bones' apothecary: arnica

Names that I know of: arnica, arnica montana, leopard's bane, mountain tobacco

I've been using arnica to help with the nerve pain I get in my right wrist. The cause of the pain is similar to  carpal tunnel, combined with arthritis. A Wise Woman I am friends with recommended arnica - one teaspoon in a mug of hot water, like tea, no more than once a day - and it has been working remarkably well. So of course I had to research it a bit.

If you look up arnica on google, you'll come across a lot of warnings about taking it internally, typically with a caveat that it's ok to take the "homeopathic" versions of the plant, which "have no detectable amount of the plant in them and are generally considered safe for internal use when taken according to the directions on the label."

Well, if there's no detectable amount of the herb, then what you're taking is essentially a placebo. At least that's how I figure it. ...I'm not even going to get into placebos right here and now.

So anyway, the available online resources say not to take it internally. The adverse effects that one should expect, if one were to take arnica internally, are harder to find than the warnings. A common refrain goes something like this: "Since arnica is an unproven treatment, there is no clear advice on how to use it. Given its risks, talk to a doctor or pharmacist before taking arnica orally." That is not terribly helpful. Somewhere - I can't find it now, sorry - there was an article which mentioned gastrointestinal distress as a side effect of arnica; I imagine that's part of the toxicity to be wary of, but I have nothing to verify that.

So anyway, here's what I do: I put one dried flower head (which is about a teaspoon's worth) into a tea infuser, and put that in a mug of hot water (just below boiling temperature) and let it steep for a few minutes. Then I take the infuser out, let the water cool a few more minutes, and chug the whole thing.

It doesn't have much of a flavor. Just tastes like someone put a daisy in my water, which isn't a bad flavor, but it isn't good either. I don't think I'd bother trying to make this taste good. It's easier to just drink it quickly.

It might be better to go the recommended route and use arnica externally, directly on the site of injury. Here's a couple salve recipes I found for that sort of thing:

1. http://shalommama.com/arnica

2. http://frugallysustainable.com/2013/06/how-to-make-a-arnica-salve-the-perfect-herbal-sore-muscle-rub/


Please don't construe anything I say here as medical advice. I'm totally unqualified for that sort of work. 

image is from "A Modern Herbal"

UPDATE (added 15 May 2014) - through trial and error, I've discovered that for myself and a few of my bravest friends, arnica does not help for pain related to muscle damage, but does help for pain related to nerve damage.

Resources:

A Modern Herbal website (information is from the early 1900s) http://www.botanical.com/botanical/mgmh/a/arnic058.html

Mountain Rose Herb Co. (a supplier) http://www.mountainroseherbs.com/products/arnica-flowers/profile

PubMed articles (actual scientific studies) http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/20412090

~


Okay, I just couldn't leave it alone. So here ya go - the homeopathy controversy, in my opinion.

I found an article (a proponent of homeopathy) that summarized their view of the controversy this way: 

• "Homeopathic medicines are diluted to such a degree that skeptics claim the small doses are merely placebos. They argue that, in theory, it is impossible for them to have any therapeutic effect because it cannot be explained how they work. Experienced homeopathic practitioners and patients make the counter-claim that they actually work in practice."

I'm going to ignore the obvious bias, since the author clearly intended to be persuasive, and go straight explaining why I think his "argument" is crap, and why it's analogous to creationists who say evolution is "just a theory." 

The most important bit here is that placebos work in practice. They also work in theory. 

While I just stumbled on this argument this morning, in my search for information on arnica, I can say with complete confidence that no scientist worth their salt would say it's impossible for something to work simply because we don't understand it. Science is, in fact, the pursuit of understanding the things we cannot explain. Placebos are one of those things that we know work (at least sometimes, and at least for some people), but we have lots of competing theories on why they work. Kinda like how we know evolution works, but we're still figuring out all the different mechanisms and applications. 

I would argue - with the article cited above - that it is impossible for the herb in any given homeopathic medication to work, because there is no detectable amount of the herb in the medication! So sure, the medication might work, but it's not the herb doing it. It's something else. The solution perhaps? The placebo effect? Both? No idea. But it's not the herb, because the herb isn't there. 

So, Larry Malerba, D.O., I think you're full of poo. And I think that you - and anyone who spouts this poo - is doing actual herbalists and their seekers a serious disservice. 

And I'm done here. 

Oh hey! Are you looking for me?

I'll be right back.
Doing some annual blog-rededication.
Should be done later today.
See you soon!

