The Frenchman (A Legacy Series Novella) (The Legacy Series Book 3) Page 2

  George was rarely seen in town, and if he did venture that far, he did not stop to socialize as was expected of most. He went there to do his business and return to the safety of his home. In some ways, Darren envied him, not only because of the carefree life he lived, but for his brawn and sturdiness. George was never sick, just like Martha. Darren wanted to resent their healthiness, but knew better to be grateful that another human being did not have to suffer what he did on a daily basis.

  “What else are you experiencing besides the cough?” George asked.

  Darren took a quick assessment of his body, though it was hard to determine what was normal for him to feel and what had become his normal. “I feel cold and my chest hurts. I also haven’t been able to eat much because my throat hurts.”

  George nodded and snatched a branch of some herb from one of the baskets that hung beside the fireplace. “How are you sleeping?”

  “Not much,” Darren replied, though he thought George should have known that by now. It was rare that Darren slept all through the night. When he was violently ill, he would be awoken several times by the need to vomit or relieve himself in his chamber pot. Darren knew for a fact that this symptom was not normal.

  “Are your muscles still giving you trouble?”

  He referred to the more recent development of Darren’s muscles turning so rigid that he couldn’t move. It was a new symptom to his existential disease. One of his teeth had cracked when his jaw clamped shut and would not open, no matter how hard he tried to force them apart. It lasted for a few minutes and then Darren was left weak and breathless.

  “No, not since before we last spoke. Your tonic helped.”

  George nodded again and moved to his crowded work table in the middle of the room to begin mixing everything together in his mortar and pestle bowl.

  Some of the townspeople muttered about witches within the same breath as the hermit’s name, but Darren doubted it all. No matter how hard the clergy pushed their hysterical propaganda about the infiltration of witches and devils into their community, Darren saw differently.

  What George did was not witchcraft or magic. Darren saw his ingredients and watched him blend it together with water and sometimes fire, but there was no blood, no mystic words of enchantment, and no familiar to help him in channeling the demonic powers of Satan. This was nothing but pure alchemy, or perhaps a type of medicinal practice that the other doctors and physicians of the world would not yet accept.

  Even if what George practiced was some sort of magic, Darren would have still gladly accepted his help. Anything to give him some relief.

  “How is your mother?” George asked, rather unexpectedly. He had never asked about Darren’s personal life outside the context of his illness.

  “She is well, as always.” Darren could have gone on and on about her newest lover, a baron visiting Warminster from another county. He had been at their home for three days now and disregarded Darren as little more than a nuisance. He stayed out of his mother’s way and let her have her fun, but if any of her suitors dared to hurt her, then Darren would not hesitate to push aside whatever ailments he had to defend her. Such an occasion never came up, but Darren was certain that was how he would act.

  “That is good,” George said. “It’s good that she isn’t falling ill as well.”

  So that was why he was asking. If his mother became ill, then George would know that there was something new emerging about his condition. Darren crossed his arms over his aching chest and watched George’s deft hands at work.

  Darren’s visits were never long, and there was hardly ever any conversation apart from what ailed him. He knew nothing about George and anything he thought he knew was pure speculation, such as his presumed education and reason for segregating himself from the rest of society.

  Within moments, George corked two flasks and handed them to Darren. “This is a salve to rub on your chest at night,” he instructed, pointing to one as Darren took them. “This one is to drink whenever your throat feels the least bit sore.”

  Immediately, Darren uncorked the second flask and took a swig to wash the sickness from his gullet. It was like drinking fire, but once the burn subsided, he felt he could take in a breath of air without the need to cough. George turned away to shed his mask and gloves as Darren hurriedly took some of the buttery salve from the first bottle and rubbed it on his chest behind the loose flaps of his tunic collar.

  “Have your cook make you soup with chicken broth and plenty of vegetables from the town’s market. Drink that every afternoon and evening for the next week.” The hermit turned to Darren with a serious look in his black eyes. “And rest in bed for a few days. Try to sleep, even if you have to board up your windows to keep the sunlight from waking you.”

