..::There is a land across the sea
where things are kept
that were lost...
..lost keys, lost loves, lost wits..
and people who have lost them
come to find them
but sometimes they find
they have not missed them::..
. . . .
Such a one did I meet, good sir,
Such an angelic face
Who like a nymph, like a queen, did appear
In her gait, in her grace.
She hath left me here alone,
All alone, as unknown,
That sometime did me lead with herself
And me loved as her own...
-- Holy Land of Walsinghame
* * * *
'I knew there was something different about Samhain this year.'
Emlyn, once more, was bumping along the dirt road leading back up into the hills from whence she had just departed; seated beside Marta now, they were heading up country to Guano Acres as Jack had
named it; a hidden cave on the property served as a 'mine' for making 'bat bombs' out of the potassium nitrate rich bat dung.
Here in the Guevara's small cart, were the ingredients for Homer's treatment; fresh vegetables, fruit and herbs for that irascible gent's hopeful recovery.
'I didn't see Jethro there,' Em confessed, rubbing the dust from her eyes. 'Idiota that I am, I simply tried not to dwell on it and turned my thoughts away and back to my old obsessions...'
'Em...don't blame yourself! A waste of energy best turned to positive thoughts and actions for Homer's well-being, no?' Marta, of course, was spot-on with her comment.
'You have been busy elsewhere. And, truly, we did not hear of his illness until recently, when Jethro came by.'
'His symptoms?' Concentrate on the practical and helpful.
'Difficult to diagnose, there are many conditions that all have similar symptoms. A low fever, no energy...it is strange seeing Homer without his old irascibility! And, no appetite. That is the strangest thing of all...' Marta looked worried, though she spoke lightly.
'Complications from his...lifelong abuse of the temple of his body! He has desecrated his temple.'
At last, they heard the belling of the hound pack as they crested the rise and were met by an assortment of redbones, bloodhounds, a couple of black and tans, mixed breeds and an import from back east, the new breed of American foxhound, and...even a curious young pig, Em noted with small surprise.
Their escort loped, or trotted, along beside them, tails at the wag, having recognised Marta and her cart and steed. Em wondered if any of the old dogs still knew her after all this time, but she shouldn't have worried. Scent is an indelible marker amongst beasts and humans both.
Em was helping Marta unload the cart, just as she heard the screen door slam; and there stood Jethro, stuffing in his shirt tail and thumbing his braces up over his shoulders.
He ran a hand through his dark locks, thick and longish with wild curls now like a gypsy lad, thought Em. He looked younger, thinner, but she detected dark hollows about his eyes and his smile seemed a pale shadow lacking his usual exuberance.
She took her basket of goods and setting it down before him, embraced Jethro hard and long. He sighed and looked over her shoulder, shaking his head.
'I was wondering if you would come...'
Em held him apart, looking into his eyes.
'Of course. I'm here now, yes?' She attempted a smile.
Jethro just nodded, then went to aid Marta. 'This is the lot, Jethro,' she told him, handing him a basketful.
'We must get him to eat something nourishing! No fats, and, diosa! -- nothing fried! Fresca, not frijoles!'
Em picked up her own basket and followed them into the kitchen. While Marta began work on a soup, Jethro took Emlyn to the back rooms where she could hear a soft snoring.
Staring down at her old friend Homer, Em couldn't fathom such a change in so short a time: he looked nearly half a Homer's worth in weight now; but he seemed to have lost muscle as well. Loose skin made his face look old and sallow, and dark shadows marked his cheekbones and eye sockets.
Emlyn endeavored not to show how Homer's changed state affected her, and merely bent an ear to his chest to better listen to his heartbeat and breathing. She lightly felt his forehead; hot and damp. After some moments, she looked at Jethro and motioned him out with her and back to the kitchen.
Marta had a good chicken stock going, adding: carrots, celery, three different kinds of greens, and herbs:
'...Feverroot, tumeric, borage, cilantro, cumin, cannabis, comfrey, sage, thyme, wormwood, and muy importante: milk thistle!'
Marta displayed a muslin bagful of the healing herbs before dropping it into the pot.
'I will make a tea now, and this you will have him drink at least thrice a day.' Marta regarded Jethro and Em. 'Emlyn, pay attention: write all this down, if you must...'
Em did, noting that this was where the ginseng and Chinese herbs came in, along with others which she recognised: goldenseal and catmint, bergamot and ginger, rue and yarrow...and, of course, the milk thistle made an encore appearance.
As the tea brewed, Marta handed Em a sage bundle.
'Burn this and smoke him, as soon as he is strong enough for it.'
'Well, that's all I have time for, today,' Marta told them as she headed back out to the cart. 'I have other patients to see. Homer is in good hands, now...' She smiled at Em as Jethro helped her into the seat and she took up the lines. 'His body needs time to heal and repair. Have good hope!
'I'll be back in a week, no? Perhaps Ernestina will have time for a visit then as well. She may find something I cannot as yet see and may recommend an additional course of treatment. Til then: Soup. Tea. Rest. Sleep is the great healer.'
Emlyn and Jethro waved her off as the pig-and-hound escort saw Marta to the gate.
Em put an arm about Jethro's waist. He sighed, frowning at Marta's dusty retreat.
