Darkness

Gregor

I leave the infirmary, but I feel very aimless. I neither left Smith alone as I had resolved to do, nor provided him with healing. He is a terrible person, who has caused me great personal anguish, and who has been an affliction to this community since he arrived. But I cannot bring myself to hate him, nor to take any joy in his demise. I especially feel bad for his Guardian, who overcame every natural instinct to try to save the man. And I really only made things worse. I feel an uncomfortable sense of failure.

“Darling, how can you take this upon yourself?” Wolk objects. “How is it a failure on your part when a terrible disease claims a life?”

I sigh and do not respond. I don’t feel like having a debate about it. He’ll follow along with my thoughts no matter what I do, but I just want to be left in peace to mope for a while.

He obligingly falls silent.

I look around myself, at the dock area Under-the-Hill. I feel like it has been a long time since I just took the time to absorb my surroundings here. It seems that I am always rushing hither and yon, the responsibilities that I have gathered to myself keeping me constantly busy. I always have an aim, a goal, something to achieve. I stride about town every day, moving from task to task without stopping.

It strikes me how unusual this is. It is very out of character compared to the rest of my life. It has been almost two years since I arrived in Natchez, and during that time I believe I have engaged in more activity, formed more relationships, accomplished more tangible achievements, than in entire centuries which have gone by during my existence. It normally energizes me, but tonight it suddenly feels exhausting.

It is about one in the morning, and although the taverns Under-the-Hill still emit the sounds of revelry as men drink and gamble and fight and laugh, the river slipping by silently in the darkness seems peaceful.

I know that Rosalind is sleeping, and Vernon is sleeping, and I do not wish to disturb them. I woke Rosalind up in the middle of the night last night. That is a habit I cannot maintain, it wouldn’t be fair to her. But as a result I slept for a little while last night, and therefore feel no need to do it again. It is not physical rest that I need. I just want some quiet, some time to be alone, some peace.

I stroll over to the dock which my crew built for the steamboat, now standing vacant while the ship is on the New Orleans end of its route. I walk to the end, the farthest point away from the noise of Natchez-Under-the-Hill, and stand staring down into the water. The Mississippi River flows past, the current as strong and swift as ever, the sound of the water soothing as it splashes against the piles of the dock.

I sigh, and sit down, my legs dangling over the edge of the dock. I spend some time letting my mind rest, not thinking of anything in particular, watching the stars glint in the sky, seeing the vague illumination of the moon on the plants growing along the distant bank across the river.

I appreciate just being left alone for a bit. I have been a solitary man for most of my life. But my life lately has been almost frenzied in comparison to my long habit of remaining largely silent and alone.

Wolk speaks for the first time since I came out here, sensing that I am ready. “Do you miss your solitude?” he asks.

Do I? I stare out over the water, considering. I hear a splash, probably a fish surfacing briefly, perhaps to catch an insect. No, I do not miss it. I love my life here. I love my family, my friends, my work. But I have to admit that sometimes, the life I have created feels quite… intrusive. Perhaps I should find more time to have such solitary moments, time to myself, the ability to let my mind rest for a time.

“I agree,” Wolk says. “As much as you enjoy your interactions with others, it is important to see to your own well-being also.”

It makes me chuckle. Of course my Guardian would want to prioritize me above anybody else. I look over at him. His wolf form is lying on the dock next to me, glowing softly in the night. He raises his nose and huffs at me, but does not respond.

“Come on,” I tell him, “let’s take a walk.” He gets up and follows me, up the hill, away from the infirmary and the brothels and the noisy taverns, towards the dark and quiet of the sleeping town.

I used to spend a lot of time taking walks at night, when other people were sleeping, enjoying the darkness and stillness and isolation. Maybe I should get back into the habit of doing this.

I stroll through the streets of Natchez, looking into dark shop windows, seeing the occasional lamp lit inside an upstairs apartment. It is very quiet and very nice.

I see one of the lights inside the Methodist chapel as I am passing. I didn’t expect that. It is nearly two in the morning. It makes me sad to realize that I have a split second of excitement, thinking that perhaps I could go chat with my friend, before I remember that Johnson has gone away, replaced with the despicable Colbert.

