Natto screamed.
It was black. So were his hands.
He stood in panic for a moment, then felt a warm dribble run down his leg. Blue.
He began to weep.
Eventually he dressed and trudged downstairs.
“Well, well. You’re still with us, then?” Ian called from his table by the fire. He had a mug and a basket of roasted chestnuts, the floor littered with papery skins.
“I’m not on my way home, if that’s what you mean.” Natto pointed to the tap. “May I?”
“Help yourself. Sponda’s up to her elbows in flour, and I’m not of a mind to move.”
Natto drew a mug of ale and perched on the very edge of his chair. “Is there a doctor nearby?”
“Why, are you ill?”
Without a word, Natto held out his hands, the palms and fingers stained black.
“I see.” Ian stared, then cleared his throat. “Is it only the hands, lad?”
Natto shook his head.
“Your johnson too?”
When Natto nodded, the older man huffed. “You do need a doctor, and soon.” He clasped Natto’s shoulder. “But you’re in luck. He’s already on his way. Coming after supper to take a look at my aching foot.” He tapped his boot on the floor. “It’s just a touch of the gout, but Sponda worries.”
Natto drank his ale. “Does your doctor have any experience with my—problem?”
“Aye. More than most.” He smiled and reached for a chestnut.
It was only the two of them for supper. Sponda stayed in the kitchen, seeing to the pudding. Natto didn’t think he had an appetite, but the biscuits were light and flaky and the drippings rich, and he found himself mopping his plate.
“Save some room. Sponda’s Pond is the queen of puddings.” Ian lit his pipe.
“I look forward to it.” Natto excused himself and went upstairs. He had been drinking steadily, which made his predicament seem somewhat foggy and distant, but every twenty minutes he was jarred back to his desperate reality. Ian was sympathetic and tried to keep his spirits up by telling stories of a life in rendering, which had to do with unidentifiable lumps, and why you shouldn’t confuse soap and candle tallow. Natto listened numbly, released by a knock at the door.
“There’s the doctor now,” Ian said and went to let him in.
The doctor was a tall, thin man with spectacles and a van Dyke beard. His graying hair was pulled back into a tail. He wore a suit of brown worsted and carried a black leather bag. “Ian, good to see you!” he said in a reedy voice.
“Doctor Reynard. Good of you to come. You’re just in time for dessert. Sponda’s made a Pond.”
“Excellent. No one makes it better than she.” He set his bag on one of the empty tables.
“It’s done!” Sponda called from the kitchen. She came out bearing a platter on which sat a caramel hummock, the top sunken, the crust glazed and crackling along the edges. The steam smelled like a summer’s day.
“That,” Ian said proudly, “is our Pond.” He picked up a knife and a large spoon. “Watch close now. This is the best part.” He sliced into the pudding, revealing a whole lemon in the center and releasing a glorious oozing stream of golden syrup. It flowed until it had formed a pool of rich sauce that filled the platter like a moat. “See?” he said. “Now it’s an island in its own pond. Doctor?”
“Please.”
Ian cut a generous slice and ladled the sauce over it.
“George?”
“What? Oh, yes, thank you.”
When everyone had been served, Sponda said. “What do you think, Da?”
“The crust is splendid—our good suet—and oh, my dear, the sauce! Lemon and sugar and sweet butter. It may be the best you’ve ever made.”
Sponda clapped her hands in delight. “Do you really think so?”
Natto dug in eagerly. “Oh my god,” he said, true reverence in his voice. “This is—this is—it’s spectacular.”
The doctor took a bite. “Is that butter I taste?”
“What else could it be?” Sponda laughed.
“I thought you said it was scarce.” Natto scraped his fork through the last of his sauce.
“It is,” Sponda replied with that odd, twitching smile. “But we make do.”
“You do, indeed,” said the doctor. He smiled at her, then pushed his empty plate aside. “Now, Ian, about that foot?”
Natto sat patiently while Ian’s foot was examined. It didn’t look any different than an ordinary foot. Dirtier, maybe. But the doctor tutted and poked, then dug into his bag for a jar of salve.
“Thanks. What do I owe you?”
“Let me see, with the salve, it’s,” he tapped a finger on his beard. “Twenty silver crowns.”
“I have it right here.” Ian pulled a cloth bag from his pocket.
“Twenty crowns!” Natto blurted.
“That’s the usual rate,” the doctor said. “I see that you’re surprised. I imagine a doctor’s visit is much, much more in the capital.”
Natto had no idea. He’d never been to a doctor in his life. And a good thing, too. It cost a bloody fortune.
“George has a bit of a problem, if you don’t mind,” Ian said.
“Certainly.” The doctor turned to Natto. “What’s the trouble?”
“I—it—never mind.” He would just have to wait until he got to the capital. A doctor’s visit might cost more there, but it wouldn’t matter. He’d be able to afford it.
“Don’t be daft, lad,” Ian said. “You need help. You—” he looked at Natto and snapped his fingers. “Ah. I think I understand. Excuse us for a moment.” He pointed to the door. “George?”
Natto hesitated, then followed him out into the street, pulling his neckerchief up as he did.
“You get used to it,” Ian said. He leaned against the wall of the building and lit his pipe. “Are you short of funds, lad?” he asked in a kindly voice.
“At the moment. I just need to get back to the capital. I’ll see my own doctor there,” he lied.
“You won’t make to sunrise, as fast as that’s spreading.”
“What!”
Ian shook his head, slowly and sadly. “George, you seem like a good fellow. Let me ask the doctor to put your treatment on my account.”
“You’d do that?”
“It’s a sorry world when you can’t rely on the kindness of strangers.”
Foolish old man, Natto thought. “Thank you,” he said aloud.
“’Course I’d need some collateral,” Ian continued. “We may be country folk, but I wasn’t born yesterday.”
“What sort?”
“That mare of yours is a fine animal and I could use another horse until the loan’s repaid.”
“That seems reasonable.” Hah. Natto laughed to himself. He’d get the salve or ointment or tincture, whatever it was, and be saddled and gone hours before first light.
“Good. Now what about the rest?”
“Rest? What do you mean?”
“Well, around here, horses aren’t so dear. Ten crowns is a good price. But that leaves another ten unaccounted.”
Natto’s brain raced. What else did he have to offer? He came up empty, just as his bladder reminded him that it was not. He stepped toward the stable. “The ale,” he said.
“Oh, me as well. It’s the only bad part about drinking, I say.”
They did their business over the straw. Ian looked over and sucked air through his teeth in a startled hiss. “Good god, lad. You didn’t tell me it was that far along. It’s a miracle you’re still alive.”
Natto heard a squeak come out of his mouth. “It could kill me?”
“Aye and it’s an ugly, painful way to go.” Ian buttoned up. “You need what the doctor has.” He put an arm around Natto’s waist. “Tell you what. Get help, and I’ll find a way to let you work off the other ten crowns.”
Here? Not on your life, Natto thought, then reconsidered. He had no intention of paying the man back, so it didn’t matter if it was ten, twenty, or fifty crowns. As soon as he had the medicine, he’d scamper. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d left town owing money. “Yes, thank you. You’re very generous.”