Remnants of Atonement (True paths Book 1)

by G. P McKenna

  G.P. McKenna

  Remnants of Atonement

  First published by Andraharts Publications 2020

  Copyright © 2020 by G.P. McKenna

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  G.P. McKenna asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  For A, who taught me life and how to deal with it.

  For further in formation or enquires: andrahartspubs@gmail.com

  First edition

  This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

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  Contents

  I. REMNANTS OF ATONEMENT

  1. Dysphoria

  2. Osmophobia

  3. Xenophobia

  4. Ancraophobia

  5. Lupophobia

  6. Gelotophobia

  7. Hippophobia

  8. Nosocomephobia

  9. Ommetaphobia

  10. Genuphobia

  11. Genuphobia

  12. Philemaphobia

  13. Entomophobia

  14. Ornithophobia

  15. Metathesiophobia

  16. Bathmophobia

  17. Pyrophobia

  18. Aquaphobia

  19. Selenophobia

  20. Frigophobia

  21. Myxophobia

  22. Trichophobia

  23. Trypophobia

  24. Helminthophobia

  25. Taphephobia

  26. Ekikiphobia

  27. Apotemnophobia

  28. Eyrthophobia

  29. Midenoraphobia

  30. Kiknophobia

  31. Sygenesophobia

  32. Mnemophobia

  33. Pedophobia

  34. Homophobia

  I

  Remnants of Atonement

  By G.P. McKenna

  One

  Dysphoria

  Doctor man, cut up my skin. Medicine witch, burn away my sin.

  I’ll pay you both in gold and silver krona if you cure this sickness that is me.

  -Folksongs from the Ordenian Providence

  It began with a rumour.

  In fact, it began with a mere whisper. Hardly even a whisper, more a partial utterance; a tiny, half-hearted murmur. The faintest shimmer of conversation, laced with that same delicious glee which typically restricted itself to judgemental biddies feverishly gossiping over their neighbours’ unhealthy fondness of hair tonics or the questionable orientation of the latest breakout minstrel in the city, infectiously seeped into the discussions of all with the merchant’s arrival at the city gates that morning.

  “Have you heard of this new miracle solution?”

  “Heard? Why I was among the first to have gotten my hands upon it, and as such can positively confirm that it works as advertised. Exceedingly so. Bertrand hasn’t been able to stand straight all morning, and his complexion has improved tremendously with all that blood entertaining elsewhere.”

  “Excellent, most excellent,” And off the newest customer dashed, hoping they too could claim to be amongst the prestigious first on the fashion concussion streets of my home city of Bethany. A bragging right which was becoming increasingly difficult to achieve with the neighbouring Kingdoms’ civil war inconveniently resulting in the new season’s trends only reaching the shores of Bethel once they were already truly out of style.

  It shouldn’t have been anywhere near as surprising as it was, really, when whispers of the miracle solution managed to reach my mother’s ear by mid-afternoon. It didn’t come as a surprise to any who had ever been in the company of Doctor Kira for longer than three minutes that when the news did reach her ears that she’d thrown down her trusty scalpel and marched to the market district to inquire all about it.

  For science, naturally.

  There the good doc pushed her way to the front of the line, ignoring the groans of the gathered townies who had long learned better than to engage her in verbal altercations if they desired to be home for dinner. Wordlessly, she had snatched a small bundle directly from the spindly merchant’s hands and stalked straight back home again, hardly sparing him so much as her customary glare as he spluttered, “you simply must pay first.”

  Doctor Kira had locked her office door for only thirty minutes before charging back downstairs and throwing the bundle in the reception hall’s fireplace. “Herbs,” she declared, “common bloody herbs that any nitty fool could pick from the fields. Not as nitty, mind you, as those rich nincompoops paying good krona to shove it where the sun doesn’t shine. All because some foreigner with a colourful cart claims it’s the new thing. I tell you…”

  Suppressing her indignation, the good doc immediately went to inform President Marchant of her newly discovered scam—the latest of many in a nation desperately bored for something, anything, to block the worrisome tales of wayward priests and captive kings— only to be turned away at the door by our flush-faced leader and his unusually perky wife.

  Despite Doctor Kira’s unwavering warnings of an impending health crisis, sooner rather than later, like all popular trends eventually do, the miracle solution lost its shine. The newly wealthy con-merchant quickly moved on to another unsuspecting city, the entire situation all but forgotten without a single incident.

  Or so it seemed.

  Two

  Osmophobia

  Fear of bad smells

  A fortnight passed since that colourful caravan had left the city limits when an afternoon arrived where my tutor had once again given no consideration to the tirade the good doc would unleash if I’d dare be late fore clinic duties. She’d kept me back to inquire about the mysterious disappearance of a book on cultural burial rites. Presumptuous, unquestionably, but my tutors always were annoyingly perceptive, and so for the third time that week I’d found myself racing home against the clock.

  Whether through stamina or divine intervention, it mattered little, for I arrived at the third street clinic with just enough time to rush upstairs to change out of my uniform and shove my new book under my bed before anybody would miss me. Tying up my hair, I flew back down the stairs, only for my arm to be captured in a death grip the moment my foot hit the clinic floor.

