Establishing Locations
The thin man was washing his hands with whiskey.
It was a slow process. He dribbled a little bit of the amber fluid onto his palms, rubbed it in, held his hands high to let the residue evaporate away. The stench of the stuff drifted towards the ceiling and threatened to corrode planks which still retained some faint hint of pine and weren't going to for much longer. Repeated the process, and repeated it, and then repeated it again for good measure while the girl watched with fascination and the future patient waited.
The girl's attentions were noticed first, and a steady stream of those foreign words came from the thin man. The girl's reply was considerably faster, along with being somewhat more insistent. The thin man seemed to verbally put his foot down. The girl actually did: a single frustrated stomp which made the hat go even more askew.
Four quiet syllables came back.
The girl's eyes widened. Frustration took over her features -- but then she shrugged, straightened her hat, smiled, and marched out of the room.
The thin man shrugged, then turned to face one of the other arrivals in his workplace.
"She's never seen an arrow removed before," came the calm words. "She wanted to watch. I told her it was something a decent young woman shouldn't have to see until she absolutely had to, she argued that decency and education weren't mutually exclusive..." A sigh. "Actually, she had a point. Several of them. But I'd rather not subject her to the sight just yet. If certain people think I'm training her as a nurse on top of everything else..." More dribbles of whiskey landed on his fingers, soaked under oft-bitten nails.
"What language was that?" he asked, mostly for lack of anything else to say while waiting for the process to finish.
"Irish Gaelic," with a shrug. "Rose doesn't speak much English yet. Her family is trying to run a mine... with the exception of her. If you ever have the twin misfortunes of both meeting and being able to understand her father..." He briefly looked as if he wanted to spit on something, settled for sprinkling additional rotgut. "Well, the heart of it is that she's apparently the worst miner in the history of mining and she's supposed to be earning her keep, but if she does that underground, the whole thing will collapse on everyone's head just because she steps into it. So she works in the saloon instead. Which doesn't make her father any happier -- not that anything could -- but the dollars she brings back at least keep his temper from exploding more than it usually would. I'm still trying to talk her into securing some of it for herself, especially since I'm just about the only person in town who can speak with her at all."
A question seemed to present itself, and he let it attempt to distract him from what was lurking ahead. "How do you work in a saloon when you can't speak English?" (The attempt failed miserably.)
The thin man snorted. "Because she's attractive and skips most of the time instead of walking, which leads to bouncing, which makes men follow her into the saloon. Because among the words she has very quickly picked up are 'shot' and 'whiskey' and 'another', which is just about all you need in that job. Because she's stronger than she looks and can kick someone off her when the hands get too close. Because somehow, in spite of what she grew up with and goes back to every night, she's happy... and when some people get close to that kind of happy, they either drink in celebration of it or drink more in the false hopes of catching up."
More whiskey rubbing.
"I know how this looks," the thin man went on, "but my stove isn't due until sometime tomorrow. I've had to borrow heat whenever I want to boil water, and I don't trust what comes out of the wells without it... seen too many men with stomach cramps and worse. Take it as warning: boil everything you drink as long as you're here. It keeps the incidents down. Your other option is living on alcohol. And you can do that -- just not for long. In my opinion, washing is just about the only thing it's good for."
He nodded. That didn't seem to make the future go away either.
The thin man dipped long-fingered hands into a pocket, removed a tiny book and stub of pencil. "Now, before we begin -- I'm going to need some basics."
"Basic -- what?"
"Information. Case history," came the calm reply.
"I got shot." That seemed to sum it up nicely.
The snort which came from behind him was of far superior quality.
The thin man narrowed light blue eyes. "Incidentally... does your horse always stick her head through the window when you're indoors?"
He turned to look at Sunbutt, whose head occupied pretty much all of the open space where glass might eventually be, along with substituting nicely for the displaced curtains. He wasn't entirely sure what position the rest of her body was in to allow the poke-in inspection, but presumed she was fairly comfortable -- although an awkward posture would account for the look of deep concentration on her face.
What little sunlight got past the top of her head landed firmly on his wound. The warmth was oddly soothing.
"Horse?" he said with a light mirth which didn't do anything for the upcoming situation either. "Why, that's a pony! You should see her when she gets her -- full... growth..."
The thin man hadn't blinked during the entire attempt to produce the stillborn corpse of a joke, which was admittedly one of the better responses he usually got.
"Right," the thin man said. "We may get back to that." The book was flipped open. "First: do you know when you were shot?"
He thought back, tried to track the date. He'd never had much use for calendars before the world had changed, not for more than tracking major events of the year or marking the anniversaries on which -- things had happened, and keeping accurate track of time during long stretches of travel simply served to drag the process out all the more. But he knew when he'd gotten on that last stagecoach. And given that, when he'd been tossed off it.
"Either very late at night on the twelfth or just barely into the thirteenth," he replied. "I passed out right after, and I don't know exactly how long I was down for, but I'm sure I woke up the next morning."
The thin man nodded, jotted it down. "Good. So... it is now..." He frowned, put book and pencil down, patted his pockets. "...there we go..." A stem-winding pocket watch came out, one with a case so tarnished that there was no way to tell if the original metal had been silver, brass, or tin. The lid was opened. "...ten in the -- oh, for crying out loud, this blasted thing..." His left hand smacked the casing several times. "...if I ever get back to Waltham, I'm going to have a few words for the manufacturers, and they won't approve of a single..." The stem was twisted this way and that. "...what time is it..." The angry glare temporarily moved away from the watch casing, coming to a momentary stop on Sunbutt's head before diverting to the long, low table which was being used as a dreading perch. "Would you mind moving your pony for a moment? I need to get a line of sight on the sun."
