CHALLENGE for the week of 07-08-01

TRIO CHALLENGE: vellum parchment, metal pot, a ceremony
QUOTE 1: "A man loses his sense of direction after four drinks; A woman loses hers after four kisses." H.L. Mencken
QUOTE 2: "Remember the old saying, 'Faint heart never won fair lady'." Don Quixote.
QUOTE 3: " The evil that men do lives after them while the good is oft interred with their bones..." Julius Caesar - William Shakespeare
WORDS: horst, woof, triturate
AUTHORS: Cecilia, Greg, Jo, Julie, Maril

By Cecilia
ccadams@optonline.net

Disclaimers: Not mine, no matter what I wish, Fireworks owns them.
Rating: G
Feedback: Please and beta, too!
TRIO CHALLENGE: vellum parchment, metal pot, a ceremony and QUOTE 3.

~~~~~

Robert Helm, former Captain in his Majesty's Army, slipped out of the house without a sound. "Well," he thought in satisfaction, "at least a few of the skills I picked up will come in handy." The new moon shed no light to betray him as he made his way silently across the yard and around the barn. He picked up a small leather bag from behind the hay bales where he had cached it earlier.

Running his fingers over it to ensure its contents were intact, he smiled. He made his way to the edge of the woods behind the barn; his thin form nearly invisible in the darkness. He found the faint trail from memory and moved cautiously along it.

"I wonder how many times Charles and I stole down this path, avoiding pirates or spies for the approaching Spanish Armada, or savage Indians?" he mused silently. "Or Mother and Father, for that matter." He nearly tripped as his shin discovered a tree that had fallen across the path. "Damn, that hurt!" The sound of his voice was harsh against the soft sounds of the night. Though he knew his family was sound asleep back at the house, he paused for a moment to make sure no one had heard and was following.

He chuckled soundlessly at his own caution and continued down the path, more carefully now, until the reached an open space beside a slow running stream. This was their special place, his and Charles's. They had never shared it with their sisters. The clearing was where they held all their special ceremonies. Whenever something extraordinary happened to either boy, for good or ill, they'd sneak away at night and hold a ceremony.

Robert lit a candle and looked around. Thankfully, the clearing hadn't changed any. He had been afraid it would look smaller or somehow less special. No, he decided. The clearing was the same. Now it was all up to him. He quickly gathered a small quantity of wood. He smiled when he saw that the small circle of stones, bearing soot covered memories of fires long past, was still intact. He built a small fire in the circle.

"I wonder if I need any words?" he asked himself. Charles had always insisted on words for all of their boyhood ceremonies. Of course, Charles had always come up with the words he thought were appropriate and had written them down beforehand. Robert was never as good with words as his older brother was. How he wished Charles was there now to help him with this. Robert knew Charles would understand what he needed and would have just the right words to make the ceremony work. But Charles couldn't help him anymore. Three years ago, his brother had been thrown from his horse and broken his neck. Robert hadn't even learned of his brother's death until nearly a month later.

Opening the leather bag, he removed a piece of parchment, a small metal pot and some medals. He set the pot on the ground beside the firepit and held the parchment out and looked at it critically. In the flickering light from the fire, he could just barely read the words granting him his commission. "Funny," he thought, "when I purchased it, I had no idea what the true cost would be." He rolled the parchment and set the tip in the fire. He held it gingerly until it had burned nearly to his fingers, then tossed it into the fire.

Next he took the three medals. He didn't pause to look them over; he just tossed them in the fire. Their colored silk ribbons burst into flame and he stared at them until the ribbons were ash and the medals unrecognizable lumps of metal.

He picked up the pot, filled it from the stream and stood holding it beside the fire. "There has to be something I can say," he thought.

In his mind, he heard his brother's voice, full of love and laughter. "Say what's in your heart, Robbie boy. That's all you need to do."

Robert took a deep breath. When he spoke his words were quiet, but clear. "Shakespeare said, 'The evil that men do lives after them while the good is oft interred with their bones.' I have done much in the last six years that was evil. It ends here. I promise to devote my life to helping people, not hurting them. I want to do enough good that it lives after me, becomes my legacy."

He lifted the pot and upended it, spilling its contents into the fire. Smoke and steam rushed up at him. He wondered briefly if the wetness at his eyes was from either of them, but decided it didn't matter. The past was behind him now.

When the fire was completely out, he wiped out the pot with the cloth it had been bundled in and placed it back in the leather bag. He started back toward the house, feeling the weight of six years falling from his tired shoulders.

END

by Greg
gmccarron-hb@att.net

TRIO CHALLENGE: vellum parchment, metal pot, a ceremony + "triturate" (tri-CH-uh-rayt) verb tr. - To rub, crush, grind, or pound into fine particles or a powder; pulverize.
Disclaimers: I don't own them. If I did, they would still be working.
Spoilers: None
Feedback: Please
Rating: G
Note: This vignette picks up right after The Problem vignette. To every problem, there is a solution.