“What’s he doing in there?” I ask Wolk.

“Pastor Colbert is finishing the preparation of his sermon for Sunday.”

Another hateful message, no doubt, teaching his congregation about how to revile people who are not like themselves. I realize suddenly that Smith will never hear the sermon, and even though I have disagreed with every word that Colbert has spoken, I know that he must manage to inspire and comfort his parishioners, even as he guides them astray. It is all very sad to me.

I am passing by the chapel, leaving the pastor to finish what I am sure is an ugly speech, when I stop. Smith is one of Colbert’s biggest supporters, and a pastor’s duties generally are understood to include providing succor to the ill and dying. I could not help Smith, either by healing him or even providing comfort. But maybe his pastor could bring him solace.

I approach the door to the chapel’s office, where the lamp is lit within, take a deep breath, and knock.

It takes a couple of minutes before the door is opened. Pastor Colbert stands holding a candle, looking very informal without vestments over his clothing. He recognizes me at once, and a guarded expression comes to his face. I don’t know if he knows that I am aware that he spent the greater part of the last two months reviling me to his congregation, but he seems wary to find me at his doorstep in the middle of the night.

“Yes?” he asks.

I don’t beat about the bush. “I have come from the infirmary Under-the-Hill,” I tell him. “One of your parishioners, Patrolman Smith, is very sick with yellow fever. Doctor Duncan does not expect him to survive the night.”

He stands, blinking. Everyone knows what Smith did to me, and he probably wonders if I am playing some kind of joke, trying to wreak some mischief against the man who beat me. It is sad, how some people are so mean-spirited that they expect only the same from everybody else.

“I do not believe that he has any family in town,” I go on. “I thought perhaps you could visit him, so that he doesn’t have to die alone.” I can’t make it much plainer than that.

His eyes narrow, as if he can’t figure out what my angle is. Well, I’ve delivered the message, it’s up to him what he does with it. I bow my head to him, and say, “Good night,” and turn to leave.

“Thank you,” I hear him say behind me. I turn, nod again, and walk up the street towards home.

Samuel Duncan

The patrolman is still lingering, apparently some strength keeping his heart beating despite the clear failure of most of his other systems. I have gone to his side every few minutes to check on him. If he wakes up I don’t want him to be alone, but that doesn’t seem likely. He remains unconscious, even when I decide to lift him up a bit to replace the soiled pillow beneath his head. No man should have to die in his own filth.

I notice that he still has a cloth on his forehead, and imagine that Gregor must have left that here for him. It still amazes me that despite everything, my friend was generous enough to try to help the man who so cruelly assaulted him. I lift the cloth away, long since dried, the moisture burned away by the fever.

I hear the front door opening, and think that either Gregor has come back and I’ll have to insist again that he go home, or that a new patient is arriving. I move out into the parlor, and am surprised to see the pastor arriving, wearing his vestments, and holding a bible.

“Pastor Colbert,” I say, “are you all right?” He doesn’t look ill.

“I am here to visit one of my parishioners, Smith,” he explains. “I have heard that he is very ill.”

Huh. “Yes, he is,” I agree, “I do not think he will be with us much longer. Come with me.”

I lead him back into the hallway with the patient rooms, and stop at Smith’s door. “I’m glad you have come,” I tell him, quite sincerely even though I have never particularly enjoyed his sermons the times that I accompanied my uncles to church. “How did you know he is here?” I ask, curious.

“Gregor Slavson came by to inform me,” he says, rather tightly. I’ll bet that was a shock, I think, trying not to be amused in light of the serious moment we are in. Of course Gregor would find the one thing that could possibly help Smith, a way to at least ease his passing. And of course the pastor must be very discomfited to have discovered a man about whom he has lectured quite negatively coming to request his pastoral services.

The pastor enters Smith’s room, and pulls the one straight chair over to the side of the bed. “Let me know if you need anything,” I tell the pastor, and leave him as he opens his bible and begins to read a Psalm to the unconscious patrolman. I hope that it can comfort him.