He kept the sigh internal. Well, it could work... "Sunbutt, clear out for a second?"
She snorted once, then pulled back.
The human blinks were simultaneous.
"Obedient pony you've got there," the thin man said.
"Sometimes," he replied as hedge against the inevitable moment when Sunbutt didn't listen.
"All right," the thin man went on, craning head and neck out the window, then reeling himself back in (with Sunbutt's head once again occupying the vacated spot). "Let's call it --" and the next word came out as a curse "-- roughly one in the afternoon. So we can fairly say that arrow's been in there for about a day and a half. It's June fourteenth, if you were wondering: you didn't sleep the clock 'round after you were hit. And you're in the Idaho Territory, just a short distance away from some of the strangest terrain ever found on this confused Earth..." He smacked the watch a few more times, and the fourth blow produced a single tick -- followed by a steady stream of more just like it. "Interchangeable parts," he muttered. "None of which work." More notes were taken. "I'll need to cut away part of that pants leg -- get a larger hole around the wound."
"As long as you don't have to cut the leg away," and he couldn't make it sound like a joke.
The thin man sighed. "No promises," came the simple reply. He rummaged through the instruments on the small table behind him, came back with a pair of scissors. "A day and a half... you've pretty much traded odds of infection for certainty." Knelt down to start snipping. "If we're lucky, we can catch the rot before it moves too deep. I've seen men live through worse and keep the limb. But part of it is going to depend on what the Indians did with the arrow."
He'd known it could be that bad. He'd guessed he had a good chance at worse -- and the removal alone could still trigger bleed-out, the fears of which had kept him from trying the process himself and thus setting his currently-two feet on the road to a decidedly common sort of death. Given that, it seemed that he needed to say some things while he still had the time to do so.
If the thin man gave him the chance. "But I'm pretty sure it isn't that far along," he went on, inspecting the flesh under the widening hole. "You're not running a fever. Skin reddening and death rivers... harder to spot on you, but I'm not getting any signs of either and there's no real swelling. There's a good chance we've caught it early."
"Look..." he took a deep breath, trying not to let the hope go deeper than the wound, "...before you take this thing out and any words I've got go rude... thanks for seeing me."
The light blue eyes went up, met his brown ones. "I'm a doctor," the thin man said in a matter-of-fact way, a quality which applied to the words which followed, "and you're a human being."
He blinked. It was all he seemed to be capable of.
"I... thank you."
The doctor shrugged and went back to snipping. "Which means we should be properly introduced," he said. "Jason Turner. The 'Doctor' is real and legal: you can look me up at Harvard if you get that far East again. And you are...?"
Blinking didn't seem to be a particularly helpful activity.
His mind reeled, searched wildly about for anything which would serve. Given any choice, he was never using his old one again. Titles belonging to the dead needed to be buried with them. He was aware of a host of more-or-less generic names which might suffice, but couldn't seem to remember what any of them were. His gaze fell on several of the instruments and rejected them immediately because he had no idea what any of the things were called and 'I am Mister Twisted Piece Of Steel' sounded idiotic, especially with the 'mister' attached. His desperate memory darted back, looked for anything which would suffice, maybe even something he'd already been called...
...and landed on exactly the wrong target.
It couldn't be taken back. It couldn't be stopped. It could only be spoken, and he froze with shock at the single word which emerged from his lips.
"Rarity." Rahr-it-tee.
Dr. Turner's head tilted up again. He had a clear view of the elegantly receding hairline.
An extremely flat "Really."
"...yes?" It wasn't exactly a tone which suggested total confidence in his own declaration.
The free hand snaked back towards the instrument table. "Are you running from something which I should know about, Rarity?"
Nothing anyone knows about. And that knowledge gave a needed firmness to the next word. "No."
Five heartbeats. Ten. Fifteen, all coming so quickly...
Dr. Turner shrugged. "Fine," he said, and the left arm came forward again. The circle of cut fabric was removed: he began cleaning the area around the wound. Additional quantities of whiskey were involved, and Sunbutt pulled back slightly at the smell. "And what brings you into the West, Rarity?"
"A stagecoach."
This time, the doctor sighed, and his gaze didn't come up at all. "If I was the enemy," he softly said, "you wouldn't be in what's eventually supposed to be my office. You would be on the road to the next eruption of structures from the soil, hoping someone there would consent to see you -- and 'see you' is meant in just about every way possible, Rarity. I'm not the enemy -- but treating someone as if they might be one is among the best ways to make one. Stick with the list you already have and don't try to write anything new down until you have proof."
Except that the doctor could deliberately mispull the arrow, make sure to hit as many blood vessels as possible and then step back with a smile, watching the last moments while knowing the vital work had been done in restoring a sea of clean white faces...
...and I could say that about everyone. Every time. For the rest of my life.
Which wasn't going to be very long unless he trusted someone.
He sighed. The trickle of sound turned into a river channel of apology. "I'm just trying to -- leave things behind. That's all."
