The Hut of Chicken Bone, Afternoon of April 11th

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Nathan of the FoS
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Post by Nathan of the FoS »

"Um," the elderly gentleman replies, taking up his pole and stepping with practiced ease into the punt, and politely taking no notice of Mme. Trouve's embarrassment. "You call me Chicken Bone, if you please, madame. You step in here, yes? Careful now. So."

After she has seated herself he pushes off, and they are making their way through the swamp in near silence. Only the buzz of midges and mosquitoes, the occasional lap of water against the hull, and the still more rare call of birds echo through the still, heavy afternoon air. It is perhaps a little too warm to be really comfortable, although the overcast keeps the air cooler than it might otherwise be; Chicken Bone sweats just a little as he picks his way through the channels of the swamp, although he moves with such economy of motion that he seems to spend most of his time still as a statue. It is a curiously timeless journey; Mme. Trouve' is quite sure they are on the right path (perhaps it is only the confidence of her guide--or could this be a familiar route, well-traveled in the past?) but the surroundings never seem to change except in the smallest details--here a yellow flower hangs down as if to observe them from a vine girdling a great cypress, there a willow with moss draped over it like a matron clad in green.

Only after some long time--half an hour?--does she realize that the insects, of which there are many, do not come any closer than arm's length to the punt. Just as well--it would be quite unpleasant to have to beat them off--but it is just eerie enough to send a little chill through her as she glances back at this man who calls himself Chicken Bone.
[b]FEAR JUSTICE.[/b] :elena:
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Pamela
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Post by Pamela »

Mme Trouvé mumbles her thanks at the proffered name. While it does not inspire any recollections, it is pleasant to identify one point in the mists that envelop her mind.

Now who am I? She does not ask however. It sounds even more stupid than the previous question. It is also unnerving to think that such a vital answer might ring just as hollow.

She steps into the pirogue carefully as suggested, then looks up eagerly to see her surroundings at this angle. She can only catch glimpses of the floor beams between the branches. Despite her inactivity, her sleeves begin to cling with the humidity, and she is sorry that she cannot offer any aid to the old man who deftly guides the skiff through the still waters. There is a dreamlike quality to the scenario; unremarkable but reassuring; serene. Again she is reminded of that wonderful memory and she immerses herself in it. No wonder he lives here...

She slips into a calm reverie, noting the odd touches of colours and associations which float across her mind. She suddenly finds herself gazing at the cloud of insects hovering around them...

No – around but not near- She suddenly has a quick flash of memory; of slapping a whining mosquito away from her head. She looks around more carefully and can see the clear orb of air around the pirogue; even the waterbugs which skip across the swamp surface are kept without.

She sits up, as if called to attention, rubbing the goose-pimples on her warm arms.

Unfinished business...

The candles, veves, skulls and altar fill her mind. What kind of business? And why? Why wouldn't he tell me what it is?

What have I been doing?


The brooding sky above seems to descend into her thoughts, and she looks around anew at the peaceful scenery, suddenly wishing that they could just stay here. She then recalls one ray of light in their previous conversation and asks hopefully, timidly, “M'sieur...I will meet Madame again, yes? We are friends?" She knows nothing of her except the pleasure Madame's mention had inspired in Chicken Bone, and Mme Trouvé finds herself desperate to know that she herself is worthy of such an association.
His only real danger is if stupidity is contagious and lethal. In which case, we’re all dead…-Gertrude
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Nathan of the FoS
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Post by Nathan of the FoS »

Pamela wrote: “M'sieur...I will meet Madame again, yes? We are friends?"
Chicken Bone pauses before answering. "I 'spect so, madame, that you see her again," he replies. "You are, how you say? Partners. She offer to help you wit' a trouble, and you to help her afterward. Ah! Now we be near."

