Chapter Thirteen and Three Quarters, wherein some explaining is done, Part 3

“This may be overstepping my bounds, but,” Ethan kneaded the putty of his forehead with his thick fingers, “is it true that this house is actually Blueberry's property?”

“Absolutely not!” Gravor shouted a second before remembering what he had told Vera about Blueberry's mislaid inheritance. “Not exactly.”

“Alright, we don't need to make that our business unless you tell us so.” Ethan Lilly put his hands on his knees as if to rise but froze in that posture. He looked up at the ceiling and addressed the rafters. “I don't even want to dignify this with a question,” he sighed. “Are we really to believe that, after all these years, Blueberry, the most dogged scoundrel this town has ever seen,” Beezy's heart fluttered, “and I mean no undue offense,”

“That's alright,” Blueberry said.

“...is actually a nobleman?”

Now Gravor was truly adrift. His story clearly had unanticipated implications. “Can someone possibly be a nobleman if he doesn't own land?” he philosophized.

“A baron-in-exile, perhaps?”

“I'm afraid I have no idea. His side of our family is all but completely unknown. If Blueberry has noble blood, he would be the only one to know it.”

Beezy lit up. “He has a birthmark!” she offered.

Excepting a slight wince, Ethan showed no sign of having heard her. “Thank you, Gravor,” he said. “I suppose for practical purposes that's all we need to know right now.” He rose to his feet, and the men stretched and slapped their tan, short-brimmed caps against their thighs. With downcast eyes, they shuffled toward the door. “Timothy,” Ethan addressed the tall, red-haired youth, “would you mind staying back and taking a full report of Miss Beezy's attack.” The boy gave a succinct nod.

“Attack?” Gravor exploded.

“Oh, I'm alright,” Beezy said. “Just had a scare on my afternoon walk.”

Gravor cocked his head. “Oh, You were attacked. Thank goodness.” He followed Ethan and his men to the door.

As Ethan was about to step out the door, he turned back and declared a final judgment, “What goes on in this house isn't any of our business. If you two want to get married and make the world's smallest estate, Gravor, if you want to turn your home into a house of charity, that's not our business.” He raised one mighty index finger – the same that had stopped a rambling Blueberry mid-sentence a few minutes earlier. “Unless you make it our business. We are going to keep a close eye on things here to make sure everything is as it seems.”

Gravor stepped outside to see him off. Ethan put a hand on his shoulder. “You're a good man, Gravor. You may think that without family in town -- without real family -- you're alone, but there are a lot of people who want to help you."  Ethan frowned. "Now, I see your hands are injured. If this mess with Blueberry has anything to do with it, you can tell me.”

“No, no, Mr. Lilly. As I told Miss Vera, it was a climbing accident.”

Ethan's face retained its stolid expression, but his grip on Gravor's shoulder tightened. “Vera is a kind soul. So kind that she sometimes forgets what's best for her. I know I can count on you to keep far away from her. At least until this business here is over.”

Under the vice of Ethan's hand, Gravor began to lose the sensation in his fingertips. After days of chronic pain, he would have welcomed the anesthesia if he hadn't been too worried about his clavicle cracking. “Oh yes, of course,” he whimpered. “She just happened by today and inquired about my health, so I was obliged to explain. I would never presume...”

“Good.” Ethan released Gravor's shoulder and gave him a disdainful pat on the cheek. “I'll be around,” he said.

Gravor could feel himself redden under Ethan's scuff and lowered his face. “Yes, please stop in anytime. My door is always open, even just for a chat and a cup of...” But Ethan had already turned to join the receding men.

Chapter Thirteen and a half, wherein some explaining is done, Part 2

"Tea anyone?" Gravor offered over the creaking of floorboards and furniture. Without waiting for an answer, he said, “Blueberry, could you help me put the pot on?”

Ethan turned in his chair. “This isn't a social visit, Gravor. We've been hearing some interesting things, and we were hoping you might set us straight.”

“Yes, of course, Mr. Lilly,” Gravor minced, but he still hovered at the kitchen door.

“First off, we've come to learn that not only is Blueberry living here, but that the two of you are related.”

Blueberry bolted forward in his seat. “I think I can explain this one,” he began, but Ethan cut him short with one raised finger.

“I'd like to hear this from Gravor,” Ethan nearly growled. He continued in a milder tone, “It's alright, Gravor. We're here to help. You can tell the truth.”