~~~~~

Colonel Montoya observed Senorita Alvarado's reaction with a growing sense of satisfaction. Finally, I have triturated that unflappable veneer and stubborn spirit. Now, I can finally control her, like I do the Dons.

"Senorita, you are not looking well. Would you like to sit down? Would you like me to send for the doctor?" As soon as he uttered the words, Colonel Montoya wanted to retract them. It was too late.

"That won't be necessary, Colonel. If you will excuse me," Tessa replied coldly. As she turned to leave, Colonel Montoya noticed a new and frightening element to the young senorita's eyes, a cold, calculating hatred aimed directly at him. He stared at the now vacant spot, where the young senorita had been, for several minutes before sitting down behind his desk. Damn, now I have two women who want to kill me.

Tessa descended the stairs from the Colonel's office as quickly as possible without attracting too much attention. She felt a cold dread nipping at her heels, threatening to stop her in her tracks, before she reached safety.

Dr. Helm was combining several ingredients for a salve in a metal pot when without warning the door to his office opened. He turned toward the door, ready to chide his visitor for not knocking, again. She looks awful. What happened to her? Not saying a word he opened his arms inviting her in. Encircled in the safety of Robert's arms, Tessa's aristocratic veneer finally cracked wide open, unleashing a tidal wave of emotions. As the storm subsided, Robert asked, "What happened?"

"Montoya won't let us marry because you are not Catholic."

"Is that so? Let me get a couple of things, then we can go see Montoya. We also need to stop by the church to see if Padre Quinterra is available."

A half hour later, Dr. Helm, Tessa, and a reluctant Padre Quinterra, waited outside Colonel Montoya's office. Grisham open the door, invited the group in, and closed the door behind him as he left to collect some taxes from some peon. Addressing the leader of the group, Montoya simple stated, "My hands are tied in this matter, Dr. Helm. Since you are not Catholic, I cannot allow you to marry Senorita Alvarado. I am sure Padre Quinterra would verify that." The padre simply nodded his agreement.

"Why do you believe me not to be a Catholic?" Doctor Helm quietly asked.

"You are English," Colonel Montoya stated simply.

"Have you ever heard of English Catholics?" Colonel Montoya didn't like the way this conversation was going.

Smiling, Dr. Helm laid an oilskin case on Montoya's desk. From inside the case, he produced four pieces of vellum parchment laying each carefully on the desk in front of the colonel. "These are my certificates of baptism, confession, holy communion, and conformation in the Diocese of Essex. I am sure Padre Quinterra can verify their authenticity."

The padre stepped forward to examine the paper. After a few minutes, he stepped back. "The documents are genuine," he simply stated.

" But you never go to Mass," stated Colonel Montoya.

"After the war, I abandoned my faith."

"That means you still cannot marry," crowed Montoya sensing victory was again within reach.

