The Watchtower

sun wasn’t so hot anymore. It must be getting late.
    I reached for my watch pendant, and looked at it. The hands were spinning around, the little suns and planets racing through their midnight-blue sky, the tiny tree in the window shedding and growing leaves as in a speeded-up nature film. It made me dizzy to look at it, so I tucked the watch under my shirt. Then I looked up into a sky so hazy that I couldn’t tell which direction the sun was coming from. It felt somehow as if the light were coming from everywhere and nowhere at the same time. A lambent, diffuse light that was rather … pleasant. This spot was actually quite nice. The wind had abated and now blew only gently through the reeds, more a lullaby than a recrimination. The reeds no longer chanted that Will didn’t love me and I didn’t love him. Instead they gently whispered, What does it matter? What does it matter? If not for the annoying ache in my hand, I would have been perfectly comfortable.
    I dug in my pack for the first-aid kit and found a small tin of acetaminophen. I swallowed two and then, for good measure, two more. The pain soon faded to a pang, like a half-forgotten heartbreak dulled by the passage of time. As I closed my eyes, I had a momentary glimpse of Will doing just what I was doing, learning against a rock, waiting. Let him wait, I thought, and then I fell asleep.

23
    The Most Scientific Medicine
    Will caught the next coach for Paimpont as it was leaving, and as the sky started to purple, and as the wind began to rise as if a storm were in the distance. The other passenger in the cabin greeted Will in a peculiar French, one that had traces of both German and English accents to it. “Valentine Russwurin the Second, Doctor of Physic and Surgery,” he introduced himself.
    “Will Hughes, poet and stock trader.”
    Perhaps Russwurin found Will’s French unusual as well, for he then asked him where he was from.
    “England. Lately of London,” Will replied, as the carriage began to roll.
    “How serendipitous. That’s my hometown as well. Adopted hometown. I am originally born in Schmalkalden, Germany.”
    “And I am born in Somerset, England.”
    They shook hands on their geographical frankness. Then they rode on in silence for a while, Will eyeing Russwurin furtively. Even though the man was seated, Will could discern that he was exceptionally tall and broad, clad in a thick, black overcoat despite the August heat. His triangular, reddish orange goatee reminded Will a bit of Dee’s, but his eyes weren’t anything like Dee’s: they were a friendly brown that had first engaged, then twinkled. The large black leather satchel on his seat next to him was likely his doctor’s bag. Will sensed Russwurin observing him as well, but no matter how suddenly he would glance back at him, he could never catch his eyes directly upon him.
    They rode on through countryside that gradually changed from farms to woods. Will felt a chill from the forest’s obscurity, barely illumined by a sliver of just risen moon, despite the reassurance that he was on the final leg of his journey to immortality. He was carrying the golden branch in a slender canvas bag he’d purchased in the Fontainebleau market before boarding the coach, one he’d initially placed on the seat next to him. He put it on his lap now though, caressing the top of the bough within the bag. As if it were a talisman that could ward off unseen dangers.
    Russwurin followed Will’s hand with his eyes and smiled. “A favorite walking stick? Planning to do some hiking when you arrive?”
    “Traveling,” Will replied euphemistically, referring to crossing to the Summer Country.
    “But I didn’t observe you to be carrying any luggage.”
    “I’m hoping to meet a friend in Paimpont, who will provision me. And you?”
    Russwurin’s expression suddenly and startlingly grew angry. “I’m a fugitive. Of sorts.”
    “Really?”
    “The nitpickers of London’s medical kingdom have chased me from their municipality despite that I am a brilliant doctor, despite the lives I have saved and the suffering I have eased.” Russwurin patted his satchel to emphasize his profession. “Nonsense about licenses and diplomas. The truth is that they are mired in the Galenic rut of antiquity, oblivious to the alchemical brilliance of Paracelsus and others, which will be the future of medicine for as far as the eye can see.” Russwurin winked at Will. “One example of perhaps particular