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 Posted: Thu Dec 29, 2011 1:07 am
[Yawley and Yates were the pair of them potent, a plain partnership at first glance, but powerful in their dynamic, two opposites with a yet perfect understanding of the need which they had of each other in pursuit of the True World. For while Yawley was a man of medicine, of inquiry, seeking the truth behind remedies, legends, and cures, Yates was a man of passion who chased down the cheerful songs that made the sickness bearable. Yawley loved fact, Yates loved the fantasy, and both preserved the facets of truth in each place they visited, creating a more perfect image of their travels than any Jawbone pair in Panymium. Regardless, no friendship could be found between the two, but rather an agreement that ran deeper than like and dislike, and a promise that was infrequently broken.
NO man could cure Yawley at the time of his death.
His body had shriveled, his eyes sunk like marbles
His breath came in rattles, and when he spoke any word,
His quavering voice was snatched by the greedy chill breeze.
AND yet Yates would not leave him, but nor did they speak,
Two men so different as to transcend understanding,
Bound to ideals that clashed and could not clash,
Understanding that neither could hope to comprehend the other.
RATHER, their company was made of long pauses,
Of truces and battles, and meetings in between.
Yates would not leave Yawley, but could not comfort him,
And when Yawley took his last breath, it was not Yates who cried.
BUT without that practical man, Yates would be lost,
Just as a fledgling bird falls with no helping gale.
So he sought the heir to Yawley's legacy with doglike devotion,
Enduring hardships alone so that he might find his companion once more.
WHEN he found the heir, there was a complication of silence,
For there was the Yawley boy, testing his medicine,
Scoffing at songs a year and a thousand miles from where
Exhausted Yates had left his predecessor's bones.
THIS was the cycle of Jawbone Men, that those who died would never die,
That those who lived lived in long shadows cast by their ancestors,
That if Yates traveled long and far, he would find Yawley living in his son,
And that there would always be a Yawley to seek the truth in herbs, disease or no.
NO.]
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Posted: Thu Dec 29, 2011 1:11 am
"No."
Quickly, before it's too late, Wickwright tries to stick his foot in the door and for his pains, he gets the mother of all bruises Pulling out quickly, he sits on the floor and seethes, nursing it while muttering as many bone-related curses as he can think of, all of which Hopkin is almost certainly assiduously storing away in his head as words of truth. The notion only serves to make him angrier, and like an avenging angel, the older man leaps to his feet once more and pounds upon the portal again, thundering, "Whitney Yawley, this is an order from O'Neill!"
There is a pause, and then the voice from the door replies, "I don't need a Finch to babysit me," sullenly. However, the entrance is opened a crack, and a mutinous grey eye peers up into Wickwright's blue ones. "I'm a grown man," the owner of the eye spits.
"You're sixteen," Wickwright retorts, pushing the door open the remainder of the way, "And you're living in a city that just recently recovered from a revolution."
"I believe the term that they're using is disruption," Yawley replies stuffily, but does not try to bar Wickwright now that he's made his way inside. "It can't be a revolution if the damn fools didn't change anything."
"There was intent, I believe," Wickwright observes, and sits himself down in a chair without asking, making full use of his superior position and O'Neill's edict. Yawley bristles at the imposition but can say nothing, and instead he sits himself on the bed so Wickwright cannot further intrude.
"Intent," scoffs the boy, "Intent is the difference between Finches and Mockingbirds."
"Mockingbirds?"
Yawley does a cruel but accurate impression of Feilim's confused face. "Mockingbirds like Feilim," he sneers. "O'Neill ordered Feilim too, but he can't make him a Finch by shouting, so I don't see why I must be babysat." He smirks and kicks his feet up on the bed as well as Wickwright raises an eyebrow at him. "You know it to be true, Finch, of all people. O'Neill's orders make him into our uncrowned king, but what would happen if we didn't listen to him? Nothing would change except perhaps we'd all be happier. Bone knows it doesn't make me happy to see Feilim flail about as Finch as if in too-large dress-up clothes. His impression of you reflects poorly on the genuine article." He strokes his chin in mock pensiveness, and adds, "Not that I've seen the genuine article since I was a boy."
"You're still a boy," bristles Wickwright, "And I was informed that you had requested aid. You have a most peculiar way of showing it if you do nothing but berate my kin and your betters. Anyway, your mother died not four months ago. Are you not supposed to in mourning?"
"If I mourned every one of my acquaintances that've died recently for four months," drawls Yawley, "I would be in mourning until I myself passed." His statement is grim and he stares at the Finch sitting in the ratty chair in the corner of the grimy cubby of a room he has rented. Wickwright stares back, but is the first to relent, uncomfortably shifting in his seat. In Yawley's eyes there is the same shadow that he sees in so many sad-faced youths these days. Something has been lost behind those eyes, and replaced with a dull cynicism that reminds Wickwright for all Whitney's rudeness, he's still just a hurt boy- Richard Yawley's son, thrust into a situation he does not wholly belong. It must have been no accident that Tadhg was sent to Paxton first, reflects the Finch man, cursing his blunder. O'Neill would expect level headed Paxton to deal with Yawley admirably. If he found out that Finch was sent, he would not be best pleased. Still, he has well trapped himself now, and remembering that despite his age Yawley is still a Jawbone Man, thus must be courted for his favour regarding Hopkin, Wickwright mentally curses. He is not off to a propitious start. "Anyway," Yalwey continues, quite oblivious to Wickwright's mental monologue, "I didn't ask for help. It seems that O'Neill sent you unbidden." A look of frustration crosses his face, and he insists, "He's the one who inducted me young. If he didn't trust me with that, perhaps he should have simply let the line die out."
"I apologize for my bluntness," Wickwright amends, backing down. "But I am here now, and I don't intend to leave whatever O'Neill's intentions may have been." Yawley shrugs and Wickwright waits for him to say something more, but it appears his piece is done. "Are you not lonely, at the very least?" asks the elder Jawbone Man increduously, gesturing around the claustrophobic, grimy room."
"Not for the company of any man of Bone," Yawley negates. "Feilim has already visited me many times, his chatter was like inane songbirds."
"Ah, living up the the Finch name at last," Wickwright remarks wryly. "Well, regardless of your feelings, I am staying with you. I have business in town anyway."
"Do what you will," Yawley replies, "I have classes and I don't have the clout to argue with the fourth family."
It's a poor start, but it's better than a no.
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Posted: Thu Dec 29, 2011 1:12 am
March seems recent to Wickwright and his Plague only because of the trauma which it heralded. Walking through Gadu now, he admits that the damage he saw in the spring has become but a bad dream, and the rebuilding that began almost immediately after the riots had died down has now almost run its course. There linger but a few scars on the vast cityscape, some still-fractured buildings here, an area which has lost itself to the maw of the slums there. Gadu is not unmarked, but is largely unscarred, and for that, the Finch is impressed, but not so much as his book, who thrives readily on order and is amazed to see order grow from the chaos he had witnessed with his own eyeless face not months ago. Hopkin is less discreet than he should be as the two move through the cold winter morning, but the streets are still bare enough that Wickwright allows the transgression. The Plague wants to see everything, the Grimm wants nothing but peace, and the two come to terms with each other halfway.
