William Rothschild (soldat) wrote in thisdarknight, @ 2016-07-03 16:54:00 |
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Entry tags: | !locale: new york, emmeline rothschild, william rothschild |
walking through icy streams that took my breath away
Who: Cora Scott & William Rothschild.
What: A scarred veteran takes a detour into a medium's shop that will change his life's course.
Where: New York.
When: Over ~150 years ago.
Warnings: None.
Progress: Gdoc, complete.
It had been a week since William had returned to the city. He found that he appreciated the hustle and bustle, people lost in their own worlds, while he trudged along. Back home, when he had returned from the hospital, the town folk could barely keep their voices down. He’d hear them whispering about how the war had taken a young, handsome man and aged him by decades. William hated it. It was enough to deal with the pain of his still-healing wound, but even worse to feel the pity of those he had grown up around.
But in New York, people barely glanced at him. Their lives were too busy, too directed, to worry about the Civil War veteran making his way down the street. They had likely seen worse, after all. The city was a dirty, dangerous place compared to the country town William hailed from. Seeing a cripple held no shock, and for that William was thankful.
It was painful to walk but he had refused a driver. That would be admitting just how broken he was. Instead, he moved slowly and stuck close to the buildings to keep away from the more quick-footed passersby.
His gaze was trained on the ground before him, the brim of his hat shading his eyes from the bright sun to ensure he could spot obstacles well before they became a problem. He refused to end up sprawled on the ground if he could avoid it. It was due to this that he caught the small sign of a medium. For all the times he had traveled up and down this street to pick up odds and ends for his home and office, he hadn’t noticed the sign until now.
It was simple, cheap, and directed the interested party down the alley he now stood next to. William lifted his gaze and looked down the alley that was littered with debris and considered it.
All the battles he had encountered were terrible, but he counted Gettysburg the worst. In the end though it was difficult to compare one friend's death to another. Whether it was a bullet to the head, a musket to the leg, or perhaps a bayonet through the heart, he had seen the light leave the eyes of his friends as they bled out on the fields. That, though, could barely hold a candle to the suffering he had witnessed in the hospitals. All desire for survival was gone; only the wounded remained, shattered versions of their former selves.
He still would wake in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, blood oozing still from the wound in his leg. A tremor would appear in his heart as the memory, the sound of a dull saw cutting back and forth on a man’s arm or leg would come back to him. The soldier would be given whiskey and a bullet to bite, men would hold down the man's appendages, and the surgeon would drag the blade -- often still tainted with the blood of past soldiers -- back and forth over the body part until they reached the bone. That was always the worst, cutting through the bone as the man screamed.
All of it had stayed with him after all this time. William wondered, often, of those he knew who were dead. Had they gone into the light? Did they find God’s embrace? Or did they still suffer? Were their souls trapped on those awful fields?
William waited for a moment, leaning upon his cane and twitching his mustache that curled down over his full beard. Why not? he thought and took a slow step forward as he picked his way around objects in his path and made his way to the medium’s door.
A smart little bell chimed as he made his way carefully through the entry; the space inside was small and dark, with every available surface covered by books stacked on lacy cloth and some awful looking taxidermy. Dust was everywhere, layering everything in a gray snowfall. A round table took up most of the available room, circled by four somewhat matching chairs. Altogether, the shop was sad looking. For a moment, it seemed as though no one was home, and then a small waif of a woman came through a side entry, looking surprised to see anyone, much less a potential customer, come through her door.
"Hello... I mean, welcome! Please, have a seat. What are you looking for, today?" She gestured to the table. She didn't look particularly medium-ish; her hair was pinned up in a loose but serious style to keep out of her face, and her dress, while well-fitted, was worn. The color had paled. She seemed to fit in with the other misfires and oddities of the shop, though her movement at least marked her as something alive.
William paused in the doorway, his eyes adjusting to the darker room. He blinked once more when he saw the young woman. She wasn’t what he was expecting, but then again, he wasn’t sure what he was expecting. Certainly not this handsome young woman. He bobbed his head in greeting and pushed the door open further to make room for his cane and limping stride -- he had a door knock him off balance before and he certainly didn’t want that to happen now in front of her. “Hello,” he said, glancing down as he stepped into the room and leaned on his cane, using his free hand to ensure the door was closed behind him. “I… I have never spoken to a medium. I have to admit, I’m not quite sure how to go about this.”
He stepped forward, removing his hat and leaning on his cane. He looked at the chairs and then at the woman, not sure what he should do next.
The woman found a warm smile for him; she moved around the table, pulling out a chair. "Sitting is generally the first step. What brought you to my shop? Usually it's a question."
William looked to the chair and eased toward it. Sitting was always the worst; well, beside standing up. The motion of changing his leg from straight or bent to the opposite was painful and he frowned a little as he began to lower himself into the chair with the helpful balance the cane provided. The doctors said it would grow easier with time, but William was finding that hard to believe. The woman remained behind the chair as though to ensure his safety.
