Chapter 2
Emily's restful moment was short. On the edge of a cliff she stood over a battle. Swords and spears thrust into bodies on a field of mud surrounded by a forest adjacent to a river. The clash of steel against steel. She cowered toward the earth. Her heart trembled.
The earth shook. A mountain erupted its anger. Ash and pumice and the depths of the earth erupted onto a city. She heard the screams of thousands. Panic and fear gripped the life out of all who stood in its path. The blood of man, woman and child mixed with the blood of the earth. She wept bitterly.
The crimson blanket turned to waves on an ocean. A deafening boom, and another repeated as canon fire was traded between two mammoth-like sailing ships. She heard the screams and wails of men as timber from their own ships became an enemy unto death. Her body cried.
As she slowly looked up she saw a shadow in the shape of a man within the darkness. A deep sinister voice emanated from the figure as it taunted her – words she could not comprehend. She had seen this darkness before. She tried to speak, but nothing. She shouted but she could not hear her voice. Over and over she tried until she managed to scream, "Go hlfreann leat!"
It laughed and laughed at her as it lorded over her. For what seemed like hours lost in the darkness of the sea, eventually it faded into the corners of the ship – into the corners of her mind.
The motion of the ship abruptly stopped. The ocean turned into a sea of barren wasteland. Her tears poured out until her cheeks were barren. Like a cracked and parched land, fearful there may never be another rainfall, she wondered if she had become indifferent. Her skin was numb.
In the late afternoon, Emily's vision came into focus as she held her head and sat up slowly – a groggy state progressed into some assemblance of alertness. Her nightmare began to fade. She pulled out a journal and pencil from a pocket hidden within the folds of her dress and began to write. She sobbed from the experience, but she craved the numbness over the horror. If only her dreams were filled with a paralytic sense.
The Apothecary knocked on the doorframe, "Are you awake?" he asked, "may I come in?"
A mousy response came from behind the door as it creaked opened, "One moment," she hurried to finish a thought to paper, closed the journal and quickly returned it to its secret place, "Yes. Please," she announced awkwardly.
Upon his entry he asked, "How do you feel? You appear," he examined, "somewhat – rested."
She swiveled her legs and planted her feet on the floor but remained seated on the small bed – it was more like a cot which she realized after pressing down then up again. She looked at her host. Ordinarily, any lady would draw on her sensibilities and announce a departure but, with a recollection of where she was, she inquired, "What was in that tea?"
He was hesitant to answer. But truth was a standard by which he lived, albeit he deceived his guest, "You were in some distress earlier. I hope you don't mind."
"Do you mean to tell me you gave me something to help me sleep?" she asked in amazement.
"A sedative. And quite safe."
She sighed, but not in disapproval, "I haven't slept in the daytime before. Although—" she shivered from the coldness of her unconscious experience.
Her host handed her a glass of water. She looked at the glass in suspicion.
"It's just water," he revealed, then added, "you must be thirsty."
She politely took the glass with a nod and drank it all immediately, "You seem to think I disapprove of your actions," before he had a chance to respond she continued, "I am not," she supplied relief in her tone – mostly intended for herself, "I'm desperate for more sleep," she avoided the word "numb," and continued, "Although—I don't know what's worse," but couldn't bring herself to reveal her nightmare.
But it was too late when he asked, "Do you have a sense of good or bad dreams?"
She shook her head, then halted the motion with an intent glare, "Do you have anything to avoid bad dreams?"
"In fact, there is," the doctor said then added, "And by your inquiry, I presume you have not availed yourself to one of those horrid dens," he paused.
"I am aware of their existence. But no," she assured him.
"No, of course not. Forgive me," he continued the subject but only in the strictest of concern, "Unfortunately, there are harmful long-term side-effects if one is not careful," he said with concern, "hence the lock and key," he pointed at the few cabinets where the contents were imprisoned.
"But it won't kill me?" her earnest grew.
"Not if administered properly and with professional supervision," he answered.
"I could use some good dreams and—" she hesitated, "—I just don't have the motivation to breath consciously," she gave up on the point and placed the empty glass in his hands; he held the glass with both hands as she gazed at it intently, "I wonder," the inception was planted but the idea couldn't quite take root.
"Yes?" he asked with intrigue.
