~* Chapter Two*~
The young doctor's eyes widened with appall as these offhand words; it was as though having the mentally desolate behind a barred door in a poorhouse was routine. Quickly he stood; his mouth open in shock.
"You mean to inform me that these damn Americans keep their poor in the same facilities as their mentally insane? They keep them behind a sullied locked door with barely any light leaking in; then let them suffer along with those destitute who have to live with their wretched cries day in and day out? It's cruel punishment for both parties!" He cried, his hands shaking slightly with outrage. With a quick pivot of his heel, Quatre turned and made his way purposely over towards the grungy door. Without pretense, he turned the rusty doorknob and flung the door open, revealing the dark, wet, and narrow passage within.
Quatre nearly reeled back in disgust at the unearthly stench that floated from the dank air within; it was the scent of insanity. He stepped in, no rag over his nose and mouth, and felt a bit lightheaded from the odor; it was a mixture of blood, vomit, and urine; and, Quatre was sure; many other bodily fluids. The screams of the madmen and women within were like banshees; and they threw themselves toward the light with great force, their broken bodies hitting the steel bars that mercilessly kept them in their tiny cages and forcing them to fall back again. Water stood beneath Quatre's own polished shoes; and these men and women had to sleep and live in this daily. Many were grossly disfigured from cleaving their skin off layer by layer; it was a painful and futile way that they had tried to rid themselves of their inhumanly filth.
"Oh…Great God Above…if this is not hell…then what is?" Quatre said softly; his voice echoing down the corridor as he turned. A glimmer of light caught his eyes; it was coming from the last cell down this hall. No others were down this passageway, and the screams had died down slightly, as had the light that was coming from the poorhouse. No windows lit up this entire place; it was plunged in a hopeless and deadly darkness. "What inhumane ways are these…"
"Oi, it always 'as been this way; Alex never really gives a damn for us. We be lucky if we even get a scrap o' food on a daily basis 'ere. We always be treated like foul beasts, kept in dark cages as though we be too unfit for God's sacred eyes," came a calm Irish voice from the far cell where the dim light was originating. The voice sounded sane and educated; if a bit unnerving in its serenity. Intrigued at this, Quatre slowly made his way down the passage towards the cell, his footsteps echoing off of the stonewalls like water droplets in a pond. The slight rustle of a page came from the cell as he neared; it was as though the owner of the voice was reading a book of some sort. When Quatre finally came across his addresser, he was quite surprised.
Sitting in the wet floor of the dimly lit cell was a young man of about the same age as he; very disheveled…yet composed; as though he was the noble son of a great Irish king. His calm cobalt eyes were lowered, fixated on a tattered but readable copy of the Lord's Word. A long unkempt braid fell down his back; the end of it dangling in a small pool of dank water, and a mess of untidy bangs fell into his thin, boyish face. His body was obviously cold; only a few measly shards of cloth covered his lean, slightly muscular body. He was silent; then slowly, he raised his eyes to look at Quatre directly, his face as disturbingly calm as his voice had been. "So who might ye be? Me name be Duo Maxwell. I've been a "patient" in 'ere for th' past 3 years…Alex used t' use me to talk t' some o' th' others because I can speak German and French…but not anymore. He now just keeps me 'ere in this end cell, forgotten." At Quatre's appalled look, Duo shook his head slightly. "Ah, I might get some food occasionally, but I'd be pretty lucky."
Quatre knelt down to Duo's eye level and looked at him seriously, a gentle glimmer in his eyes. "My name is Dr. Quatre Winner…I came here from London to aid in the cholera attacks on the poor and mentally ill." Quatre paused, regarding the young man before him. "If you speak German and French…and read the bible…why were you put in this place? You have no symptoms of insanity…"
Duo looked at him with a wry look. "They 'ad one reason. By throwing me in 'ere, there would be one less Irishman on the streets." The Irishman smiled dryly and chuckled dryly, the first sign of emotion on his roguish face. "Ye be a doctor, eh? Hmm…come t' stop me onslaught, I presume…" He accentuated this remark with another sardonic chuckle, then continued. "You may see a bit o' morbidity in me jokes…it and my calmness come from me long stay 'ere. But I mean no 'arm; rest assured."
A sound of a door being flung open in the far end of the asylum suddenly rang out, startling Quatre slightly. He turned to face the direction from which the heavy footfalls were coming, then came face to face with a smaller man than Mueller, but powerfully built. He was obviously a bit inebriated; a pint of ale was being toted in one hand while a long rifle was held in the other, slung against his shoulder carelessly. He stumbled a bit towards Quatre, a mad look in his eyes.
"Who the hell are you and why are ya in here? Ya have no business in here with these filthy heathens! They only need to be taught a lesson with the butt of my trusty rifle!" he said, his deep voice slurred with alcohol. Quatre eyed him with a stern gaze and stood, his posture straight and distinguished. He crossed his arms over his chest, and spoke, his voice full of calm anger.
"As any fool can see, I am doing what any humane doctor might try to do. I am trying to help these ostensible "heathens" into returning to their former state, where they can become civilized, well-mannered citizens of society again. But with the way they're being treated here, it's a wonder many of them haven't killed themselves!"
The older man suddenly got a wild look about his eyes as he heard Quatre's regal and derogatory statement, and begin to step profoundly forward, dropping his gun and ale to his sides and bringing about his fists. "Why you little-I'll show you to smart-talk me again!" And with that, he came upon Quatre, arms outstretched and ready to take the young British doctor down swiftly. But the doctor had other plans. As soon as he was in reaching distance, Quatre outstretched his hands and quickly and efficiently applied firm pressure to his opponent's pressure points about the neck and forehead. He fell to Quatre's feet, unconscious and downed quite effectively.
"Wow…Well, I must say, Doctor…you're th' first person to ever have downed Alex or Mueller. It takes a bit o' muscle to put those two ruffians away, even for a short time. I'm impressed." Duo smiled as Quatre dusted himself lightly, then turned back to face his companion. He thought he saw a bit of admiration in the Irishman's cobalt eyes, then he spoke again. "Aye, I do believe that you may be th' one who could turn this place around."
Quatre nodded slightly and thanked him softly. "Thank you very much…I swear that I will try to do the very best I can."