It has been nearly a week, and yet Finch has seen little enough of the boy who he was sent here to aid. It is early in the day, but Yawley rose yet earlier, getting up with the sun and not returning to his lodgings until well after said its setting. He is hard at work or hard at play, and Wickwright is not keen to follow him to find out. There are other ways to find out what Whitney Yawley is spending his time doing, and lurking about in the corners of a young boy's life would do no one favours. No, Wickwright Finch remembers enough about being sixteen to know that waiting is wiser if he wants the boy's confidence. He has a long quest in front of him to be certain, but by now, Finch is too old to fly fast, and with no pressing danger pursuing him like in March, in a city which is not devouring itself alive, Wickwright finds waiting is no unpleasant prospect, even if it must be done in the dingy quarters Yawley can barely afford.
Hopkin feels the burden of the wait more keenly than his Grimm does, and though there is plenty to occupy his mind in this place, his self-doubt eats away at him as always. Wickwright has had more experience with the chaos of the waking world to know that the rebuilding of what is broken will always come with time, much like it came to Gadu. Hopkin though is a thing with an old soul but new sentience, and thus cannot be sure of any such promises. He wants merely to press onward, invigourated by the obtainment of both Paxton and Tadhg's tentative blessings. Were those two not the closest to O'Neill? Their taciturn approval makes him feel warm inside, and frequently he mulls their consent over in his head, until the memories seem to him to be shiny and smooth, the comforting glow of a pearl or dim star. It is not quite enough though, and he would rather ride this motivation to the end, gain the status he wants as part of the collection, and take his place as a Finch contribution. The longer they wait, the longer that takes, and when nothing is certain, the hope that approval gives him makes him only more desirous to see that hope realized.
"Wickwright," he remarks as they pass under an arch. The tinny voice reverberates in the space, and his Grimm hushes him. When they emerge, he attempts again, whispering "Wickwright," faintly.
"Yes, Hopkin," Wickwright murmurs back, nodding in passing to a woman in the street.
"May we depart soon?" Hopkin asks hopefully. "I am desirous of progress, and Yawley is a most unpleasant man who is awfully cruel to Feilim Finch." He pauses, as if checking this statement against a list of perceived grievances, then conscientiously adds, "And his room has rats." Rats, whose size frequently match or surpassed his own, are the least welcome of vermin to Hopkin, who would any day prefer insects or mice or even unwanted visitors.
Wickwright considers the question, and answers, "No I don't think so. Yawley is not ready to trust us- He's been through much suffering since the plague came to Imisus, and we cannot leave without his support at the least. Else, what is the point of coming?"
"We may not need him," Hopkin points out hopefully. "We have two supporters yet."
"Hopkin, we waited for months merely to get Paxton's approval. What hastens you now?"
The book boy squirms uncomfortably in his bag, and admits, "Yawley's mocking of Feilim Finch quite upsets me. If he does not accept Feilim Finch's legitimacy, I do not think he will ever accept mine."
"I've explained your differences quite soundly, Hopkin. You are a book that is ill, that's all. Feilim was not born to be Finch, and was educated poorly when the time came for him to assume the role. If he is called Mockingbird, the fault is with him. If you are called Mockingbook, it is nothing but an illusion of the senses, an illness which may yet pass." Wickwright seems unperturbed by the conversation, they have had many instances where he must reassure Hopkin of his own legitimacy- It is the one lesson that seems not to stick, and in the face of such overwhelming claims to the contrary of his teaching, it is no surprising thing. In the face of a few naysayers, Hopkin can resolutely cling to Wickwright's words. In the face of a country full, he spins helplessly as a leaf in a stream.
He spins still, frowning thoughtfully, but unable to do anything but believe Wickwright's new reassurance. What else is there available to him? The thought of attempting the discredit his own author is absurd beyond the pale. "I would that we could know that Yawley thinks the same as you. Not everyone in this wide world thinks in truths."
"Yawley is a Jawbone Man," Finch replies in turn. "I think we can convince him yet."
The two continue in relative silence as the peace of the morning overtakes them, and in this rebuilt city they feel an unusual amount of cautious hope, strange after all the obstacles that seem to have gone out of their way to meet them on the road to their intended goals. Yawley is a rude and challenging youth, but Gadu is full of fresh starts, and their luck has been exceedingly good.
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Posted: Thu Dec 29, 2011 1:13 am
It is late at night when the door slams and Hopkin peer out from his book bag to see the silhouette of Yawley collapse onto the pallet he set up on the floor. In his bed, Wickwright is asleep, his seniority and arthritis having been just cause for the change in sleeping arrangements. He does not go to sleep though, and soon there is the soft glow of a dim rushlight in the room while the youngest Jawbone man pulls out pen and parchment.
He writes quickly, scratching at the paper in neat, short strokes, and writes at length. Long after the rushlight burns itself dim, he writes in near darkness, lulling Hopkin with the familiar sound. The book boy's head nods as he tries to stay awake, but the quill sounds draw him into his own written world as if by a magnet, and his vision cuts out as he loses consciousness, waking in the flat true world in the very next moment. There is someone who is writing here, too, and leaning over the Devil's Bristle that Hopkin brought with him here so long ago, after meeting the alarming herblore woman. The man is middle aged and kind looking, wearing the robes of a Jawbone man, so Hopkin approaches him hesitantly, tugging at his boot once he gets near. The man drops his quill in surprise, but upon seeing Hopkin, breaks into a pleased smile. "Ah, Source," he exclaims, lifting the book Plague up as he picks up his pen, "I was wondering if I would wander into you some day!"
"Yawley," Hopkin states simply, perching on the hand of a man who looks nothing like the boy he left in the waking world, and yet, by the laws of the Society, is one and the same. Yawley nods, pleased to be recognized, and sets the Plague on his shoulder, squinting at the Devil's Bristle again and returning to his labour without even a 'by your leave'. He is quite intent, and Hopkin watches for a spell, but it is no labour that fascinates him unduly. At length, he asks, "What is your purpose in observing it thus? You make no effort to present the information you write well."
"No," replies Yawley after yet another long spell of labour. "That is the job of Finch! I do not think he would be best pleased if I took it upon myself, do you? Anyway, I have no patience for making things beautiful. I am more concerned with other matters." He sprinkles the page he has just finished with sand, and then waves it in the air as it dries. Hopkin is left to consider his words and the strangeness of writing a page inside a world made of book. Yawley seems unperturbed by the anomaly, however, and walks a short distance away, where safe fire of ink is burning cheerily. He sets a pot over the flames and waits for smoke to emerge from that, chopping the Devil's Bristle into small pieces in the meantime.
"I do not think that foul plant will make an appetizing meal, Yawley," Hopkin offers from his shoulder.
The Jawbone Man laughs, shaking his head. "It would not if I intended to eat it! No, I have had an excellent lunch of rabbit stew, Source. This is for another purpose, for there is a woman of ninety years in the next town over who claims that this Devil's Bristle will cure all ills if prepared in a certain way. I prepare it in this way to see if she speaks the truth." The bubbling of the water creates hisses and bloops that floated into the air and black text and burst soon after by now, so Yawley turns his attention to the pot, pouring in the Devil's bristle and various other herbs with all the apparent spontaneity of one well practiced at his work. He catches Hopkin as the Plague leans in too close, then puts a lid over the whole concoction, letting it simmer and silently tapping a count of the time against his forearm, mouthing along the numbers. Even Hopkin knows better than to interrupt, so instead keeps count with him, surprised at the accuracy that Yawley affords. Hopkin has learned that to be human is to err, and yet perhaps because he is in the true world, or perhaps because he is merely very good at his job, Yawley times his concoctions with efficiency.