The swamp is gradually clearing, the trees becoming less dense and the channels less deep. After a few more minutes the punt has arrived at a little dock of wood pilings; Chicken Bone hands Mme Trouve' out of the punt, then steps up himself. "So now, a l'il walk," he says, smiling slightly.
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Pamela
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Post by Pamela »

Mme Trouvé considers the answer. A partner is not the same thing as a friend; perhaps they were new to each other in whatever shared cause had brought them together. I’m obviously not from around here, she thought as she considers how the old man’s accent differs from her own. Still, it doesn’t mean that we can’t become friends…

She says nothing for the moment as the old man brings the pirogue towards the rough dock. There is certainly no sight of any town as they draw up to the dock. She steps out of the boat, looking back the way they came and turns back at the old man’s mention of the walk.

As they begin to walk, she considers her return to her home and the reaction of whomever might be waiting. What will I say? What can I say? Despite herself, she is drawn to ask Chicken Bone, “M’sieur…what happened to me? Did I bang my head or something? Was it a fever of some kind?”
His only real danger is if stupidity is contagious and lethal. In which case, we’re all dead…-Gertrude
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Post by Nathan of the FoS »

Pamela wrote: “M’sieur…what happened to me? Did I bang my head or something? Was it a fever of some kind?”
"You were los' in the swamp," Chicken Bone replies, shaking his head. "I don' know what it is happen to you, madame. I suspec' maybe one t'ing, maybe another...you have here," he touches the back of his head, just where it meets the neck, "a small hurt, maybe recen' you got it. It is ver' strange, ver' strange...your frien's, I hope, can tell us more."

The path they tread is reasonably friendly to bare feet, although Mme. Trouve feels sure she doesn't usually go about without shoes. The path is familiar, though; not so much that she recognizes landmarks as that she has a sense of familiarity, of being on the right path.
[b]FEAR JUSTICE.[/b] :elena:
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Pamela
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Post by Pamela »

Her hand rises to touch the back of her neck; as before, she can feel nothing there. I just probably need some time to recover from the shock or trauma… She doesn’t let herself wonder why she would be foolish enough to wander alone in the swamp- or whether perhaps there had been others, who’d chosen to abandon her to her fate.

As she pads along, she is thrilled to discover some resonance with her surroundings. She still has no idea where she is going, but it seems that perhaps she is getting some of her memory back. She turns, smiling gratefully at the voodan. “Thank you, m’sieur, for helping me then, and bringing me home. I hope you will let me repay you for your kindness somehow?”
His only real danger is if stupidity is contagious and lethal. In which case, we’re all dead…-Gertrude
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Post by Nathan of the FoS »

"Indeed, madame, I am 'fraid you must repay," the old man says quietly, perhaps a little sadly. "But firs' we find your frien's, yes? You say you coming home now, yes? Where do we go nex'?"

As Mme. Trouve' considers the question, her feet continue of their own accord, steering the pair down the broad dirt streets into a fairly well-to-do part of town. It seems she does know the way, although she still could not say how she knows it.
[b]FEAR JUSTICE.[/b] :elena:
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Pamela
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Post by Pamela »

Mme Trouvé catches the suddenly subdued tone and again her stomach knots as she considers how welcome the truth will be. She nods silently at his next couple of questions, troubled, even as she finds herself moving through the town’s streets.

She is unable to answer his last question; she could not even point the way they are going. It reminds her of a dream (though she cannot recall any), being drawn without any conscious sense to some unknown goal. She finds herself turning corners but has no idea why. Her dusty, sore soles pad through the increasingly improving surroundings but she cannot appreciate them; she has no idea if this is her destination, or merely en route to some other, distant place.

She suddenly stops and finds herself turning to face a doorway. Her mouth is dry and she is afraid to go forward; she cannot tell if it is because of her continuing lack of familiarity, or whatever might lie beyond it. She looks mutely at Chicken Bone, unable, unwilling to move.
His only real danger is if stupidity is contagious and lethal. In which case, we’re all dead…-Gertrude
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