  Darren took a deep breath as if it were the first one of his life. “Everyone tells me to rest, but it’s the last thing I want to do. I’ve rested my whole life and I’m through with sitting it out.”

  George tossed his gloves onto his thin and ratty bedspread. “If you do not rest, you will not get well. It’s that simple.”

  Darren held out the two flasks as if to show him the immense weight of his struggles. “What if I never get well? What if I have to come to you for the rest of my life? What happens when my mother dies and I have to take care of the farm and estate? The serfs will not take orders from a bedridden master.”

  A new look dawned on George’s face, as if were considering Darren’s words carefully. He scratched at his bold, clean-shaven jaw and looked around to the menagerie of ingredients and herbs that had more living space than he did.

  “I suppose,” he began, “that I will not be around forever as well. If you are to be ill until your last breath – whenever that may be – it might be good to show you exactly what it is I do.”

  Darren froze, hardly believing his luck. “You’ll teach me all of this?” he asked, gesturing to the contents of the shelves and tables.

  George made a grumbling, dissenting sound, but then nodded and waved him over. “It would make the most sense to do so. I’ve seen the way you watch me and you seem like a bright young man. You’ll learn quickly.”

  Darren beamed, smiling for what seemed like the first time in weeks. George had never even let Darren touch the herbs, much less learn about their medicinal qualities. If he could learn to make these salves, lotions, and tonics on the estate, then he wouldn’t have to risk his health riding to George’s hut every so often. Perhaps, if these ingredients could be grown, Darren could finally start that garden he wanted and it would serve more than just one purpose.

  There was little joy in his life, but when there was, he recognized it immediately and held firm to its promise for a hopefully, healthy future. When his entire life revolved around the pursuit of wellness, any glimmer of optimism thrilled him to no end.

  Chapter 2

  Night had fallen over Wiltshire County and Darren knew it was time to make his way home as George was lighting his modest lanterns that sat amongst his scattered herbal remedies.

  “Thank you again for teaching me,” Darren said as he made his way toward the humble door that hung loosely off its hinges.

  His head was spinning with long Latin names of plants and berries that he would most likely forget by the morning. He would, however, remember what they looked like and their purposes. Now that he knew what was good for an aching belly and what was a quick aid to reduce the swelling of wounds, Darren was far more knowledgeable than he had been before that evening. A few more lessons and he would be more than equipped to cure his own ailments from now on.

  “You’re most welcome,” George replied. “Do you require assistance returning home? There is no moon tonight, so it will be difficult to navigate the forest.”

  Darren peeked outside into the darkness and sighed. “No, I’ll be all right. Might I borrow a lantern, though?”

  He looked back to George as he searched for a spare, unlit lantern amongst his few personal belongings. His entire
hut might as well have been dedicated to his art, judging by how little he owned at all. Such a simple life was deserving of admiration.

  Finally, the husky man found a tiny lantern that would be just right for Darren to carry for the few miles he would have to travel to return home. Anything bigger might have worn out his scrawny arms. Using one of his candles, George lit the lantern and passed it on to his new apprentice.

  “May I return in the morning for another lesson?” Darren asked with a spring of excitement that puzzled the hermit. George admitted so earlier that evening.

  “If I am here, you may. If I am not here, wait for a while and I shall return. There are some errands I must attend to.”

  Darren nodded. “Very well. Until tomorrow.”

  With that, he hurried away from the hut and mounted Gollumpus who had been patiently waiting by a patch of rich grass, munching occasionally to stave off the horse’s hunger. Martha would be worried about her son and Darren knew there was no time to waste. With invigorated speed - thanks to George’s medicines - Darren mounted his horse and took off into a steady canter to the south.

