Within moments the wounded man was being treated by a Doctor, who simply instructed another, in this case the Nurse, to fix up the problem, while the Doctor himself had much more pressing matters to attend to.
He had not, however, as it was an excuse to relinquish the mollycoddling work to those better suited to administering it, like the people who had not the intellect or class to become something as austere and talented as a Doctor. This Doctor was certainly self assured that he was meant for better things, and it wasn’t treating the wounded, the stupid, the lazy and the careless, along with the snivelling children of the Nobles in their pursuit of Apprenticeship.
What this Doctor believed was that he was meant to be personal Physician to the Lord, or at least to a High Noble. Yet, with one thing and another, he had been forced into general medicine, and to treat this rabble.
He sauntered casually back to his Office, which manifested as a small room with little more than a desk in it, which was piled high on undulating waves of nonsense and paper, taking almost every available space, so that none of the wood of the desk top was visible.
He sat heavily behind the desk, falling into a chair that was perhaps one good thump away from collapse. He took up the correspondence that had been deposited upon the mass of paper thereon. He snapped it open and read;
‘In regards to our previous correspondence, Doctor Ebber, I must regretfully -‘
He tore it up, even before the ink was dry. One more rejection. It was becoming a habit, one which Doctor Ebber did not wish to furnish with further ammunition. Another unopened letter remained upon the desk, the thick red wax cascading from the Noble Seal mark, like an overfilled glass.
This was the one. Surely.
Doctor Ebber reached out and tentatively picked up the heavy-grade paper, slicing through the wax with the silver letter opener he had been gifted upon receiving his Doctorship. It contained the mark of the Doctor, with two scalpels in saltire, and the beautifully etched letter E upon the hilt;
‘It was with great ebullience that I received your letter, Cousin, but I am afraid that I cannot -‘
This correspondence he didn't even trouble himself to rip up, simply throwing it into the corner of the room, which, as to the size of it, was a very short trip. He would have to rely on a more distant nebulous friend to supply the news he so greatly needed;
‘Dear Doctor Ebber! It is with great regret -‘
This was simply unconscionable! He was an eminent Medic, for MonoGod’s sake! Did they not realise what it was they were rejecting? He had studied under Greet, and all who studied under him had reached High Nobility! Surely it was not the incident, that simple mistake, that was holding back his ambition? No one could have prevented that, not even Greet;
‘We, unfortunately at this time, have no place for a Medic, but we will keep your details on file -‘
As close to a rejection, surely, yet without the guts to say as much. Weak willed. Certainly not the kind of people Doctor Ebber would work for anyhow.
He was beginning to lose hope, despite his vanity and quite clearly a narcissistic streak within him. It only remained the one last letter to be his salvation. He delicately unfurled it and read;
‘Doctor Ebber. We receive a number of correspondence such as yours daily …’
Right, here we go again;
‘… And it is true to say that many of them are far more qualified than yourself …’
This was torture. Simply torture;
‘… But let me assure you, we do not hold that - incident - against you …’
Damn it all! Always with that incident! Let it lie, for MonoGod’s sake!
‘… We would therefore like to invite you to an interview at your earliest convenience …’
Wait. That was a positive!
An interview! Who for again? Sir Monathen, Noble of the Ferrachin Family? It would do. It wasn't quite the Family he would have liked, but it was better than this pathetic misery of a position in this decrepit, dishevelled hole of a burden here in the South Tower. No more abrasions of stupid young children. No more missing fingers of careless Workers. Just the sniffles of a Noble born, and all the fermented juice he could drink - which was an obvious vice, much evident by the green bottle he took from one of the drawers of his desk and the slug he took, simply to steady his shakes. Once sated, he rose with a smile and ventured back out into the fetid air to look down on the idiots further.
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