He had no idea what any of it meant.
Mathew shook his head, trying to make sense of it. There had to be a logical explanation. If he were a superstitious person, which he was not, he could have attributed recent events to ghosts or evil spirits, but the rational part of his mind rejected such things. He was certain there was an answer, but it lay just beyond his reach.
Mathew dressed and went downstairs, where he met Effie. She told him the others had already finished their meals and had gone down to the docks with Mistress Woodall, to meet a friend of hers. Despite her protests that he needed to eat something, Mathew told her he wasn't hungry and excused himself on the pretext of wanting to go for a walk.
The day was a pleasant one, with only a few light clouds in the sky and a mild breeze from the river. Akin had said that a Dr. Wycroft had told him the disturbing news about the war, and now Mathew looked for a passerby to ask for directions to the doctor's house.
The man he stopped was a skinny fellow, with a large nose and a prominent Adam's apple. He stared at Mathew suspiciously before answering. "You don't look sick," he remarked.
"I'm not, sir. It's for my uncle. We're staying at the inn and he's come down with a fever—can't keep any food down."
The man grimaced and took a half step backward. "Turn left at the end of this street and go four more streets—then turn left again," he said. "You'll see a yellow house halfway down the block. It'll be on your right, as you face the river."
Mathew looked in the direction the man was pointing, nodded, then turned around to thank him, only to find he was already on his way. He shook his head and swore to himself that if he lived to be a hundred, he would never get used to such ill-mannered people. Certainly no one in Devondale would have acted that way. Well... almost no one, he thought. On principle, he called out, "Thank you, sir," but the only acknowledgment he got was a brief wave over the man's shoulder as he kept walking.
Ten minutes later he located the doctor's house. It was painted yellow and had a wooden shingle roof and bright winter flowers lining either side of a white fence. A simple black metal sign hanging from an iron post read
LUCIEN WYCROFT, PHYSICIAN.
Mathew knocked at the front door and was met by the housekeeper, a heavyset woman, who looked at him in the same way the man in the street had just a few minutes before.
"Good morning," he said. "My name is Mathew Lewin. I would like to see the doctor, if I may."
"It's the afternoon, if you haven't noticed," she said. "Does the doctor know you?"
"No, ma'am. He met my cousin last night at the inn with Mistress Woodall. I would just like to ask him a few questions."
"The doctor is a very busy man. He can't be bothered by every—"
"What is it, Forba?" a male voice called out from inside the house.
"It's nothing, Doctor," the housekeeper called back, planting herself squarely in the doorway, "just some person who—"
Normally the calmest and most circumspect of people, Mathew's temper chose that moment to flair. "Nothing!" he snapped. "Of all the rude, obnoxious... I don't know how you people are raised here, but we're taught to have better manners where I'm from, particularly to guests in our town."
In shock, the housekeeper took a step back and opened her mouth to speak, but before she could, a voice said from behind her, "And where might that be, young man?"
Mathew barely caught himself before he could say "Devondale," and instead replied, "Ashford, sir. I believe you met my cousin, Akin Gibb, last night."
"Ah, yes. It's all right, Forba. Do come in."
The housekeeper folded her hands in front of her and snorted as she stepped aside, fixing him with a distinctly disapproving look.
"If you will follow me," said the doctor, leading the way to his study.
The room was nicely appointed with comfortable-looking furniture. After seating himself behind an old wooden desk, he indicated for Mathew to take a chair. It appeared to be made of the same black leather as the desktop.
"I ought to apologize for my behavior a moment ago," Mathew said before the doctor could speak.
Dr. Wycroft waved the apology away. "It's quite all right. Forba can be a trifle overprotective at times. Now, what can I do for you? I take it that you are not sick?"
"No, sir. I just wanted to ask you a few questions, if I may."
"Well, I don't have much time. One of our local women is with child, and I may be called away at any moment. Babies tend to be notoriously inconsiderate of other people's schedules."
Mathew smiled. "I'll try not to be long."
As quickly as he could, he related what had happened to his vision the previous night in the forest and on the two
occasions when he felt the odd tingling sensation in his arm. He also told the doctor about seeing the window move earlier that morning, seemingly on its own. The only change in his story was that he substituted the word "brigands" for "Orlocks."
Dr. Wycroft listened carefully, saying nothing. His intelligent blue eyes searched Mathew's face, frowning only once—at the mention of being able to see things impossibly far away. When Mathew finished, he asked a number of questions about whether Mathew had ever experienced such things before or if either his mother or father ever reported similar phenomena. He also asked if Mathew could ever remember seeing things or hearing voices that weren't there, to which Mathew replied no.
Coming around the desk, the doctor took up a candle with a bright polished silver disk behind it and held it close to Mathew's eyes, peering deeply into them. Next, he asked him to hold out his right arm and extend his hand, palm up toward him, and look the other way. With a small pin, he gently touched each of Mathew's fingers and asked him to indicate when he could feel the contact. Turning the pin around, he alternated touching different parts of Mathew's hand, arm, and fingers with both the sharp and blunt ends, asking which end was applied.
