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singillatim2023-10-24 09:23 am
2. Well, I might call you Doctor.
Who: Harry Goodsir and OPEN
What: Doctor's hours
Where: Harry's cabin, around town
When: Anytime during October, early November
Warnings: TBD
It's taken some weeks—including the awful voices and even, ironically, the words of Cornelius Hickey—for Goodsir to finally act on advice he'd given to Edward Little when they'd first arrived.
He starts by placing a notice on the board. Then he starts scavenging the town for all the medical supplies he can find, consolidating a store of them in his cabin. What he does manage to find, in combination with the contents of his surgeon's chest, isn't nearly as much as he would like, but it will do.
He has learned much, these last few weeks. That disease and infection is caused not by miasma, by tiny animalcules that may be spread by various forms of contact, and that wounds must be kept clean—disinfected—thus averting festering and gangrene. That there are compounds in food that keep the body healthy, and that not all foods contain those compounds. He tries not to dwell on the lives he might have saved with that knowledge on the expedition, and to focus on the here and now. As he said to Little: to live, and do what good he can.
And to try not to let his hatred of Cornelius Hickey consume him.
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But that cabin – it's small, one floor and change, but she's prowled all through it to see what had been left behind. She'd climbed a creaking ladder into the attic and searched through everything there for anything that might be helpful, and struck pay dirt with a trunk of sheets and blankets. One of the flannel sheets she's already cut up and tacked to the windows to keep the warmth in; she'd set the others aside for the bed. But whoever lived here must have experienced summer, too – or been optimistically hoping for one – because there's another set in the trunk: light, soft cotton. It has a bleached-out pattern of primroses, but the cloth is perfectly serviceable. She'd considered it for a while, then tossed sheets, a pile of floursack napkins, and a partly-empty bottle of peroxide that had been tucked under the sink into a rough bag she'd found in the cabin's tiny root cellar, and set out.
Some time later, she steps up to Goodsir's door and knocks, the bag at her feet. She's wearing a fringed black leather jacket over her sweater and scarf, mittens, and skinny black jeans, and Peacemaker is tucked comfortably into the side of her tall black boot. "Yo, anyone home?"
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Goodsir opens the door and to his credit, does not look particularly surprised by her appearance. He's starting to get used to the way people dress and carry themselves around here. He himself is dressed in a sort of odd mishmash of the Victorian clothes he came in and a cosy knit jumper of somewhat later vintage.
"Ah—good afternoon. Please, come in—can I help you?"
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Wynonna blinks at him for a second, then visibly decides to just move past it, and reaches for the bag as she saunters inside. "I saw your notice. Figured you could use this stuff if you're trying to keep us all in one piece." She reaches into the bag and tosses him the bottle of peroxide, then hauls out part of one of the sheets. "My guess is you're gonna need bandages and lots of 'em."
There's probably some way he can use the sheets and cotton flour bag napkins, right? Every movie or show that has a doctor has someone yelling for towels at least once. This is probably close enough. "You can cut these up into strips, right?"
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Goodsir's hand goes involuntarily to his cheek and he flushes a little. The side whiskers were supposed to make him look distinguished, but he's beginning to realise that some of these people-from-the-future have ... a very different response.
But then she just carries on, and he decides to as well. Besides, she has brought useful things, and he's certainly grateful for that.
"Yes—yes, this will all be quite useful. Thank you." He eyes the bottle of peroxide. "This—this is an antiseptic, correct?" he says. He assumes it must be and that it's not to be drunk, but best to make sure.
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She drops the sheets back into the back and starts prowling around the room, reaching out to poke things that probably shouldn't be poked. Something's niggling at the back of her head; something about his notice, something about his old-timey facial hair. "Had to stitch anybody up yet?"
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[ Love it when DW chokes on a reply and never actually posts it!!! ]"A few," he says. "As yet, I've not had to confront anything beyond my capabilities, though I'm sure that's a state of affairs unlikely to last."
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"Yeah, probably."
Considering the line-up of yahoos running around this place? Almost definitely. She makes a mental note to come by whenever she inevitably winds up with a fishhook in her thumb and straightens from her perusal. That slight motion sends an ache thudding through her head and she rubs at her temple, annoyed; she's gotta find a drink. Someone, somewhere, must have something, right?
