Chapter 3
The next morning, just after sunrise on another cold and dry morning, Emily emerged from the park. She stood on Rotherhithe Street and peered in the direction of the Apothecary's shop, then up the street toward a row of quaint homes. Contrary to the traffic of carriages and automobiles set in their respective directions of travel, she was as stationary as a tree, undecided which direction to take. She thought to return north, but retreat seemed worse than pressing forward. Just then, she saw a little girl up the street who shuffled her feet as she cried. The little girl approached Emily but stopped shy by a few yards. Emily saw no adults nearby. The girl stood in one spot with her shoulders slumped. Emily took a few steps toward her as she felt her sadness; her empathy gave her the strength to approach, "Are you lost?"
The little girl stood silent and limp as she attempted to calm herself.
Emily had no experience with children of her own, but she understood the fears a child experienced. She struggled to push away her own struggles, then asked the little girl, "What is your name?"
No response as she stood in her pajamas and robe and slippers.
"My name is Emily," she waited. And waited.
The little girl cleared her eyes, "Freesia."
"That's a pretty name," she paused, "And what is such a pretty little girl doing out all by herself?"
The little girl smiled at the compliment but quickly reverted to previous expression. No response.
"I wish to help if I can," Emily said with compassion while the girl looked up at her to confirm her authenticity, "What is it—"
The little girl interrupted, "My uncle and father are loud."
"Loud?"
"They argue," she looked at the sidewalk before she announced her next confession, "I snuck out."
Emily scanned Rotherhithe Street and the nearby perpendicular Swan Road. She thought about the whereabouts of her parents.
"We're here on holiday," Freesia blurted in the awkward yet innocent way of a child.
"I bet your mother is worried about you – yes?" Emily said.
"But—" Freesia started, "they frighten me."
Emily didn't think much about her response; it came from sources she heard many times over, "You shouldn't run from your—" she realized what she was about to say as she thought about herself, then continued nonetheless, "—your problems," she finished.
The little girl looked at Emily with sorrowful eyes, then look up Swan Road.
"Are you staying nearby?"
Freesia nodded.
"Would you like it if I walked you home?" Emily offered.
At that moment, Emily was alarmed at a raised woman's indiscernible voice two blocks away. Emily held the little girl's hand. Freesia's face indicated she recognized the voice.
"Harlot!" the woman screamed, "Take your hands off my daughter!" she continued her hullabaloo as she stomped down the street, "How dare you!" the woman was dressed elegantly even for the early morning. Upon her arrival, she grabbed her daughter and held her so close as to nearly smother the child in her dress. The lady looked Emily up and down as her eyes judged – or shall it be said – misjudged her rumpled attire and disheveled hair.
The little girl was speechless. A new fear gripped her as her mother drug her away with a sharp scold.
Emily felt the discord and dysfunction of this family. She was powerless. She turned and walked away. But even then, something inside felt a sense of – good of innocence from the little girl. An innocence she lost ages ago.
Dr. Wren hobbled downstairs in his pajamas, robe, and slippers. Through is his half-adjusted eyes he squinted from the bright morning sunrise only to read on the front cover of the morning edition:
SEVERE EARTHQUAKE AT SAN FRANCICSO
GREAT LOSS OF LIFE
WIDESPREAD DEVASTATION
He quickly grabbed his bottle of milk and shut the door behind him as he went back upstairs, and carefully read the article on the tragedy which struck the city by the Bay and the surrounding counties. Deeper into the article he read the time of day of the earthquake, which coincided with his patient's violent episode, "But how in the world?" He continued the article while preparing a small breakfast.
Throughout his routine of preparation for another day of business he safely tucked the paper inside his jacket pocket and then took a quick peek out the door as he unlocked it. After a carriage and a new horseless carriage passed in opposing directions he saw her – Emily! She was hunched over, seated on a bench across the street, with a small book in her hands as she wrote in it with a pencil; her hair draped over the pages to form a semi-circle like a stage in a theatre. Soon, she saw the Apothecary, and stood abruptly as if the wind caught her. After she gained some semblance of composure she made certain the book was placed in the pocket within the folds of her dress for safekeeping. She paced back and forth; debate seemed to shift upon her face. He stood on the opposite walk; he was about to call out. She stared at the Apothecary with a blank look on her face and realized he would only pursue her as had the afternoon before. Resigned, she walked across the street toward him; the dress he had provided her the afternoon before was wrinkled and dirty.
With an outstretched hand he took hers in a polite greeting, but her eyes met his in embarrassment. He ignored the retrogression of her dress and gently ushered her inside. "Good morning. A hot drink for the lady on a frigid day? To bring back the color in your cheeks," he smiled.
She paused her step and forced a smile indirectly at him, "I apologize for my behavior yesterday," and waved off the tea.
"I was concerned," he said, "and you left without your coat."
It was obvious she struggled to maintain her composure as she sat in one of the cushioned chairs, now carefully aligned with a couple of others on the side wall of the shop, "I was safe, believe me," she assured him.
"Believe. I believe much more this morning than I thought I ever would," he joined her in short order and allowed the space of one chair between the two of them, then revealed the newspaper, but quickly withdrew it. The reference to his newfound belief produced a smile from her – albeit short-lived. Dr. Wren continued, "You experience—" he didn't know how to put it to words.
She finished his sentence, "—everything. The birth pangs."
He stood like an explorer who discovered Xanadu, "This is – this is unbelievable!" He swiveled around in search for more when his eyes landed on the pocket of her dress. "I couldn't help but notice a book," he pointed.