NaNoWriMo: Day 28

The last few (several) days have been plot-work days for my novel. I just couldn't write any more until I had a clue where all this was going. So I'm not going to 'win' NaNoWriMo. That's cool, because I haven't lost anything, either. Instead, I've gained a novel with a plot, that's just waiting for me to write it. This particular chapter, from which today's excerpt comes, is tricky. I've had to move carefully with this one, and it has taken a lot of thought. It's important.


Excerpt:

Abraham Archer woke to the feeling of being watched. He kept his eyes closed and his breath deep and even. He kept his body relaxed, and just listened.

Whoever it was, wasn’t making any noise at all. He knew they were there, though. He could feelthem. They were – there – at the foot of his bed. Just one of them, watching him. It was – male – and – old – old enough to manifest visually. But it wouldn’t do that. It was being cautious.

Archer opened his eyes. Sure enough, there was no trace of the spirit who had watched him. He didn’t get the impression that this was a spirit which would be easily cowed, or prone to timidity. Was he so strange, even the spirits found him frightening? He got out of bed and began dressing. As he pulled his clothes on, he began talking quietly, almost to himself. He spoke of his first two days in Bisbee – how he had bought a horse that he hadn’t yet ridden, how he had found treasure in the library and a gem in the cafe. As he shaved in the bathroom mirror, he spoke between swipes, about his appreciation of the fine people he had met and the impressive amenities of the hotel. Finally, Archer expressed his gratitude for the hotel’s hospitality. Then he slipped out the door, leaving his room to the spirits. 

An excerpt from The Night of Writing Dangerously, Live

I'm at The Night of Writing Dangerously. Wanna see what I'm working on tonight? Keep reading...
 
Excerpt:

The Mayor's office was in the Courthouse on Quality Hill, on the fourth floor. There was an elevator that once had a motor, but the motor was long ago replaced by a crank, manned by a sour looking man who smells of onions. He said nothing as Archer and Peter approached, merely grimaced and put his hands to the crank. Peter slid the gate closed behind them and the sour man cranks them to the fourth floor.

The ride up was silent.

At the top, Peter slid the gate back open and gestured for Archer to precede him. Archer stepped out of the elevator, and into a plush world of faded maroon velvets and dark, dense wood.This building, like the library, was an architectural jewel. Somewhere deep, Archer squashed the urge to examine the walls - were they facades, or real? - and contented himself with regarding his task at hand: the boy. Peter's posture had straightened markedly from the haunched and angry shape it had been when they left the Grande. The boy seemed almost a man when he knocked on the burnished double doors at the end of the hall.

The doors swung inward with a creak. Beyond them an office opened, lit by the windows lining its outer walls. There were phosporescent lights here too, unlit. Law books lined the walls in recessed bookshelves, and two large men, perhaps brothers of the onion man from the elevator, stood to either side of the open doors. Archer noted them as a show of force, and narrowed his attention to the man behind the desk. The resemblence to Peter was visible in their small, cold eyes, but where Peter was gawky with youth, the Mayor was jowled and ruddy. A man prone to drink, thought Archer, and with an affinity for keys in his decor. The desk between them was a monsterous block of wood, post-Fall production no doubt but reminiscient of the pre-Fall art deco style, with naught for embellishment but two guilded keys reaching from top to bottom on either side of the desk's front. The Mayor stood and extended his hand, smiling briefly. Archer stepped forward and clasped the Mayor's hand in return.

"Colonel Abraham Archer?" the Mayor said. "I'm so glad you've come. When I heard that the esteemed Colonel Archer of Fort Valor had made his way into our little corner of the Arizonas, I just had to welcome you myself, man to man."

The Mayor gestured to a chair, "Please, sit. Peter, fetch us a refreshment."

Peter stalked to the far wall and retrieved a platter set with two small glasses and a clear glass bottle of something brown - probably whiskey, Archer guessed.

"That's thoughtful of you," Archer allowed. "Might I have your name?"

The Mayor cleared his throat and shot the barest dark glimpse at his son, who had set the platter down and was pouring two glasses from the bottle. "Forgive me, Sir, I've been remiss. I am Rodney DeWitt, honored Mayor of this town, and I am, as I said, terribly pleased that you have come."

Archer returned the Mayor's gaze, his face neutral.

DeWitt cleared his throat again, then gestured for Archer to take a glass, now half full of the brown drink.