Dr. Turner nodded. "Many out here can say the same. But they do tend to follow... and some of us bring them along." He frowned at the injured leg. To himself, "Not even a faint radius around the wound..." More scrubbing, as if trying to get rid of anything which would be obscuring the evidence. "I did."
"Brought things along?" Self-distraction.
Another nod. "I study wounds," the doctor said. "Infections. How they spread. Means we might have of stopping them -- even things which come off snake oil wagons that might work, because even a total fool can stumble onto something which works, if only by accident. During the war... I saw bullet wounds. Thousands of them. Even a few arrows here and there. But I didn't see enough. Not any number which would let me figure out how we're supposed to cure the results every time. So with all the tales and a nice collection of Beadle's to my name --" he gestured to a shelf filled with thin salmon-hued, well-read, flimsy, familiar books "-- I thought the single best source of new wounds would be in the West. Well -- it was that or find another war. And there's always another war, but it's been my hard experience that there's also always someone on the other side who feels the best way to maximize casualties is by shooting the doctor. I'm more vital out here, at least until the next wagon comes through and the people decide they can trade sensible medical knowledge for a single bottle stinking of camphor which will cure all their ills after one swig. And keep them from ever having any again after three. That's what brings me here." Which brought them to the inevitable. "And you?"
A partial truth was better than none. "Seeking my fortune -- same as a lot of people."
"Silver? Because that's why this town -- well, I can't quite properly call it that yet, but it's the only word I have -- exists. We've got lodes and veins of the stuff all over the area. It was only discovered fairly recently, and now people are scrambling in, building... "
"No," and it was still the truth. Along with being a secret, one he hated giving up -- but something which had been secret only to him. There were those in the Territory who surely knew, and he doubted the doctor was susceptible to the fever. "I heard once that --"
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"-- it's covered with gems!" the guest laughed. "You wouldn't believe what some of the explorers are bringing back. Everything but diamonds, and I'm not ruling those out until the entire Territory is covered. Things you'd swear only came out of Africa... right here in American territory. Take a step and trip over a ruby, swing your foot and kick an emerald into the sky. Once people figure out just how rich the ground is up there, it'll make California look like a dress rehearsal. Forget gold and silver -- although the Territory has plenty of those too -- hitch your wagon to the gems, man! Go after what most won't bother with! Any man can pan for gold and we already proved that virtually every man will! But with a little more knowledge, you can bring back the real treasures!"
The man of the house laughed. "Frank, I've heard this from you before. One scheme this week, another the next. You and your brother have found ways to get rich quick so many times, you should own the Carolinas outright. Why is this one any different?"
"The gems are there," the mustached guest insisted, smoothing out the bushy red flow. "The last I heard, Fred was still scouting the best deposits out, but he should be on his way back now. Think about what's happened over the last few years. Remember when the banks stopped giving out payments in silver? The government was taking that metal out of coins before that. They're basically saying silver isn't money any more. What happens to those who hoarded it, when it can't be traded for goods? What if the same thing happens to gold? But gems... those still have value. Gems could back the next currency. We've been able to trust in gems since we were tossed from the Garden. Put your trust in gems... and that faith will be returned in wealth."
"Except that we're happy here," the woman of the house said. "Moving to the West... what would we do there? What could we even bring? We'd have to manage our estate from a distance, months just to send a single order, and to bring the children... we couldn't even bring our slaves along, could we? Not even the servants. Is that true, of the Territory? Are their rules... the wrong ones?"
"It probably falls under the damnable -- sorry, son -- Northwest Ordinance," the guest admitted. "It's just about as far North and West as you'd want to get. But you, Clem... you could go with me. Fred could help your wife manage the estate once he gets back: you know how good he is with numbers. Two men out in the wild, setting their families up for life -- and all the generations to come."
"If you ever get around to starting a family in the first place," the man of the house noted with a laugh.
The son of the family, who had just been apologized to for a slip of language, glanced across the table, safely ignored by the adults. Pulled a face, one which showed that he had some doubts about all of this. Silent agreement, equally unnoticed, went back the other way.
"True, true... but it's so much easier to attract the right woman with one of these..."
The guest reached into his pocket. Glory came out.
They all stared. All of them, including him, for such a slip in etiquette was almost permissible given the sight displaying facets under candlelight.
It was half the size of the guest's fist, a deeper and brighter red than the luxuriant mustache. It was roughly the shape of a human heart, or at least the heart he'd seen drawn in some of the books neither of them was supposed to look at. It sent glints of fire around the sitting room, turned the house into the core of the most beautiful inferno imaginable.
"Fred sent this ahead," the guest quietly said.
The ruby said the rest. It said everything, and continued to do so until the guest noticed him staring at it.
"Another drink, boy," the guest said, and he had to go and fetch it. The gem had been pocketed again by the time he returned.
The guest argued with the man of the house for a time and the latter was tempted, that was obvious. But it was leaving family behind, it was giving control of the estate over to another (and the guest insisted that be his brother once that worthy returned), it was taking such a chance... but there was temptation there, something he could understand completely. He longed to go and find those gems. To go anywhere.
But he would be on the estate for the rest of his life. Unless he slipped, and put himself in the fields.
Or the grave.