Apparently satisfied, the doctor returned to his seat behind the desk and said, "Well, young man, everything seems to be in order. I can see nothing wrong with you physically."
"I'm not crazy and I don't believe in ghosts," Mathew said evenly.
Dr. Wycroft smiled. "I do not believe in ghosts or demons either. And I also do not think you have lost your sanity. You seem like a rational, intelligent young fellow, so I must conclude that these things really did happen. It is merely the cause that escapes us. May I ask you one or two more questions?"
Mathew nodded.
"When the brigands attacked, do you recall how you were feeling at the time?"
"Scared," Mathew replied simply.
Dr. Wycroft nodded.
"But I wasn't scared sitting in the bathtub, and I didn't imagine seeing the window move."
Dr. Wycroft reached behind him, picked up a large odd-looking object, and placed it on the desk in front of Mathew. "Do you know what this is?" he asked.
Mathew frowned. "No, not really."
"It is a model of a brain," Dr. Wycroft said. "The model of a human brain, to be precise. You can tell this from the development of the frontal lobes." He pointed to a prominent rounded area covered by what looked like numerous grooves, bumps, and folds. "Animals do not have such development. For all that we doctors have studied, I must confess, we know very little of the processes going on in here. We do know certain things, of course, but they are rudimentary at best."
Mathew nodded, listening carefully.
"For example, if this part were to be damaged," the doctor said, indicating a small section on the side of the brain, "a man could hear, but would not understand any words that were spoken to him. But if this part were injured," he moved his finger only an inch away, "the same man could understand what was said perfectly, but would not be able to utter a coherent sentence. As to things that go on deeper inside the brain—here, in these frontal lobes, we can only make educated guesses."
"I received no blows to my head," Mathew replied. "Nothing even touched me."
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"Ah, but that is the point. Nothing needs to have touched you."
"I'm sorry, I don't understand. I thought you said .. ."
Mathew's words trailed off as he noticed the doctor looking over his shoulder. Before he could turn, however, Dr. Wycroft jumped up and held his arms in front of him, as if to ward something off. A panicked look crossed his face and he screamed, "No! "
Mathew spun around, knocking over the chair and
reaching for his sword, only to find that there was nothing there. With his heart racing, he turned back to Dr. Wycroft, who had taken his seat again, and looked for all the world like he was about to order a cup of tea. "Tell me what just happened," the doctor said. "What happened?" Mathew sputtered. "What happened was you nearly scared me to death! I don't understand why you—"
Dr. Wycroft held up his hand. "My apologies. I was perhaps a bit overdramatic, but only to prove a point. When I asked you what happened, I should have qualified it by asking, 'What just happened to you physically?' Allow me to explain.
"When you perceived there was danger, you leapt to your feet and drew your sword, or started to do so. The tone of your muscles increased, preparing you to fight or flee, as the case might have been. I would also venture to say that your respiration quickened and, if I am not incorrect, the pupils of your eyes dilated.
"All of this happened, and / never touched you." The doctor smiled.
Mathew took a deep breath and bent down to right his chair.
"Do you see my point?" Dr. Wycroft asked.
"I think so," Mathew answered slowly, sitting back down in the chair.
"Excellent. Let us suppose further that my skill as an actor was not quite so proficient, and you only imagined—seriously imagined—that your life was in peril. I suggest to you that your body would have reacted in a very similar way."
Mathew's brows came together as the doctor's point became clear to him.
"Let me pose another question that may help a bit more," Dr. Wycroft said. "Do you have to think about it when you tie your boot laces or find the way to your home?"
"No, I guess not."
"Correct. And that is because your brain has learned these skills so well, it no longer has to go through a step-by-step process to accomplish what it already knows. It all happens on a lower level of your mind—the subconscious, if you will."
Mathew began to piece this new information together, while Dr. Wycroft leaned back and said nothing, watching him with interest.
"You are saying that I imagined some of what happened?"
"Not really," Dr. Wycroft replied. "What I am saying is, I fully believe something happened to you, and that it was as real to you as sitting here in this room. Since I can find nothing physically wrong with you, we are left with the mind as the source of our problem. This doesn't mean that your sanity is in question. It only means that you perceived something that caused a physical reaction as regards both your vision and the tingling sensations you described. With respect to the window, I regret I am not qualified to make an assessment. For that, I fear we may have to consult a carpenter."
He said the last part so seriously, Mathew began to laugh in spite of himself. The doctor smiled in response.
"At least it's a relief to know that I'm not going crazy," Mathew said.
"Hardly," the doctor said, rising and coming around the desk. "Stress—particularly stress that places one's life in peril—is a sufficient motivator to produce a physical reaction, even in the most stout-hearted of men."
Mathew nodded and got up as well. He began to fish around in the pocket of his cloak for some money to pay the doctor.
"That won't be necessary," Dr. Wycroft said. "I have prescribed no medicines, and I do not charge for speaking with healthy people."
Mathew thanked the doctor and walked to the door with him, past the baleful eye of his housekeeper, then bade him goodbye.