When at last the wait is done, Yawley opens the pot once more, revealing a simmering red broth, the colour of which is pleasing to Hopkin's eyes. "It looks," he states, "Excellently true to me, Yawley. What do you intend to cure with this elixir? Is it the remedy for the plague?"
Yawley responds with confusion. "What plague do you speak of, Source? There are many diseases which need curing."
"The plague," Hopkin explains, "The one that has killed so many, sometimes in less than a day, covering them with pustules!"
"It does not bother us here," Yawley rebukes gently, "Whatever diseases we may have, there are none I know of that cause a man to break out in pustules and kills them so soon! And I am glad of it, for it sounds to me like it would be a terrible thing to endure."
Hopkin stares at Yawley, bewildered. "But I am a product of that plague-" He begins to wring his hands together, uncertain of himself as soon as a trustworthy man might disagree with him. "I am a plagued book, which is why I appear in this form."
"You do not seem to have pustules to me," offers Yawley, confused but reassuring his company with a vague good humour. He pours his own concoction into a glass vial and caps it quickly, juggling it from one hand to the other as it cools. "In fact, I have heard of deadly diseases of the sort that you speak, now that I recall it, Source." Furrowing his brow, he stared across the flat landscape, to pages beyond. "But nonesuch illnesses here, and the cases I have heard of are rare. Are you sure it has killed so many as you think?"
Hopkin clutches his head. "I do not understand what to think," he says simply. "If a learned man like you does not know of what I speak, I am not sure whom to believe at all." Yawley does not mock him for it, shrugging gently and putting the vial into a satchel sewn into his robes.
"I am for the village," he informs the Plague. "I find you interesting, Source, and I am glad to have met you, but I must discover the truth of this remedy, and if you cannot discourse with me upon this deadly disease of yours, I will find some other to cure. It would be too far a trek to find a case of this Plague of yours if we speak of the same illness." He smiles gently, sadly. "I am sorry if one you love suffers from it."
"I think one I love suffers from me," Hopkin replies with considerable melancholy, thinking of Wickwright and his own insufficiencies. He cannot even properly answer Yawley. O! What a book! "You may go, but Yawley, please tell me, why are you not cruel?"
Yawley is caught by surprise and gives a sharp laugh. "Cruel! By the Bone, what slander has Finch been spreading about me? I did not know I had served him so ill."
Hopkin is hasty to correct Yawley's error, glad to at least be able to clear one misunderstanding. "You mistake the source of my supposition, Yawley!" he exclaims, shaking his head. "Merely, I have met a Yawley before, and he was not very much like you."
Yawley scratches his chin, remarking, "That is a curious thing, as I am the only Yawley I know of, made up of many generations, all into one. However, if you have met a discordant me, I say only this- what you see cannot be the truth of the matter, as I know my own nature to be as you have seen today."
He leaves Hopkin to his thoughts, and Hopkin wakes in the wide world to the sound of a slamming door in the pre-dawn of morning as the youngest Yawley spirits himself to places unknown.
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Posted: Mon Jan 02, 2012 12:46 am
A little later in the morning, there is a letter. It is not for Yawley, yet it is delivered to his domicile, and Wickwright accepts it from the Council messenger with some suspicion, unsure who reported his whereabouts back to Council headquarters in the first place. Since arriving in Gadu, he has not yet visited them, though the thought has crossed his mind, let alone given them an address. Nevertheless, he listens to the messenger as the man decrees:
"To the regards of you, a fellow Grimm, leader of the Council of Sciences Sire Sedgwyck Kirkaldy and his Plague Sire Erasmus requests your presence, alongside your Plague, be they Putesco, Excito, or Anhelo. The messenger that has henceforth delivered you this message has thereby signed his services completely to the Council of Sciences, and forthwith shall escort you to the nearest Council headquarters in your area with the assitance of Guardsmen, whom are in the service of the Empire of Panymium.
Such escort will prove to you that this letter is indeed written by the Council of Sciences, and consequently the messenger shall ask in place of Sire Kirkaldy for your cooperation in attending this meeting; if agreed upon, a mage Council member with knowledge of teleportation magics shall send you immediately to the location of said meeting, which is in a neutralized zone at Helios. A monetary reward of 50 Shillings as well as teleportation back to your original location shall be provided after the meeting.
The subject of discussion is classified and should not be discussed with other citizens of Panymium, nor any Grimm or Plague other than your own. Sir Kirkaldy thanks you in advance for your cooperation. This message hereby has been approved by the Empire of Panymium, its Holy Eye and Emperor Rine VIII, and the Audience."
A hesitation, then Wickwright takes the letter, reading it over as well. Why, he knows not, the content is the same on the page as it was in the declaration, but the secrecy surrounding the meeting makes him feel uneasy, especially when the missive mentions Hopkin specifically. Too frequently has his Plague led to trouble for him to be particularly eager to attend a classified discussion with the Council, even if he was aware at the time of his joining that he was eventually going to have to offer his services as a Grimm. He is certain it is a large part of why they accepted him into their ranks to begin with- He is a fine Jawbone Man, but Grimmship is too valuable to the factions to flatter himself that Hopkin was any smaller a consideration than his own merits. But the formality of the request makes him feel cornered, and Finch has to admit it, his feathers are ruffled. The Council requires a reply though, and he has already gone all the way to Anica to serve them, spoken to the Grand Magus and Sir Sloane, and taken a road trip with the dead and dying. Agreeing to attend a discussion is no more difficult than any of the tasks that have been put to him so far, and despite the difficulty of these tasks, already he has profited. He has a better idea of Panymese politics, has had doors open for him that would not have opened for Finch the mendicant, and he needs their good graces to protect his Plague.
He scrawls a hasty reply and hands it to the man at the door, merely hoping that he will not have to end up protecting his Plague from them.
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Posted: Mon Apr 02, 2012 10:33 pm
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Posted: Sat Jun 09, 2012 11:47 pm
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Posted: Sun Jun 17, 2012 9:13 pm
If the morning's events have been shocking, Wickwright has not noticed. He is still riding, just barely, on the adrenaline rush of being a Finch in peril, his indignation outweighing his fear as he strides alongside a man who was standing next to a man whose plague killed two advisors not hours ago. He's walked next to worse before, he supposes, but none of them have ever had anything to do with his book- apart of course from being fodder for the stories within it. But this man, the tuber known as Doctor Amory Kempe, cannot stop talking about it, or rather, about Plagues, and Plaguing, and his Plague, Hopkin, and the words spilling quick from his tongue are denser and more mystifying than any Wickwright ever put to paper. However, Finches are no fools, and even if Wickwright does not comprehend the technical terms, he understands the gist and is able to feign comprehension for the rest of it. The tuber man seems enthralled merely to have an audience willing to listen, but Wickwright is possessed of the distinctly uncomfortable feeling that Hopkin, perched safely in his hands, follows more of the discourse than he does. The thought that his book might surpass him at something is no small issue to him, and as his thrill for danger dies down, so too does his unease grow. What seemed prudent at first, letting this man examine Hopkin so that he might be somehow valuable to the faction, seems now to have been unwise to him. He could have merely done more errands, the last one had not been impossible, as inconvenient as it was.