  The night air was colder than it had been all season, indicative of the coming fall and winter months. Harvest time would be soon approaching and Darren held onto the fleeting hope that perhaps with George’s help, he would be well enough to help the serfs in the field as they cut down the wheat stalks. At the very least, he wanted to alleviate the stress on his mother by supervising their progress without having to take a break to catch his breath or cough into his handkerchief every few minutes.

  Driven by the need to return home and explain away his absence for most of the day, Darren kicked his mare to go faster as they rounded Cley Hill and into Lockleat Forest. It was impossible to hear much beyond the jingling of the saddle harness and the huffing of Gollumpus as she sped onward.

  Part of the way through the forest, however, Darren was stricken by a churning sensation in his gut. Thinking it had to do with Gollumpus’ bounding stride afflicting his stomach, he reared the mare into a slower walk. He swallowed back the bile that rose in his throat, but the illness would not subside.

  Within moments, it was accompanied by a piercing, sharp pain through his chest, unlike Darren had ever felt before. He winced and pressed his hand against the pain, as if that would make it ease. Gollumpus must have sensed his discomfort, because without his consent, she stumbled to a stop and turned her head wildly in every direction, searching for what ailed her master.

  He patted her thick neck and shushed her fears, but it only proved to agitate her further.

  The pain increased, spreading through his limbs and into his skull where it exploded like when a bale of hay met an incendiary spark. Darren groaned and let go of the reins to squeeze his temples. Gollumpus nickered and whinnied in fright, spinning and stumbling all around the clearing they had stopped in. The lantern fell from Darren’s hand and he heard the glass shatter on the ground. The light was snuffed out, plunging him and his horse into darkness with the only light coming from the few stars that began to emerge against the black canvas of the sky.

  The pressure began to build and his muscles convulsed and seized until he couldn’t move. Gollumpus, too mad with fear, threw off her rider and darted through the trees to escape. Darren tumbled to the ground, but the pain of the fall was nothing compared to what afflicted him now.

  This went beyond mere discomfort. This was far more, as if a searing iron were traveling through his blood, scorching and burning as it went until nothing in his body remained untouched.

  A terrifying thought entered Darren’s mind as he tried to breathe and fight whatever new sudden sickness to which he had fallen prey. Was this the moment of his death? Never in his life had he felt such excruciating, blinding pain.

  What would happen to his mother? Would they find his body twisted and mangled on the forest floor, half eaten by the wild animals that would take him as an easy meal? He had heard of homeless beggars who died amongst these trees and had their bowels devoured by beasts. Would Darren become a tasty meal for some bear or feral dog?

  Was this George’s doing? Was this some delayed aftermath a product of the tonic he drank or the salve he had rubbed on his chest?

  Darren writhed and cried hot tears as the pain continued, increasing in magnitude with each passing second until he felt he could bear it no more. His heart pounded in his ears, drowning out his muffled whimpers as his tears streamed down his cheeks and splashed into the cold earth that would soon receive his lifeless body.

  His bones popped and quivered within his flesh. His heart stopped for an indeterminant amount of time before Darren’s vision went black and he could remember nothing else but the agony.

  Martha stared out the window, ignoring the slight dinginess of the paned glass, and watched the dirt path that led between the fields toward the house. Without the moon to guide her, she had no way of knowing what hour it was. The baron lay asleep in her bed chamber, but she slipped out some time ago to impatiently wait for her son to return home.

  That evening when he didn’t come in for his supper, she had sent her maidservant to fetch him. He was nowhere to be found on the estate and even Arthur couldn’t tell her to where Darren had run off. Her chest tight and limbs aching, she knew she should have gone to bed. Surely Darren would turn up in the morning.

  He had never confided in her about the clandestine trips he took to the hermit’s hut beyond Cley Hill, but she had known about it for quite a while. Each time he returned in good spirits, so she didn’t have the heart to scold him. As long as her son was happy and healthy, she didn’t care if he had to worship devils or sacrifice an animal to pagan gods.

