Mr. Punch bit his cheeks to keep from saying it, though he wanted to very badly. He was so very proud of himself, but, his time living amongst humans and trying to emulate them had taught him a few things about social interaction and appropriateness.
He looked with wide eyes at the fire he’d started in a large metal drum. He’d gathered the papers and scraps of wood himself. With tremendous pride, he watched as his “family” gathered around it for warmth against the bitter, cold wet wind from the water.
“Is there something you’d like to say, dear Punch?” Adrienne asked.
“No.” Punch shook his head, smiling.
“You may.” Adrienne nodded, hugging Fuller close to her body.
Punch looked from face to face. First Adrienne, then Robert who sat with Colin in his arms, then to Marjani who was cuddled up with Columbia and Toby. Then, he looked toward Gamilla who stood away from the group, but close enough to feel the warmth of the fire, and then, to Cecil who was keeping watch.
“No,” Punch repeated. “I ain’t got nothin’ to say.”
“Not even, perhaps, that you’re pleased? Very pleased? Pleased to see us all comfortable because of your quick thinking.”
“I am pleased.” Punch nodded, blushing. “But, that ain’t somethin’ what someone says ‘bout his own self.”
“Sometimes one may,” Robert winked. “I’m pleased for you. Pleased as Punch.”
“Here!” Punch guffawed. “I been holdin’ it back.” He leaned in and whispered. “See, Cecil don’t like puns. He told me they were the lowest form of humor.”
“It’s acceptable. My brother can’t hear. Besides, you should hear some of his attempts at humor. He is not an authority, I assure you.” Robert smiled.
“Come by the fire, Sir.” Marjani nodded.
“Yes, Uncle Punch!” Columbia chirped. “Sit by Grandmama and me and Toby.”
“Very well,” Punch wandered over, squatting by Columbia and his beloved dog. He quickly glanced over to see that no one had bothered his puppet from its slumbering place in the large basket.
“What a sight we must be.” Adrienne chuckled. “A flock of refugees.”
“Fine refugees, Lady Chum. Soon to be the talk of London.” Punch smiled, but quickly became distracted as his eyes darted to the horizon.
“Coo!” Punch rose, pointing. “Is that it, Chum?”
Robert looked up at a ship approaching slowly in the distance.
“Might be,” he nodded.
“Think,” Punch exclaimed. “Soon, we might be on that ship—on the sea, goin’ home.” He began chattering excitedly. “You’re gonna like England, you are, Marjani. You’ll see. You and Columbia and Gamilla. You’ll like it. Lots to see, there is! Oh, there’s the Abbey and the fine palace what her Majesty Victoria lives in with her fine prince.” Punch frowned for a moment when he thought of Prince Albert and the visions he and Julian had shared of the Prince Consort.
“Something wrong?” Robert asked.
“No.” Punch shook his head. “I gotta remember that sometimes the things what we think ain’t the same as the things what are real.”
“True.” Robert agreed.
“Still,” Punch picked up where he had left off. “Lots to see in London. Oh, and what a fine house we got there. And, Cecil will get a position with that French lady with the waxworks and we’ll get ya a nice house in Knightsbridge where Fuller can play in the back garden. Oh! And, we can all take trips to Fallbridge Hall and I can show you the folly and the tributary and the places where I grew up…”
Again, Punch’s face fell. “Only I didn’t really grow up nowhere, did I?”
Robert looked intently at his friend.
“What is it, dear Punch?”
“Dunno.” Punch shrugged, sniffing. “I’m all in a muddle.”
“Sometimes anticipation makes us feel many emotions at once.” Robert said softly.
“Musta done, anticipation and such.” Punch shrugged again. “Only I’m worried ‘bout Gerry, too. And, Mama Routhe. Maybe I shoulda gone with that Odo like he said I should.”
“I have no doubt,” Adrienne smiled, “that Gerard is right now escorting Mama Routhe to her family and on his way back to us.”
“Hope so.” Punch nodded. “He ain’t a bad bloke, Gerry ain’t. Sure, he were mixed up with Arthur and that made him a little, well, wrong. Only Arthur’s gone and Gerry’s learned the difference.” He sighed. “I’ll bet you’re spot on. I’ll wager he’s on his way back to us just now.”
Gerard was, in fact, on his way back to them. But, not as they expected, and not by his own volition.
As the wheels of the cart that carried Gerry back to the docks creaked, he could feel his life slipping away like strings of tinsel into the cold. With each grind of the wheel, he felt weaker and his forehead burned from the three scratches which rose on his flesh—three x-shapes, swelling pink against the alabaster of his skin.
Did you miss Chapters 1-433? If so, you can read them here.
The tavern on Bourbon Street was thick with smoke and the scent of men. Through the lattice-work screen, Odo could see the white laborers in their tattered clothes, heavy with the stench of the river. Their faces were ruddy from wind and drink and their voices rose into a muddy din of laughter and hidden agony. Odo grinned at the sight of the plump women who milled about, sitting on the men’s laps, tousling their sweaty hair and cooing in their filthy ears.