But what harm can talking do? Hopkin speaks to him all the time. How is speaking to this loquacious Scientist any different?
"But tell me, Mr. Finch, how did you feel upon losing your book? As a man who takes pride in my work, I can't imagine what losing it must have been like."
"He did not lose anything," Hopkin returns indignantly, "For I am just as much a book as I was before. I am merely ill," he parrots, repeating all the reassuring words that Wickwright had been telling him since the damn thing's self consciousness began to get in the way of the possibility of yet salvaging its worth. Wickwright winces, merely reminded of an old pain and freshly realising that speaking to him is far different than speaking to this Scientist. The puzzled look on Dr. Kempe's face suggests questions he does not want Hopkin to be asked bubbling too close to the surface. Speaking to this man will only either confuse the truth for Hopkin or make him seem like a mad old Grimm to the Council. It is not within Dr. Kempe's scope to understand Hopkin's mind as Wickwright does, and it is not within Wickwright's power to justify or explain his methods. There are some things that only an author can know about his text, personal and silent and close to the bone.
"I was aggrieved that my work became Plagued," Wickwright interrupts in steady measure, hushing Hopkin with the beginning of a discourse Hopkin values more than his own, "And yet, there was nothing to do about it but adapt." He gestured widely at the hallway they were walking in. "That is what brings me here, and to you today, Dr. Kempe. We all must adapt to the times we live in." It is a vague enough statement to suit both Hopkin and the Scientist, and has a sort of superficial optimism that, if he has judged this prattling man correctly, Dr. Kempe will find inspiring. He hits his mark with this assumption, and it sets the man off, jabbering away again, excitedly speaking about the future and hope. Wickwright is not so concerned with the future. Jawbone Men think mostly of that which has passed.
Feilim flashes briefly into Wickwright's mind, unbidden, perhaps reminding him that whether he chooses to dwell on it or not, the future is bleak. Remembering the words that Yawley used, 'Mockingbird,' Wickwright feels residual embarrassment and anger. He cannot help but sympathise somewhat with Yawley, the jeer hits close to home. O'Neill chose Feilim without his approval. O'Neill has been overstepping his boundaries, and Yawley, unpleasant and foul as the boy may be, is as much a victim of their unofficial leader as he is himself. Perhaps he can seize upon that to convince the boy to support Hopkin, but that risks his agreement with Tadhg, and makes Hopkin represent more than he wants him to. He only has a mind for getting his contribution approved. Making a challenge of O'Neill's authority is perhaps a Finch's place, but not now and not in this manner. If he is to remind O'Neill of his place, he wants the stakes to be far less dear to him. But there is a silence that sprouts in his brooding, and noticing at last that Dr. Kempe has stopped talking, he looks up abruptly, hoping his face has not given away his mind. Dr. Kempe is looking in his direction, but past him, Wickwright notes, and he turns to see a familiar face, shocked, but not so surprised as the boy staring back at him.
Of all of the morning's surprising events, Wickwright does not know why seeing Yawley at Trisica is the most stunning of all. The boy had said that he was taking classes, and the Council is, partwise, at least, a school. And yet, after such turmoil, seeing a familiar face where he had not been expecting it throws him completely for a loop, leaving him barely aware enough to catch Hopkin, as the Plague tumbles from his hand during his sudden stop.
Hopkin turns out to have been the cause for the halt, having squeaked "Yawley!" quite unbidden while Wickwright was mulling that very matter over. Yawley had looked up at the sound of his name, and Wickwright winces, for he knows what the boy has found cannot look natural. As far as he knows, he has hidden his Plague from Yawley well. Now, with no warning, the boy has both seen that and his keeping company with the Representative of the Council, who regards the stranger with no small degree of curiosity.
"A friend of yours?" he asks Hopkin, and this, too, is unnerving to Wickwright, as it seems unnatural to him that a person of such rank in the Council would so casually make inquiry to an excito. Even Meschke treated Hopkin like a curiosity when he discovered him, Kempe treats him as if he is equal to Wickwright himself. It seems especially strange that Hopkin should have friends, for he is a book, even if he is Plagued, and the idea that his book has made close acquaintances leaves a bitter aftertaste for the Finch man who wrote him. Yes, he has seen Hopkin grow attached to men and Plagues. Regardless, he is not ready to consider that attachment as equivalent to a human experience.
"He is Yawley," Hopkin replies regardless, "A Jawbone Man and a peer of Wickwright's. We are staying with him in Gadu." With that, the queer thing's gaze returns to the boy, who has finally regained his mettle, and is now striding towards the congregation, paleface but determined.
"So it's true," he breathes when he reaches them, staring straight down at Hopkin as Wickwright fights the urge to cover the Plague with his hands and draw him away. "Finch's contribution book is no book at all- it's been Plagued!"
"Actually, I've been informed that it's merely an ill book," Doctor Kempe chimes in with all the helpless cheer of an official with the best intentions at heart. "Whitney Yawley, isn't it? You showed up for an extracurricular lecture of mine some weeks ago."
Yawley's sight shifts reluctantly from Hopkin, but this potatolike scholar seems to command some degree of respect with him, or at least more than Wickwright had been able to wring from the impossible lad in the past week. "Yes, Doctor Kempe," he replies proudly, his bitter sarcasm tightly sealed away, but, Wickwright notes, not an inch of humility in him, even now while talking to the Counselor! Were he less wounded, thinks Wickwright, he would almost fancy that there was some Finch in the lad. "I am confounded at what Finch and," he pauses, his eyes drawing back to Hopkin falteringly, "his book are doing here with you, though."
"Why, Mr. Finch is a Council member, Yawley, just as you will be someday, I imagine," counters Dr. Kempe. "He is here with me to make an appointment."
Yawley eyes Wickwright and Hopkin carefully, as if he is seeing them for the first time. "Then I will not keep you, Dr. Kempe. Finch, I will see you in the evening, I presume."
Wickwright nods gravely. Here, at last, is an opportunity to broach Hopkin to Yawley, and he thinks he can see the way to convince the surly lad after all. Something of the energy that he had earlier this morning, so nearly quenched by the realisation of his commitment to the Council is revived, and again he is riding on Finch's legacy, the eagerness to seize opportunity in the face of trouble. Though there's been more than his share of trials today, perhaps he has not come out so bad from it after all. There is a purse of money in his bag and, most surprising of all, a chance he has been seeking for some days now, and an opening in Yawley's prickling armour.
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Posted: Sun Jun 17, 2012 10:10 pm
Hopkin is tired of confrontation and conflict by the end of the longest day since Wickwright's first task for the Council. The faction seems to trail chaos in its wake, and were it not purportedly pursuing the truth itself, Hopkin would wonder why they had joined it at all. They have obstacles enough of their own without the brief eruptions of chaos the Council has thrown in their way, and yet Wickwright has decided that to remain is wise, and so Hopkin does not question the verdict. For all the times that chaos has consumed them, so too has Wickwright salvaged their circumstances, again and again and again. Has he not proven this very day that above all others, he is the only man Hopkin can depend upon? When there were those who would listen to the lying Armaud, it was Wickwright who made action to return them to Gadu, safe from harm.
