A hollow homecoming

by **Fitznemo** on February 2nd, 2014, 4:02 am

64th day of Winter

As I made my way around the coast of the bay, down old roads I only half remembered, I could feel a churning inside me. Though my organs were still my mind was a whirl. Whole parts of my mind were begging me, commanding me, reasoning with me, to run and face them another day, another time. Yet still I walked. My feet landed, almost reluctantly, on the old wooden walkway that had gone to rot in my absence and I could almost see the cottage.

Images rushed through my mind, the small yard in which my mother grew herbs, the old well nestled into the hill side, the old, dark wooden door with the small etched plaque beside it 'Fitzporter', the smell of father's philters as he worked. It ran down my borrowed spine like lightning and my pace hastened as I came upon the last corner.

by **Fitznemo** on February 2nd, 2014, 11:50 pm

The building was small and squat, it's plastered walls were cracked and in places the raw, rotted timbers could be seen. The window was boarded shut, a single old shutter swaying in the winds. The land around it was overgrown and spotted dips and mounds, here and there rested cracked pots and rusted tools.

This was not my home, it was the house that was left behind and it filled me with even greater trepidation tinged with fear, Where are they?. I paced slowly towards it and rested my cold, heavy hand upon the wooden plaque, so faded and worn now that the name couldn't be read, before shoving the door opened. It protested with a groan, like some once stalwart guard grown old being shouldered aside yet again, but gave way to me easily. Inside was dark, and not just from the setting sun, and stank of rot and neglect.

Everything was marked by it's abandonment, spots of rot and mildew, a persistent damp on everything. I started to take in the details, taking stock of the situation like my father taught me to do with a new patient.

Wall opposite the door features a hearth containing old wet ashes, loose leaf litter, two rotted logs. I pushed down the memories of mother cooking over that fire and moved on. Pushed against the wall by the hearth was an old bed, the hay stuffed mattress was visibly spoiled by mildew and mold. I'd never seen it before, they must have got it after I left. At the foot of it was a small wooden chest, once it had had a lock worked into it but the wood had failed and the lock was long gone. The hinges whined as I opened it almost as much as the nest of mice that had taken up the corner. I closed the chest.

Against the opposite wall, beneath the boarded window sat a table and a pair of chairs, or at least one of a pair. The second had collapsed some time in the past. Beneath the table sat an Item I knew well. Memories rushed up unbidden of sitting at that table beside my father as he placed out bottles and vials, plant stems, flower petals and more. Each new item drawn out from the many small draws and shuttered boxes set into his old Apothecary's chest. I knelt before it, pushing the memories aside, and tested the old latch that held it closed to me. A soft click from within announced it's spark of life and gently, is if handling the thinnest glass, I lowered the front and began to take inventory.

By the time I was finished I had taken the time to clean and polish the old chest. I had found not a single sample, tool or piece of glass work that had survived but he chest it's self was in remarkably good condition under the circumstances. Still I held no clues as to where they were, but for my father to have left his chest behind was a most dire sign.

I slid it back into place beneath the table and headed outside once more. The exterior was, from this angle, much as I remembered it. I could see the lay of the path, the placing of my mother's planters and the old tool shed but all of it was aged now, almost unnaturally so to my eye. Everything was partially buried and broken by wind, rain and age. I picked my way through it all seeing nothing of any real note, at least not until I turned the corner.

I felt with in me a great hollowing out, a great absence of anything. All the fear in me was gone, all the nervousness and anticipation. I took a faltering step forward and fell to my knees. My hand reached out like a leaden weight to touch upon stone and run over the chiseled lettering. Three stones stood in a uniform row, though I read the names too many times they seemed to hold no meaning.

I have no idea how long I knelt there, all I know is that my parents had died several years ago. And so had I.

by **Fitznemo** on February 11th, 2014, 7:30 pm

66th of Winter 513

I looked down on my hands, stained with clay, dirt and wood dust. I took a deep, unneeded, breath and looked over my works. The plaster walls were patched and drying with clay, pressed into place and smoothed down by hand. I watched a small drift of sawdust dancing across the floor, past the scrubbed and cleaned hearth, and over to the repaired door. Bent nails rested on the table beneath the window where the canvas, nailed into fresh wood, nailed into old wood, shifted stiffly in the breeze.

I stood up and looked around "A bit more cleaning and it's all... serviceable. Just one other thing" I picked up the piece of wood I'd been working on and headed out side with hammer and nails.

A slight thumping and banging later I stepped back to look at the new wooden plaque by the door, lettering freshly carved and burnt in.
'Fitznemo, Physiquer'

by **Vanari** on April 11th, 2014, 1:04 am

Notes :

Solo A hollow homecoming