Padre Quinterra cleared his throat causing everyone in the room to turn toward him. "In such cases, the Church requires that the person confess their sins and reaffirm their belief in the Church. Then there would be no obstacle to the wedding ceremony."

"Are you free tomorrow after Mass to hear a confession?" Dr. Helm asked.

"I will see you, tomorrow, my child."

With that Dr. Helm collected his papers, took Tessa by the arm, and escorted the Padre out of Montoya's office.

TBC

By Jo
EnyaJo@aol.com

TRIO CHALLENGE: vellum parchment, metal pot, a ceremony
QUOTE 3: The evil that men do lives after them while the good is oft interred with their bones... Julius Caesar - William Shakespeare
WORDS
horst - A mass of the earth's crust that lies between two faults and is higher than the surrounding land.
woof - threads that run crosswise in a woven fabric
triturate - to rub, crush, grind, or pound into fine particles or a powder; pulverize.

~~~~~

Montoya yanked opened Helm's office door without ceremony and stalked inside. Montoya had awaken with a sore throat that morning and if the doctor wasn't going to come to him... Damn that insolent man! Montoya had sent a man to inform the doctor that he was needed over two hours before. Helm was found at his worktable, was busy triturating various herbs. "I am working on it, Colonel."

"What is taking so long?"

"I had to deliver a baby this morning. The boy is fine, by the way, and I figured that your sore throat could wait. Have a seat, be quiet, and let me finish making your potion."

Helm took a metal pot down from the top shelf as Montoya silently wished he had the extra inches that Helm had. But that was the only thing he was envious of the doctor. In the pueblo, Dr. Helm was a metaphorical horst compared to the height of other men. Alto California was full of faults, and so was Helm. Montoya chuckled to himself as he watched Helm fill the pot with liquids and dump the powder he ground in to mix.

Montoya sat in the only seat he saw, a small rolling stool and waited. He fingered the woof of the fabric of his uniform jacket. Faults. Yes. To Montoya, one of Helm's biggest fault--one that was sure to get him killed--was that he was quite close to the Queen, Montoya's prey, the thorn in his side, the crinkle in his armor, the demon seed who kept him up nights wondering how best to get the better of her.

Helm poured a portion of the contents of the pot into a small glass and turned to face Montoya with it. Montoya took the glass and sniffed the cloudy liquid. "What is in this?"

"My secret recipe."

"Secret." Montoya glared at him for a moment, wondering if the doctor would have had the gall to actually poison him.

As if reading his thoughts, Helm picked up the parchment that contained the recipe for the medication and showed it to him. "Those are the ingredients. Unless you are allergic to citronella, which some have found does dispel insects, you should be safe."

"Insects?! You do think badly of me."

Helm thrust his hands in his pockets and remained mum. "I am only keeping the peace, Helm. You would do well to not forget that," Montoya said as he raised the glass to his lips. Both men's green eyes glared at each other as Montoya took a sip of the liquid. It burned while going down and Montoya set the glass on the table. "That is that most brackish liquid I have ever tasted in my life."

Helm smiled. "That could be the sodium chloride."

"The what?"

"How would you say?... Mesa sal." He poured the rest of the preparation into a small jar and sealed the lid and gave it to the Colonel. "You must gargle with it, and drink plenty of water, and your throat should be as good as new in the morning." He added, "You should also rest your voice, Colonel. This doctor's prescription is to not order any executions today."

Montoya took the jar and scrutinized the taller man. Straightening himself, he said, "You think so little of me, doctor. Yes, I do carry out justice, and I do remember saving your... how you say... arse... after the incident involving the cold-blooded murder of the man known as El Serpente."

That quieted Helm, and Montoya could see that his words had affected him. It was just the result that Montoya had desired. "The evil that men do lives after them while the good is oft interred with their bones, doctor."

As Montoya turned to leave, he heard Helm mutter, "Shakespeare is universal."

END

By Julie
julie@centurybooks.com

Disclaimer: Fireworks owns the character of Marcus Grisham. I own his future (bwahahahaha!)
Rating: G
Feedback/Beta: Yes, please
Items: vellum parchment, metal pot, a ceremony

~~~~~

"C'min!"

