A JAR OF PICKLES, A ROSE, AND DON QUIXOTE IN THE WILDERNESS
QoS Challenge #1

By brig
bliteheart@fast.net

Here's my vignette drawn from the trio challenge.

~~~~~

Robert unlocked the door to his office and entered, aware of the silence filling the little room. It had been a busy day; he sometimes chose to make a circuit ride to various far-flung homes, checking up on former patients. An ounce of prevention and all that. He sighed and rubbed the small of his aching back, remembering yet again just how much he hated riding all day.

As he pushed aside the ragged curtain separating his own room from the office proper, his casual glance caught sight of something perched on the shabby table that served as writing desk and dining area. It was a basket, covered with a green cloth.

A basket? He didn't own any baskets--in fact he had few items of his own aside from the instruments in his satchel. Robert approached the splash of color with some caution and stood looking down at it for a moment.

Finally lean fingers tugged at the cloth. it came away with ease to reveal three items nestled in the basket's pristine interior: a rose, the crimson-streaked, creamy white petals a bit wilted but still soft and fresh; a jar of what looked for all the world like pickled cucumbers, and a small, battered book. There was no note. Robert reached in to take up the rose and jerked back. A tiny drop of blood welled up on his thumb. Instinctively he sucked it, his gaze moving to the book. He pushed it open and read the small inscription on the page, a reluctant smile curving his lips.

"From the Alvarado library . . ." he said aloud, and turned to the title page. This time a chuckle escaped him, the first glimmer of real humor he had felt in days.

"'Don Quixote, 'eh? Trying to tell me something, senorita?"

His glance fell back to the rose.

"No wonder you bit me," he told the small bloom as he lifted it up for examination. "Rosa mundi... Montoya would be terribly jealous."

The cucumbers would take some explaining though.

THE END

TRIO CHALLENGE: A spider web, a sand dollar and an apple

Feedback is always welcome :) --brig

~~~~~

Marta lifted her face to the breeze, enjoying the feel of the cool damp air. The surf thundered in, wetting her feet, and she laughed at its cold caress over her ankles.

Something winked in the early morning light. Her fingers carefully pried the object loose, turned it over.

A sand dollar. She smiled at the perfection displayed, the pale surface marked with vents. Without further thought she tucked it in her pocket. Her fingers touched the apple waiting there, and she became aware of her empty belly.

Marta clambered up the beach away from the wet sand and sat down on a rock, intent on making breakfast. She took the small knife she always carried with her and started to cut the apple in slices, then stopped. After a moment she cut with care about the apple's equator, smiling at what was revealed--a star, the seeds laid out in a simple pattern. She eased the sand dollar out of her pocket and compared the two.

"The signs of the Goddess are everywhere," she said to herself in the Old Speech, letting the surf carry her words away. With great gentleness she set the sand dollar on the beach beside her and bit into the apple, wiping juice from her chin.

"Good morning, Marta."

She looked up at the figure obscuring the morning sun.

"Senor Montoya?" she asked in considerable astonishment.

"Just so." He sat down beside her and stretched out his legs with a casual movement. "Enjoying the morning, I see."

On the trouser closest to her was a faint gossamer sheen. She reached out and touched it, ignoring his sudden tension. Her fingers caught the silk, watched it float away on the salty breeze.

"Consorting with spiders, Senor?"

He brushed at the rest of the webbing with an impatient gesture.

"I suppose you would say that was some sort of omen."

Marta lifted her face to the sun.

"Surely what I have to say is unimportant, Senor. After all, I'm only a gypsy. We live our lives by superstition and ignorance--"

"You are the least ignorant gitano I have ever met, Marta."

"And you have met so many." The contempt she felt edged into her words. "With torch and gun in hand, no doubt."

He twisted about to look at her, his strong features filled with anger.

"As a matter of fact, we used to allow the gitanos to camp on our lands. And no doubt you don't believe me." He laughed, the sound harsh. "Why should you? You're talking to El Colonel, the military governor who eats small children for breakfast."

He sounded bitter and even worse, lonely. Marta took in a slow, shaky breath.

Careful, she warned herself. The signs of the Goddess are everywhere...

She took the other half of the apple and offered it to the man beside her.

