Chapter 2
Warg Bidden
The freefall glaucous sludge missed the toe of his black shoes by mere inches.
"Damn!" he exclaimed inspecting his shoes and trousers for splatter. "What's this, I ask you? Damn 'gulls, I tell you."
"Language, Uncle."
Fester jumped at the sound of her voice and upon turning saw Clara strolling with a short, dark-haired, older gentleman. He noticed the man wore a white shirt worn loosely around his neck under a gaudy long-haired fur coat without tails. He also wore a jovial expression, but upon closer inspection, his piercing blue eyes darted about alertly recording his surroundings in an almost paranoid manner.
"Ifn' you don' like the language o' the sea, stay away from it, Niece," he boomed at Clara. "Damn the 'gulls and damn their airborne assaults, I tell you. But let's step inside to avoid more, shall we?"
"Very well, Uncle," Clara said, stepping up to the door.
Her uncle opened it for her and allowed the Doctor to follow before entering himself. They found themselves on an elevated wooden platform containing a wall desk and large bookshelf filed with maps, charters, ledgers, and other leather bound books. In the center of the floor sat a table which was obviously used for real work as evidenced by the stacks of papers strategically placed about it. Behind the table was a large hanging chalkboard depicting columns with annotated letters and numbers. Down the two steps to the left was a corral of crates. Rows of wooden crates stacked on top of each other spanned the entire length of the building from double loading doors in the front to the wagon doors in the rear.
"Uncle, this is the Doctor." Clara made the obligatory introduction with a polite wave of her gloved hand. "Doctor, this is my Uncle Fester."
The Doctor extended his hand. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance, I'm sure, Uncle Fes- "He turned to Clara."You have an Uncle Fester?"
"Ah-hem. Good Morning Doctor. Doctor...?" Fester employed a more formal dialect as he politely fished for a given or surname.
"Good morning," the Doctor replied in his general direction. "You have an Uncle Fester," he repeated to Clara.
"Yes," she answered feeling slightly embarrassed now by the Doctor's awkward display of manners. "My Uncle, named Fester," she continued. "You're shaking his hand."
The Doctor focused on his hand still locked in a handshake as if it were a foreign specimen before averting his gaze to the owner of the other hand. "Indeed a pleasure," he said, and after a few more unnecessary pumps of the handshake he finally released his hold.
"Yes, um-uh-harrumph, pleasure." Fester wiped his hand ever so subtly against his jacket. "What brings you to the Thames, Doctor, and in the company of m' favorite niece?"
"Oh you flatterer, Uncle," Clara interjected.
"…Fester" muttered the Doctor.
"As your only niece," she continued, "your compliment of choosing me as your favorite holds little merit."
"Makes no difference." Fester smiled fondly at her. "You would 'ave to be my favorite niece even ifn' you weren't my ornery bother's daughter."
"A genetic feat indeed." the Doctor continued to mumble while studying the chalkboard.
With practiced formality, Fester pressed on. "Which brings me again to inquire, what business it is that brings you to escort my niece on such a busy day, Doctor?"
"Devine circumstance!" the Doctor sprang to life bringing his full attention to his hosts. "You are, I believe as indicated by the sign outside and the contents inside, in the business of storing, shipping, and delivering cargo?"
"Well, yes, Doctor, but… Oh… Oh please don't tell me you are wanting to send things to the New World. Some sort of medical trade or whatnot?"
The Doctor replied with a noncommittal shrug.
"Yes, of course, but I'm certain the three surgeons already on the charter are going to be disappointed. Wotton himself, eh, he's one of the gentlemen surgeons… said himself that there's no medical breakthroughs to be expected from associating with New World savages."
The Doctor sucked in his breath. "Yes, the savages. Funny thing, those backwards, unruly, barbarians. I wonder how they have survived without our medical advancements, eh?"
"Yes, true," Fester replied oblivious to the Doctors sarcasm. "Uh, but I'm sorry. I have to see to the lord Chieftain's shipment right now. I'll be happy to discuss your matter when I return though. You understand."