The boy entered the room slowly, nervous about the strange old man hunched at the table.

"I got it for you."

"Well then bring it over here."

The boy moved forward, wary of the old man and the pale eyes glaring out from a grizzled face. He came no closer than necessary before reaching out his hand and delivering the sheets of vellum.

Old Mark took the sheets and laid them on the table with care. The boy waited for him to speak, but he only stared at the table. Something was different today, and the boy looked about, trying to understand the change. The room was cold, but that wasn't a surprise. The old man usually spent his fuel money on liquor. That was it. No lingering scent of whiskey. No half empty bottle on the table.

The boy dared a question. "So what are you going to do with the fancy paper? And why that? It cost more than anything else at the stationers."

"It's for my will."

The voice was gruff, and there was something else there, too. The boy took it for weakness and grew bolder. "What you writing a will for? You ain't got nothing to leave nobody."

The man turned to face the boy, and his eyes glistened with anger, and he seemed suddenly larger, more dangerous. The boy scampered to the door before the rag-wrapped hand could grab him.

"And stay out, you little bastard!"

Old Mark sighed and turned back to the table, flexing his aching fingers. They always hurt now, but the cold made it worse. A spot of whiskey would take the edge off. But no, he had decided to do this sober. He rubbed his hands one over the other in a vain attempt to warm them and ease the pain.

It wasn't so that he had nothing to leave. The gold, of course, was long gone. Bits of jewelry that ladies had given him long ago, all sold. All except the locket from Vera. He unconsciously touched his chest, and beneath the layers of clothing, the soft metal pressed against his skin. The locket was to be buried with him. He'd made that very clear to the local preacher.

No, the money and finery were long gone, and his tiny military pension would die with him. But still he had the truth, his truth.

"The evil that men do lives after them while the good is oft interred with their bones..." It didn't need to be that way. He would leave the truth behind, give that preacher man one hell of a story to tell at the funeral of Marcus Grisham.

Old Mark winced as he stretched his fingers again before picking up his pen. He dipped it into the metal pot that served as inkstand and began to write.