"Whiskey," the Mayor began proudly, "from my own distillery." He swirled the glass beneath his nose  and inhaled deeply. "It's not easy, you know, making whiskey in this climate. Have to improvise, what work what you do have." He paused again, looking pointedly at Archer. "It's much the same as running a town. It's not easy to keep this town clean and safe. We got the fighting to the east, as you well know, and nothing but coyotes and mountain lions on all sides. You know, after the Fall, Bisbee was in just as precarious position as every other city in the continent. We just got lucky, being small as cities went, and having so many good people here. People who didn't mind getting their hands dirty and doing some work. That work ethic is what keeps us stronger, growing even. We buckled down and do what we have to do. Never relied much on the outside world before the Fall, and haven't needed it since." DeWitt paused again to regard Archer, who only regarded him back. "But I expect a man of your abilities knows all that. Some say that's all ancient history, but I say history puts us where we are. What do you say, Colonel Archer?"

"Oh I suspect both opinions have merit."

When Archer didn't continue, DeWitt did. "You might be right. But we're not here to philosophize, are we? You strike me as a straight-forward man, Colonel, so I'll just ask you upfront: what brings you to Bisbee?"

Archer held the Mayor's gaze for a moment, then sipped from his glass. Smooth and oaky, the whiskey was better than he had anticipated, and he let the Mayor simmer while he pondered the flavors the alcohol presented. Peter, standing behind his father, began shifting from foot to foot.

Archer began slowly, turning the glass in his hand, "First, I'm not a Colonel anymore. I'm retired." There was a flash of something predatory in the Mayor's face. Archer continued. "Second, I'm not sure yet, that I'm staying." He raised his eyes to meet the Mayor's, then set his glass on the desk.

"Well I hope you do stay. I hope you do. We've got the best town between the oceans here. Good people here, and we need more good people working to keep it safe for those folks. You know what I'm saying. Not everyone who follows the law is good, and not everyone who is good, follows the law. That's just the nature of human beings.."

Archer raised an eyebrow, but the Mayor pushed on.

"Take your story for example - oh yes I know it, I've got family in Tombstone, too, you know. Anyway, you did a good thing and got branded an outlaw. Now, most folks would say you paid your dues putting your all into your military service the last twenty years. That's longer than Peter here's been alive! But I say you never had any dues to pay, and we owe you now, and big! Yes Sir, you've earned yourself a big rest and the gratitude of the Arizona Republic. Well, I can't speak for the Republic or any other towns in it, but you're welcome here, Sir, and I want you to know that if there's anything at all you need, you just ask ol' Rodney DeWitt, and I'll come help you out."

Archer took another sip from his glass, then set it down and contemplated the way light came through from the windows, through the glass and the whiskey, and reflected odd parabolas against the wood grain of the desk. "That's mighty kind of you," Archer said.

As he anticipated, the Mayor filled the proceding silence for him. "Of course, you don't seem the kind to sit idle. No Sir, you're a man of action. Am I right?"

Archer nodded cautiously.

"Well Sir," the Mayor continued, "As I've said, this town could always use more people of conviction to help keep the streets safe for all the good people who live here. You are, of course, welcome to make this you home. In fact, I hope that you do."

"You've mentioned that," Archer said, wiping his hand over his face. "But there's something you're not mentioning." Archer was tiring of this game.

DeWitt feigned shock; surprise would have been more honest, Archer thought.

"Mayor DeWitt, what war are you fighting, that you need an old soldier like me?" The Mayor sputtered, but Archer talked over him. "I'm no outlaw, whatever anyone said. That's all ancient history, anyway, and I have earned a rest. But you don't give a personal welcome and fine whiskey to every man that wanders into town. So who are you fighting?"

Rodney DeWitt sucked in his cheeks and reappraised his guest. Archer watched the big man pick up his whiskey glass and set it back down three times before he lost patience.

"If you'll excuse me, I believe our business is concluded," Archer said as he stood. "Thank you kindly for the welcome and the whiskey."

The Mayor raised his hand, "Wait Colonel Archer, please. Sit, please."

Archer paused, then took his seat.

DeWitt continued, "That's better, yes, thank you." He took a deep drink of his whiskey. "Forgive me. I get carried away, I'm afraid. This town is my heart and soul. I believe in this town, and want nothing so much as to keep the people of Bisbee safe and happy. Please, forgive me. I - I had not intended to burden you with this, but I see now that I must." He paused with a sigh, and locked eyes with Archer. "You see, there is trouble brewing. Trouble that could mean the end for this town, and I mean to have the best team I can muster to help me preserve our way of life here."

Archer steepled his fingers under his chin. His silence spurred the Mayor to continue.