He has not had time to process the events of the morning yet fully, though they weigh heavy on his mind. Since their whirlwind departure from the terrible meeting, all his time has been consumed with the colossal task of merely remembering just what had occurred. At the time he was too worried for his own life to refrain from interfering in events, and since, Wickwright sought explanations which Hopkin equally needed to hear. Now the silence afforded Hopkin allows him the time, time to sit and to think and recall what has happened so that if needed in future, he could recount it perfectly. Fortunately for him, the memory of a book stretches long regardless, and he recalls what has happened well enough to begin the arduous task of truly remembering, of tucking it away so it might be recorded forever. It occurs to him that this task was easier before, when he was a book and Wickwright his author, but with disease comes hardship, and now Hopkin's own head must be his quill pen. He repeats the words of the Council and Emperor throughout the afternoon and well into the evening, mouthing things silently, and letting the painful ordeal wash over him, dulling the fear and the threats with the distance of a scholar picking at truth. At first it still hurts, a fresh wound to bear, but then hours pass, and his only concession becomes the deep frown at the words of Armaud. He met a lie today, he knows, and worst of all, they all believed it. What fools these homines leves are! Wickwright would never have conceded to a trickster. If even Plagues are so flawed as to fall for her tricks, he thinks Wickwright spoke true after all: He must be more book, full of goodness and truth, than a Plague or a boy, confused and blinking and inaccurate.
The thought brings up another thought which derails him from his memorization quite completely: soon Wickwright will have another trial for the day, for Yawley is done with classes and when the two convene in his lodging, there will be explanations to do and convincing to apply, reviving that other trouble, the one the Society, not the Council, applies in spades. Yet Yawley himself is more of an enigma than a Plagued book, Hopkin considers affrontedly, and he is the youngest Jawbone Man yet living despite it. How can a Yawley boy, in all respects legitimate act so differently from the Yawley Hopkin has met in the True World? Even Feilim, who Yawley mocks, acts like the Finches before him as best he can. Tadhg takes to being an O'Neill like a fish to water. Yet Yawley is different, not incompetent, but strange, a man who Hopkin cannot reconcile with his own mind. Is it the plague which has corrupted Yawley as it has corrupted Hopkin himself? Did Yawley's mind become infected as he escaped the village whose disease consumed his father and friends entire? The book boy makes note to ask Wickwright, who knows of things which Hopkin by nature cannot, and in the meanwhile pauses in his previous tasks to make time to observe their host as Wickwright approaches the door. If perhaps he can discern the answer before he must refer to Wickwright, he will make his author proud. As poor as he is at such divinations, the thought is sufficient incentive to scale a mountain, let alone simply just watch a boy for the duration of a conversation.
When the door swings open, though, Hopkin finds he is not quite brave enough to leave the book bag, not while Yawley is there and while Wickwright has work to do in convincing him to support their goals. Miserably, Hopkin fears that somehow his presence might ruin Wickwright's chances- there have already been many times where his interference has landed the pair of them in great trouble. THough their luck has been good as of late, Finch luck does not last long, and the luck of a Finch book seems to run even shorter than that. Perhaps Plagues truly are cursed, or perhaps Hopkin simply cannot fully function in a wide world meant for homines leves, but with the importance that Wickwright has placed upon gaining the trust of the Jawbone Men, even perplexing Yawley, Hopkin finds that the most he dares do is listen to the exchange that follows, scarcely breathing, mouth glowing dimly in the dark of the leather bag. He almost wrings his hands in anxiety, but manages to stop himself, recalling the noise that his particular tic makes. Instead, he presses his lips together as tightly as he can, until his face aches, as Wickwright opens his mouth for his first foray.
"You heard about Hopkin before," he hazards, and there is a pause that Hopkin counts, one, two, three, before a response more subdued than the retorts which Yawley has flung at them this past week.
"Word's spread. Usually you're the one bringing us news, Finch, but did you think news like that would stay quiet for long?"
"I had hoped Feilim would keep hush for the Finch name, if nothing else."
"It wasn't the mockingbird I heard it from, but I suppose the source was from his lips."
"Tadhg," Wickwright guesses correctly.
"His closest confidante."
"And Tadhg told you for...?"
"To try to convince me to accept your Plague- Oh, don't look so surprised, Finch. Tadhg would do anything to see that mockingbird fly."
"And what do you think of Tadhg?" Wickwright queries cautiously.
"He's much like his father, trying to smooth problems which aren't his with methods which aren't subtle," Yawley retorts, some of that old bite back in his tone. "Of course, with Feilim, it's personal, I suppose. Since Feilim was a fledgling, he's been O'Neill's problem, after all."
"And what did you say to Tadhg?"
"I said 'We'll see.'"
"And what do you say to me?"
"I suppose that you haven't been to see Yates yet?"
"I have not been to see Yates senior, no."
"There's only one Yates now, Finch," Yawley replies, and in the book bag, Hopkin's hands begin to wring despite his efforts. Oh, why did Yawley have to bring up Obscuvian defectors today of all days! The blood lady Sanguine slides seamlessly into his mind, and her laughter echoes in his ears. She is one thing which he will have no trouble memorising tonight, though he wishes for once that it were otherwise. Never has he seen a more beautiful thing turn so foul, and wishes he would never see it again. To think that Jawbone Men alike suffered her fate weighs upon him heavily. Still Wickwright continues, and Hopkin thinks that to be a Finch book must be awfully different from being a Finch, even if he is not quite a boy or a Plague, for there is more bravery in faring such terrible truths than remembering them.
"I have not been to see Yates."
"If you go to see Yates next-"
"-That is my intention-"
"Please tell him that I am safe in Gadu and well."
"I was sure he would be in Gadu with you. Is he paying for your teaching?"
"No," Yawley replies tersely, "O'Neill is. Sort of a funny way to express his condolences, but I'm choosing to take it."
"Surely O'Neill could afford better lodgings for you than this."
"I didn't let him pay for my lodgings. There was no way I could afford a Trisica education on my own, I'm an herbalist's orphan brat. Lodgings, though. I can afford those."
"My book would say that you are a Jawbone Man first and foremost," remarks Wickwright lightly in return. "Aren't all the resources of Jawbone Men given freely to aid each other in the pursuit of truth?"
"Your book, for instance?"
Hopkin draws in his breath sharply, and Wickwright laughs. "We'll see, Whitney Yawley."
"Where is the book now?" asks the boy, innocently enough.
"Doctor Kempe requested to study him. The Jawbone Men aren't the only ones who lay claim to my aid these days."
"Will you bring him back before you leave?"
"Do you approve of him as a contribution?"
"Does O'Neill?"
"He hasn't forbidden a vote."
There is a long pause, and Hopkin hears Yawley let out a long breath. "I depend on O'Neill for my education, you realize."
"I realize this."
"Then we'll see."