But the man of the house, who could leave, was tempted this time. And he promised to think about it. They could all tell it was a real promise, unlike most of the others he'd given that guest and his brother over the years, men who always seemed to come by with a means of getting richer, or at least of getting their bellies full after the last one hadn't quite worked out.
The man of the house thought about it, and kept thinking about it for two weeks, which was when the war began.
The one who had also been in the sitting room that night, noticed only as a source for acquiring drinks or momentary confidences, never stopped.
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Doctor Turner gave him a long look.
"Well," came the admission, "you'd definitely be in the minority. Yes... the Territory has shown some real promise for gems. I've even seen a couple come through here, although Sheriff can't be bothered with them and the finders just wind up leaving again. Sapphires. Good ones. But since they're not to Sheriff's taste..."
Part of that speech came across as encouragement. The rest arrived as worry. "Your Sheriff decides what can be sold here?"
And that got a laugh -- a bitter one. "He's not the sheriff, Rarity -- not in a way that comes with official law enforcement powers attached. We don't have one of those, or a jail -- an official one, anyway -- or anything to do with keeping this place running in good legal order with statute-mandated consequences for those who get out of line. We're too new: the town doesn't even have a name yet. We're supposedly on some form of marshal’s circuit and I'm sure one will get around to us eventually... but until then, the man who holds the power is the man who distributes the money. Which is Sheriff -- who just happens to run the assay office. The person in charge of telling you how much your silver is worth is the man who gets to run whatever degree of town we've got. The man very few want to offend even when quite a number are offended by him. And he has no interest in gems because he doesn't know how to evaluate them, and he's not exactly a man interested in learning new things." He inspected the area around the wound, which seemed to be as clean as it was going to get. "You're sure on those dates?"
"Yes."
Which got him a frown. "All right... I'm going to get my hands drunk again, and then we'll take this thing out and see what we're up against."
The wince was automatic, with the little intake of breath from Sunbutt adding coincidental emphasis. "Do you -- have anything you could give me first?"
"Such as?"
"Laudanum? Morphine?" He'd never had painkillers: just fervent wishes for them and given the occasion, this seemed like the best possible time to actually try the real thing out.
"You're basically asking for opium."
He hadn't known that, but the extra option was welcome. "Do you have any of them?"
Doctor Turner straightened up. Stared down at him.
"Have? Yes. Use? Seldom. I used enough of all three during the war -- more than enough to see what happens to people who get them too often. Today, you might need it. In a week, you won't -- and you'll still want it. What I'm going to do will hurt. But it's pain you can survive. If I use those drugs, you may not get through what comes after. The man I'm speaking with now might not exist. Just a hollow-eyed ghost whose only interest is in asking that same question again and again and again --"
He took a deep, shuddering breath. "-- is there -- anything else?"
"Lots of things," the doctor told him. "All available off the finest snake oil wagons in the Territory. Those present three options. They do nothing, they get you so drunk that you don't care about their having done nothing, or the not caring lasts somewhat longer because you're dead. And I will not get you drunk because we need to speak about what comes after the arrow is removed. Intelligently. Anything else?"
His memory, which hadn't exactly been helping him up through that point, tried going through its much shorter list of collected Beadles and came up with "...a bullet to bite on?"
"How fond are you of your teeth?"
Sunbutt's breathing was getting faster, and it was in perfect harmony with his own. Sympathetic panic. "Wood?"
Doctor Turner nodded. "That I'm willing to do. Soft wood: you'll leave impressions, but you won't break your teeth or abandon them. Now, with your permission, I am going to apply some snake oil to the wound after I remove the arrow. Two-F brand. It claims to kill tooth worms, which would be interesting if any such thing existed. But it does seem to kill a large number of other things, and I'm hoping infections are one of them. With your consent...?"
Now there was a question no one had ever asked him, and the sheer novelty of it kept him from answering for a few seconds. (That and the fear.) "Go -- go ahead." He could have wished for some of the homemade salve his mother had put together: it had always seemed to do the job, but...
The doctor gave him the wood. He placed it between his teeth, closed his eyes, listened to the sound of splashing whiskey. Tried to concentrate on the smell of it, on his own breathing, on Sunbutt's, on the surprising warmth of the sunlight on his leg. A leg he might not have for much longer. He'd been trying not to think about that, at least not all the time, but this was the moment when there was no way to ignore it, the fact that he could be on the verge of losing limb or life...
He could feel Sunbutt watching him. Wondered what expression was on the mare's face. What those expressions meant at all. Staring through the window the whole time. Watching. Keeping an eye on him.
He hadn't tried to tie her up in front of the doctor's office: no rope to do it with and she could have uprooted any hitching post with the most casual effort, along with anything it was attached to. He'd heard hoofsteps (barely: there was a lot of mud) as he was led in and wished he'd gotten a chance to say goodbye -- then found her head occupying pretty much all of the empty windowframe.
Had she figured out the building had a back? Stuck her nose in everywhere until she'd picked up his scent, startling a good number of residents along the way?
Why was she still here? Why was she watching at all? Wanting to make sure everything came out all right before she left? Had she somehow taken him on as her new -- partner?
Would she stay?
My horse...
...no. That felt wrong. He didn't own her. He couldn't.
Warm sun. He could focus on that if nothing else, couldn't he? And he was good at pain. Next to death, it was arguably his subject of greatest expertise. He had experience. When it came to pain, practically every man in the world had to line up behind him, although given any choice, he would gladly wave them around to the front.