"It's too lovely a morning to quarrel," she said in her best placating tone, and smiled at him. "May I share my breakfast with you, Senor?"

He paused, looking at her. Marta glanced out to sea, unwilling to meet that pale gaze.

"People will talk, you know." His tone was light once more, even charming. Muscular fingers brushed hers as he took the apple, his touch lingering a bit longer than was necessary, but not long enough to become offensive. "Thank you, Marta. You are as generous as you are lovely."

THE END

By brig
bliteheart@fast.net

Marta shifted the basket to her other arm and frowned at the angry red mark the heavy handle left behind. The wretched thing was almost full and she hadn't completed even half her shopping list! Of course this would be the one time Tessa couldn't come with her to help, occupied as she was with cultivation chores in the far vineyard . . .

With an impatient sigh she pushed a sweat-soaked curl from her forehead and took a creased paper out of her pocket. She read down the neat line of items, her frown deepening. One word was underlined several times; Tessa had been most insistent.

("Chocolate, Marta. I know it's hard to find, but surely there's some in town since the supply ship came a few days ago. Please?")

Marta looked at the stall where what passed for confections were sold. The only chocolate available there consisted of chunks of pale brown, crudely processed cocoa mixed with coarse cane sugar and cinnamon, used in making a hot drink with a thick layer of froth--considered a delicacy. With a little honey it was actually quite good, but Marta knew what Tessa wanted. It certainly wasn't a hot drink--not in this weather.

She pushed onward, hope dwindling as she surveyed the few, meager stalls that passed for Santa Helena's market. The sun was climbing into the sky, and she would have to leave soon if she was to avoid the fierce heat of midday. And anyone who had anything as luxurious as a box of chocolates wouldn't leave them out in such temperatures, where they would be sure to melt.

Marta drooped a bit and turned away, to run into something solid. It was a someone, actually--lean and well-dressed, with a faint, spicy smell of lavender rising up from fresh-pressed linen.

"Senora," Montoya's cultured tones were politeness personified, "you look agitated. Perhaps I can be of assistance?"

"Senor," she stammered, flustered and annoyed that she had been caught unawares by this man once again. "I was just--"

"I'm well aware of what you are about," his quiet voice held amusement now. Marta lifted her indignant gaze to his and was further disconcerted to find warmth in the grey depths, usually so cool and distant. "How may I help?"

"I'm not sure anyone can help," she muttered before she thought better of her words. Montoya's brows lifted.

"Is it that serious?" he asked, the humor muted now. Marta shook her head and retreated a few steps. To her dismay the Colonel followed her; he was so close she felt his shirtsleeve brush her arm.

"Marta, please tell me," there was a subtle caress in the use of her name that sent a shiver of anxiety (and, truth be told, excitement) down her spine. "There must be something I can--"

"Tessa--my mistress asked me to find her some chocolate," she interrupted, much against her better judgement. Montoya's pale eyes widened, but he said nothing, and Marta felt her cheeks grow hot.

"It's getting late," she said, and turned to go, disturbed by his presence.

A muscular hand caught hers in a gentle grip, the fingers lean and callused.

"Come with me," was all he said. Much to her surprise he released his hold on her but stayed near, matching his stride to hers as they crossed to the manor.

The interior of his office was cool and dark after the glare of the plaza. Marta set her basket down, self-conscious and uneasy as Montoya moved through a wide door into another room. He came back a moment later with a large flat box in his hands.

"This will solve your problem," he said with a smile. Marta looked at the box but made no move to take it.

"Senor?"

For answer he opened it to reveal what appeared to be a whole galaxy of chocolate bonbons, perfect and gleaming with dark luster. Marta gasped and looked up into twinkling eyes.

"I--I couldn't," she protested. "Senor, this is far too generous of you!" And why are you doing this? The unspoken question hung in the air. Montoya moved to his desk and set the box down. Marta glanced at the desktop. A well-used quill had been thrown down next to what was probably a personal letter. In a shadowed corner lay a battered bible, stained with rusty spots. She looked away, not wanting to pry into the Colonel's private affairs, whatever they might be.

"Life is full of hardships, Senora," the tone was smooth. "My only thought was to give both of you a bit of pleasure."

One glance confirmed her suspicion that she was being teased. Anger rose up, to be replaced by a wish to perpetrate mischief.