Wickwright assents and Hopkin feels the bag being moved as the two retire to their separate devices. He reviews this conversation, too, in his head, wishing that Wickwright, though he did not lie once, would not come so close to lying to another man of bone, even for his Plague's sake. It is expressly against the tenets of the society, and dancing so close to the edge of the rules sets Hopkin's nerves on edge at the end of an already trying day. To him, Yawley is inscrutable, irascible, and irreverent, speaking ill of many Jawbone Men and leading Wickwright in a merry chase. Wickwright, he thinks, will have been able to divine more from this exchange than him, try though he might to seek truth from within it. As a book, it is not his job to analyze and the odds are thus stacked unfairly against him. As much as he wants to impress Wickwright, Hopkin cannot find the key he seeks to comprehending Whitney Yawley as he repeats the conversation to himself. All he can do is remember confrontation heaped on confrontation from a day full of all that he would rather avoid, and ardently hope that his Grimm will gain more use from this Wide World chaos than he has.
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Posted: Thu Jun 21, 2012 10:23 pm
Picking through memories is no easy task, even for Hopkin. Some things come more easily than others, and the fragments farthest from his mind must be coaxed by urgently repeating what comes fast and obliging until the whole encounter can be recalled. There are many things that have stood out about this day, which does not make his task easier, but rather, more complicated still. He has no central event to focus on, all things are of equal importance within their own sphere. Yawley, the Emperor, Armaud and what she stands for, and Doctor Kempe spin each on their own axis, leaving the small details of the day spinning in the eddies between them. Hopkin has difficulty making sense of this, and from the moment the conversation between Wickwright and Yawley is over, his mouth is pressed into a hard line as he attempts to puzzle it out. Wickwright, due to his clever manipulation of truth, has ensured that Hopkin cannot emerge from the book bag to ask for aid, and so Hopkin is left to stew in his worries for the night. And yet, it is none of these things, nor their small details which plagues Hopkin as he enters the True World to sleep at last, but rather what happened directly before all this trouble began, the teleport and the images of the flat world he saw within it.
A rich, royal chamber, a broken boulder, an empty ocean, a white tree, an endless chasm, a bloody battlefield, a white bone.
The True World has never appeared to him in such disjointed glimpses before, and that which appeared lingers in his memory quietly, not half so alarming as the drama that played out during the remainder of the day, but subtly different, rising like beckoned cats when he slips once again into the world of flat things and good sense. Unlike other nights, this is no easy transition. The two teleports he has suffered this day leave their mark, an unwelcome kick which sends him reeling. Flung into the True World, he is unceremoniously caught in a saving embrace. The hands which cup him open, and he sees Yawley, the true Yawley, looking down at him with concern.
"What is your business here, so far out, Source? Any further flung and you would have fallen off the edge of this world."
"I believe that I have been thrown here by men of the Wide World," replies Hopkin, gingerly rubbing his bandaged head as he rises on shaky feet. "There have been events occurred today, Yawley, which would defy truth and reason! And now I find myself on the edge of reason in this world was well, which is good sense, but it is an uncomfortable place to discover oneself in." He clings to one of Yawley's thick fingers and peers around, but the edge of the True World is desolate and quiet as the whispering catacombs of the Finch family souterrain. The words he speak come out in feeble, shaken font, and hover only listlessly before crumbling, as if crushed by the expansive amounts of nothingness this far out. He is glad that he is not alone here in this strange outcropping, but wishes it was Finch that had discovered him. There is only so much comfort that Yawley can provide, especially since he is the emblem of one of the chief mysteries that has been tormenting Hopkin this day.
"I cannot answer for the men of this wide world you speak of, Source, but I can bring you further into the center of this one. I was here on business, but I cannot stay long. It is more perilous here than any of the fiefdoms of unfriendly lords." The Jawbone Man begins trudging along once more, placing Hopkin on top of a large box pungent with herbs which he then hefts up onto his back before he sets off. Hopkin sits on the edge of the box, observing the end of this world from a better perch. "After you spoke to me of plague, I chased down the stories of it here on the outskirts of this world," explains Yawley as they progress. "There are so few people here, but there is a great deal of suffering. Many stories exist to explain it, and yet, there are no cures that I have tried which even seem to ease the suffering."
Hopkin's chest tightens and there is a sudden desire to be somewhere else. He has no energy to deal with unpleasant things in the True World as well as the Wide World, not today. "No, there is no cure for this disease," he remarks, trying to sound disaffected and true, but his voice squeaks as he says it.
"I remember you saying a loved one of yours was infected."
"Yes," Hopkin replies earnestly, miserably. "I am the infection. Or rather, I am the one afflicted, but I am not sure if my being afflicted afflicts him, too."
"A complicated disease," Yawley observes, and they fall into silence henceforth. The mood is too somber for speaking, and there is a small panoply of tents on the horizon which look all too familiar to Hopkin. As they near it, Yawley names it: "A village of the dying," but it is an unnecessary introduction.
"Oh! Yawley, might we avoid this visit," the miserable Plague requests, but the Jawbone Man shakes his head.
"If I am to leave this place, I cannot leave Yates behind," he notes, and for a moment, Hopkin frets. Has Yates's defection in the Wide World affected the True World's version of Yates? How can that be when Obscuvianism is no true thing? However, when they approach the tents, he hears no moans of the dead, but rather, something quite unexpected: the sounds of a lute piercing the still air, creating dazzling notes like those from an overwrought antiphonary. They hover golden in the air and buzz like hummingbirds around the face of a fair man, or at least a man who is fair in comparison to sturdy Yawley. Surrounding him are the miserable dying, but the sounds of the lute seem to distract some of them, and a few of those who are not yet so afflicted by their predicament sing along feebly or request songs, pulling at his tunic, hungry for something more than a last meal. Yawley, avoiding the hands of the plagued, strides up to this man and shoos off those close to him, regarding him with a certain degree of exasperated fondness.
"Have you found your miracle herb yet, then?" asks the man, and Yawley shakes his head.
"I've found nothing like what these poor souls have described to me, but you seem to have found a better way to relieve the pain than my herbs have provided."
"There are a great repository of songs to be found here. Everyone grows long memories when they know they have more past than future."
"Yes, well just don't let them drag you into the past, too. I told you not to let any of them too close." Yawley began checking Yates for buboes almost systematically.
Yates laughs and gestures to Hopkin on top of the box. "Who's your friend? He's unlike any medicine I've ever seen."
"The Source that Finch has been prattling about. Source, this is-"
"Yates," Hopkin finishes automatically. "Your partner."
Yawley and Yates glance at each other and Yates nods. "Finch said you were a book of bone. Do you know any songs, book?"
"Not the notes," admits Hopkin.
"A typical Finch book! Overlooking everything but the words. It's no wonder I cannot get a decent tune." He shook his lute irritably. "If you make this world truer, please fetch me melodies. At this rate, these good people will think I'm a half baked player."
"Finch's fault, I'm sure," Yawley remarks drily, and Yates nudges him with the lute. "Come now. We can do nothing for these people as it stands now."
"At last," Yates sighs with some considerable relief. He coughs, conscious of the Source, and comments, "I hope I am not remembered as a coward." Hopkin thinks of Yawley alone in Gadu in his terrible lodgings and of Yates junior, defected to Obscuvos. He opens his mouth, but Yawley shakes his head.
"Without you, I could never have endured this place," he says firmly.
"And I would never have followed," Yates chuckles, picking up his instrument case and slinging it onto his back as Yawley carries his herbs, "Were there not a half-mad man preaching the end of suffering through weeds in front of me!"