Think about the sun...
It was warm. Comfortingly so. The heat radiated through his leg, seemed to massage it from within.
The doctor's hands were on his thigh. "Odd..."
He risked removing the wood for a moment. "What?" Not a word you wanted to hear from your doctor.
"Just... something about the light. I think I've released a few too many whiskey fumes in here."
He kept his eyes shut. He was curious -- but the instant he tried to see what was going on would likely be the one he got to see something else entirely. "As long as you're not drunk."
And he got away with that. "I'd have to pour out another two flasks. Put that back in and count backwards from twenty."
He swallowed, followed what wasn't quite an order.
Zero hit.
So did the pain.
But it was a distant pain. It was almost as if he was watching it happen to someone else: the aches of empathy, the desperate wish that he could do something to make it stop... but none of it was being directly experienced by him. It was far away and all he could do was witness it while wishing the person suffering the best of fortune...
...the arrow came free.
Reality caught up and, insulted by how he'd been ignoring it, speared him in the thigh.
A chemical hiss hit his nostrils, and he nearly bit through the wood.
"That was the Two-F," Doctor Turner told him -- but that voice seemed more distant than the pain initially had. Distracted. "Remove the wood, please." It both was and was not a request, which took some major tone work. "We need to talk."
It was bad news: the relative lack of pain had been the result of something dying inside... He took the wood out, felt the dents he had left behind, opened his eyes.
The wound was bleeding sluggishly, with a strange white fizz around the edges and a sharp pain at the surface accompanied by dull ache deeper within. Doctor Turner was holding the intact arrow. Staring at the large brown head, which was shedding small flakes and revealing gray beneath. Then at him.
The doctor took a slow breath.
"I would deeply appreciate it," the thin man said, "if you would explain to me, in great detail, why you aren't dead."
"It was just a thigh wound," he replied, confused. "If it didn't hit anything major --"
"-- I assumed it was a small arrowhead, which hadn't gone too far in." Doctor Turner cut him off. The voice was steady, unreasonably calm, the sound of a man trying to talk himself through something he didn't believe. "If we were lucky, something fire-tempered shortly before it went into you, which seems to help your odds. But this went deep. This is nearly three inches of arrowhead. And do you see the brown?"
"Yes --"
"-- that is what we call night soil. Feces, most likely human. I have other words, but I'm not completely certain Rose isn't lurking within hearing range. A very few among the local Indian tribes -- the ones who have taken great and sometimes understandable offense to our presence -- have taken to rubbing their arrowheads with the stuff. It carries infection like the impeachment committee is reportedly carrying President Johnson: with great fervor and a determination to do the job as many times as necessary until it brings its target down. It is a slow, painful death. Whoever shot you bore no love for Americans, Rarity. They wanted to know you would suffer. It is a sign of ultimate contempt. At best, I would be trying to fight the infection and very likely losing. In most circumstances, I would be trying to figure out how to help you survive the amputation of your leg, and that removal would be your only chance. Even so, the cutting might kill you by itself -- or the infection which hadn't been stopped would do the job a few days later. More than ninety times out of a hundred, your death sentence would have already been pronounced and we would simply be waiting for the trap door to open. You understand?"
He wasn't particularly capable of going pale. He gave it his best shot anyway. "I'm pretty sure I know what you mean." But the doctor was speaking as if none of those more-than-ninety-times belonged to him...
Slowly, "There was no surface swelling. No death rivers. And when I removed the arrow, no pus came out of your wound. None. There is not the slightest discharge of infection. What I could see of the tissue itself is, allowing for the penetration, as healthy as could be expected and healing quickly. As far as I can tell, the wound is completely free of all infection. The most damaging thing present may be the Two-F. That leg will heal. It will hurt, and you will favor it for a time, but you'll be moving normally inside a month. You understand that as well?"
His heart soared. "Yes!" It almost came out as a shout. He was going to be okay! Miracle after miracle... that suddenly-attentive Providence so determined to make up for all those years...
"You have no right to be that healthy," Doctor Turner quietly continued. "You should be well on your way to death -- a death I could do very little to stop. And you. are. not. So I would appreciate it very much -- as much as I have ever appreciated anything in my life -- if you would explain to me why you are not only still alive, but likely to remain so."
His overjoyed spirit went with what seemed like the most likely explanation. "God?" One who had finally noticed what had been going on below and was scrambling in all directions to arrange apologies.
Silence filled the room and nearly shoved Sunbutt's head out the window.
"God," Doctor Turner repeated.
Grinning, "Why not?"
Behind him, Sunbutt made a sound, one seemingly caught evenly between whinny, relief, and mildly exasperated sigh.
The doctor folded his arms. Stared.
This silence was complete enough to let him hear the ticking from the doctor's pocket, along with the moment when it stopped.
"I think your watch --"
"-- I need your complete medical history."
"...what?"
"Every time you've been injured. Every wound, every scar. Each illness. Anything that's ever happened to you and the results. With nothing left out."
He was starting to worry. "Look, even if it wasn't a miracle, maybe there just wasn't enough of that night soil on the arrowhead --"
"-- starting from your first memories, through the present. You and I are going to spend a lot of time talking. A lot of time, Rarity. Because maybe you are the recipient of a miracle -- or maybe you're someone whose body simply doesn't get infected from wounds. And if that's the case..."