Gravor could smell his own sick sweat. Vera had certainly told her brother the tale he'd told her. Now he had either to recant and lose Vera's faith or to live his fiction to the fullest. “Yes, that's true. We're --”

“Cousins,” both he and Blueberry blurted in unison. Both men glared at each other with perplexed relief and suspicion.

“Distant cousins,” Gravor clarified.

The shifting and creaking intensified as the men looked back and forth to guage one another's reactions. “I see,” said Ethan. “And this woman --”

“Beezy!” Beezy interjected.

“This woman, Beezy, is living here as well?”

“She is a recent arrival,” Gravor replied diplomatically.

“And she and Blueberry are engaged to be married?” This time the glare passed between Blueberry and Beezy.

“Yes?” was Gravor's guess.

Merry Christmas!

Chapter Thirteen, wherein some explaining is done, Part 1

Gravor's main room was appropriately sparse for his bachelor's existence.  Notwithstanding, the present company would've challenged the capacity of all but the most seasoned hosts in town. The greater part of the militiamen shifted on their feet or squatted against the wall. Behind the diminutive dining table, Gravor's rough, wooden bench bowed with the weight of the contiguous bottoms of the gaunt Egor Sprig, who preferred to sit out of militia duties whenever possible, Blueberry, and a middling butcher named Owen Askle – known to Beezy as the squat, balding man, but better known to others in town as the only son of Dr. Pious Askle.  All had deferred the single armchair to their leader, Ethan Lilly, elder brother of Vera, son of the preacher Waldron Lilly and a farmer by vocation. Ethan had in turn attempted to defer the chair to Beezy. Beezy had protested and unceremoniously plopped onto the floor. To Gravor's immense relief, she remembered to tuck her dress under her crossed legs.

During all this settling, Gravor and Blueberry attempted a clandestine consort of eyes. Each shot the other a pregnant look of warning. Gravor rolled his eyes to indicate that he was willing to forget differences for the moment. Blueberry rolled his eyes to show that he wasn't angry anymore, and bugged them to import that he'd be doing the talking. Gravor's eyes watered with an unblinking plea that Blueberry please, please keep his mouth shut. Ignored in the exchange, Beezy looked back and forth between the two with furrowed desperation in an attempt to communicate concerns all her own.

Wishing you all the best this holiday season!

Chapter Twelve and a half: The Lie Beezy Told, Part 2

The footfalls slowed, then halted as the men drew near. Beezy lay motionless and prayed that what remained of last year's tan would camouflage her under the newly budding branches. When she finally dared look up, she saw a dozen or so broad-shouldered men staring at her wide-eyed through the large hole she had plowed through the brush. Wooden clubs dangled from their belts, but the men's hands were busy fidgeting with their doffed caps.

Beezy rose to a crouch, arms across her chest. “Hey there,” she said.

One of the older men took a reluctant half-step toward her. “Are you alright? We heard screaming.”

“Oh yes, I'm fine.”

“Where are you clothes?” the man asked with clear unease.

Beezy looked about and spotted the faded orange of her dress a few yards away. “Over there,” she nodded. “Would you mind...?”

The men all turned around while Beezy slinked away and scrambled into her dress. She could hear them grumbling amongst themselves, and through their low tones, Beezy picked out the word, 'vagrant.' She considered running, but instead strode regally back to the edge of the trail. The men had retrieved her bag from the ground and were inspecting it with suspicion.

A red-haired youth, tallest but spindliest of the pack, handed the bag to her. Beezy accepted it with a curtsy, holding up her broken shoulder strap with her other hand. “What happened here?” the boy asked.

“I was attacked!” shouted a suddenly vehement Beezy. She screwed up her mouth and tried to cry, but couldn't. “I'm fine now, but I was attacked.”

“Who was it?” demanded a stout, balding man.

“I – I don't know, a group of men.”

“How many were there?” the red-haired boy asked.

“Five,” Beezy ventured, but the number seemed too round. “No – six.”

“Where did they go?” another man demanded.

“They ran up the path – up the canyon toward town. If you go now, you can probably catch them!”

The men all looked at the older man who'd first addressed Beezy. He nodded, and the balding man and six or seven others took off at a sprint.

The four remaining men helped Beezy up onto the trail. The older man, clearly their leader, explained, “We've been having problems with vagrants lately – a lot of thefts in the area.”

“Well, I'm sure it was the same men,” Beezy reasoned.

