Day Three - Midday

     It’s a miserable slog in the pelting rain. The path downhill decays into sliding, gravel filled muck where the road isn’t overrun with weeds. Thank goodness the weeds seem to be the majority. Nonetheless, the boy comes close to slipping several times due to his oversized, soaked shoes. They slither on and out from under his feet. It’s like walking on eels. After almost skidding into a shin deep pothole puddle for the umpteenth time, he loses his patience. He yanks his shoes off, ties the laces together, and slings the muddy mess over his shoulder. His feet are marginally colder and wetter bare, but his footing is leagues more sure. The change pleases him. Pity it doesn't do a thing about the downpour.

     He arrives at Glenholm town, surly and shivering, an hour later. He breaks into a run the moment he transitions onto proper cobblestone lanes. No more mud until he makes his return. Fingers crossed the rain will stop by evening. Then again, who’s to say there’ll be a return voyage at all? Alicia's offer of shelter seems a welcome alternative. No idea what she has in mind, but anything is better than boarding in the madhouse he calls home. He'll have to ask her later. His shift isn't until the afternoon and if he comes too early, he runs the risk of looking desperate. Besides, he's got another item on his to-do list.

     He sloshes through the town square, onto the main road, and past the pub until he reaches the post office. The door of the latter is then promptly blown down.

     There’s not a soul to be seen inside; nobody's manning the register. The smog from last time is still hanging over the counter, though it’s thinned some. The air doesn’t make him dizzy this time, but it’s still fragrant. The boy doesn’t want to lollygag. He's seen what the drugged smoke will do to people. Hollowed out by addiction is a bad way to go, not that the resident druggie is complaining, judging by the state of things.

     The boy spots a bell on the counter. He rings it. He rings it again. And again. And again and again and again and-

     Something groans from behind the counter.

     The boy freezes with his hand on the bell. He clasps his fingers behind his back and retreats slowly towards the door, keeping his eyes trained on where the noise came from. Something shifts and thumps its way up until it peers over the counter. It’s the post clerk. Idiot must’ve fallen asleep at the counter and fell onto the floor.

     The boy rolls his eyes and approaches the counter. He glares up at the post clerk because that’s what people do when they have an important, official purpose: they glare at the people they’ll be giving orders to. The clerk, in return, blinks slowly at him. He turns his head sluggishly towards the bell. He frowns. He looks at the boy again and blinks. Then he spaces out and sees nothing for several moments. Oh for the love of... He’s off with the fairies.

     The boy stands on his toes and snaps his fingers at the clerk. The clerk stirs, looks at the boy, and, as indicated by the dull spark of attention, he sees him. “Hi…”

     “Uh. Hullo.” The boy clears his throat and gets to business. “I am here to send a telegram.” He raises his voice because everyone sounds more professional the louder they talk. He wants to be very professional with this complicated telegram business.

     The clerk blinks again. “Okay.” And that’s all he has to say.

     The boy fishes the soggy card out of his pocket and hands it to the clerk. The clerk glazes over the running ink, blinking between it and the boy. “Wha’s this?”

     “That’s the telegram card I want to send.” The boy speaks as slow as he does loud. The clerk’s duller than he thought.

     “Okay... Why… why’re ya givin’ it ta me?”

     Oh for the love of… The boy sighs. “Because how else am I supposed to send it if I don’t give it to you?”

     “I dunno… How are ya supposed ta send it?”

     “That’s what I’m wondering. You’re the one who works here. Isn’t sending telegram-letters part of your job?”

     Blink, blink. “Wot job?”

     The boy bites back the urge to scream. Is this what toffs deal with every day? No wonder they’re a bunch of sour pusses. He takes a breath to calm himself. “You,” he points to the clerk, “you work here,” he motions to the building, “as a clerk.”

     Blink. “... Wot?”

     This fellow is useless. He's duller than Myr last night. Who the hell hired him? The boy gets his answer shortly.

     “Silly boy, I dun got a job.”

     “You… you what?”

     “Yeah, I dun actually work here.”

     “Then what the fuck are you doin’ here!” The boy’s getting a headache. The lingering fumes of whatever the druggie’s been smoking aren’t helping.

     “Tha’s not nice…”

     The boy’s too busy panicking to listen. “Can’t send a telegram? Can’t send a telegram? Where’s the bugger who does work here so I can… can… Argh!”

     “He’ll be in later today… I think.” The druggie yawns.

     The boy pauses. Did the druggie said that? Or is he hearing things? “What did you say?”

     “Wot did wot say?” Blink.

     Must. Not. Slug. The druggie. The boy takes a breath, a slow one and counts to four. He’s calmer, still irked, but calmer. God does he hate Mondays. “You said someone comes here. Does that bloke work here?”