And now worry was heading for panic. "Look -- I should leave town. I can pay you, I told you that on the way in here. But with your Sheriff around, this isn't the best place for a long-term stay, and I have to find a place where I can make some money and replace my prospecting equipment: I lost a lot in that robbery, including my rock guides and I don't even know if I can find any replacements without heading back to St. Louis --"
"-- pay?" A laugh, hard and sharp and only slightly hollow. "I'll pay you! I will give you money every day to simply stay in town, talk to me about your life, and let me watch while that wound heals! Another doctor might try to keep it open and turn you into the Alexis St. Martin or even Phineas Gage of muscle wounds: feel lucky you rode into this town, because I am going to study you from the outside while you collect a handsome salary from it! You and I are going to get to know each other very well, Rarity, and that knowledge might just wind up saving millions of lives!"
Panic was introduced to desperation: the couple began a courtship. "Look, I want to help other people..." or at least explain to the doctor that he couldn't, miracles were miracles and -- well, there was his mother's homemade salve, but that surely hadn't made him immune. "...but if I stay here..."
"With me," the thin man replied. "The only doctor in town. And the only thing the locals fear as much as offending the man who evaluates their wealth is losing access to the one who puts them back together after they show too much of it off in the wrong place. I can give you protection from Sheriff simply because I'm the one doing it. You will have a safe place to heal, and you will leave here intact with enough money to go back East, purchase everything a second time, and return here with enough left over to have someone else prospect for you. You may be the recipient of a miracle -- but I intend to find out if it's one which can be duplicated. You owe that to humanity, Rarity... and you know it. Give me at least a week. Perhaps two. You'll want that for healing anyway. And if I find something, perhaps we'll both head East... to make the world that much better."
He didn't want to talk about his life. He had come out here to leave it all behind, start over. And now this man wanted to bring it all back. In the name of science. And that was before taking out the chance of being in a new town with no law, where the man whom no one wanted to offend hated him.
Except that... the doctor was right.
It was a miracle: he was (almost) sure of that. And miracles couldn't be made to happen on demand. But if there was any chance of the contrary...
Humanity included a lot of people who weren't necessarily very human. Who might not deserve such a gift.
But he wasn't the one to judge, at least not from this distance. And if he was truly (somehow) in a position to give so very much...
Besides, he really needed the money.
"All right," he assented. "A week. Maybe two."
Doctor Turner smiled. "Welcome to town, then," he said. "I can put you up here. It's best if you stay at my residence, and not just for monitoring. I can also get you some intact clothing as part of your first payment. I should do that quickly -- clothes sell fast when we get them. The locals come back from prospecting dirty and want to look their best when they meet the saloon girls, then decide it's quicker to buy a new outfit than try cleaning the old one. You may even get a few offers for that rather appealing hat."
His right hand went halfway up, paused before it could defensively clutch at the brim. "I'll keep that in mind."
"Settle in," Doctor Turner offered. "I'll head out after I bandage your leg and see what I can get. You and I may make medical history, Rarity. A doctor never wishes people injured... and yet I was still almost at the point of wishing for violence. We don't get a lot of trouble in this town, I had few wounds to study and treat -- and then you ride in. I just might call that a miracle -- in time." The doctor picked up clean linens. "Might as well take out the rest of the pants leg..." The remainder of that fabric went: the wound was wrapped. "How's the pain?"
"Tolerable." Surprisingly so, and he'd been through much worse.
"Good. I really don't want to use any of my supplies on you if I don't have to. Nothing personal: the stuff can do some real damage. Something I can't seem to explain to all the people in town who keep asking me for it every night."
The doctor had said he didn't get many wounded... "You have a lot of war veterans in town?" Those whose injuries had never truly healed, and not just those to the flesh.
A head shake. "Some. But that's not it. There's a rumor... well, it's like tooth worms: things which were disproved years ago, but if someone speaks quickly and with the right patter, fools will still buy into it, and this one's causing some problems. I have people asking for the stuff, demanding it, a few were trying to steal it..."
"I don't understand."
"Which is my fault, because I haven't explained it yet," Doctor Turner said. "The rumor says the opiates create a dreamless sleep. And there are people around here who would give anything for that."
He knew what was going to be said next. He couldn't stop it. He glanced back at Sunbutt and saw her eyes widened with what seemed to be an echo of the fear which had just filled his own heart. And for one horrible moment, he wished the mare had carried him to a different town entirely, somewhere the next words wouldn't be spoken, a place where he could dismiss the rising dread as nothing more than a moment of false belief and get back to creating his life anew.
"Most of the locals who come to me are trying to find some kind of cure for nightmares."
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4298948 your picture...
Okay, yeah, she's Pinkie, in some kind of weird allegorical fashion or something. And now we've officially got Rarity, and also Doctor Turner for some reason...
Ah, history. I knew about Phineas Gage, not Alexis St. Martin
Medical history has some dodgy moments. A lot of them, actually.
4378965
And Pinkie is now Rose, companion to the Doctor, apparently
This is growing ever more interesting.
Equestria appears to have intersected with Earth in some way - the gems being everywhere seem proof of that - and it seems as if some of our ponies may have somehow ended up as humans, or at least they do have rather intriguing parallels.