The man coughed. “Yes,” he said. “May I ask what you were doing this far into the forest unescorted?”

“I like to take long walks. I go every Sunday – after church, you understand,” Beezy stammered. “I guess it isn't such a good idea.”

“No,” the man agreed. “It's not. And may I ask what's in your pack?”

“One should never ask a lady the contents of her handbag,” Beezy rebuffed.

“I apologize. It's just that I've never seen you around here before, and we've heard complaints of a nude woman wandering around these parts.”

“Well, I have never!” Beezy fumed. “I'll have you know I am a lady!” Her words were met by a quartet of disapproving frowns. “I may not look like much now, but I am a baroness in exile. I was promised to the Baron Blueberry as a little girl, and now I have come to live with him.”

The men took several moments to register the news before bursting into riotous laughter. “What?” Beezy demanded of them. “Why are you laughing?”

When the cadre regained control of themselves, the red-haired boy asked, “Blueberry is your baron?” He paused to wipe tears from his eyes. “He doesn't have a penny to his name.”

“Shows what you know,” Beezy huffed. “I'll take you to him right now, and then we'll see who's laughing.”

That moment the men who'd chased after the bandits returned at a trot. “No sign of anyone,” the balding man announced.

“We'll leave that for now,” said the leader. “Something much more interesting has come up.” The balding man shot him a quizzical look, but the elder simply barked, “Let's go!” He took Beezy by the arm and led the march back toward town.

Chapter 12: The Lie Beezy Told, part 1

Beezy hiked her way down the canyon road and into the forest. Her summer stomping grounds were only a few days away, and thoughts of fishing in the cold runoff streams, filling her lean-to with the sweet smoke of freshly trapped game, and falling asleep in the sun nearly lifted her off her feet. But despite everything that awaited her, the unremitting picture of Blueberry asleep on his bed kept inserting itself between the frames of Beezy's sweet reverie.
Previously when bunking with men, there had always been a reason to leave in the morning, be it hunger, a sore backside, or a wife's impending return. With Blueberry, she had no reason to go anywhere at all. He could keep her full-bellied and well-sexed indefinitely, and it made her feet itch. She didn't dislike Blueberry, and even the other one was tolerable.  In the end, she supposed she just wasn't the type to rub elbows or other things with barons. So she had stolen away while Blueberry slept to avoid the inevitable question, "Why?"   She didn't know how to put her answer into words and was afraid that without an answer, she would have to stay.
But now she imagined Blue waking up in an empty house, and it made her gloomy. “Beholden,” she thought. The word came from thin air, but Beezy knew it was the word she wanted. “That man is beholden me down,” she said aloud.
She tried to shake her funk away. “Har har!” she bellowed into the crisp air. “HAR, HAR!” but for all its rumbustious volume, her laughter rang hollow. Though the weather was still too chilly and she too close to town, Beezy tore her old sundress up over her head and flung it to the ground. She might have left it at that, but the dress looked so limp and helpless lying on the dirt path that Beezy gave it a kick for good measure. The dress flew up and caught against the brush that lined the trail.
Beezy walked on a few steps, and her skin began to goose-flesh. She looked back at her sundress huddled in the shrubs. “I'm leaving you behind,” she called to it. “No two ways about it.” The dress flapped forlornly. Beezy ran back to it and shrieked, “Trying to take my summer from me, are you?” She snatched up the dress and tore at it with her weathered claws. One of the straps broke, but despite its age, the cloth would not rend. Screaming in wordless rage, Beezy threw it deep into the trees.
She stood motionless, legs wide and breathing like a bull, caught between repugnance and the practical reality that she had nothing else but a thin blanket to keep her warm. Before she could decide what to do, she heard footsteps coming from further down the path. A large group was approaching.  Judging by the weight of their steps, it was a large group of very large men, and they were moving quickly. Beezy had been preoccupied, and now they were bearing down close. Leaping off the trail, she crashed through the scrub, branches deeply gouging her ribs and thighs, and dove face-down against the ground.

Chap. 12: The Lie Beezy Told, coming tomorrow

Happy Holidays!