Waverly would know what to do; Waverly would offer to bleach and cut those sheets into bandages; she'd chat easily and make a friend; she'd know the thing that's still tickling the back of Wynonna's mind without having to dig to find it. "Hey, you don't have any Advil on hand, do you?"
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"Advil ... oh, yes, I believe so—"
He goes to his supplies and rummages around a little before turning up a bottle with the—to Wynonna, at least—familiar dark blue and yellow logo on. "How much do you need?"
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They'll need to ration, probably, but she's got to have something to take the edge off this headache. "Appreciate it."
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It'll be easier, he reasons, if he gives her a small supply. And so he measures out half a dozen pills into an envelope and hands it to her. "If you need more later, you've only to ask."
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She takes the envelope and tucks it into a pocket of her jacket. "Look, I, uh... it's pretty cool of you to set up shop like this. If I find anything else, I'll bring it over, okay?"
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"Of course. Thank you." He colours a little. "As to this—it is the least I can do, to put the skills I have to general use."
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"Others might, but not I," he says. It's not a boast; merely a statement of fact. "I don't do well, being idle. So I might as well put my skills to general good."
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From her sardonic tone, it's probably a rhetorical question. Wynonna lifts the envelope of pills and shakes it at him. "Thanks for these."
She makes for the door, then sways back, looking at him. "No offense, but I hope I don't have to come back any time soon to take advantage of those skills."
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"You're welcome. And—no offence taken." He smiles a little. "I strongly prefer to see people when they are not in need of medical help."
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There are wolves. She's heard them. Long, mournful howls, nothing like the yips of the coyotes and coydogs that populate the Purgatory area of the Ghost River Triangle. She pauses again, looks at him. "What's the vibe here, Doc? How close are all these people to just collectively losing it?"
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Vibe? A new word, but he can pick up the meaning from the general context clues ... and he wishes he had a decent answer.
"I ... I'm not sure," he admits. "As yet, we are not in extremity, and survival is not a matter of desperation. But if our fortunes turn for the worse ..."
He trails off, and sighs. "Before I ... was brought here, I had been three years in the Arctic, and the better part of that time icebound with nowhere to go. The men had naval discipline to keep order, but even so—it wore on the minds of many, and in some cases, in very terrible ways. I hope we don't come to such a pass here."
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As extreme as three years in the Arctic? Maybe not. She subsides, looking out the window, Hetty Tate's words rolling through her head.
Livestock died, deer vanished, the root cellar got emptied months before spring. )
"I guess it depends on how long we're stuck here, and how long the winter lasts. I've heard some pretty nasty stories about what happens during long winters."
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"There is shelter here, and food," he points out gently, "and as long as we have that, it is not as bad as it could be. But we should certainly prepare as best we can, for our fortunes could turn in a moment."
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It's muttered mostly to herself, before she looks back at the surgeon. "Well, good news is, I'm an old hand at changing fortunes, and it seems like you know what's up, so who knows? Maybe we'll all get out of this with a minimum of freezing to death."
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"I know better now than to tempt fate, but I shall certainly hope for the best," he says wryly. "And do what I can to keep us whole."
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The moment the curse kicked in. "I kinda figured most doctors would be too scientific to believe in fate or superstition," she says. It's a little careful; the way a dog that's been kicked too many times is a little careful when sniffing at an outstretched and ostensibly friendly hand. "You believe in destiny, doc?"
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Goodsir has started tidying up, in that perfunctory way that isn't showing someone the door, but also indicating that he won't be offended if they need to go. Her question pulls him up short.
"No. Not particularly," he says, and shakes his head. "Though I do believe that over time, one's choices may narrow further and further, until ... well. Until there are only the most essentials."
To live, or to die. To exit on one's own terms, or to wait until the end comes. That's what it was for him, in the end.
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For a second, it seems as though she might say something else, but she shakes her head and the moment passes. Wynonna heads to the door, pushes it slightly open before she glances back. "Anyway, see you around, doc. Take it easy."