And now, well - Luna appears to be wreaking some sort of havoc. If we go off the idea that those suffering from nightmares are the ones connected to Equestria, which would explain why 'Rarity' is afraid of them as well...
The mystery continues, and it's a good mystery.
4379198
One minor detail: Idaho -- the real one -- is actually one of the most gem-prolific states in the fifty. You won't necessarily trip over a thousand-carat on a casual walk, but short of diamonds, most of the world's gem types can be found there.
Ohoh! Not Twilight, after all, but Rarity. Veeeery interesting...
Nice new update; got a little exposition about the town, what Rarity's plan in the new land is, as well as hearing some very witty dialogue.
This is good. I like that the doctor is refusing to give up what is obviously impossible.
Obviously Celestia had something to do with it. Probably stopped the infection herself, though I don't know why she can't talk, hasn't shown magic yet, etc.
This is very interesting, and I demand you update more.
I love it! Can't wait to read more.
Phineas Gage, learned about him in Physiology,
Was packing TNT into a hole, for a railroad, when the stuff blew up, sending the tamping rod through his skull.
Phineas survived.
Celestia may no longer have her horn, but apparently she can still do a few little tricks with sunlight.
I'mma go ahead and kick this story onto my Favorites list.
Alexis St. Martin wasn't he from canada or his family was. I remember hearing about him.
I'm really loving your dialogue and description of everything. I'm not that much into wild west stuff, but you really look like you know what you're talking about, have done your research, and know how to portray all the characters effectively. It really feels like I'm reading a real, straight-up western novel, but with the addition of 'Sunbutt' and possibly other ponies (if only allegorical representations) as well. I'm betting Applejack will show up soon, most likely as a cattle rancher or something of the sort. Rainbow Dash might be some newblood gunslinger and fortune-seeker. I'm really looking forward to seeing how this all pans out.
phineas gage... wasn't he the fellow who got impaled through the head and survived or something like that?
I'm slightly comfused as to why locals wantimg to have a cure for nightmares is scary. But I'm missing something here. help a guy out?
Maybe the doctor is allegorical twilight, that's my guess.
Okay, what proof do we have that this is indeed Rarity? I am very confused right now as to what is going on. Could it be that only recently the two worlds collided and the proof would be that all of these gems being found, Celestia, and now apparently nightmare moon have something to do with it. Is the main character Rarity even though he is a boy. Does he share any traits with Rarity? Why did he blurt out Rarity in the first place? I guess we will have to wait and see what will happen.
4379465 Classically, unicorns could cure poisons and ailments of all sorts. Some treatments involved grinding the horn to powder or making a chalice from it that could purify any drink. Others simply involved proximity to the living animal.
Oh no, black Rarity! The bane of bronies-who-"look-at"-humanizations everywhere!
This story is both entertaining and educational! I like it!
I had a feeling he'd be free of infection. I mean... if he wasn't after 2 days with a shitty arrow stuck in his leg, he'd be a dead man walking. Er... limping I guess. You get the point, and I knew that even before this doctor brought it up.
And yes, snake oil. Some shit the Flim Flam bros would sell, and perform a song and dance about.
imageshack.com/a/img33/5764/likethischapter.jpg
4381801
Cool. I didn't know that.
That's something to keep in mind for this story, I guess.
4381788
4382238
You're aware he's not actually small white horse Rarity, transformed or otherwise, right? He chose this name for himself after wanting to leave his old name behind in the east. The author telegraphed it in chapter three:
4383051 Well, yeah, obviously. It just reminded me of how a lot of people hate it when artists draw human Rarity as a black woman, and this story's black protagonst naming himself Rarity felt almost like a bit of a nod to that. I'm finding it hilarious either way.
4383062 Hah, yeah, I had noticed that myself as well. Kind of funny in a bit of a skylarkian way.
In any case, excellent story as of yet, Estee. I'd personally prefer a limit be put on the number of humans used as expys of pony characters. Seems to be stretching coincidence and even the narrative magic the more pony-like humans there are. Pretty sure Celestia here would find it hard to believe in her position.
4379235
Entirely possible you're taking narrative license then, but the way it's framed right now does suggest some sort of intersecting
Well, Celestia clearly has some amount of magic available. I suppose it comes with a bit of narrativium, arranging thoughts in just the right way to give a suitable name to a generous, gem-seeking soul.
I hadn't heard about the night soil arrows, but I'm not surprised. There's something oddly poetic about Native Americans using biological warfare on settlers. It's only fair, and at least they're up front about it. No cuddly smallpox for the Conestogas.
Looking forward to more, especially why the Nightmare seems to be bedeviling this town.
4378965
Don't forget the Two-F brand snake oil. Apple juice, beet leaves, and lamp oil. (Theoretically.)
4383051 Thank you for clearing that up. I feel a little better now.
4383504
Hah, yeah, I hadn't noticed that!
This was enjoyable on its own before we started seeing hints of a deeper crossover. Now, it's enjoyable and there's a mystery.
I think this story just got upgraded from "following as good reading" to "drop everything, it just updated".
4383504 4383051 4381801 4378965
And the comments section is great reading, too! I picked up some of those, but missed Pinkie and Doctor Turner. Obvious in hindsight …
4381510
Pretty simple. Sunbutt is Celestia, and was alone and looking for something up north in this area. We're starting to see hints of other Equestrian crossovers. If the locals are having nightmares, there's a strong implication Nightmare Moon has got her hooves in things.