Once settled in the chair, which was an embarrassingly slow process, he looked at the woman. “I was wondering…” His voice faded. How could he put his nightmares and fears into words? He couldn’t start with this. “I’m William Rothschild,” He set his cane against the table and switched his hat from one hand to another, offering her the free one. “I’m a lawyer here, locally, but I only recently returned from the war.”
The woman took his hand in a careful, soft grasp. "Cora Scott," she replied. She released his hand and moved to a chair perpendicular to where William was sitting. Hands folded carefully on the tabletop, her eyes had never quite left him throughout her movements. "And I had wondered, but I didn't want to pry. Are you looking to reach someone who passed away?" It was a gentle term: passed away. She had little doubt that few people who had graced those battlefields had gone quietly. But it was her job to make clients comfortable, to reassure them that she could offer them some sort of peace.
William kept eye contact with the woman, from the moment they grasped one another’s hands, to the moment she sat down. He felt foolish for coming here; how could he expect this woman to know what had happened to his brothers on the field? And what was worse, what if this was true -- this medium ability -- and she could see how disastrous it all was.
“I was in Gettysburg,” William blurted out. “That’s where I received my injury.” One hand lowered to his thigh, gently lighting over his pants to prevent further discomfort. “But you’ve heard of Gettysburg, surely.” Who hadn’t? Though only referenced by the name of a town no one had known of previously but now were all too familiar with due to the horrors reported from the field. “There were so many battles before that but Gettysburg was the worst. So many men were killed.”
He blinked, and leaned back in his chair, defeated by his memory. “I still dream of the men that were lost. I didn’t even know all of them, they weren’t a part of my regiment. But I still remember the looks on their faces, as if they were searching for God through all the cannon and gun fire, while they lay dying on the field.” His voice had lowered to a whisper, his eyes trailing down to the table. He traced a finger over the lace that covered it. He still hadn’t answered Cora’s question, but he wasn’t sure he really could. Talking with her seemed to be something he could manage.
She watched his face carefully, saying nothing at first. Her hands folded on the tabletop. "God is everywhere. Surely he was watching that day, on the field."
“I don’t know that though,” William replied, his voice soft. But just as quickly as the words left his mouth, he suddenly felt sheepish and looked to Cora. “Not to say he wasn’t there, though. I’m sure you have a much better understanding of it all than I do. I apologize if I come across as a heathen.” A small curl to the side of his lips was an attempt at a smile. He was trying, but he wasn’t very good company anymore, was he? Here he came looking for answers and accidentally implied that God didn't exist. “I’m still learning to interact with normal society again.”
She tried on a small smile for his sake, with no hint of religious condescension in it. "I don't presume to know the will of the Creator, Mr. Rothschild. I'm merely another soul he's placed on this mortal coil, here to complete his will. I know he seems cruel at times, but that isn't his doing; he gave man free will for a reason, so that we would go to him of our own choosing." Her folded hands opened, spreading her thumbs wide as she shrugged. "And I'm afraid I'm a poor measurement for normal society, if that's what you came here looking for."
William couldn’t help but smile. “Well then, it appears I’m in good company then.” He straightened as his smile slowly faded. “Did you read the reports on the battle? A neighbor of my father’s kept the news clippings. She shared them with me when I returned home. The photos… of all the dead men…” His brow furrowed and he cast his eyes down. “Part of me is glad I was injured, but part of me wishes I died on that field. I’m not quite sure I’ll ever shake the images or sounds from my mind. The hospitals were almost worse. On the field itself, you’re concentrating on so much and fighting to survive that it’s a little easier to turn a blind eye to the bloodshed. But in the hospitals, you’re trapped in a bed and forced to be privy to all the pain around you.”
Sympathy draped itself across her face, her hands folding closed once more. "I... I do not overly linger on the news. But that can hardly relay the truth of the matter, as you can obviously imagine. I can't begin to know what it was like. We all carry a pain that is unknowable to others." She fell silent, her eyes studying his expression. "The best we can do is shoulder it, and not let it consume us. We must seek other ways, other methods, to comfort us. He has not left us completely; he hates to see us suffer."
“I try to not let it consume me,” he admitted. “But it seems hard when I sleep. I dream of those moments and they are so real I can see colors, I can smell the rotting flesh, I can hear the men losing their limbs. I wake up from it all and it takes a moment for me to recognize that I’m here and not there.”
He shifted in the seat, a grimace crossing his face as he moved his injured leg. “You know, after they deemed me well enough to travel to a bigger, better hospital from the field hospital, it was after the third day of battle. It had been so hot, the flies were everywhere, and it made all the smells worse. Then the rains came and you would think it was God’s way to wipe it all clean.