     Blink. “Wot’s a bloke?” The druggie scrunches his face. He wracks his brains some more and remembers he's not talking to himself. He squints at the boy. “Wot’re ya doin’ here?”

     The boy snaps his fingers again. “Focus! There’s a fellow who works here?”

     Blink. “Yeeeeees. He comes here ta do things, an’ tha’s a kind o’ workin’... Ya, he works here.”

     Progress! Next question: “When’s he gonna punch in?”

     “Punch him?” Blink blink blink. “Woah, whoa, whoa now! I dun do rough sport, okay? Ya wanna rough house, ya play wit’ th’ other boys outside.” The druggie points to the storm outdoors.

     The boy facepalms. Small words, he must use small words. This time he includes lots of pantomiming to gets his point across. “When. Is. The. Guy. Who. Works. Here. Coming. Here?”

     “Oh! Tha’ guy! I know the guy. Yeah. Mista Smit does… he does things tha’ need doin’. I’m here to keep eye on th’ shop, tellin’ Mista Smit if any suspicious types come around. Ayup.” Blink.

     Holy crap, the druggie’s making sense. Not just that, he’s also following along. The boy must've been breathing in the post office’s haze for too long because he’s imagining things. He shakes his head. He'll sort this through later. He still needs to grill the druggie about this Smit fellow.

     “When’s Smit gonna be here?”

     “Uh, I dunno. Late this evenin’ or tha’ time later this week. Not sure which it is.”

     Damn it. “Where can I find Smit? I need to get that telegram sent.”

     Blink. “Wot telegram?”

     He’s kidding... right? “The card in your hand, that’s the telegram card I want to send.”

     It takes the druggie a second to recall that he does, in fact, have something in his hand. He slowly brings his hand to his face and sees the card there. His eyes go wide. “How… How’d ya do tha’?”

     The boy blinks at the druggie. “Do what?”

     “Tha’!” The druggie waves the card around. “It weren’t here before, but then it is an’ I dun know how it got there!” He gasps. His eyes grow wider still. He bends down over the counter to whisper. “Are you a witch?”

     The boy fumes bright red. “Do I look like a bleedin’ girl?”

     The druggie shrinks from him. He’s… is he cowering from him? “I dun mean no offense, sir, but tha’s what folks call them who deals in magics an’ the sort, innit?”

     “Uh… Sure?” The boy trys (and fails) to wrap his head around being called sir of all things. Since when was he a sir? He shakes the thought away. “But witches are all girls. Even an idjit knows that.”

     “No no no no no. No. Not true sir, not true. There’s witch men too, there is. I seen him, I have. In this town.” A finger tapping on the counter punctuates the druggie's claim.

     The boy stares blankly at him. What in blazes is he smoking? Whatever it is, it seems strong as the continental stuff that makes you see genies. Not that he’d know. He's never touched the stuff himself.

     He listens politely and nods to whatever the druggie says, the only natural way to deal with madmen. He stows away the tidbit about the Glenholm witch man though. It sounds like something fun to gawp at, like carnival folk.

     When there’s a lull in the druggie’s monologue, he jumps in. “That’s swell. Say, can I have my telegram back?”

     Blink. “Wot? … Oh! Right! The… The thing. Wull, dun ya worry lil’ witch sir. I’ll get yer tele-card thing ta Mista Smit post haste. As soon he come in, tha’ is.”

     The boy opens his mouth, then shuts. “You… you sure?” The druggie’s enthusiastic, but his ability is... doubtful, to say of the least.

     “Oh yeah, fer sure, fer sure. I’ll get it ta Mista Smit no problem. No problem.” The druggie blinks and nods.

     “Are you sure?”

     The druggie holds up the card with one hand and crosses himself with the other. “In the name o’ gad, I’ll get yer tele-card ta Mista Smit yet.”

     “Errr… Thanks…” That was easy. A complete waste of time, but pretty simple otherwise. Then again, guys like this don’t do complicated.

     After multiple awkward attempts to disengage the druggie in conversation, the boy’s halfway through the door. He cherishes his newfound freedom and fresh air, even if he is getting soaked again. And just as he was starting to dry. Blasted rain. He hasn't lost his other nuisance either.

     “An’ dun ya worry ‘bout word gettin’ round tha’ yer magics folk. I wun tell no one. Not a soul, sir!” The druggie bellows while the door is still open for the enjoyment of all passersby in the rain. Thank goodness people around here have enough sense to not go galavanting in piss poor weather. They may, however, venture out to investigate persistent hollerings.

     The boy motions to the druggie to shut his trap. The druggie thinks he’s waving to him. He enthusiastically waves back.

     “Mista Smit’s orders, ya see.” He's still shouting. “Not supposed ta talk ‘bout th’ witch man. Figer tha’ goes fer witch boys too.”

     The boy lightly pushes the door until it shuts. Now it's just him, his thoughts, and the rain. Good riddance.

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