"Colonel Archer, I intend to offer you a job. A man of your skills and experience," DeWitt raised his hand, shaking a finger at the ceiling, "you should be - you should be celebrated! Esteemed!" He lowered his finger in Archer's direction. "You should be well paid." He dropped his hand, and his voice dropped several decibels. "And I can do that for you."

Archer grimaced, about to speak, but DeWitt cut him off with a wave of his hand. "Sir, what I'm asking you is to help me uphold the law. You have been here, what, two days? You've seen the people here. They're good people. We don't have much crime here. Maybe a man gets a little too drunk and does some property damage now and then, or walks into the wrong house and gets removed a little too roughly. That's about it. Keeping the people safe from each other isn't much work." The Mayor leaned across his desk. "It's keeping them safe from them that isn't so easy." He pointed off to his right.

Archer raised an eyebrow. "Them?"

"Them." The Mayor nodded. "The mine."

"I thought the mine was closed - defunct."

"That's what they want you to think!" DeWitt's face flushed. "Shut it down back in '17. Nobody even remembers that anymore. But just last year, an entire district was evacuated, and now all those people are gone. Vanished. Where did they go? Why can't I walk into that district and see what's there? Or what's not there - that's more to the point. All those families, all those people - gone. There's a fence around it. That land - that land that used to be a town - is now part of a  mine that's supposed to be shut down. And I want to know why. And I want to keep them from taking the rest of this town." He looked meaningfully at Archer. "And where can I go for help with this? The government doesn't care unless it's keeping Old Mexico from taking Arizonan land. I've got nowhere to turn, but to the people around me. And forgive me, but I can't let the opportunity to enlist your aid pass me by. You know what you're doing like nobody else. You can find out what's going on, if anybody can. I need you. This town needs you. I'll make it worth your efforts. What do you say?"

Archer looked down at the Mayor's desk. With great care, he said, "Mayor DeWitt, you're in a tough spot here. I can see that. I'll consider your offer. If - if - I accept, I'll name my price, and you can agree to it, or not. But we'll get there when we get there. Until then, I'll need you to give me a few days. I'm not going to say exactly how long, and you won't come bothering me while I'm thinking." He cast a glance a Peter, who was glowering in the corner of the room. "Ask your son how I feel about courtesy. You'll need to respect my space until I come to you with my answer. Are we clear?"

DeWitt sucked in a deep breath. "Yes, I understand. I'm a patient man, Colonel, but I'm afraid the mine is neither patient, nor man. Do not dally too long, for the sake of the good people of Bisbee." He glanced back at his son, whose face was flushed and tight. DeWitt scowled and turned back to Archer. "You know how to find me. If I'm not in, Otis and Melroy here will bring you to me." He gestured to his oniony bodyguards.

"That'll be just fine," Archer said. "I'll take my leave of you." He swallowed the last of his whiskey and left the glass on the desk. "Good day," he said, waving to both the Mayor and Peter.

"Good day Colonel Archer," the Mayor responded. "And thank you."

Archer nodded, and found his way out.

NaNoWriMo, Day 12: a quickie

This is a quickie because I'm packing for the Night of Writing Dangerously.

I'm packing for the Night of Writing Dangerously.

Ahem.

Anyway. I'm not done writing today, but I'm posting my excerpt now because I probably won't have time later. And, I may or may not write en route. I don't know yet.

So without further ado, today's excerpt:

Archer was enjoying a mid-afternoon beer at the hotel bar and contemplating the apartment above the cafe when he next saw the young man who had directed him to San Pedro’s Stable the other day. The youth – Peter, Archer recalled – sauntered in the front door, leaned across the bar, and beckoned for Flynn to come. The young man had a lot of nerve, it appeared. He had the look of a young officer, but none of the respect. Archer doubted the boy had ever done a lick of real work. Flynn had gone quickly enough to see to the boy’s needs, and now his gaze flickered in Archer’s direction, then back to the boy, who leaned back away from the bar looking smug. Archer frowned and took another swig from his beer. He pushed the barstool back and stood. Stein in hand, he walked over to Peter. Flynn seemed startled by Archer’s approach; Peter clearly disapproved.

“Gentlemen,” Archer said, nodding at each of the other men, “I wanted to thank you both for the good guidance you gave me. I found the most excellent horse at San Pedro’s, and for a fair price.”

“I was glad to hear of that, Mister Archer,” said Flynn.

Peter’s face flashed something – distaste, Archer thought – but the boy pasted a smile on and oozed charm like a sewer oozes stink. Archer smiled back at him.

“So pleased to be of service, Sir,” the boy practically cooed. “So I hear you’re a military man.”

