"Where do we see any signs of this poisonous cosmic disturbance? Answer me that, sir! Answer me that! Come, come, no evasion! I pin you to an answer!" The Poison Belt by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
Challenger re-entered the common room from what had once been Roxton's bedchamber. Malone stopped pacing the floor and looked at the professor's tired, lined face. "Well? Is she …? Did you get enough of it out of her stomach?" Challenger's improvised stomach pump thumped on the floor. There'd be time to clean it up later.
"I don't know," Challenger said as he collapsed into one of Veronica's stick chairs. Turning another of them about, Malone straddled it and sat too.
"You don't know? Then … she might not make it?" Veronica had been watching Malone's restless movement from what she called her "library," a section of the open-walled room lined with bookshelves. "Do you want me to look for an antidote in my parents' journals?"
"Yes, that'd be good, Veronica. I'm not too familiar with this poison. It's unique to the plateau. Is there any of that coffee left, Ned? I could use a cup right now." Malone's long arm reached to the stove and transferred the pot to the table. Challenger rubbed his face with a long, bony hand as coffee sloshed into a chipped cup.
"But Marguerite will live, George?" Malone's bruised eye socket had turned green and yellow and stopped hurting days ago. If their little party went down by one more …
Challenger's looked at Malone over the rim of his cup. He sighed as he put it down. "At the end of the day, Ned, she'll live if she wants to, and that doesn't seem to be her top priority anymore."
Veronica had already pulled down the oldest of the leather-bound journals. She glanced back over her shoulder at the professor. "I can't believe she poisoned herself. Suicide hardly seems Marguerite's style."
Malone spoke up. "We all have a breaking point, Veronica." His life had been broken and mended so many times over the last three years, he hardly resembled the young reporter who'd left London to prove himself to the world. Marguerite had changed as well; but a hard, shiny surface turned away all but the most prying snoop.
Veronica's grunted "hmmpf" expressed her opinion of breaking points. She hadn't found hers yet.
Challenger checked in on Malone's team. "I agree with Ned. Lord knows, as much as I'd love to see my Jessie again, I thank God every night that she's home safe in London. I can't imagine remembering her as …" His voice trailed off.
"As dinosaur kibble?" Veronica slammed the book she held down and pulled the next.
There'd been a time when Challenger had been hard himself. Few in London would recognize the subdued version of Challenger they knew and loved.
That had been very harsh of Veronica, but Malone couldn't bring himself to remonstrate. Veronica grieved Roxton in her own way, perhaps less violently than Marguerite, but no less profound. Challenger's lanky body unfolded itself from the chair. "Yes, well, I'd best get back in there. She shouldn't be alone if she comes to."
"George, can I do anything at all?" Malone was back on his feet, almost trembling with nervous tension. "Anything you need or she might want?"
Challenger turned back. He looked thoughtful. "You say Bruiser's still about?"
When they'd returned from their failed rescue mission, the wolf had sat down just outside the electrified fence. Even Marguerite couldn't lure it within.
But it still stayed close by. When Marguerite had ventured to the ground for Roxton's memorial, it had barked and danced in the sun. It shadowed Malone whenever he took a rifle out hunting. Twice Malone could've sworn Bruiser had flushed him game. Tender young venison, both times. Marguerite's favorite.
"Just saw him yesterday down by the windmill. You want me to get him up here?"
"If you can. He might give her something to live for. Don't spend too much time on it, though. If Veronica finds an antidote formula, you two might have to hunt down the ingredients." Taking his coffee from the table, Challenger started back. He stopped once more. "Uh, Malone if you'd be good enough. There's one other thing. We've made quite a mess of Roxton's bed. If you could carry Marguerite to her own …"
"Happy to." Malone followed the older man through the doorway.
Malone threw the hunk of roast venison and most of the coil of braided line to the ground. With the end he still held, he fashioned a loop for a wolf collar. The windmill screeched slowly overhead. Bruiser hadn't shown up yet but even Malone could read evidence of the wolf's occupation -- large paw prints in the soft dirt, small tufts of black fur caught in the rough planks, and an indent in the dead grass where it had made its bed last night.
Malone felt sure he'd been right about the wolf's training. Only a tamed animal would prefer a man-made construct to a bed in the forest.
"Bruiser?" His loop ready, Malone yelled the name several times. Nothing. He put two fingers in his mouth and tried a piercing New York newsboy whistle. A faint bark answered. Malone whistled again. The bark sounded closer this time.
In another minute Bruiser bounded across the open field, but stopped ten feet away and with a great loose shake showered the grass with water. The scent of wet canine drifted to Malone's nose. The wolf then barked three times, dropped its rump to the ground and scratched an ear with a paw. Malone could practically hear it ask, What's up, Ned?
He felt ridiculous. He was here to beg a wolf for help! Only the memory Marguerite's limp body in his arms held him. "Bruiser! Glad to see you, old man," Malone started out in his best dogs-and-small-children voice. Tearing off a strip from the venison, he tossed it close to the wolf. It didn't even look at it.
"Okay, didn't figure that'd work. But how am I going to catch you, boy? Tell me that." Bruiser made a sound that seemed half a chuckle. Returning to its feet, the wolf snatched a stick from the ground and bounded about holding the stick in its mouth.
"No, sorry. Don't have time for fetch. I gotta get back right away." Malone came to a decision. He'd tell Bruiser the facts. There was something uncanny about the animal, it might even understand his words, and if not, just maybe the sound of a human voice would hypnotize it into standing still. He'd read some strange stories. Malone took the makeshift loop collar in his right hand and the rest of the line in his left and, clearing his throat, began to talk.
"You're needed up in the tree house, Bruiser." Malone took a short step forward. Bruiser's ears cocked forward but the wolf didn't move. "You shouldn't have abandoned Marguerite at the garden gate. She didn't take it too well." Another step. The wolf still showed no signs of bolting away. Its head dropped down low and the stick tumbled out of its mouth.
"She's been in bad shape since we lost Roxton. Won't hardly eat." Malone still couldn't say out loud that his friend Lord Roxton was dead. Oh hell. Two more steps. The wolf lay down on its belly. The long furry ears folded back tight to its skull. It looked worried.
"She's, uh, she's even been sleeping in his bed. Says it smells like him. Stays in there all day long. Nights too." Another couple of steps. Malone was almost close enough. The wolf seemed frozen in place.
"We think she got into Challenger's herbs last night and dosed herself with one of the poisons, I'm not sure which. Challenger can tell you. I found her in Roxton's bed at sun-up all wrapped up in his clothes, unconscious. I couldn't wake her up." Malone stood over the wolf, the loop in his hand. The wolf's green eyes were locked on his. It whined.
"She's tried to kill herself, Bruiser. Marguerite could really use a friend. Will you come back with me, please?" Surging up, Bruiser broke past Malone and ran across the meadow at top speed. Malone almost screamed in despair until he realized the wolf had taken the shortest possible route to the tree house. He started running himself, but with four legs Bruiser would reach the electric fence long before he would.
//^:0:^\\
My home lies deep within you
And I've got my own place in your soul
Now, when I look out through your eyes
I'm young again even though I'm very old
I Write the Songs as sung by Barry Manilow (Lyricist -- Bruce Johnston)
Thank you for letting me and my words inside your life. We're enjoying being here. Please write your thoughts to me and we'll sing together.