Faces of the Wind

Chapter 34

Oliver stumbled and fell, dropping his crutches, but was briskly back on his feet. He ran towards Adrian, who had a swollen eye, a bloody piece of cloth wrapped around his head, a torn sleeve and a swollen wrist. His attire was upset and dirty, his hair ruffled and part of it lank with blood, and his expression solemn but somewhat relieved.

"Wha' 'appened?" Oliver squealed in excitement, "Did ee wrestle wi' someun?"

Adrian kept walking, taking no heed of the kid, who now trailed behind him, struggling like a little pup to catch up with the tall man's strides. The sun began to set, an hour he would dread on any other day, but not today. He was too high on excitement to allow anything to rob him of the feeling. Nevertheless, a pinch of melancholy escaped into his heart when everything began to look a warm shade of orange now that the clouds were sparse, allowing the sun to peek at the world, but the sound of his heart still rapping with exhilaration was rewarding enough—it felt as though he has won back a part of him that was long lost. The owner of the small bookstore was closing up, ready to retire to his house before it got dark.

"You don't look well," Oliver said, his cheeks beginning to flush from the exercise, "I'll tell Eddie to fetch Mrs. Bumbleton."

Adrian stopped, furrowed his brows and looked down at the urchin. "Is Eddie Mrs. Bumbleton's little birdie?"

"Li'le birdie?"

"She seems to get all her information from him."

"She d'be 'is granny," replied Oliver, panting, "she d'raise 'im after 'is mother died."

"Oh... well, then."

Oliver began to scurry. He was so skilled with his crutches they didn't seem to bother him.

"Wait, kid," Adrian cried. The child stopped and turned, and Adrian walked towards him. "Leave it be."

***

The door gave a loud creak as Adrian opened it. He squinted to find the matchbox in the fading light of the dusk and touched the surface of the small wooden table until his fingers found the matchbox. He lit a match. The smell of burning Sulphur made his heart lurch with overwhelming nostalgia. His home now belonged in a different era—one that seemed very distant as if it only existed in his dreams. Mrs. Dusteby would have met him with a blotchy face and made a fuss of his state. His father would have been concerned. He shook off the memory of his father and proceeded to light the candles.

He crouched in front of the oil stove and lit it then sat on the floor beside it and leaned back against the wall. He watched as the bluish world outside his window gradually but quickly morphed into black. Tonight, he was not bitter. He felt as if he had lost something precious and found it. He felt in control and had the urge to celebrate but his physical state and lack of friends disagreed. He took a deep breath, but it was interrupted by a startle. Someone rapped on the door and he wondered if he should prepare his mind for bad news or trouble.

"Adrian, dear, are ee in there?" It was Mrs. Macy's warm voice. Who could possibly ignore a woman so kind and considerate?

He painfully got up. Every bit of his body was sore. "Yes, Mrs. Macy, I'm in here." He walked to the door and with one hand on the knob, he noticed a letter under his foot. He bent and picked it up then stuffed it in his pocket before opening the door.

"Good Heavens!" She said the moment she saw him, placing a hand over her chest, "Who did this to you?"

"And don't you wish to know what I have done to them?" He grinned cheekily and his brows turned into two inverted Vs, one would think him possessed.

Mrs. Bumbleton gently pushed through Mrs. Macy. "Make way, dear, make way," she said in her quavering voice, "I been a nurse since I was a young maid. Le' me see what's amiss."

"Bugger me!" Adrian said in an undertone, "If it isn't the witch from the scrap store."

The old lady pulled him by the wrist and made him sit on the wiggly wooden chair. His expression was a slight grimace; the woman smelt of gin. She began to unwrap his head as he stared at Mrs. Macy.

"Mrs. Bumbleton is a kind woman," she said, detecting the puzzled expression on his face, "she d'elped many of us when we go' ill, including my li'le Oliver."

"Well... I think she's drunk," he said, his eyes now looking up at the old woman, "let's hope she doesn't put me, too, on crutches."

"I can 'ear ya," she said, studying the cut in his forehead right below his hairline, "I ain't drunk and yer head is badly cu'." She fumbled with a leather bag Mrs. Macy had placed on the table beside Adrian.

Mrs. Macy's features fell. she looked down at her stained apron then up at Adrien. "My Oliver had polio," she said then smiled softly, "we're all very glad he's alive."

"Oh," Adrian wished he had kept his mouth shut, "I'm sorry."

"So wha' happened?" She asked, watching Mrs. Bumbleton's shaky hand dab the wound on Adrian's head with a clean soaked cloth.

"I discussed my work conditions with Caleb Jefferson and didn't like something he said—ugh, what are you doing?"

"Stitchin' ye head. It'd gravely upse' the ladies if yer pre'y face's left with a nasty scar," Mrs. Bumbleton laughed loudly at her own joke. Her laugh sounded like a steaming teapot.

He held his breath until she was done laughing so as not to have her gin breath fill his nostrils. This woman definitely smelt of gin. "Are we sure this lady knows what she's doing?" He grimaced, looking at Mrs. Macy, "I think her stitching will turn my face into the map of the Cyclades."

"I can 'ear ye," said Mrs. Bumbleton, her tone as cold as ever, "I ain't deaf, ma boy, I ain't deaf." She was not the slightest bit affected by his remarks though.

"That nasty rent collector," Mrs. Macy said, now looking at Adrian, "and how did ee end up lookin' like you been wrestlin' with a wolf?"

"I'm sure I broke his jaw—I heard a crack," Adrian let out a brief yet hearty giggle, his voice choking with euphoria and his eyes twinkling, "and I think I dislocated his shoulder. He will be confined to his house eating only broth for at least a month! Probbaly more—I'm not a medical man."

"I always'd imagined someun breakin' tha' man's jaw," Mrs. Bumbleton giggled, beginning to dress the wound.

"He is a nasty man, bu' I don't approve of violence. Tis that uncivil," said Mrs. Macy, "one needs se'le disputes wi' kindness an' wisdom like a good Christian."

"A good Christian, ye say?" The old lady scoffed, wrapping a clean bandage around Adrian's head. It was coming tidy despite her quivering grip. "Kindness and wisdom are no' for folk like Caleb, I be thankful to godless folk who give'im the treatment he deserves. And ye say he's nasty? He ain't bu' a mousy lapdog for tha' Medley swine. Ye won't know nasty until ye've me' tha' big swine. I tell ee, he is as nasty as they'd ge'."

"The bugger said something I can't seem to rightly remember now, but it had me blow a fuse and my fist thought it a good idea to straighten his jaw—God!" He exclaimed, smiling broadly, "It felt so exhilarating!" He winced as Mrs. Bumbletone examined his swollen eye, "He couldn't punch me back despite that I've never been in a worse physique, so Edgar's brutes intervened on the bugger's behalf and threw me outside."

"And ye have a job still?" Mrs. Bumbleton asked, applying a cold milk poultice to his eye and gently pushing his chin up to make him face skyward.

"That, I yet have to discover."

***