She shook her head, "Actually, I wonder why haven't you called for a policeman? They usually do by now."
"Who?" he asked.
"Others," she softly wept into her tea.
He handed her a handkerchief, "I believe I need to understand."
"But you must think—" the tears began to abate.
Suddenly, the front door opened and in came a bobby. Emily was immediately startled and glared at Dr. Wren while she discreetly wiped her tears away. Her instinct was to bolt but such a scene would raise the alarm.
"Ah! Officer Findlay, what can I do for you?" Dr. Wren attempted to divert the officer's eyes from his patient but to no avail.
"G'day to you," he nodded once in greeting, "You are preoccupied."
"Not at all," Dr. Wren motioned the officer toward the counter, "What can get you?"
As the bobby reached the counter he swiveled back around toward Emily with an inquisitive expression, "Haven't seen you 'round here," he removed his helmet and tucked it between his arm and torso.
Emily shook off the surface sadness, "Yorkshire," she responded as she began to realize the Apothecary had not betrayed her. Nonetheless, she hoped for a hastened visit.
"Aye – lovely country," he commented, "So, what brings to London?" he asked.
She knew the art of idle conversation, but it bored her. Her hesitation was noticed.
"I pry, forgive me," he retreated.
Dr. Wren observed Emily's discomfort and her endurance to refrain from her recent torment, then distracted the bobby with another inquiry, "Another bottle of wolfsbane?"
The ploy worked, "Aye! The knee's been acting up something fierce – especially when it's so cold in the mornin'," he was thankful for Dr. Wren's attentive nature then added, "For King and country, hey mate?" he added, "How you managed to avoid injury is beyond me, especially on the field."
"Luck, I guess," Dr. Wren said.
"Aye, someone was watchin' out for you." he concluded as Dr. Wren handed the officer his purchase, "Thank ye," he paused, "Well, I must be off," he returned his helmet to its fitted position and tipped it again toward Emily, "A pleasure ma'am."
Emily replied only with a meek smile and a nod of her own. And to her relief, the officer was gone.
The Apothecary stood nearly at attention, "My apologies."
Emily recovered, if one could call it a recovery; her wounds were deep and chronic, but she managed some civility, "I gather you served together? In a war?"
"No. And yes," he stumbled, "We were in separate regiments, but the same war."
"War makes me sick."
"It's nasty business," he looked thoughtfully, then turned his attention back to his patient, "Now, back to your needs. Shall we?" he started.
Emily interrupted; she knew gratitude was deserved, "Thank you."
"Whatever for?" he asked.
Emily motioned toward the spot of his previous client, "For not turning me over to the law. At the least for vandalism."
"Never crossed my mind," he assured her, "Plus, I suppose after the war, I've seen enough to dull my senses," he adjusted his collar and placed his right hand into his waistcoat pocket.
"South Africa?" she asked.
"Yes. The Second Boer War," he reached for his snuffbox within the aforementioned pocket. He observed her expression required more information. It almost seemed to distract her from the sadness which claimed her weary face, "I patched up the broken bodies of battle."
"Yes" she nodded in grief. But the distraction of curiosity provided the therapy needed as her fatigue shifted from calm to agitation to calm again, "Now you are a doctor; but not in a hospital?"
"I discovered the need to broaden my practice. Hospitals are not the place to freely follow progressive methods. Therefore—" he waved his free hand around the shop.
Like the shifting earth her thoughts shifted and wondered. She pondered the glass she had drunk. She thought of her recent dream and what it meant. She felt empty and dark.
Wren noticed, "What is it?"
She hesitated but decided to broaden her trust, "I've been alone for so long."
"The battlefield is a lonely place," he reverted to what he knew, but realized its ineffective nature, "hopefully not as long as the wear of that dress."
She chuckled, "if you only knew."
The Apothecary saw an opportunity to change directions as well as topic and reached into a cabinet next to him and like a magician produced a box – a dress box, "My sister, who I surmised is about your size, came at my request to provide you with a new costume. It's similar in color and design," he began to open the box, "it is yours."
Emily looked down upon her crumpled dress with embarrassment. Normally, a gift of this nature – from someone categorized presently as an acquaintance – would politely be denied. But again, she looked at the condition of her current attire and accepted the kindness.