  “Kilco, darling.” a sickeningly smooth voice practically purred. Gritting my teeth, I forced a smile onto my face and turned around to Mrs Hogan. Like all members of Kitty Marchant’s book club for the wives of pillars of the community, the portly woman was a regular. Something that had more to do with the book club’s fondness for copious amounts of wine that resulted in all manner of unexplained bruises and aches than any legitimate aliment. Mrs Hogan ran her hand down my arm, “is mummy home?”

  Not for her. Doctor Kira would string me by my toes if I brought to her Mrs Hogan’s latest rash or sunburn for examination. Still, it wouldn’t do to say, so I made a show of looking around the clinic. My mother would be in the basement breathing down the neck of the latest brave soul who’d taken on the position of our chemist. Only two weeks in and Kira had already written him off as rabidly incompetent. He wouldn’t see the month out. But that wasn’t for Mrs Hogan to know, so I shook my head, “It wouldn’t appear so, but I’d be happy to help.”

  Mrs Hogan released my
arm as if it burnt and made a small chuckling sound that was almost reminiscent of a chickens gurgle, “I don’t believe you can, darling. It’s a matter for more mature ladies. I’m sure you recall the miracle solution that was the rage all those weeks ago…”

  I thanked the Deities that my teeth were already so tightly clenched as she trailed off with cheeks brightly burning, “I see,” I said once secure enough to part my teeth, “this sounds like a real emergency. Let me see if I can’t find my mother to assist you.”

  Without awaiting a response, I darted towards the basement door. Oh yes, the good doc would want to hear about this alright, and as for me, well, I wasn’t missing it for the world.

  I should’ve missed it.

  Oh boy, I should’ve ran for the hills and never returned, for that’s how long it would take to cleanse the small examination room of the deaths cologne. And even then, only if we rubbed strong chest ointment under our noses first.

  My tenth Summer, Doctor Kira had taken tenure at a silver mine by the beach. Through those long weeks my only companions had been a bale of turtles in a nearby rock pool. As the season drew to a close an overwhelming sadness consumed me at the thought of leaving behind my new friends. Doctor Kira had never allowed pets before, but I figured that once we arrived home in Bethany she couldn’t exactly send them back. It was ingenious. So, at dawn of our final day I’d stolen a jar to scoop two baby turtles up snug before hiding them inside a crate. But in all the cunningness of me, I’d forgotten to account for one teensy detail.

  It was still Summer.

  Moments into unloading the crates at home, Doctor Kira knew exactly what I had done as a scent that could only be described as a diseased colon marinated in whale spew penetrated every corner of the clinic. It had been eye watering vile, and by the Deities, I would’ve given anything to sniff that aroma once more.

  “You know you’re always welcome to attend a book club meeting.” Mrs Hogan chirped away merrily, as if she couldn’t smell herself.

  The woman was a beast.

  “I’d sooner stab a fork through my eye.” Doctor Kira replied without looking up from between Mrs Hogan’s legs. Another wave of the horsemen of death’s armpit hit me and I choked. Not even the ocean’s deepest trenches could be that raw. I had no idea how my mother kept such a steady hand sitting so close to ground zero. Or how she was breathing at all. Against all odds, she grabbed another gauze and leaned in closer, “besides, I’ve never been anyone’s wife, let alone the wife of a commercial pillar.”

  Ah. My bastardry. A scandal that only the suicidal were brave enough to mock Doctor Kira for. Even though I was the good doc’s only child, it was still appropriate to label me the runt of the litter. Scrawny and short without a curve to my frame, most people reacted in disbelief once they learned of my age. It was such a stark difference to Doctor Kira’s tall and voluptuous build, a problem which was only further exaggerated by my round and pudgy face that was covered in an quarry of freckles. At least I’d inherited the same black hair and porcelain skin as my mother, though I’d lost the genetic lottery when it came to her icy blue eyes, being saddled instead with my father’s dull blue ones which never looked brilliant except when red from crying. If there was ever a great beauty staring back at me in the mirror, I didn’t see it, but if there was a hideous she-beast, I couldn’t recognize her either. I was just plain, uninspired me.

  “Which is a right shame. If you ask me-”

  “I didn’t.”

  “- being married is marvellous. It was actually Talon who first noticed the problem,” Deities calling, her poor husband, “speaking of which: have you found it?”

  “Yep,” Kira said.

  Another wave catapulted my senses. It was like smoke from a toxic fire that penetrated every pore with its chemical dew. I looked at my mother sitting in such close proximity to a smell so strong it should’ve been a colour and contemplated what my new life as an orphan would be like. Then, like a small mercy from the universe, the doorbell rang.

  “Leave it.”

  There was an unspoken warning clear in Kira’s voice as I looked wistfully to the door. Abandoning my post by Mrs Hogan’s head would spell a world of trouble. A week of floor scrubbing at best. But at least I’d survive to endure it.

  “Oh, hear this— he then went in to smooch her, except she figured out his game and pulled away at the last second. Poor bugger tumbled right into the laundry pool. Suds and all.”