Hopkin's mouth closes, and he pauses to think again of the Wide World, of his fears, and this Yates, who is uncorrupted and whole, yet still afraid to wander where Yawley's morals would not allow him to avoid when a strange creature said he had a sick loved one. How long has Yawley been enduring in the Wide World without a Yates? He cannot answer, there is no memory he has committed to his mind of the young Jawbone Men who so handily avoided Wickwright's time and interest. Only the past has been preserved in the True World, because for the Jawbone Men, this Yawley and Yates are true. "You are not remembered as a coward," he replies at last, for this, too is correct. Yates and Yawley are supposed to be this way, he sees, and left spinning on their own axes, the little details have begun to drift.
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Posted: Wed Jun 27, 2012 9:41 pm
The days in Gadu drag.
Yawley has been spoken to, and the road beckons. Yates is next, and Hopkin is eager to see him as the feels that he has discovered in the True World what he could not see in the Wide World: that Yawley is changed because of the rift between the two, and that fixing it somehow might yet cure him of his undesirable nature. Jawbone Men who act differently from how they're supposed to grate upon Hopkin like scrapers on vellum, but theological conundrums are far more welcome than the secular ones he faces from the Council. They are at least familiar, problems that are, if not natural, then sprung from a place which to Hopkin is as comfortable as a second skin. The Society and its stumbling blocks are in the very ink of his pages, but the debates over Plagues which rage in Gadu and Panymium are a new and discordant note which hearken back to his undesirable illness and remind him he is impure as the Yawley boy he thinks of fixing. Like Yawley and Feilim the mockingbird, Hopkin knows he is broken, but unlike them, the salve he seeks is down a long and arduous road that strays far from tradition and Societal custom. As reflected in the True World, there is little of Plagues in all his great pool of reference, and so he is forced to wallow in a conundrum: that the thing which he can barely define is a thing which is essential in defining himself. He wishes to be rid of it, doubling the appeal of the thought of the road: moving is progress, this sluggish city has spent its usefulness. Even the thought of Trisica's great wealth of knowledge cannot tempt him to linger long, not after the meeting with the Emperor. His problems are sprouting and flowering, and if not cut off at the source, he will soon have a whole host of issues and as little idea of how he might deal with them as how he might find Lettie Arelgren again. If there is one thing which Hopkin truly detests, it is his Plaguedom, especially now that his fellows have proved to be nothing but a handful of fools who would so easily follow a liar and cheat. He wants to be a book again, in the form which he belongs in. Living as a Plague is beginning to feel too uncomfortably like living a lie, and when he brings it up with Wickwright, the Grimm does not confirm or deny such fears, just merely speaks of their next step, causing Hopkin to believe that the only hope of his being a truth again and of things making sense is to be part of the Collection once more. The thought that what has happened cannot be undone pains him to no end, but the fact that the damage might yet be softened is sometimes his only comfort in a task that seems interminable as it is arduous.
Wickwright himself is getting restless too, because he is a Finch proper, down to the bone, and the thought gives Hopkin hope that soon they will depart, and also a great deal of relief. He has learned time and time again in this Wide World that if he can depend on nothing else, he can depend on Wickwright. It is difficult to define the relationship that the Plague and Grimm share, as Hopkin has little creativity and is accustomed to borrowing his words from others, but it is deep. Bone deep, and precious, as Wickwright pulled Hopkin from within himself and the world around him. He is more than a Grimm and less than a god, a creator and protector who for all his human flaws, is able to extract the truth from the world around him for the benefit of his legacy, his Plague. Hopkin thinks wistfully that Wickwright must have already divined that which the True World showed him: that Yates and Yawley must be reunited to be whole again, even if they harbour little fondness for each other. Yet, Wickwright has chosen to stay and see this Doctor, Doctor Amory Kempe, and so Hopkin waits patiently for the day to come, fervently hoping that they will leave Gadu soon after. He is forced to hide from Yawley, who is not quite true, while they remain in the city, and forced to endure the tedium of lessonless evenings and whispers of intrigue in the streets. He memorizes them all diligently, his mouth moving like mad some nights to imprint the stories in his head, but every tale is the same. Plagues are on the lips of men, and when Hopkin mouths the words, the sensation is like eating ash: the only people who coudl take pleasure from talk of such grotesques are perverse beings like Clurie Clemmings, and Hopkin would gladly throust it onto his shoulders. The book Plague is tired of the morbid chore.
The only Plague worth thinking about in Hopkin's mind is Lettie, who he remembers defending him in the meeting with a great flush of pleasure. Lettie, delicate and lovely, has never betrayed him, believes him so earnestly, even if she is a mystery to him, herself. In her there is a grain of understanding that no other Plague, not even Chayele Meschke has shown. It is more valuable to him than all the red ribbons in Panymium, her loyalty and faith make him feel as true and right as Wickwright always intended him to be and never really seemes to believe he is. Around Lettie, he feels less corrupted by plague, and braver. More like how a book of truths ought to be. He cannot let her down, but he does not know where to begin to seek her, and Wickwright shows no great inclination to help him keep his promise. He curses himself for losing track of her at the meeting, but their departure was so sudden and hectic that he could barely register his relief before the both of them had been whisked off in different directions. Still, she is well, and that is what Dorian Arelgren wished to be sure of. Now he knows, and Hopkin hopes he will regret her loss and seek reconciliation. He cannot imagine giving up Lettie. Arelgrens truly are half mad.
But not the Scientists, Hopkin recalls, except perhaps for Doctor Kempe, who seems scattered, aysmmetrical, and displeasing to the eye. Hopkin wishes that his meeting was with Sir Erasmus, who is tall and flat and clean, a pleasing figure to his eye, if not lacking colour. Or even Dean Kirkaldy, who is imposing and right for a man of his position. Hopkin is strongly aware of aesthetic conventions. Doctor Amory Kempe does not look right to be a Counselor. He barely looks right to be a Doctor. And yet, needs must that Hopkin will have to spill his pages to this man, allow himself to be questioned and analyzed and judged by someone whose face is not lovely. The task of speaking and dispensing information is usually not hard for Hopkin, but he no more likes speaking to those who do not feel right than he likes blinking with human eyes. Yet Doctor Kempe is too a seeker of truth, even if not under a banner of bone. The idea that he might have some truth in him makes Hopkin warm, warmer than his anxiety, and so he is willing to wait if they must, but only at Wickwright's behest. Until then, he lays in hiding, memorizing, reflecting, and occasionally dreaming as the days in Gadu drag.
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Posted: Wed Jun 27, 2012 9:49 pm
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Posted: Sun Jul 08, 2012 6:20 pm
Yawley and Wickwright greet each other farewell in the evening, stiffly and uncertainly. As prickly as Yawley is, Yawley is alone, and upon Wickwright's departure, seems every bit as small as the sixteen year old boy that he is. Too young, not quite right, like Feilim, who he mocks and refuses to commiserate with. The difference is Yawley is young but legitimate, a real Jawbone Man, and Feilim is nearly too old and still unsure of where he stands. It worries Hopkin to see things so turned around, but in his book bag, two things keep him warm: that he has convinced Wickwright of one thing and Lettie Arelgren now accompanies him, and that he has seen the answer to at least one of these problems of bone in the True World. Soon they will go to Yates, and Hopkin will tell him to go to Yawley, and Yawley will be fixed, just like in the True World. This is an easy task, a task of bone and not of the Wide World, and he feels proud that Wickwright will not have to solve it when he is on the case. Wickwright sorts through every other stumbling block thrown in their path; This one is his.