'I'll stay on here, as long as you like, Jethro,' Em told him, looking up at her old friend's face, much changed and weary with worry.
Jethro tried a smile, but it became a grimace. He looked down at her.
'That'd be a mercy, Em,' he said at last, as they turned back for the house.
Emlyn's heart went out to her old friend as she watched his shoulders hunched forward, head down as he scuffed along. She put a hand on his shoulder. 'The soup will have to simmer for an hour at least. Homer will sleep for a while now?'
Jethro nodded.
'Is the creek still running?'
He looked out and over the treeline at the bottom of the hill. 'It is, barely.'
'Let's go see...' She took her friend's hand and they
walked down to the creekside together.
. . . .
Meanwhile, at Nob Hill House...
Daryl sat at his desk in the study, leaning back in the old oaken padded and studded desk-chair, boots on desk; studying the objects displayed on the desktop before him:
The Cup, which he had brought with, naturellemente; and beside it, The Box, recently acquired with many sincere assurances to St.John, of Daryl's sworn oath of utter ignorance of where, who or how he had come by it's ownership. This, coupled with liberal greasing of St.John's ever-ready palm with silver procured him the Box and a pair of raw emeralds which Daryl was having cut, polished and set into silver filigree earrings for Yvonna.
For it was Yvonna; and her excellent dinners, which had successfully greased the wheels of many of Daryl's commercial deals over the years. To remain in that capricious lady's good graces did behoove him.
What to make of this fine and enigmatic artefact, though?
Daryl consulted his almanacs and decided that tonight would be fairly propitious for ceremony.
Tonight, the moon would be in his sign of Scorpio, and Daryl bethought that favorable. Closing his almanac, he stood at last, stretching, and intoned:
'The Moon's my constant mistress
And the lonely owl my marrow,
The flaming drake
And the night-crow make
Me music to my sorrow...'
. . . .
The creek was down to a near-trickle. Well, it was summer's end...but still, Emlyn had not seen it so low in recent recollection.
'It isn't as I remember, I must say.'
'No,' Jethro agreed, 'but then, nothing is as we remember anymore.' He looked at Em then, for perhaps the first time. 'You look well enough, Em.'
'We missed you at Samhain,' Em lied smoothly. She returned his searching gaze with one of her own.
'Did you now?' The newly wary, guarded Jethro was back. He took a seat on a warm boulder beside the softly trickling creek.
Em sighed and sat down beside him, removing her shoes.
Dangling her feet in the small waterfall, she told herself to be patient.
'Did you even say a word to Allyn? Or Sean, at least?' Em couldn't very well tell her old friend that she had been kidnapped back to Massachusetts, and had only just managed it back.
Not to mention everything else...
Jethro tossed pebbles in the creek. 'No.' He ran a hand through his hair. 'It's been too crazy. Ole Homer looks pitiful now, but he was like a bear with a sore ass, sorry, Em...but, you know how he gets. He only got real sick here just the past week or so...' He sighed once more.
'At least he's sleeping now. You should've seen him before...' Jethro shook his head. 'Not pretty.'
'You did the right thing telling Marta and Tina, Jethro!' Em was getting an idea as to what Jethro was inferring.
'Herbs can help...there are a lot of things, treatments that could help. Maybe the worst is over.'
Jethro looked at her, his gypsy curls over one eye.
'No, Em, you don't...see, still. I think he's done himself in with all his hard-drinkin' and awful eating habits, you know how he is! I try to cook with corn oil and such but he's a lard man...' He tossed his handfull of pebbles.
'Ah, that's nothing really. It's the hooch. It's killin' him, Em. He'll go goddam yella and die if he keeps on....'
Emlyn didn't know Homer was that far gone. She was so used to him, always just 'being Homer'.
'He can change, Jethro. He will have to. We can cure him.'
'Kill or cure,' said Jethro, standing. He held out a hand to Em. She arose, dusting her skirts.
'I'm gonna destroy that dam still...' Jethro was looking over across the meadow and beyond.
'There's plenty of other things this farm can produce,' Em took his arm as they climbed the hill back to the house. 'Corn. You could make your own bio-fuel, and sell it. Remember Jack and Al's steam thresher?'
'Sure do. Where is Jack?'
Jethro didn't know.
Neither did Em. 'I don't know.' She paused. 'But he would want to know about Homer. I'll send messages tomorrow...you can take them to town and take a break. I'll stay here with Homer.'
'Thanks Em.' He smiled a near-genuine grin then. 'He's over the shakes, and he isn't sick as much as he was.
Seems like he rarely wakes up, though. Won't eat. It's scary.'
They reached the ridge-top and looked out over the hills toward the sunset, hazy in late-summer heat still, no breeze.
'See if you can get him to eat something, will you, Em? I bet he would do it for you.' Jethro squeezed her hand.
'I'll have him fat and sassy again, you'll see.' Emlyn
looked up at Jethro, then took him into a close embrace.
'You're not alone, alright?' She hugged him harder.
Jethro sighed; a soft sigh of relief.
Emlyn took his hand again. 'C'mon. I bet the soup is about done now.'
Hand-in-hand, they walked that sunset trail back home.
. . . .
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