Archer felt the hairs on his neck creeping up to his scalp. “Formerly. I’m retired.”

“Surely a man of your ability does not plan to be put to pasture?” the whelp asked, all innocence but for those conniving eyes.

Archer’s tension released a flow of energy limbs from his fingers to his toes; this was the type of warfare he knew, and this insolent brat was no match for him.

“Oh I think a pasture sounds refreshing, particularly if I can populate it with mares,” he rejoined. “But perhaps I shouldn’t speak so to children – I would be remiss if my poor, soldierly manners were to corrupt this fair town’s youth.”

Peter’s face burned and his lips pressed together into a thin red line. Flynn’s face was impassive, but Archer detected the faintest sparkle in the man’s pale eyes.

“I can see I’ve stolen your words, child,” Archer continued, “please, you came here with some curiosity about me, ask me your question and I shall try my utmost to answer it chivalrously.”

Peter sputtered, then raised his finger to Archer’s face. The boy was about to say something, but Archer didn’t wait to hear it – whatever it was, it would not have been congenial. Instead, he struck; between the boy’s intake of breath and the first word he might have said, Archer grabbed Peter’s pointing wrist and spun, bringing the boy across his own back and down. Peter found himself inexplicably on his back, on the floor, with his arm locked tight in the kneeling Archer’s grasp, and gasping for air like a fish out of water. The smattering of other patrons in the bar were whispering ferociously behind their hands.

“Young man,” Archer said to him, “I don’t have time for people with poor manners. Kindly keep your fingers out of my face.”

Peter nodded, dazed but certain that he didn’t want to remain in this position.

“Good then,” Archer said. “It’s always good to know one’s boundaries.” He smiled then, and released Peter, who scrambled to his feet.

Flynn cleared his throat. Archer glanced at the barkeep in acknowledgement but kept his attention focused on the boy dusting himself with shaking hands off a few feet away.

“It’s true, Sir, Peter did have a message for you,” Flynn said. “Might better deliver your message Peter.”

Peter glared at the barkeep and growled, “My father will meet with you now. He sent me to fetch you.”

“And your father would be?” Archer inquired.

“The Mayor,” Peter said, regaining enough composure to put a gloating smile on his face.

“Ah, so you’re just the errand boy, then?” Archer asked, goading the boy. “Will you lead the way? It just so happens that I was just wondering whom I should seek apology from for your rudeness.”

Peter’s face purpled; some of the other patrons had stepped forward to see better, but now they edged carefully backwards.

“We’ll have none of that, errand boy,” Archer said, gesturing to Peter’s holster. “You’ll be taking me to your father now.”

Peter’s hand dropped – he hadn’t been aware that he had been reaching for his pistol. Fuming, Peter stomped out of the bar. Archer smiled at Flynn and asked if he could pay for his beer when he returned. Flynn thought that would be just fine.

“I’ll put it on your tab, Mister Archer.”

“You do that, Flynn. Good to see you. I’ll be back soon enough, I’m sure.”

“Yes sir, Mister Archer.”

NaNoWriMo, Day 11

Today I wrote 1163 words of When Stones Sing.
This brings my total to 16,473. It's pretty good, but not quite where I need to be. That's ok though, because I'm on a roll now. If I'd had more time to sit in front of my computer today, I'd have a lot more words. They're in there, in my head, just waiting to be written. The writing life is good.

Today, I had a deeply meaningful conversation with Archer, the real Archer, in which we figured out that we love each other. Again. He is, as always, a blessing in my life.

Today I spent time with friends, and that reminded me how wonderful my friends are. All of them, even the ones I didn't see today. I love you guys.

Today I won the battle against depression. The war is ongoing, but this was a victory.

And in two days, I'm driving to San Francisco.
More on that later - it's past my bedtime.

Excerpt: 

In the Sanctuary, was life. It could not properly be called a room; beyond the stairway, there was nothing manmade here. The roots of the great tree above marbled the ceiling and hung between dripping stalactites of azurite and malachite. The floor of the Sanctuary was speckled by stalagmites, but between them wove a Labyrinth marked by azurite stones placed end to end. At the center of the Labyrinth, The Well bubbled happily, looking more like a pond leaping along its stone shores than a well.

Splashing her hands joyfully in the dancing water, was a tiny little girl with ratty brown hair and the filthiest clothes Jacq had seen, maybe ever.

Jacq looked at Sasha and Frank. Sasha’s hand was over her mouth. Frank’s hands were in his pockets and there was a sour look on his face. Jacq sidled up to Sasha.