The guard of her hands returned to the opening of the pocket. She surmised he wouldn't steal it; her trust had grown, even if was little, "I need it," she replied. She looked down at her pocket and slowly removed the book, "It helps me think," she added with affection offset by a pendulum which many times swung to the side of fear.
"What were you writing moments ago?" his voice was like a softly played guitar which struck the right emotional tone with each chord.
She didn't answer at first, "A poem."
He observed her hands clutched the book like a virtuoso would a fine instrument. He didn't say another word for a few minutes; they both sat in silence.
The exotics she spied behind the counter in locked cabinets were forbidden; but an alternative sat before her in the form of a listener. In her exhaustion she trembled for escape, and simultaneously a surrender. Perhaps the revelation of her book would yield a generous reception. She observed an anticipation in his eyes. She reached out with the book in hand as a dying artist about to provide her last performance, "It's not done yet," she opened it to the work in progress.
He graciously accepted the temporary gift only to realize after reading a few stanzas its permanence, as the words were etched into his soul:
The Rocks Cry Out
How long must I scream at the sky?
Even the rocks join this awful chorus!
From a glorious day turned foul and sour
Centuries upon centuries I've been anxious!
Howling at the moon with the coyotes,
Groaning in chilling agony to the heavens,
Pangs of childbirth rain a storm of tears
As the Earth quakes its own foundation!
My roots and branches stretch in torture.
To hurricanes and defenseless heartbeats;
Children's screams and blood fuel the fire
As armies march down rattled city streets.
Wars and rumors of in the daily paper,
Deception slithers from multiple serpents,
He was speechless for a moment. He returned the book in careful manner, "Incredible – I look forward to when it's finished."
"No you don't," she snapped."
"What do you mean?" he asked as he returned her journal.
She ignored him.
After another awkward moment of silence he referenced the "Earth quakes" in the poem then produced the morning paper and exposed the front page.
She looked at it but didn't take it from him, "Sad," she trembled as her voice faded. She felt the jarring motion of being thrown from one end of the room to another, but she was only rocking back and forth as she stood. She was shaken from the images on the front page until she at last shook away the memories – at least enough to continue their conversation. She paused for a moment, "And it's my all fault," she mumbled.
He leaned in with his hand cupped around his ear, then deciphered what she said, "How? No one can cause this—" he pointed at the photos of destruction, "—this kind of damage. An earthquake!" his voice urged with a subtle increase in volume.
Emily cleared the tears from her face and regained eye-contact as she leaned into the chair with a half-desire to launch out the door and the other half to sit; the result was the latter, "You will think I'm insane," she worried, but then sat up straight in forced composure but she yearned for the numbness; it was her only drug from complete anxiety – she begged the Apothecary, "Please!" and pointed at the locked cabinet.
His sentiment began to override his professional judgment, "A mild dose," he surrendered, "quite a mild dose;" he diagnosed – or perhaps justified – her need merited pharmaceutical attention, "This is something different from yesterday. I'll mix it with some chamomile," he stepped into the back room, and promptly returned with her temporary relief – a brief peace, "It has a bad taste on its own, so I added milk and honey. This will calm you," he assured her, then returned to their previous line of conversation, "Please do continue."
As advertised the effects of the drug provided her the needed calm; but it masked the symptoms of her torment, "I am not what you see; at least not all the time."
The Apothecary learned that the art and skill of listening was more effective if he leaned toward the speaker.
"Do you believe in the Creation account?" she asked.
His face remained motionless, "Creation?"
"The Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil?" she asked, "The Original Sin?" she fired off another question with impatience. Emily took a quick glance around the shop, and confirmed the lack of religious ornamentation, "What do you believe Dr. Wren?"
It appeared he didn't want to diminish the trust he gained by the use of his forgotten knowledge on the subject, but a lack of transparency may discredit him all the more, "I believe in what I can see and test."
"You saw me in the park," she replied.
He shrugged, "I searched for you. In fact, it was completely empty."
"I was there – and I can prove it!" she said in frustration.
Emily struggled to control her faculties but managed the truth; it was all she had, "I am the Tree."
Expressionless, he asked, "What tree?"
His lack of understanding infuriated Emily, "You say you believe with your eyes," she attempted to stand but wobbled from the prescription previously administered, "It's right here," she repeatedly wrapped on her journal with a single finger. She turned a page back, before the poem. Her mouth opened.
He looked at her expectantly.
She cleared her throat and shook her hair away from her eyes, "After he left the park I saw him walk back in the direction of his shop; but instead he went to the pub," she turned the opened pages toward him and pointed.
He kept silent. Waited.
"I went to talk to that man who came by yesterday while I was asleep, but you didn't say much," she added when she leaned up against the wall.
Mystery filled his expression. Finally, he spoke, "You were in the park?" he said.
"Never mind," she blurted but continued despite her frustration, "I was in the middle of the park. I saw you searching. You went to the river. You shouted my name," her lungs deflated after the effort of a raised voice.
"And the pub?" he paused, "It's not within sight of the park."
"Vibration."
He repeated her last word in curious disbelief, "But how?" he asked.
"Footfalls," she answered softly, "I feel them like sound; the same way you can hear —" she paused, "—I can feel words."
"Words?" he asked with increased curiosity.
"Nearby, not too far—" she confessed and stopped mid-sentence as the room became blurry. She drifted and whispered something unintelligible then became dead to any further conversation – asleep.
Dr. Wren assisted the chair in catching her from any injury; then he carried her into the back room. He repeated yesterday's hospitality and placed her on the small bed with the provision of a blanket. He returned to the front and closed the door.