  That was what the townspeople thought of George, though none could confirm it. He had never brought a curse upon anyone as far as they could tell, so they left him be. Martha had heard rumors amongst the gossiping wives, though, that something was brewing over the hermit’s little hovel. Something devious. When Martha asked, fearful for her son’s wellbeing, they turned up their noses and walked away. Their reactions were none too surprising.

  Such rumors and hearsay were what kept her awake that night, full of worry that her son had been caught in some terrible and foreboding chaos that George might have been creating. Darren had left so suddenly earlier, without even leaving her a few last words to which she could cling. Not a single promise that he would return, or a passive lie to cover where he was really going. Now, she was left with nothing but the long wait.

  Darren’s eyes snapped open as the morning sun burned through his eyelids. He could feel his limbs twitch and tremble, as if he had run for a great distance. Sounds and scents bombarded his senses. The earthy smell of dirt, leaves, tree bark, and even the murky water of a stream not too far away, all crammed up his nose in a confusing, but vivid array. He could hear the tiny squeak of field mice scurrying in and out of their burrows, the chirping of baby birds high in the treetops, and the rhythmic babbling of the stream.

  If he listened closely, he could even hear the soft voices of men muttering intelligible words. It was their voices that startled him awake. He rose from the forest floor, a few leaves sticking to his damp skin. The next thing he noticed was his pure and unabashed nakedness. He looked all around, but could not find his clothes anywhere.

  In fact, this didn’t even look like the clearing he had fallen in the night before when Gollumpus bucked him. This place was new, and the woods denser than he remembered.

  After that, he noticed how his body was sprinkled and matted with mud and dirt. It was only then he realized that something was not right. His body.

  He looked to his bulging calves, then to his thick, muscled thighs. Upward he inspected, his nerves rattling as his eyes widened. His limbs seemed to have grossly swelled overnight. Yet, was this swelling? He flexed his hand and saw the way his tendons and muscles bunched under his skin. No, this wasn’t swelling at all. His biceps were four times the size they had been, giving them an intimidati
ng appearance.

  Then, he took in his new torso. His pecks were hard and chiseled like the famous naked statues of mythological gods and heroes from ancient times. His stomach, as well, boasted a set of tight, rippling abs that were certainly not there the evening before.

  It was as if Darren’s mind had been put into the body of a young and able field hand. He was no longer a thin and weak excuse for a human being. The fact that he was naked and covered in dirt didn’t matter anymore.

  His hands trembled as he flexed his new muscles, a smile curling across his lips. If the pain he experienced the night before had brought about this change, he was glad for it. And if George was the one who made all of this happen, Darren was forever in his debt.

  Beyond the shock, Darren felt fantastic. The constant ache in his bones had disappeared, along with every other slight nuisance that came with being an invalid. No more congested nose, no more weak lungs and heart, no more upset bowels, no more dull headaches or anything else. Instead, he stood tall and strong, pushing himself off the ground with little need for assistance.

  He took his first step, then another, making his way through the trees to find that stream he knew must have been nearby. It had to be nearby for him to hear it trickle so loudly. However, he must have traveled half a mile before he stumbled upon its winding current.

  Darren fell to his knees and checked his reflection to make sure this was truly his own body. The face that stared back at him through the watery reflection was certainly his, though something new had appeared. His jaw and lips were covered in stubble, something he had never seen on his face before. By his ailments or perhaps a cruel turn of fate, Darren had never been able to grow a beard. Now, it appeared that he would finally have to purchase a razor to keep his face clean shaven. Though, he was sure that he might never want to shave, lest the beard never grow back again.

  As he dipped his hands into the cold water and splashed his face and arms to rid himself of the soil that was caked across his skin, the thought occurred to Darren that perhaps this was temporary. Would he lose these muscles and the beard if he didn’t constantly take the tonic George had given him? What if he would experience that same pain each time he drank it? It was worth it to look upon his reflection and see that he was no longer helpless.