“So, I guess that’s the girl?” Jacq asked.

Frank grunted. “That’s her.” He took a long breath. “One of the acolytes tried bathing her, but she wasn’t having it. That little bag of bones has Loki’s fire in her blood. She took off while the acolyte was drawing the water for the bath. Found her down here, playing in the Well.”

“And she just – ” Jacq started.
“Middle of the Labyrinth,” Frank added, rather unnecessarily, Jacq thought. His voice had taken on an awed edge, though, that made Jacq recall her own trip to the center of the Labyrinth. It had not been easy or pleasant for Jacq, but there was that little girl who with her happiness brought Jacq’s difficulties into question.

Sasha’s hand finally released her lips, and she whispered, “how old is she?”

“Don’t know. Told ya that,” Frank said.

“She’s so tiny.” Jacq couldn’t make sense of the girl at all. “Are they all that little?”

Two sets of eyes turned to evaluate Jacq.

Sasha might have growled, Jacq wasn’t sure.

“Really Jacq,” the other woman said, “why did I even bring you?”

“Cuz you didn’t wanna walk!” Jacq’s head felt like it might explode.

“By the Bones! You two are worse than children! Knock it off, for Hel’s sake!” Frank’s raised voice cut through Jacq’s sudden anger, deflating her wounded pride.

“Sorry Frank,” she mumbled.

Sasha sighed, and said, “I’m sorry too, Frank. And Jacq, please forgive me. I didn’t mean it.”

“S’okay. I’m sorry too.” Jacq couldn’t look at the two adults next to her, so she looked at the child instead. The tiny girl had stopped playing, and was standing at the edge of the water, looking right back at Jacq.

Jacq blinked.

Sasha gasped.

Frank raised his voice to carry across the distance: “Come along now sweetheart, I’d like you to meet these two. They’re Hands, like me.”

Jacq felt herself crouching down the way she would to meet a new dog. She hoped Sasha wouldn’t think that rude. It felt right. “Hi,” she said, softly. She wasn’t sure the girl heard her at first. The girl tilted her head down, as though she were looking at her feet, and began walking back through the Labyrinth. She heard me,Jacq realized, staying crouched. Jacq became completely engrossed with watching the child pick her way carefully back through the Labyrinth, step by tiny step. The sights and sounds of the bubbling water, the dripping stalactites, and the two other people next to Jacq faded away. All she could hear, all she could see, was the feathery touch of the girl’s slippers on the stone path. Jacq nearly stopped breathing when, an eternity later, the girl’s toes crossed over the end of the Labyrinth’s path. She let out a sigh then that relaxed her down to her bones.

“Hi,” Jacq whispered.

The girl’s ice blue eyes peered into Jacq’s face. Her tiny hand reached out slowly, almost touching Jacq’s face, but stopped just short and pulled back.

“Who are you?” the little girl’s raspy whisper squeezed Jacq’s heart.

“I’m just Jacq,” she said. “What’s your name?”

Unblinking, the girl’s eyes shuttered and looked away. “I’m just Dolly.”

Intuitively, Jacq reached out, grabbing the girl’s skinny arm, her fierce expression reflected by the girl’s sudden fear. “There’s nothing ‘just’ about you, child. You are not ordinary. You are not unwanted. You are necessary. You are real.”

“Jacq! You’re scaring her half to death!” Sasha’s cry broke through Jacq’s trance. Jacq’s fingers sprang open, releasing the girl’s arm, but the girl didn’t move. She stood shock-still, staring open-mouthed at Jacq.

Sasha swooped in to gather the child in her arms. “Come with me little one. My name is Sasha. Miss Jacq didn’t mean to scare you, honey.” Sasha pointed a quick glare at Jacq just before she sweep up the stairs with the girl. Her chatter quickly faded from hearing as she rose out of sight.

“Well,” Frank stuck his thumbs into his pockets and harrumphed. “That went... well.”

NaNoWriMo: Day 9

Word count: 15310

Battling the depression today. Didn't get nearly as much written as I would have liked. Yesterday was a work day, and tomorrow will be too. Sigh.

Have you met Isaiah yet? Here meet Isaiah. He's fun to write, when he's not fussing.