Before she allowed herself time to think Marta opened the box and took a bonbon out of the blue satin nest. Even white teeth bit into the confection, dividing it in half. She rolled the rich taste over her tongue in real enjoyment, aware of brilliant eyes watching her every move. With a smile she held out the other half to Montoya.

"A bit of pleasure for you, El Colonel?" she asked, her words sweet and soft.

As if in a dream Montoya took her hand once more, guided the bonbon to his lips, and ate it. Marta just managed not to pull away as a warm tongue touched the pad of her finger.

"Delicious," the back of her hand was lifted for the barest trace of a kiss. "I thank you for allowing me to be of help, Senora."

* * * * * *

It was much later after the evening meal that Tessa lifted the lid on the box and regarded the treasure displayed with shining eyes. As she surveyed the contents, a small frown creased her brow.

"Marta, why is one missing?

"Marta?"

--brig

During the nightmare minutes of confusion, gunfire and shouting, he lost track of time. Old ingrained reflexes kept him down low and out of harm's way as he crept from one fallen man to another, doing what he could to repair injuries. A few were beyond his skill, and he closed dimming eyes, listened to a whispered word or two, made promises he would do his best to keep.

Robert looked up as darkness fell over him. A winter shadow gaze pinned him in place.

"Did you see her?"

"No," he said in total honesty. "When she carries a sword and we haven't been formally introduced, I get shy." His tone was ironic, but the Colonel didn't seem to notice.

"Damn her!" Montoya turned to a waiting soldier. "Get my horse." He glanced at Robert, the pale eyes speculative, but said nothing. When his mount was brought to him he swung up into the saddle.

"I expect a full report later," he informed Robert, then galloped off in the inevitable cloud of dust. The doctor stood, eyes watering, and wiped at them with some impatience. He was beginning to hate the unrelenting heat and dryness here, the blue sky that had once seemed delightful and now was oppressive in its sameness . . .

It took some time to get the wounded cared for, but at last they were on their way back to town in the back of a wagon. A second cart accompanied them, carrying the dead today's skirmish had created. Robert watched them go, his mouth set in a grim line. Such a waste of life!

As he turned at last to find his own horse a glimpse of scarlet teased his peripheral vision. Not blood; it was the very end of a sash--silk, the fabric soft and clean under his touch. He saw that it led into a small but steep wash, choked with stones and chaparral.

She half-stood, wedged into a crevice for support. Her corset stays were cut and her shirt pulled up, exposing a slender midriff covered with blood as bright as the silk sash. Robert bit back an oath and came forward, to find a blade at his throat. The gleaming steel wavered but managed to press into his flesh hard enough to warn him about any further attempts to come closer. Instead he looked at her wounds. They seemed to be punctures, regularly spaced in a straight line across her belly.

"A pitchfork." There was the slightest tremor in her soft, steady voice. "One of the soldiers got lucky."

"Let me help you," he said, his tone low and calm. She shook her head, bit her lip hard. Dark hair floated over one shoulder and he watched it for a moment, mesmerized.

"I'll be fine--it's not too bad," her wince as she started to move away from her hiding place belied her words. Robert took his opportunity and pushed aside the sword, hands extended as she staggered and almost fell into his embrace. He lowered her to the ground, one arm under her, and thought how slight she was, as insubstantial as a reed.

When he touched her skin she closed her eyes and turned her face away, her pale cheeks a faint crimson.

"You're right," he said at last, after a through examination.

(Had his touch lingered longer than was strictly necessary?)

"They're not deep wounds, thank God, but you should get them cleaned up and bandaged. Here," he held the sash out. "Go home. Stop meddling in things you don't understand. Get married, have a few babies. Your perspective will change then, believe me. You'll find out what's really important."

"OH!"

She snatched the sash out of his hands, dark eyes flashing with utter fury. Her small, full breasts heaved under the shirt. Robert tried not to be too obvious about looking at them.

"You--you arrogant miserable MAN!" She tied the silk over her wounds, biting back an exclamation as she yanked the cloth tight. "You understand nothing, like most of your sex!"