"Instead, it just brought the blood out of the soil. When I left, we passed over the fields and the bodies of the fallen were still being gathered but the fields… they were red. I still can’t quite see red without flashing back to that. It’s a weakness to be hindered so much by it all, I’m sure.” And he believed that, he was ashamed by it. The very colors of the American flag made his stomach twist.
Cora grimaced at his descriptions, unconsciously sitting back in her chair as though to put space between them. Once she realized what she was doing, she leaned forward again, her teeth biting her lower lip as she thought of what to say.
"Perhaps with time, the memories will fade. And you should make new memories to cover up the old, so your mind has something more pleasant to linger on. Surely you have family, and friends to support you?"
“Both of my parents have passed,” William admitted. He placed both of his hands upon the table and ran them over the cloth, as if smoothing it of any wrinkles. “I have siblings whom I’ve never been close to. I have acquaintances here in the city, but very few. It’s been… lonely since my return.”
He sighed and let the sound of the outside world slip into the small, dim room before speaking once more. “What of yourself? I imagine speaking to souls can be quite taxing. Do you have someone who you can turn to? How do you deal with the stress of it?”
She tensed, obviously uncomfortable with his sudden change of topic. Cora took a moment to think before replying. "I take comfort in the Bible. I read. I find myself too often alone with my thoughts, as I do not have anyone that I can name." She met his eyes once more. "But you didn't come here to listen to my story. What can I help you with?"
William didn’t immediately reply. He felt the jolt of embarrassment from Cora’s obvious discomfort. He found he was enjoying her company and talking so much he had forgotten the purpose of this visit.
“I apologize, I’ve gone off topic. And I apologize for making you uncomfortable,” he said clearly. Licking at his lips, he glanced around the room before reaching for his cane. “I feel I have gotten what I was striving for by visiting,” he said as he began to get to his feet. His leg spasmed with the pain of going from sitting to standing, and he grimaced. Cora started to rise from her place, then stepped forward to steady him with hands on his arm.
“I only… I wanted to know if all those men who died, if it’s safe to believe they are at peace. I can’t fathom them suffering.” He finally was standing, leaning partly on his cane and partly on her. He glanced at Cora though and searched her large eyes. “This may be too forward of me, but I feel that speaking to you was what I truly needed.”
Cora kept a firm grip on his arm, and smiled. "I'm glad I was able to help. I can help you to the door as well, if you'd like." Her hands seemed to want him to stay, but she made no movement to encourage either.
He maintained eye contact with her, but eventually William was the first to look away. He stood a little straighter and gripped his cane but didn’t shrug off Cora’s small hands. “Thank you,” he said, and his tone of voice meant he was thankful for so much more than her offer. They moved, slowly, toward the door.
“You said you do not have anyone to name who you could speak to. Perhaps you could speak to me? I know I am a poor substitute to the Bible and God, but I would love to lend a listening ear to you as well.” He smiled at her, kindly. He liked the woman and her soft, warm eyes and he found for the first time since the war began he had a twinge of hope in his heart.
Cora bobbed her head in reply, a smile flitting about her face. "It sounds like it would be a far more productive evening, though my church would frown on me for saying so," she all but laughed. They reached the door all too soon for her liking, and she let go of him enough to pull the door open. Sunshine leaked in, lighting the small space for a few precious moments. "I think I would enjoy it though. There's no one left to complain that I would be unchaperoned."
William grinned, a full, brilliant smile that so rarely appeared. It sliced through his beard-covered face and flashed quickly, a small chuckle escaping his throat, all before it disappeared again as he began to move toward the outside world. “Then perhaps I will stop by in a few days and we can--” He was going to say a stroll and quickly frowned; it would be the slowest walk he'd ever taken and he’d likely kill her with boredom. “We’ll take a carriage to the park. We can picnic and speak some more.” He tried not to worry over how he would possibly be able to sit down and get back up but it would be a temporary embarrassment compared to strolling.
Now outside in the bright sun, he turned back to Cora and the smile reappeared. “Thank you so much,” he began and a hand slipped into his pocket. “Here, I wasted your time from other customers, surely. I know we didn’t reach out to souls but I want to pay the fee, please.” He withdrew a few crisp pieces of money and held it forward, looking hopeful.
Cora glanced down at the money in his hand, and accepted it slowly. "I'll take this only if you let me pay for lunch, then. I have no other customers to speak of, and this was a far better use of my time rather than sitting in the back and pricking my fingers over and over attempting needlepoint." She folded the bills and slipped them into a pocket on the front of her dress, raising her gaze to meet his own with another smile. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Rothschild."
William grinned, feeling completely different now than he had when he previously walked down the street. The sky was brighter, the air lighter, and he felt good for the first time in months. “The pleasure was all mine,” he replied, pressing his free hand to his chest and bowing slightly. “I look forward to our picnic. I’ll send a messenger to set up a day. Good day.” He turned, with one last smiling glance at Cora, and began to pick his way down the alley back toward the main road.