Something of an excerpt, though this chapter is still very, very rough: 

He wanted to deliver the letter himself. He wanted to see the look on his father’s face, wanted to know if the man had ever loved his mother, Christ have mercy on her soul. He had been almost excited by the prospect. But even if he had joined the mail service, they would not have let him deliver that letter. He had asked. You need training, they had told him. Wouldn’t be ready to carry the mail until after he had been trained. There were too many hazards crossing borders like that for them to send fresh new recruits across the continent. That training would have taken too long for his purpose. Besides, the Christian Confederation of Arkansas’ Mail Service sent cross-continental mail by train partways, anyway. It would get picked up by a carrier in the Republic of Arizona, then delivered however they did that there. If he wanted to deliver it himself, he needed to get his hands on it before it got into the mail system. But the letter was already gone when he figured that out. A day late and a Promise short, as always. So instead, he followed it. The letter moved faster than he did, by train, but he hoped it would slow down once it hit the Republic’s borders. Everything slowed down there, he had heard.

They had no cars there except the ones they built by hand – monstrous things that no sane mother would allow her children near, so much did they resemble demons. And demons they had aplenty. It was a godless land, filled with devils that masqueraded as petty gods, and who led the people away from the Christ and his Church. The people of the Republic of Arizonaspent all their money on whores and wars. So his mother – Christ have mercy on her soul – had whispered, and so Isaiah Archer believed.

His father had been different, she had whispered more than once, his father had been saintly. Abraham Archer – that name, his father’s name, had been her last whisper. The man had saved her, had given her a new life, had given her a chance to redeem herself in God’s eyes, had given her Isaiah. But if that man was so great, Isaiah had wondered, where on God’s green Earth was he? She had never answered that, just told him to be grateful that he had saved her when he did.

Even when he reached Manhood, she would not tell him. When he had turned eighteen and gone to serve his two years in the Blessed Army, he had hoped she would tell him before he left. She refused. And when he came home, twenty years old and feeling like he had earned the information, she refused. But when he cried over his mother’s coffin, his Aunt Amelia had put her shaking hand on his shoulder, told him what she knew of his father’s story, and told him to find Abraham Archer. Your mother has nothing to leave you, but your father can give you an inheritance. Find him. There is nothing here for you but sorrow. I’ll give you enough funds to make the trip and keep you through the next few months. Then you’ll have to find something else, because that’s all I can do for you.

She had sent a letter, she told Isaiah, so his father would know that his mother, Theodora – Christ have mercy on her soul – had died, finally, from the coughing disease that had plagued her since her arrival in Hope, Arkansas. He does not know you, she had said. Theodora didn’t know she was to be blessed with child when she came here, and I said nothing of you in my letter. It seemed to me, that you might want to decide for yourself whether you want him to know you. So Isaiah had followed the letter, never stopping to wonder how his Aunt had known where to send it, until he was two train stops away. He had spent his time on the train in his tiny compartment, reading his Bible and agonizing over what his father would look like, be like, think like. The man must have had a darker complexion than Isaiah’s mother had; Isaiah himself had been ‘born with a tan,’ she said. Her own skin had been lily-white and her hair golden blond. There is no doubt you are an Archer, she had said, with that black hair and that golden skin. As if there were any doubt. His mother was above such suspicion, obviously. She must have been teasing.

Aunt Amelia had confided that day, over her sister’s coffin, that Abraham Archer was a soldier in the Army of the Republic of Arizona. Look for him at Fort Valor, she had told him.
~

He had wished, on that first day off the train, that he had paid more attention to the changing scenery as it had flashed past his window. He felt he had disembarked the train in an alien world. Where were the trees with their changing leaves? Where was the green grass? How did the plants – were those plants? – grow into such oddly angled shapes? This land must truly be blighted. The air was so dry it burned his throat and stung his eyes. The heat seemed to sap the energy from his bones. He could not fathom setting out on horseback, but the man at the stable had laughed at his concerns. These here are desert horses, young’un, they’ll take good care of you. Don’t you worry that fool head. He had wanted to shout: I’ve served in the Blessed Army! He held his tongue though. Feeling outnumbered – one Blessed Army veteran to a desert full of these presumptuous old horse-traders – he said his thanks just like his mother had taught him, bought the horse – pony, more like – and asked directions to someplace he might get some supplies.