Also, your epileptic tree of the moment:
The initials of the chapter titles so far spell out MIS ARIEL. It's a hint to an upcoming second crossover!
We're going to find a dark mare glaring at the silly humans, aren't we?
4383504 Funnier is, the two-F apple-and-beet tonic is indeed a very healthy drink, one plausible enough to be an actual Wild West thing. Not actual medicine, that's for sure, but still better than the standard snake oil fare.
4392647
Consider Sunbutt to be, excepting her sheer size, an extra-healthy specimen of a terrestrial horse, albeit with extremely expressive eyes and face. Breedwise, an expert might take her at first glance as some kind of Mustang/Shire outcross -- and after closer inspection, would give up.
4389846
Would it help if I promised not to name her Imbri?
Woohoo new chapter!
Don't stop please
4387613 Ah, a classic back in the days when music was more than just mass-produced shit ground out by corporate hacks.
DEATH TO THE AMA!!!
*Alondro likes mass destruction.*
4393590 I still can't picture the eyes and face, but alright.
Things seem to be really picking up now. Hints of Nightmare Moon, apparent healing magic at work, parallels everywhere, and a wonderfully written new character in the form of Doctor Turner. I think I'm going to like him.
I also find our previously nameless protagonist being called "Rarity" now hilarious.
Ooooh!
Time for some nice dramatic music, I think...
Soooooo, when's the next update?
*shudder*
This is glorious... it has a feel of 'the world that has moved on' from Stephen King's 'Dark Tower' mixed with MLP mixed with a really well built western scenario. It's way, way too early morning but this is unputdownable.
Not bad. Not bad at all.
Oh, Doctor Turner!
With his pocket watch.
I was thinking, based on the habit of washing his hands with whisky he'd be nicknamed Doc Whiskey, as a parallel to Applejack.
As it should be, as it should be.
I just now realized that Doctor Whooves is friends with someone named Rose.
Its especially embarrassing because I was reading him in David Tennants voice.
Okay, what?! You mean the commenters were right when they said the woman was Pinkie Pie? Also, I was confused at first that the protagonist was named Rarity, since the only thing I can see them having in common are a desire to rise above their station and gem hunting, but I'll allow it (not that I could do anything to stop it
).
I'm gonna read the next (and so far, last) chapter now.
Definitely an alternate!Pinkie although I was wrong about her father being the man with her.
Ah, yes, I was beginning to suspect at the mention of a watch...
Paragraph before goes with our protagonist's name... and I, of course, recognize the brothers. Of course, I don't know how close the personalities are in each case. For on thing I can't see "Mr. Pie" (name escapes me) objecting to nursing as a skill set for Pinkie... although barmaiding I can.
Fire ruby?
Twilight would weep that such measures to eventually write her beloved (accurate) books should be needed, but I think she could eventually* appreciate that the path from the fumblings alchemy to the much smaller fumblings of sub-atomic physics is a very very long one.
*Whether this would be hours of discussion, or centuries of experience (even if Equestria already has sub-atomic physics) I will leave up to the fanon of the reader.
...I'm not saying this very well, but it comes to this: here we have a medical SCIENTIST. May God bless him for his diligence and far-sighted compassion, and spare him any false guilt for his errors.
It just occured to me that in addition to any healing qualities the light might have, it may also have a purely mundane benefit of being better light to work with than would otherwjse be available indoors, or perhaps even outdoors.
Fizzing speaks well for the substance. Hydrogen peroxide tends to kill too many cells to want to used on deep wounds if I'm collating what my doctor's have advised over the years right, but it even is okay I THINK as mouthwash (tooth worms may not exist, but teeth that look worm-eaten DO). Not sure if the rotgut might not have been a better choice but... not bad Dr. Turner, not bad at all... *salutes* I see Celestia was working anethesiology, and perhaps litterally taking on the pain since she can afford to flinch, and might have the traine responses of a warrior, rather than a slave (his past pains might or might bot have been be greater than hers, but acting stoic might have just meant he got hurt MORE and thus something he would not have learned).
Rarity is now a good name to Doctor Turner. He might be a seen as a "valuable specimen", in addition to his previous status a "human". If you ever continue this past the next chapter, I wonder if either of them are religious enough to wonder, after other hypotheses are cast in serious doubt (somehow), "Lucifer, though fallen, could take the form of a serpent... might not a pure angel take the form of a mare?".
Exactly. The word(s) that usually preface a great discovery are not "Eureka!", but rather "Huh...? That is ODD."
At least plausible (and for all I know of fronteer psychology, blindly obvious) and useful plot point.
Generosity detected. Name well matched. With Laughter accounted for... I wonder if Celestia or even Turner could count as the scholarly and Friendship aspects of Magic. If Celestia was banished her upon her sister's return, it might take the Elemental Virtues on BOTH sides to return her.
Generosity detected. Name well matched. With Laughter accounted for... I wonder if Celestia or even Turner could count as the scholarly and Friendship aspects of Magic. If Celestia was banished her upon her sister's return, it might take the Elemental Virtues on BOTH sides to return her.
4380411
Not to mention keeping the air above them free of rain and punctuating a hoof-stomp with thunder for additional intimidation...
4383504
Would you believe I never made the "two F" connection to Flim and Flam despite recognizing them when they showed up in the flashback?