If any doubts lay in his path, Yawley's last words to Wickwright are enough to convince him otherwise: "Please remember, Finch, tell Yates that I am well." Hopkin smiles privately to himself and considers that perhaps he should tell Lettie Arelgren, because for once since he awoke as a Plague, things are beginning to make sense and gain context again. He feels in his head the powerful sensation of knowing that which others do not, the sensation of control and understanding that he was robbed of when the context in which he viewed the world was corrupted. He feels more like a book now than he ever did before, thinks that perhaps he is not so much a boy and a Plague after all, that it really is the book part that counts. This confidence, which comes at the expense of Whitney Yawley's keeps him warm throughout their departure of the city, and a good way down the road. Hopkin, book. Hopkin, Finch book. Or better yet, just 'book' with no 'Hopkin' at all. How small and inconsequential that name feels when he feels like a book! When he knows the truth!
Or perhaps, he thinks, it is merely the knowledge that it is not only the Finch family who suffers problems. That they are not inferior to the other families, but exactly the same, because when he thinks that there is no Finch successor, he feels exactly as vulnerable as a Finch book as Feilim must feel as a Finch candidate. The end of the family line is no comforting thought, and it is something that Hopkin cannot even fathom fixing. It is outside the guidelines of the Society, or at least teetering uncomfortably on the edge, and as of yet, the True World has given him no answers for it. But knowing that he can fix one family's problems gives him hope that a solution for the fears of the Finches might also be found presently, that he could find it even, and that there will be a future, so long as he can keep mining the True World for answers. Yawley is an unpleasant boy, but he is a start, and if Hopkin fixes him, even O'Neill must see that he still has use within the Society.
Yes, that is how it will be, Hopkin decides in the dark. Wickwright has said that he must prove he still has value as a true object, and Hopkin cannot think of a surer way to prove that than to mine the truth from the True World and repair that which is broken in the Wide World. It is such a simple equation that he thinks Wickwright must not have told him because he thought it would be obvious even to a broken book.
He is cheered then, in the bag, in the wagon, with a Lettie Arelgren, and saying goodbye to Yawley feels like the start of something new and hopeful, so much so that he does not mind that Yawley's only response to Wickwright's beseechings was 'Maybe.'
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Posted: Mon Jul 09, 2012 8:37 am
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Posted: Thu Jul 12, 2012 9:29 am
Hopkin is by now as used to traversing between the worlds True and Wide as he is to his new Plagued form, or perhaps moreso. There is very little jostling between the two, in fact, sometimes Hopkin cannot even remember falling asleep to make the transition- He merely turns and discovers himself to be in a different place. This time, the advent of the True World is somewhat relieving to him, as there are now two beings of female persuasion in Wickwright's wagon, which is generally free of such creatures, and Hopkin, as a Jawbone Book, is on only the shakiest ground in the company of even one such woman. Truly, it is of no help that Marian acts so unlike how a woman ought to by rights- She is all fierceness and wears breeches and speaks of identity in a most bewildering fashion, and most alarming of all, makes it her business to take care of Richard Yawley's unfinished affairs, whereas by rights that task is the office of Whitney Yawley, his heir. Indeed, were Wickwright inclined to drop dead, Hopkin would scarcely dare to tidy up his life himself, if Feilim were officially legitimized as the next Finch. It is an intrusion- by the codes of the Society, the next Finch is the same as the last Finch, and so too is the next Yawley, to the point where Marian's handling of Richard's contribution book is like an invasion of Whitney's privacy. True, he supposes, Yawley's strangeness of manner makes him more dissimilar from his predecessor than he ought to be, but regardless, in Society code, they are the same.
Marian is in the wrong, he concludes grimly. Very much in the wrong about this sort of thing, and he will be glad when they drop her off with Yates, who will know how to fix things up properly.
He has been pacing a circle in the True World for nearly fifteen minutes now, though time seems to run different here in his experience. He looks up to see where he might have awoken, and finds himself not too far from the Plague village he left Yawley and Yates last. In the True World, which is flat, he can see it in the distance, although because of the flatness of the True World, this distance is at a most unnatural angle, which seems quite foreign to the dimensions of the Wide World. Hopkin accepts it. These dimensions are of the sort he is more used to, having been a book before a Plague, even if his memory of such a time is knitted from only very spotty impressions. This is the world which feels right to him. Within this world is the order he seeks.
He now seeks Yawley and Yates, and finds them on the road, traveling from the village. It is Yates, whose eyes wander when lacking entertainment, who spies him first, and welcomes him heartily into their small group. "Little Source!" he says jovially, strumming his lute. "Did you miss us while you were off on your travels?"
"Very much so," agrees Hopkin, who misses all the True World more and more these days, "It is most nonsensical in the places I travel."
"And what sort of nonsense do you endure? Besides the diseases which you've sent me to remedy." This from Yawley, under whose eyes are dark, sagging shadows, and whose demeanour is quite heavy with exhaustion. Hopkin's mouth contorts with concern, which Yawley notes, and hurries to ease. "I am not suffering, as Yates has asked many times, but I'm afraid I can't say the same for your Plague victims. It is as terrible a disease as I can imagine, and I would not like to be them, for none of my remedies have been able to solve it."
"I know," blurts Hopkin, "For I have just come from a village much like that one, and in that village, a Yawley has died of said disease, having done everything in his power to cure it. Oh! I believe I have committed a folly, for you are sure to die of it as well."
Yates and Yawley regard Hopkin carefully, as one would regard a man half mad, and Yates speaks first, as he is less careful not to offend. "Source, I too am concerned for his health, but for Yawley to die! It is not possible."
"But I saw-" starts Hopkin, and Yawley intervenes.
"You saw, you saw! I fear to contradict the Source, but it is true! How can I die? That is not within the realm of possibility for a Jawbone Man, for we live forever, lest we break Society code and get struck from its ranks. We are agents of truth, and are elevated by this status to be truths ourselves: where other men perish, we endure." He softens, and asks, "Perhaps you were mistaken? You previously supposed you saw a Yawley who did not act like me. He very well could have died, for I think that would make him a flawed sort of truth, and not worthy of the immortality bestowed on the men of Bone."
Hopkin considers, and remembers Finch, who had said he was one and all Finches at once. He then understands something of this world, and asked to Yawley, "Have you no heir?"
"Indeed, no!" says Yawley, much bemused at this idea, "I am all Yawleys, and they are all me," a statement which Yates eagerly corroborates in regard to himself.
"I am sorry," admits Hopkin, "My mind was confused by that which I have seen of the world which lies."
"Well!" Yawley said, "That is a great shame, and I hope you will not allow it to happen again. Imagine, living in a world where I might expire and fail! The Society has far greater need of me than ever, I could not abide by such a miserable fate." And Hopkin agrees, it is a most miserable fate, and, upon his transition back into the Wide World, finds it remarkable that switching from a world so sensible to one so wracked with nonsense and suffering could be as easy as taking a single misstep.
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