( jack remains silent, rather content to let her thoughts float and sink below the steady currents of the river. it's beautiful, sure, but he's seen enough forests and rivers that it has become a blur in his eyes and mind. what's the difference between this one and another one in france, or spain, or ecuador? everything becomes the same after all; just another thing after a thing after a thing after another thing.
his grip hangs loosely on the pole, but is still firm enough not to let it get stuck in the soft clay of the riverbed. fresh abrasions and scars blot his knuckles. in the daylight, bruises and cuts along his bristly jaw and around his eyes have blossomed, becoming apparent. his hat hides the slight purple bruising on his face that will eventually mellow into a dull yellow. a dull pain radiates through his body, and each step is a discomfort. but jack's known pain before. it's probably his oldest and only friend during his journey.
and when he wakes up in another time and place, the scars, bruises, and pain will be gone, and he will be alone again. )
Aye. I am.
( he gestures to the sleeping ms wemyss with a tilt of his chin. ) Malaria?
[Brianna's relieved when he doesn't hesitate to say that he is, indeed, a boxer. Which makes her think he's not lying, at least. Frowning when he asks if what Lizzie is suffering from was Malaria, she looks over her shoulder towards her.]
Yeah. My mother will be able to help her.
[Her mother is on her mind constantly, especially now. Which is why it takes her a moment to realize something...
How would he know what malaria was? There was no name for it, not yet. Slowly, she looks back to him, doing a terrible job of keeping the surprise and confusion off of her expression.]
( a frown pulls at his features. if they were further south in the spanish territory of south america, where cinchona trees grew, they could use their bark to treat the woman's fever. but this far north, the bark's price is too high, and that's if it was found. in these sorts of backwoods with little supply and help, life was fleeting. a cut, a misplaced step, or improperly stored food was the difference between life and death.
he leans against the pole, eyes trailing along the rushing river and wondering if ms randall's mother can help the scotswoman. then again, why should jack care? he doesn't know these women. they'll be dust soon. he'll be the only one that remembers them, and they will join the other shadows on the wall of his mind. )
The Jesuit priests called it that. I think it's Italian. ( no, he knows it's italian, since he's fluent in the language. but that's what the jesuit priests called it two thousand miles away and five decades ago: mal aria; bad air. )
[She stares up at him for a long minute before finally looking away. Her knowledge when it comes to the history of anything medical isnโt nearly as good as her mothers. Maybe the name came long before the proper treatment, because the man who had attempted to treat Lizzie here had no idea what he was doing.]
It sounds like it.
[Brianna says through an exhale, forcing a small smile on her face as she briefly glances up at him.]
( his blunt fingernails scratch along his bristly chin. he needs a shave and a good bath. some clean clothes. food that he doesn't have to worry about and wonder if it was stored and cooked properly. something that wasn't packed with salt for half a year. he deserves that much. ) On occasion.
( it must be... several years since he's done this trip. or several years until he does it. his mind is such a jumbled mess of numbers and memories that he isn't sure what's real, what's come to pass, and what's a lie. he can hardly discern the truth anymore. everything that comes from his mouth is cryptic and complicated, like a puzzle without a solution or even a purpose.
he glances down at the rushing water that speeds the boat along. the reflection that stares back at him is as tangible as the persona he bears and calls himself. he's just a man playing a man playing a man playing a man; a copy of a copy. he probably couldn't even remember his real name anymore if he tried. )
You never said how you ended up this far south. ( jack asks, more keen to focus on something other than his constant identity crisis and reaction formation. )
[Brianna figures she should at least come up with a reason as to why she's here that's more believable than the truth.]
Well--
[Looking over her shoulder at Lizzie once more, Brianna rests her hands against the wooden boat as she leans forward. Squinting out at the water.]
I'm from Boston, originally. Briefly went to Scotland to visit family. My mother moved to the Carolinas, and I was sent a letter from her that she needed my help. So here I am.
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no subject
his grip hangs loosely on the pole, but is still firm enough not to let it get stuck in the soft clay of the riverbed. fresh abrasions and scars blot his knuckles. in the daylight, bruises and cuts along his bristly jaw and around his eyes have blossomed, becoming apparent. his hat hides the slight purple bruising on his face that will eventually mellow into a dull yellow. a dull pain radiates through his body, and each step is a discomfort. but jack's known pain before. it's probably his oldest and only friend during his journey.
and when he wakes up in another time and place, the scars, bruises, and pain will be gone, and he will be alone again. )
Aye. I am.
( he gestures to the sleeping ms wemyss with a tilt of his chin. ) Malaria?
no subject
Yeah. My mother will be able to help her.
[Her mother is on her mind constantly, especially now. Which is why it takes her a moment to realize something...
How would he know what malaria was? There was no name for it, not yet. Slowly, she looks back to him, doing a terrible job of keeping the surprise and confusion off of her expression.]
How do you know what malaria is?
no subject
he leans against the pole, eyes trailing along the rushing river and wondering if ms randall's mother can help the scotswoman. then again, why should jack care? he doesn't know these women. they'll be dust soon. he'll be the only one that remembers them, and they will join the other shadows on the wall of his mind. )
The Jesuit priests called it that. I think it's Italian. ( no, he knows it's italian, since he's fluent in the language. but that's what the jesuit priests called it two thousand miles away and five decades ago: mal aria; bad air. )
no subject
It sounds like it.
[Brianna says through an exhale, forcing a small smile on her face as she briefly glances up at him.]
Have you been up this way before?
no subject
( it must be... several years since he's done this trip. or several years until he does it. his mind is such a jumbled mess of numbers and memories that he isn't sure what's real, what's come to pass, and what's a lie. he can hardly discern the truth anymore. everything that comes from his mouth is cryptic and complicated, like a puzzle without a solution or even a purpose.
he glances down at the rushing water that speeds the boat along. the reflection that stares back at him is as tangible as the persona he bears and calls himself. he's just a man playing a man playing a man playing a man; a copy of a copy. he probably couldn't even remember his real name anymore if he tried. )
You never said how you ended up this far south. ( jack asks, more keen to focus on something other than his constant identity crisis and reaction formation. )
no subject
Well--
[Looking over her shoulder at Lizzie once more, Brianna rests her hands against the wooden boat as she leans forward. Squinting out at the water.]
I'm from Boston, originally. Briefly went to Scotland to visit family. My mother moved to the Carolinas, and I was sent a letter from her that she needed my help. So here I am.
[It's not a complete lie, at least.]
What about you? How'd you end up here?