Hood awakens groggily to find himself lying on a neat comfortable bed with a familiar face above him that makes him groan inside. He can feel her fingers upon his wrist, checking his pulse and can see the frown lines deepen and gather in conjunction with a soft exasperated tut. Nurse Weevil has not changed since Hood last saw her, except perhaps the lines in her face have grown deeper and more pronounced. Still dressed in the same uniform - a plain apron - with her hair meticulously pinned and flattened across the dome of her head, and tied in a neat grey ponytail at the back, she is exactly as he remembers. Not necessarily a good thing, for if she has not changed in appearance it is most likely that her bed-side manner is identical too. Hood tenses up at what is about to come next.
“This is becoming a regular occurrence - the two of you here again, and in similar circumstances it seems - though not quite so critical as last time.”
‘Here we go,’ says Hood to himself silently…and allows his mind to wander in anticipation of the avalanche of criticism that is about to come his way.
“I thought I told the pair of you that I never wished to see you here again. ‘Disappointed’ would be an understatement. I expect all of my patients to follow and respect the advice they are given and I distinctly remember telling the both of you to make sure that you looked after yourselves. Well, it seems that you have strayed monstrously from my prescription. You will of course not be surprised at my surprise when I arrive this morning to find the pair of you dumped unconscious on my doorstep by what I can only describe in the most generous of manners as ‘an interesting character of disrepute’ who, I may add, I am currently having to shelter due to the ‘outbreak’ of a particular incident at the Roast Boar last night…which has, admittedly, stimulated a lot of business for myself today - bone setting, fractures, cuts, bruises…Hmmm…But has left her as a ‘wanted fugitive’, though I imagine this rather dramatic monicker will be downgraded to something along the lines of ‘village idiot’ in a few days time…Hmmm. People are quick to forget…and sometimes forgive…Swings and roundabouts…yes swings and roundabouts…And what, may I ask, are the swings and roundabouts that have brought you to me today?”
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Hood remains unresponsive.
“Hmm. I thought that would be your response. I suppose then I’ll have to take that young scamp’s explanation at face value. Your masked friend, by the way is fine, just exhausted, but you on the other hand…well you’ll need to drink Billum Root infusion for a few days and rub this salve into your finger ends as you’ve blistered them quite badly. Other than that I regret to inform you that you too can be discharged. A ‘regret’ I mention as it would seem that you. once again. will fail to learn from your mistakes. Mistakes that, were it not for pure good fortune, could have had much more serious consequences. Trying to dry out your friend with a magical fireball! I’ve never heard such nonsense and stupidity! Now, I’ll leave you for an hour or two to contemplate your actions. In the meantime, drink your tea, use the salve and get some rest.”
Hood closes his eyes and would breathe a sigh of relief but is aware that Nurse Weevil is still standing over him. Please go, please go, please go…
“Hmm, disappointed,” she says one last time, before turning and walking out of the small narrow room, her heavy wooden shoes beating a rhythm on the floor as she goes.
Hood lets out a sigh of relief and slowly lets his awareness drift to his breath.
Warm sunlight casts a rectangle of light on his bed and colours his closed eyelids with a faint warm orange glow. After a moment he opens his eyes and, sitting up, scans the room, locating his belongings - they are stacked neatly on a chair in the far corner. Satisfied that all is in order, Hood reaches for the cup of Billum Root by the cabinet at the side of the bed. Sipping the infusion he recalls his experience upon the beach, slowly, painstakingly putting together the memory of casting the fireball spell. Hood notes the details and minutiae and smiles to himself, knowing that he can do it again. Not only do it again but fine tune it with the awareness of how better to draw out the fabric’s weave, to balance the forces with the geometry of his fingers. He is about to get up and get his satchel, book, and charcoal, but then looks at his finger ends and chooses instead to follow the strict instructions of ‘The Weevil’. His journal entries can wait.
Having massaged salve into his finger ends, Hood finishes his drink, his eyes growing heavy…and as he begins to drift off to sleep, he is dimly aware of folding his hands over his chest and feeling the rough shape of the crowloom in his palms, and the faint sound of a tinkle at the door.