Chapter Eleven, an interlude

Blueberry awoke mid-afternoon with a warm recognition of the soft mattress on which he lay and the sweet musk of lovemaking that hung in the room.  He rolled back and forth in the mess of sheets, inspected his toes, and ensured all his itches had been thoroughly scratched before venturing out of bed.  Only after stumbling into the main room did his mood begin to sour.  He poked his head into the kitchen, then looked out the front window.  He threw open the back door, bounded up the ladder to the loft and sprinted back to the bedroom.  Beezy had left and taken all her things.
There had never before been any question of a woman staying.  Both parties usually beat a hasty exit to avoid discovery or otherwise get on with scheming a living.  Now, though, he had a home and food, even a tub for warm baths.  The question then arose, "Why didn't she stay?" and Berry didn't like to think of the answer.  Beezy had disliked Gravor, he remembered.  Gravor must have said or done something to make her leave.
When he first encountered Beezy slinking down the road after dark the previous evening, he'd imagined she might stick around awhile.  How long, Blueberry didn't know.   At least a few days, or a week.  Long enough for them to get enough of each other, he supposed.  He wasn't sure exactly what he wanted, but despite his inability to envision the endgame, he knew he wanted more.
Berry fantasized about running out and finding Beezy.  He would tell her that they were two of a kind.  He wasn't like Gravor.  Like her, he was content sleeping under the stars, but that kind of life didn't afford the opportunity to laze about together in a soft bed.  Naturally, even if he could find her, telling her would be futile.  On the road there was little he could offer her that she couldn't provide herself.  Besides, he wasn't ready to run off with her, so why did he care about what she thought of him?  When he came to think of it, he didn't even understand why Beezy suddenly seemed so important.  Other women would come, and Blueberry would start things out right.  He wouldn't abide any more lies, and he sure as hell wouldn't let Gravor frighten the next one away.
The house began to feel small, and the slender arms of Blueberry's robe, borrowed from Gravor, constricted around his shoulders.  He needed a little air, he decided, and when he stormed out the front door, he saw Gravor standing at the gate, vacant as a wickless lamp.  Blueberry marched up to Gravor, who turned and glanced at him absently, and tapped a finger against Gravor's sternum with a resounding thump.  "There's going to be some changes around here," he snarled, but he quickly removed his hand on seeing the malicious fury that flashed in Gravor's eyes.
Gravor turned back toward the road, letting his words spill from his mouth like blood, "I. perfectly. ag--"  Something down the road had caught his eye.  "ree...."
The local militia, a band of about ten volunteers from town,  was approaching on the canyon road.  They were still too far off to see, but Gravor thought he could make out a short, dark-maned figure being pushed along between them. 

Chapter Ten and a half: The Lie Gravor Told, Part 2

"But how can that be?"  Vera's question worked on so many levels she couldn't frame it more precisely.
"It seems he's from a forgotten branch of our family tree.  No one knew it, so he was passed over for his stake in numerous inheritances.  And now, you see, he has nothing.  My uncle wrote me just last week to ask if I couldn't do something to help him, and as it happened, it's been good to have him around after my accident."
Vera had never heard anything so honorable in her life.  Still, she couldn't reconcile the reality of Blueberry invading such a gentle and kind man's house with the noble ideal behind it.  "But there must be a limit to what you yourself can do -- he can't live with you forever!"
The thought worried Gravor.  It was not just that Blueberry had saved his life -- the foolish lummox had risked almost certain death to do so.  What was a life worth?  If it meant living indefinitely with Blueberry and his cadre of checkered companions, Gravor was inclined to answer, "Not very much."
When they reached Gravor's gate, Vera released his arm, making it plain that she would come no further, although an invitation was unlikely.  "I know you'll resolve this," she said.  "You always do what's right.  Soon enough we'll be able to laugh about it all, I'm sure."
After they said their farewells, Gravor stared off at Vera long after she'd disappeared down the road, trying to understand how a day that had begun with a naked banshee in his kitchen and quickly progressed to indescribable pain and the threat of amputation could carry with it the floral breath of Vera Lilly's perfume, still perceptible on his sleeve, and the delicate seeds of hope in his breast.  As eclectic as the day's events had been, a common message permeated throughout:  Blueberry could not stay.