Before they parted, Dr. Wycroft said, "Your cousin told
me that he is a silversmith. Do you intend to enter that trade as well?"
"No sir, I don't think so."
The doctor eyed him narrowly for a moment, then said, "You may wish to consider medicine as a suitable profession. I suspect you possess the acumen for it. Mistress Woodall informed me that you and your family are on your way to visit relatives in Barcora. When you return, I should be happy to visit with you again on the subject."
Mathew reflected on Dr. Wycroft's comment while he walked down the street to the river. The homes along the block were all neat and well-kept, with gardens and flowers. It was something of a wonder to him that until this point in his life, he had never given any thought about what he would do when he reached adulthood. He had more or less assumed he would take over running his father's farm. But at the moment that possibility seemed increasingly remote. The whole thing disturbed him, and he pushed the thoughts to the back of his mind, along with several other issues.
For the time being, he was content to know his sanity was not in question. The idea of his brain producing an actual physical reaction in his body seemed so simple that he was astonished he hadn't thought of it himself. He'd heard stories of men and women performing great acts of strength in times of acute stress. But green vision? And seeing at night? The tingling sensation he could accept, particularly if, as Dr. Wycroft told him, his mind picked up on something he didn't consciously realize. The part about his vision, however, still disturbed him.
With at least a portion of his problems resolved, he felt his spirits rise for the first time in several weeks. In front of him the wide waters of the Roeselar continued on their journey to the sea. A few craft were on the river, some intending to put in at Elberton and some merely passing by. Mathew stopped to watch a tall two-masted vessel, its white sails billowing, come about and then heel over, tacking slowly into the wind while it closed with the shore. It was a graceful and beautiful thing to see.
Several streets from where he was standing, he could see the docks Akin had mentioned. A flurry of activity was already going on. Several ships were at anchor, secured by thick rope cables lashed to iron cleats in the docks. Bare-chested men worked in the afternoon sun, with tackle and hoists, loading crates of cargo into the ships' holds. All around him, merchants hoping to make a quick profit from the wools and silver pieces produced in Elberton, sold their goods to disembarking passengers directly from wagons.
Mathew observed the hustle and bustle with fascination as he walked along the street, searching for his friends among the crowd. Then he stopped and wrinkled his nose at a smell that was new to him. He realized it was coming from two long wooden buildings at the far end of the piers. If he had a handkerchief with him, he would have put it over his nose.
"That be the tanneries," a passing sailor volunteered, observing his reaction.
Mathew grimaced and shook his head. "Can you tell me where I might find a Captain Donal?" Mathew asked.
"Aye, lad. He be the master of the Dancer, that brig berthed three down."
Had he been less self-conscious, Mathew would have asked the man exactly what a brig was. He assumed it was a ship, but not wanting to appear uninformed, he thanked him, and began walking in the wrong direction.
"Lad, I said brig," the man called after him, loud enough for several people standing nearby to hear. "That's a flat-bottomed riverboat over there. Can ye not tell the difference?"
Abashed, Mathew reversed his direction, mumbled his thanks, and headed for a sleek-looking black vessel moored a short distance away.
The ship was large—the largest he'd ever seen. He guessed it to be at least two hundred feet in length and perhaps forty feet wide. Two stout masts, whose tops seemed impossibly high, rose majestically out of the deck. His eyes followed them to their pinnacle, and he
shuddered involuntarily at the thought of someone actually climbing all the way up there to let out the sails. Even as a boy, he had never been fond of heights. The only reason he'd climbed
trees with his friends was because his fear of being embarrassed exceeded his fear of heights.
While at anchor, all of the ship's sails were furled. Myriad ropes ran from yardarms and masts to the deck below and made an impressive sight, almost like a cat's cradle. It was the first real ship he had ever seen.
From the wooden pier, Mathew searched the deck for some sign of Father Thomas or any of the others, but he saw only one or two crewmen at work.
"Excuse me, is there a Captain Donal on board?" he called out.
A bearded man at the front of the ship—Mathew later learned it was called a foredeck—leaned over the railing and called back, "I'm Oliver Donal. And who might you be?" Despite the warmth of the day, the man was wearing a white shirt and long black coat and tie.
"Mathew Lewin, sir," he answered, walking along the dock toward him. "I'm looking for some friends of mine."
"Ah, so you be the other one. You've just missed them, lad. They left about fifteen minutes ago. Come aboard, come aboard, and let's have a look at you."
Mathew noticed a companionway in the middle of the ship as he walked past, but a rope netting that hung over the rail near to him seemed more expedient. He quickly unbuckled his sword and, holding it in one hand, clambered up and over the side.
The captain watched his progress with interest, giving him an approving nod when his feet touched the deck "Oliver Donal, master of the Wave Dancer, at your service," he said, offering a thick callused hand.
"Mathew Lewin. Pleased to meet you."
The man raised his eyebrows and looked Mathew up and down briefly. "Growing them big in Werth Province I see."
Mitchell Graham - [Fifth Ring 01] - The Fifth Ring (v1.0) Page 22