"I understand you almost got yourself killed today," he snapped. "All this death and destruction, for what? A few pieces of gold that will still end up in Montoya's hands, or the Governor's, or some other damn bureaucrat--listen to me!" he shouted at her as she moved away from him, barely able to walk. "Exposing yourself to danger won't change a thing. I know! I tried!"

She did not respond, though he saw her look at him, her face cold with anger and indignation; instead she put two fingers to her lips and gave a piercing whistle. Moments later a magnificent black Andalusian cantered into the wash. He clicked his ears back as Robert approached. The doctor, wise to the ways of horses, stopped.

"I was only going to help your mistress to her saddle," he said. The woman in question had her foot in the stirrup. She pushed herself up, gasping as the sword flew from her hand.

Robert bent down and took it with care. The blade was light and perfectly balanced--an expensive weapon, perhaps even custom-made. He glanced along the edge, then handed it up.

"Yours, I believe."

She took it, then turned without a word and left him there, watching her as the sun burned above in an endless blue sky.

* * * *

"Doctor Helm?"

Robert sat back with a sigh and set his pen aside.

"Yes, senorita?"

Tessa Alvarado smiled down at him, all coyness and vapid charm. She was among the more annoying young women of the contingent that insisted on wasting his time with vague symptoms and clumsy attempts at flirting.

"I brought you something," she had her hands behind her back.

"Let me guess--a Christmas pudding," he said in sarcasm-laden English, and had the satisfaction of seeing the smile fade from her face as puzzlement took over.

"I don't understand? Pood-ding?"

"Never mind." He made an attempt at a pleasant expression, and failed. "What is it, senorita? I have several people waiting--"

"Here." She interrupted him and thrust something under his nose. He backed away in reflex, then looked it over. It was a bundle wrapped in dun-colored handwoven cloth. Robert's eyes widened a bit.

"Senorita--" he began. "I can't really accept--"

"I insist, Doctor." Slender fingers pushed aside the fabric covering to reveal an ornate pattern in vivid white and black. Intrigued despite himself, Robert opened the bundle.

Inside was a doll--native by the looks of it; a man dressed as an animal, his body painted with simple designs. All foreign to him--and yet somehow familiar.

"It looks like . . . " A genuine smile tugged at his mouth now. "It looks like a badger. We had one at the summer house." Memories of soft green grass, his mother's bright, fragrant garden, the sound of the stream as it rushed over smooth stones. "Right nasty little son. I liked him."

"One of our workers, Joseph--he carved this for you," Tessa said. Her voice had lost its artificial brightness and become quiet. "You remember him? He's a Hopi. That's an Indian tribe that lives in the big desert east of the mountains. You treated his leg a few weeks ago. He says you are a good doctor." Her fingertip touched the sculpture with respect. "According to their old stories, Badger is the greatest healer of all, and a fierce warrior who protects his own."

Robert looked up at her. His sharp protest died as their gazes met. Eyes like brown velvet looked back at him with steady humor and a seriousness he hadn't thought she could ever possess.

"Please thank him for me," he said at last, and straightened. Tessa moved away. The serious expression was gone, replaced by the bright smile she had worn earlier.

"I will, Doctor. Good day to you." She sketched a mocking curtsey and winced a bit, then was gone. Robert looked after her, his dark brows gathering in a slight frown.

"She must have a bellyache from too much chocolate," he said to himself at last, and turned back to the door, ready to bring in the next patient. As he did so his gaze swept over the desk and the small bundle there. He paused, then picked it up with gentle hands. A curious feeling of well-being filled his mind--almost as if someone stood there with him . . .

He took the bundle through to the small room that served as his living quarters and, after some hesitation, set it under the bed, near the foot. An odd place, but it was right somehow. He looked at it there, then gave a soft laugh.

"Going native at last, Robbie," he said, and went back out to get on with the day's work.

