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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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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."