END

By Maril
maril.swan@sympatico.ca

Disclaimers: Fireworks owns them, and is giving away the Queen's sword in a contest. Check out their website.
Rating: G
Feedback: yes, please
Note: Sequel to "Justice and Mercy" wherein the Queen paid a late night visit to a feverish Colonel Montoya to bargain for a pardon for two men accused of cattle theft.
Trio: vellum parchment, metal pot, a ceremony
Word: triturate

~~~~~

"...and so if you have a remedy that's effective and quicker to make, I would appreciate the formula. Spending hours over a metal pot boiling down the bark is not the best use of my time. Not only that, but it would seem that last night some of my triturated willowbark medicine mysteriously disappeared. I'm afraid another epidemic of fever may be about to start in Santa Helena. I want to be better prepared this time." Dr. Helm gazed earnestly into Marta's eyes as they sat at the dining table in the Alvarado villa. He unfurled some vellum parchment and pulled a pencil from his pocket, preparing to write.

Marta blushed under the intensity in those green eyes. "Of course, Doctor. I have several traditional remedies for fever. If you wish, I can make them for you. That would save you some time." Her attention was torn from the doctor as Tessa staggered into the room. Marta leapt up immediately, and took hold of the younger woman's arm.

"You should not be up. Go back to bed, Tessa," Marta ordered, trying to steer her out of the room.

"I wanted a glass of water, Marta," Tessa said weakly. Her face was flushed and her eyes were feverishly bright. As she tried to shake off Marta's hand, and step past, Tessa saw the doctor. "Oh, Doctor Helm. What a pleasant surprise." She straightened up and pulled her robe more closely around herself. "Don't get up, Doctor. We don't stand on ceremony around here."

Marta said, "I could have got you the water. All you had to do was ask."

"I'm not helpless," Tessa replied peevishly. She took a step and seemed to waver dizzily as she grasped the back of a chair. "Don't mind me. Go on with your talk," she said, sweeping her hair back off her moist forehead.

The doctor arose and placed his hand on her brow. He slid his long fingers down to her cheeks, then under her jaw, his look concentrated and worried. "You have a high fever, señorita." He pursed his lips and eyed her quizzically. "So far, only Colonel Montoya has this fever. Have you been near the colonel lately?"

"Of course not! I have been at my hacienda all week," Tessa said somewhat waspishly as the doctor moved to pick up her wrist. She looked across to Marta, her expression appealing for help.

Marta tried not to smile at the flustered look on Tessa's face and how her colour seemed to deepen as the doctor touched her.

"Hmm," he said. "You have the same symptoms. Does your body ache?"

A short laugh from Marta drew a vexed glance from Tessa. "What do you mean, Doctor?" Tessa asked, fixing Marta with a warning look.

"Montoya's symptoms include sore throat, high fever, headache and general body ache." The doctor took Tessa by the shoulders and forced her to sit on the chair he had just vacated. He bent and gazed at her intently. "Is that how you feel right now?"

"It's just a little fever, brought on by the heat. I'll be fine in a day or so. Marta's remedies have always worked before." Tessa tried to stand but met his restraining hand on her shoulder.

Helm turned to Marta. "What do you recommend for her fever?"

Marta's lips quirked as a playful light came into her eyes. "What do I think Tessa needs? I think she should be in bed ...the sooner the better." Marta glanced away, hiding her smile from the fierce look on Tessa's face.

"Right then," Helm said. "I agree. Off you go, young lady. Doctor's orders. Into bed with you." He pulled Tessa to her feet, and propelled her in the direction of her room. "Perhaps, Marta, you should take over from here."

"Oh no, Doctor, you are doing just fine. I will get her a glass of water." With that, Marta left the room.

"It's very strange, Señorita Alvarado, that you should have the same fever symptoms as the colonel," Helm said, taking her arm. He could feel the heat radiating from her body and frowned, concerned as they walked toward her room. "Yet you say you haven't been near him for over a week. Usually, it seems one has to be in close proximity to catch a fever. And the symptoms usually occur a day or so after being near someone with the infection."

They entered her room and he glanced around with interest, admiring its opulence compared to his own rather Spartan accommodations. He lifted the covers from her bed and made her lie down, first helping her off with the robe. He averted his eyes, sensitive to her modesty, but not missing how the thin nightgown clung damply to her generous curves. The room suddenly seemed a lot warmer. What was it he was saying? Ah, of course, her fever. "Yes, it's very strange indeed that you should have the same symptoms as the colonel." A look of wry amusement arose in his green eyes as he settled her comfortably, noting her high colour. "I will have to do some further research into this phenomenon."

He tucked the covers around her and for a brief moment, his face hovered very near, his eyes locked on hers. Tessa held her breath, then he moved away as Marta entered the room with the water pitcher and a glass on a tray. "I'll look in again tomorrow, señorita. Meanwhile," he added, nodding at Marta, "Do as Marta tells you, ...and," he whispered near her ear, "Try to stay out of trouble." He chuckled as he turned toward the door, missing the surprised look that passed between the two women.

As soon as he was out of earshot, Tessa whispered, "What did he mean, 'stay out of trouble'? Do you think he knows?"

Marta poured a glass of water and helped Tessa sit up to drink it. Her lips compressed thoughtfully, then she said, "No, I do not think so. He was only teasing you because he thinks you are a spoiled aristocrat with nothing to do. How could you possibly get into any trouble?"

Still, her eyes gazed off into space meditatively for a few moments, then she shook her head and said, "Now it is time to take your medicine." She laughed at the sour face Tessa made as Marta stirred the hesperidin mixture into the water glass.

END