END

RATING: G
DISCLAIMERS: The usual: these aren't my characters--if they were they wouldn't be working for Fireworks! Yadda yadda.

~~~~~

Marta put a last bit of silver-green moss in her basket and covered it with a cloth, then glanced out at white-capped ocean waves, tempted to linger and enjoy the day. The breeze off the water was cool and moist, laden with the smell of salt; it felt good on her skin, though she knew from long experience it was wreaking havoc with her curls.

"Ah well," she said half-aloud, "perhaps just a few minutes . . . "

She set the basket on a convenient rock hidden away in shade and then kicked off confining shoes, wriggling her toes in the damp sand before setting off for a walk. A cautious look both ways told her she was alone, at least at this end of the beach. Since her meeting with Montoya here a few weeks ago she was taking no chances!

The morning already promised to be warm. Sea gulls fought over scraps of fish and weeds, their cries a pleasant melancholy against a bright blue sky. Marta shaded her eyes, smiling as chill water rushed over her feet, enjoying the contrasting sensation of light and heat on her shoulders and face, cold and wet swirling about her ankles.

"Nice day for a walk."

She jumped and turned to find the source of the voice, staggering a bit when the tide rushed back out again, trying to take her with it.

"Doctor Helm?" Diosa, he had startled her! Where was he hiding? She moved toward a cluster of boulders and skirted them, eyes widening at what was revealed.

He sat perched on a small flat rock in the middle of a truly magnificent sand castle, hazel eyes sparkling at her obvious astonishment.

"What do you think?" he asked, and gestured at his handiwork. The wind had whipped his dark hair into a tangle of half-curls, and he looked years younger, carefree and ready to be entertained. "Twenty rooms with running water in every one of them! Even Buckingham Palace can't boast that."

Marta looked down at the meticulous construction, the careful planning and precise measurements, and shook her head.

"I think you've gone mad," she said with certainty. The Doctor laughed, white teeth gleaming.

"Practical Marta. Sometimes it's good to go a bit mad." He stood, and not a moment too soon; water came rushing in, taking over half the castle with it on the way back out to the ocean as Helm walked toward her. "Wouldn't you agree?"

"You're the doctor, Doctor," she said in reply, one brow arched in a silent comment on his sanity. He grinned, then faced the last remnants of piled-up sand and lifted his arms in a flamboyant arc.

"'Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!'" he intoned, his voice deep and solemn. Marta giggled as another wave carried off more construction.

"It would seem you're homeless," she observed, turning back toward her basket. The Doctor picked up his boots--he was barefoot as well, another surprise--and fell into step beside her.

"Yes," he agreed. "Care to take pity on a man with no home?"

"You have a room in back of your office," she scolded, hiding a smile. "There's no need for pity from me."

"So it wouldn't do me any good to ask for a glass of your lemonade and a seat under the arbor at Senorita Alvarado's hacienda?" He managed to sound both humble and hard done by in one sentence. Marta bit her lip, trying with difficulty not to laugh at his dissembling.

"That depends," she said, and pushed a curl from her cheek. "Would you build me a house just like the one you made here this morning?"

"Of course."

"Twenty rooms?"

"With running water in every one of them."

She turned to him then, smiling.

"It's a deal," she said.

He bowed his head, curls gleaming and oh-so-temptingly close, and took her hand in his.

"Deal," he agreed, the word soft on her skin.

--brig

by brig
bliteheart@fast.net

Trio challenge, quote challenge #1

RATING: G

Feedback is always welcome. :)

~~~~~

You wake long before the sun rises.

It's always the same; you can't remember when you last had even a thought of sleeping in. Well, what does it matter? In this place you're just another hard working member of the community.

Breakfast is sketchy and brief today because your schedule is full. You eat while brushing your hair, attempting to bring order to unruly locks, muttering under your breath. Dressing takes more time, mainly because you have to struggle to make everything fit properly . . . In a pocket you find a silver coin and a few broken seals, the remnant of some forgotten letter, no doubt; it wasn't a personal letter, you know that much. You haven't had one in quite a while, nor expected to. Who would write you anyway?

There's something rather pathetic in that realization, but you refuse to think about it right now. Instead you shake out the wax crumbs and then tuck the coin back in place. Perhaps it might bring you some luck. Heaven knows with recent complications like the Queen you need all the luck you can get.

Humming a tune under your breath, you head for your office and the myriad duties awaiting you.

The first pale rays of sunrise filter in through half-shuttered windows as you sit down at your desk. This is a moment you always wait for, a chance to savor the peace of early morning; no demands on your time, no need to listen to endless requests for help . . . only the quiet march of sunlight.

All too soon it is time to assume the mask you have created with such care.

"The graveyards are full of indispensable men," you remind yourself when a knock sounds at the door.

And so the day begins.

END