Chapter Ten: The Lie Gravor Told, Part 1

At her insistence, Vera accompanied Gravor all the way to his house.  Though he could have easily carried her, Vera braced him up by the arm, and he consented to lean against her as much as he could without sullying her reputation or crushing her ethereal frame.  The sun was bright but still far away, and the wind teased the last, lingering winter chill from the hills and swept it over the town.  With typical optimism, Vera had worn her lightest, Springiest dress that day, and she shivered like a newborn kitten against Gravor's arm.
"Gravor?" she said after some time.
"...Miss Vera?" he said.
"Please don't be angry, you know I'm not one to listen to gossip, but..."  Gravor suddenly did feel the need to be braced up.  "is that man, Blueberry, staying with you?"  Gravor straightened himself, but Vera still clung to his arm.  " I mean to say, your neighbors have seen him coming and going -- maybe he's helping you with your work?  That would be a great charity, giving that man some direction and purpose."
"Well, yes, he does help me now that I can't use my hands."
"What a relief!  When I heard people say that that man had moved into your house, you wouldn't believe how worried I was."
Gravor knew he couldn't hide as obstreperous a presence as Blueberry.  "But he is also living in my house.  For the present."
They walked several paces in tense silence.  Though he had no desire to elaborate, Gravor knew he should cut short whatever images Vera might be conjuring in her mind.  "It's best that he's around all the time to help."

"But Gravor," Vera protested, "There are other people who can help you, and want to help.  It's a wonderful thing you're doing for that man, but charity has its limits."  The words left an awful aftertaste in her mouth. "All I mean is that you deserve better care.  Just look at your hands!  Maybe you need a woman's touch."

"The house is no place for a woman right now," Gravor shuddered to think how Vera would be received, "and besides, I can't just turn Blueberry out."
"But why?"  Vera stopped with a sharp stamp, her face adopting a twisted pout very much like that of a spoiled, little girl.
Gravor wanted to confide in her.  She always knew the right thing to do, and he desperately needed someone to help him figure exactly how indebted he was to Blueberry and the most efficient way to evict him.  Unfortunately, he had no idea how to relate the story without Vera thinking him a complete buffoon.  "The truth is, Miss Vera," he measured his words slowly, hoping that they would somehow conclude themselves.  "I've discovered only recently that... he is a distant relation of mine."  It sounded innocuous enough, but Gravor cautiously added, "By marriage."

Chapter Nine, wherein Gravor visits the doctor

Hopping between the cluttered cabinets and workbenches of his office, Dr. Askle agitated the hodgepodge of bottles and vials with hairy-knuckled hands like a troll among his treasures.  He had injured his leg in a war known to Gravor only from history books, and his resultant jerky gait sent the shadows cast by his bulky frame jumping and twitching in the light of the oil lantern like sinister marionettes.  Settling on a bottle of antiseptic, a second bottle filled with leaves in a dark suspension, and a small, black vial, he unrolled his instruments beside the bed where Gravor lay.  "Let's see what we have here," he barked, and began to unroll the bandages.
The doctor covered his nose and mouth with his sleeve and reeled back a step on revealing the flesh beneath.  Both hands were grotesque studies in indigo and cream and effused the stench of stale pus and putrefaction.  Each finger had swollen to twice its size, and they all terminated in freely bleeding patches of intermingled scab and bits of cotton gauze where the now-bloated skin had been shredded away.  When Dr. Askle made his first cuts to re-open and clean the wounds, Gravor slipped out of his body only to awake moments later to the astringent burning of smelling salts in his sinuses and Dr. Askle's broad face filling his vision.
"I'm sorry," he apologized, "I'd like to let you sleep through this, but the unfortunate truth is that you can't miss a moment."  He ran an antiseptic swab along the depth of a particularly severe laceration.  Gravor lost consciousness again as the doctor drained the fluid from his hands, and once more when Askle dipped a spatula into the black glass vial and spread a thin layer of writhing, silvery worms into the naked flesh of Gravor's fingertips.  Still, he never cried out, knowing that Vera was waiting in the next room.  The doctor, having brought Gravor to again, opened the jar of purplish, lanceolate leaves in bitter-smelling liquid.  He spiralled them around Gravor's fingers.  "The Vigoratum leaves will help fight the infection.  The suturefly larvae eat the rotten and dying flesh, then form coccoons under the skin that help seal the wound.  Don't try to cut or pull them out -- they'll cut themselves out on their own in a few weeks."
Seeing Gravor's face growing ashy again the doctor added, "Don't worry -- it won't hurt.  They stay just beneath the surface, and the skin around the coccoons should be fully healed by then."  He frowned, his eyes disappearing under bushy brows.  "But if this doesn't work, I'll have to take some of those fingers."  He rolled his tools into a towel and brought them to countertop, where he began tossing them into jars of disinfectant.  Over the clattering, he called by means of a farewell, "Change the bandages every two days, but under no conditions lift the Vigoratum.  We'll see how things are in a couple weeks."