"Oh, Uncle!" Clara gasped.
"Fester," the Doctor muttered.
Clara withdrew several scrolls from her bag after shooting an annoyed look at the Doctor. "Father wanted me to provide you with these export papers for lord Chieftain's supplies."
"Oi! About time!" His cockney syntax returned effortlessly as he grabbed the scrolls and set them hurriedly on the table. "…waitin' till th' last minute for these 'ere export papers," he fumed. "I had to refuse to load th' last cargo waitin' for these."
"But Uncle," Clara held a finger to the Doctors mouth before he could mumble again. "Why should we be worried about export papers for supplies going to the New World? There's no one there to import them."
"Details, m'dear. Business details and proper form and whatnot. Much too complicated fer' you ta worry yer' pretty brain."
"Accountability and taxes most likely," suggested the Doctor.
Bent over the documents, Fester looked up momentarily to acknowledge. "Quite." He then scanned each document with his finger, ensuring that each was filled out to his satisfaction. Plucking a ledger from the nearby bookshelf shelf, he began comparing each scroll to items noted in the ledger.
"Res-pee-ration … masks," he said, more to himself than to his guests. "'Ow' many of these are really necessary? I ask you. Chest braces … I think lord Chieftain's a bit paranoid, I tell you." He looked up from his work to the dark warehouse and then back to the Doctor and Clara. "There's almost enough 'ere to treat every traveler. Does that seem reasonable? I mean, I understand the cautionary tales after Roanoke, but this…"
"Almost enough?" inquired the Doctor. "How many is almost enough?"
To respond to the Doctor's direct question, Fester stepped back into using his proper practiced grammar. "Excluding the crew, there are 145 travelers. Lord Chieftain is shipping 144 masks."
"So who doesn't get to breathe?"
The expeditor stared at him. "I really don't know what you mean? This 'ere medical equipment is foreign to me, but I've just never seen so much owned by one man. I mean why so many duplicates, Doctor? Can't these items be used over again? How are we to dispose of 'em – er – them? Is that why you're here? You work for lord Chieftain, yes?"
The Doctor inhaled quickly and straitened the lapels of his fur coat, replying with a grunt.
"Of course!" Fester, accepting the Doctor's signs as affirmation, lost all attempts at formality as he began to pelt him with questions. "That's what you're 'ere for innit? So I'm just asking 'why so much?' is all. Not that I don't care for the health of our explorers, but that much stuff takes up a lot of room on a ship. Room is precious, innit? Right. And it's expensive, innit? I mean, your master said 'Cost is no issue.', but limits is limits, innit?"
"Well not in my experience."
"Wha…"
"Cost is not an issue, and if that's what Chieftain said, I'm sure there is a purpose. However, I am concerned about his equipment. Let's ensure we are not spending good money to ship broken goods, eh?"
Fester slowly placed his quill to its inkwell and changed his tone to a more formal one again. "We didn't receive handling instructions for the cargo, even though we asked. Without instructions, we took the utmost care to secure the cargo safely. Now are you are informing me that we need to open every last crate? Many of them are already onboard."
"No, no," replied the Doctor. "I'm sure a sampling would be fine. We'll just inspect a select few to ensure they were not packaged incorrectly before you received them, yes."
Fester smiled with relief. "Certainly. We still have some in the warehouse. The ones waiting on these export papers. Will those do?"
"Exquisitely," the Doctor beamed charmingly. "How fortunate. If the last of the cargo is found to be intact, I can reasonably assume the preceding shipments were packaged with the same care."
"Good, good." Fester turned to examine his chalkboard. "Clara, I need to take these papers for your father's signature. Can you escort the Doctor? Row six."
"Certainly, Uncle." She retrieved a lantern from a post near the steps and began to descend.
"…Fester," muttered the Doctor.
Lighting the lantern, Clara shot the Doctor another annoyed yet quizzical glance. "Watch your step, please, Doctor."