  As far as Bethany gossip went that was benign, but you’d never guess from the way Kirk the postman leaned over, slapping his knee and struggling to draw breath through his laughter. It was a badly concealed secret that Kirk was the biggest gossip in town. He could out whisper any old chatty Cathy. If something even mildly scandalous had happened, you could rest assured that Kirk would not only know every detail but had scientifically analysed them three times over by lunchtime. Having been on the receiving end of his rumour mill before, I usually went out of my way to avoid him.

  But not that day.

  That day his loose tongue was a lifeline. His chirping gave me a prime excuse to wait out the horror indoors, drawing air, glorious air, into my lungs. Forcing a smile, I asked, “what did Pricilla do next?”

  “Well-” and off Kirk went on another gleeful tangent. Predictable as dangling veal before a street mutt. I blocked him out, preoccupied watching as one of the blackguard children from the poorer wings of the city effortlessly scaled the bluestone next door and shoved his filthy thumb into a pie resting on the balcony. Huh, maybe the good doc would be too preoccupied to get mad at me once the neighbours came piling on top of her for allowing the kids to use the patient bathhouse again. Gits.

  “Are you listening, Miss Kilco?”

  Blinking, I turned back to Kirk, “yes.”

  Kirk shook his head with that judgemental expression I despised above all else. My fists involuntarily clenched as he reached into his mail bag, “I suppose this doesn’t matter to you,” he said with croak. Scratch that, I despised him most of all, “you know, I don’t typically make drop offs this late, but I was sorting through the morning mail when I found this. I knew it had to be delivered immediately.” He held the envelope in a peculiar manner, as if purposely ensuring the back was visible. I could see why. It was sealed by emerald wax with a depiction of a swan carrying a silver triquetra pressed into it.

  “That’s the seal of the Royal family of Ascot,” Kirk explained, as if I wouldn’t have recognized the seal myself. I took the envelope and flipped it over, unsurprised that it was addressed to a Dr. K. Escamilla, “what do you think they want?” Kirk asked too gleefully.

  “I don’t know. Medical advice probably.”

  “Oh yes,” Kirk nodded unironically like a bobble head doll, “you will tell me all the juicy details, won’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  Yeah. Like that would happen. I bid Kirk farewell and closed the door tightly, fanning myself with the envelope. It was heavy. Too heavy to be a simple death notice or outbreak curtsy. Upstairs, I paced the hallway outside Doctor Kira’s office. The letter was addressed to a Dr. K. Escamilla. Technically speaking, I was a K. Escamilla. The whole doctor part was still a work in progress, but it would be understandable if I mistook the envelope as being addressed to me. Mistakes did happen, after all. I shook my head. My mother wouldn’t buy that excuse under the most innocent of circumstances. A letter from the Ascotian Royal family wasn’t innocent.

  That left only one option.

  Pulling myself onto the window frame, I held the envelope to the stained glass. It was late in the afternoon, but enough light shone through that I could roughly make out some letters in the same green ink that had been elegantly scrawled on the front. However, it wasn’t clear enough to read and so I kneeled up higher, squinting while pushing the envelope closer against the glass-

  “I’m guessing that’s for me.”

  The envelope was ripped from my hand. I gulped and scrambled back down. “I was ju
st-”

  “I know what you were doing,” Kira said as she riffled through the pocket of her laboratory jacket, “don’t forget who taught you that trick. A-ha.” pulling out a stack of keys, Kira unlocked the door without looking up from the envelope. She made no move to slam it shut behind her and I took that as her invitation to follow.

  I stuck close to the bookshelf lined walls as Kira pulled out a letter opener, hoping that by making myself as small as possible she wouldn’t get agitated and throw me out. She read the letter once, twice, three times. It was only as she flipped to the first page to begin the fourth read through did I dare break the silence, “so what do they want?”

  Kira glanced up before pausing her lips and placing the letter down, “Do you remember Doctor Guises?”

  “Unusually short, face like a potato?”

  “That’s the one,” she tipped her chair back, clasping her hands behind her head, “Guises has been their court physician for years. The letter says that he’s taken ill health and recommended me as his replacement.”

  My heart skipped a beat, nails already digging into the soft flesh of my palms, “are we going to go?”

  Kira snorted, the closest thing she’d ever show to mirth, “there’s no we here, Kilco,” she said and straightened up, all dregs of amusement gone as she looked me over, “I haven’t decided if I’m going yet. As unpopular the opinion is, you know I support the Royal family over the Priest. Still, it’s a big decision. Regardless of what I choose, you won’t be a part of it.”

  “Why not?”

  “You know why not.”

  Ah. That’s what this was about. What everything was about. The incident that shall not be named— aptly titled for even the merest mention of it was still enough to send Kira running for her office to take comfort in a bottle of whiskey and her tatty copy of woolly sweaters for the mother’s heart. She’d never even touched the stupid book before it happened. It wasn’t fair. It hadn’t happened to her. It hadn’t happened to any of the townies who watched me with pitying eyes and asked in hushed voices if I was alright, as if I had no right to be.