"After you change, would you care to make your way to the storefront? I will wait out there," he suggested.
She shook her head before an affirmative nod, "Yes. Please," she said.
He excused himself and thoroughly closed the door.
She was unaware of the lateness of the afternoon until she returned to the storefront. The Apothecary had cleaned it thoroughly, "Do forgive me for the upheaval of your shop," she stopped – her words, her step. She turned back toward him with both hands held up high only to find their target at his chest. The strike was not intended to harm but more as a moment of desperation.
The Apothecary cleared his throat as a means to recall the detail of their line of conversation, "Now, in order to help you I need to understand," he motioned for her to have a seat, "Let's start from the—" he stopped himself from a previous mistake, "let's start fresh." They both sat, this time she faced the store's front window.
She noticed a temporary fix to the window she broke earlier. As soon as she sat, which was more out of compulsion like a contagious yawn, she stood again which caused the chair to nearly tip over, "But I came in here for remedy—" she looked about the store, her face grew in bewilderment. She shook, not of her own volition but from what appeared to be an outside force similar to the incredible events earlier in the day – just not as intense. Her chair came to rest.
The Apothecary waited, "Emily," he stated to focus her attention, "although the recent occurrences are not directly related to my profession, I am curious by nature – and my dear, I am witness to the most curious of events," his voice was reassuring. He paused to observe any reaction.
A half-smile followed by a weak nod.
"Perhaps I can help," he added with increased confidence, "you said three words earlier. Do you remember?"
Her hesitancy of admission was not due to any type of lunacy, but embarrassment. Suddenly she softly said, "Birth pangs."
"Yes, 'birth pangs.' Fascinating to say the least. And I don't think I need to examine you to determine you are not with child – am I correct?"
With a slight laugh, Emily nodded in agreement.
"Can you tell me more?" he kindly urged.
Emily originally came for some kind of escape. She sought an elixir to take away the pain, the guilt – something to provide her rest, even if temporary – but perhaps disclosure, not in the full of course, was the better path to take. But she had a fear of lost liberties., "Promise me," she stopped, "It remains here," she straightened her posture and pointed at his head, "but – but what I tell you will seem unbelievable."
"I understand completely. Anything I receive."
"You are familiar with Prophecy?" she asked.
"A little," he replied.
Her voice quickly elevated but nothing as near as any of the disturbed levels he witnessed earlier that day, "Anger," her voice dropped, "Mourning," she rocked back and forth in her chair. Slowly, she calmed down and her host returned to his chair with a careful eye on her. Her restraint waned and waxed as she circled the room, but she continued, "The worst is when the faithful turn against each other," she wept as she waved off his offer to provide comfort with a white handkerchief as if to avoid surrender.
"I don't understand," he exclaimed with anticipated interest. He saw her waver.
She bent over and cradled her forehead with the palms of her hands, "I sure could use another cup of tea," her eyes tried to focus onto the Apothecary, for that's who she needed right now, the source of good dreams – dreams he could provide.
Time was lost to both of them; dinnertime had already passed. She caught a glimpse outside; the light from the sun decreased to a level which caused additional discomfort. Abruptly, she opened the front door, "I need to leave!" she turned back around while the door was still ajar and bolted down the street.
Dr. Wren rushed out the door; he needed to lock up. He hurried back to secure his store then twisted back toward the path he surmised his patient took, but by now she was no longer visible. He sprinted down Rotherhithe Street in the direction Cumberland Wharf Park. "Emily!" he shouted. The park did not supply much room to run, so his sweep was brief – no one was in the park. He called out to her once more and in his frantic state he caught the image of her face hidden within the trunk of a tree; but the image soon faded and all he saw was the rough bark as he waved off the illusion.
He scoured the park once more, even took a moment to scan the Thames adjacent to the park, then up and down the shoreline, but success eluded him. For the next hour he circled a few blocks surrounding his shop, even backtracked to see if she had returned. Dusk surrendered to the night as streetlamps replaced the waning sunlight.
Absent of lunch earlier that day he walked with one physical purpose into The Mayflower Pub – to eat. He greeted Sean, the barkeep who had been in his shop earlier, with little more than a nod. He sat and waited and was silent throughout the course of his meal. Even a couple of pints wasn't enough to loosen his lips for conversation.