That night, well stocked and foddered, he set up camp just outside of town. As the night chilled, he silently thanked the shopkeeper who had – in a more courteous manner than that stable man – offered some much more useful advice on surviving the desert, including the blankets Isaiah had suspected would be unnecessary. In the biting cold of midnight, Isaiah had wondered, for the first time, why he had come.
~

Isaiah finally made his way to the walls of Fort Valorat midmorning of the seventh day out of San Simon. He had expected some bit of familiarity about the place, a military feel, at least. He got a glimpse of the fort from the top of a peak the road skirted. From there, Fort Valorlooked starker than Isaiah’s post had been, but as he approached, he thought perhaps it was just shabby. There were no persimmons ripening here, no fruit trees at all in fact, the walls looked as though they’d never seen a paintbrush – and were they made of mud? – and even the men standing guard at the gate looked as though they had been working in the dirt all day. Where were their shiny buttons? Where were their medals, their pressed uniforms? Did this army have no pride in its achievements? They wore grayish pants and shirts that from a distance had looked like coveralls. They nearly blended in with the wall they guarded.

He must look a mess, too, he realized. He hadn’t had a proper shower in so long, he would count himself lucky to smell only as bad as his horse. There was no helping it. He wasn’t going to get a shower outside the walls. He brushed himself off, squared his shoulders, and rode toward the gate.

The guards didn’t seem particularly interested in him. He had anticipated certain protocols. In his own unit, they had challenged every person, no matter what the circumstances. These guards let him get all the way to the gate – which turned out to be nothing but a double door, made of some dark metal that Isaiah didn’t recognize.

There were two guards, and they didn’t even stand up from their card game when one shouted at Isaiah. “What’re ya doin’ out here by yerself, boy?”

Boy! Isaiah grimaced. “I am looking for Abraham Archer. I’m told he serves here.” Surely not with this motley crew!

“Oh sure, he sure did. Right up ‘til the day afore yesterday. Ya won’t find him here, son. You run along now,” the first guard replied. The other guard just stared at Isaiah.

Gone. He must have gotten the letter, but why leave? Was this army so ragtag as to allow a man to just leave on a whim? Isaiah struggled to contain himself. “Could you Sirs please tell me where I might find him? I have come quite some distance to speak with him.”

“Heh,” the first guard said, “I can see that. The old bird’s got quite popular this past couple weeks. Might be he’s gone back to Tombstone. He’s got a sister there, I hear. Anyway, you can’t stay here.”

“Tombstone? Is that a Fort?”

The guards laughed then, a guffawing sound that grated down Isaiah’s last nerve.

“Oh don’t get yer panties in a twist, boy. You ain’t from here at all, huh?” the second guard found his voice. His companion was still chuckling. “It’s not far at all. You just keep going the way you came, around the other side of this wall. You’re almost there. Might be there by dark tonight if you ride straight through.”

Isaiah jerked his horse’s head around and left them laughing.

He reached Tombstonejust after dusk. Full dark was settling, but lamps burned brightly along an alley of saloons. He rode through ‘til he found a livery, on the far end, where he stabled his horse and asked after a hotel. The stable boy took his money, gave him a hard look, and pointed him in the direction of “Tad Miller’s place, just up thataway.”

The innkeeper gave Isaiah a curious look when he asked after Abraham Archer.

“Haven’t heard that name in a good long time, boy. What do you want with that one?”

“Official business,” Isaiah had replied. “No matter, I’ll need a room for tonight.”

The innkeeper didn’t budge. “You might ask his sister, if you’re serious about finding him. As far as I know, he’s off fighting the war still.”

What war? Isaiah wanted to ask, but he was tired of being laughed at. He just sighed, and asked after Abraham Archer’s sister – his aunt, too, he realized with a jolt.

The innkeeper finally looked away. “You’ll find her at the bank tomorrow. It’s hers, or her husband’s, anyway.”

“Do you have a room available for tonight, then?”

“Yes, I suppose we do.”

 ~

In his room on his second night in Tombstone, with the sounds of a banjo band playing below him, he wrote a letter of his own:

Dearest Aunt Amelia, I went to Fort Valor as you said. It seems your letter found him first, after all, because he was no longer there when I reached the place. The men there – I cannot call them soldiers, so shoddy was their presentation – directed me to seek him out in Tombstone. What a name! But the name suits the place – the streets are filled with debauchery, and nearly every hotel is a brothel. I have sought out the one that is not, rest assured, but it wasn’t easy. I’ve asked about my father at every opportunity, but have heard only that he hasn’t been here in twenty years, or that he was here momentarily a few days ago but left again without so much as a ‘hello’ to anyone. If the latter is true, I can see why he didn’t stay. This, truly, is a den of godless iniquity, no place for a man of Abraham Archer’s stature. I have been forced to associate with these heathens in order to ask after Father, but I maintain my Faith, a staunch follower of the Christ Who Sees All. I have put in a word to speak to his sister, but she has not seen me yet. I’m ever hopeful for tomorrow. Yours in the Mercy of Christ, Isaiah.