Chapter Text
June, 1847
Stephen Stanley did not like remembering his dreams, yet his slumber was often fitful and disturbed, the visions that visited upon him were not given time to evaporate. Deprived of the mercy of being awakened gently, he was forced to remember. When he was on land, back in the house he did not call home anymore, he used to rise at five early in the morning. In summer, the sun would have already risen. He would go into the garden to clear his head, and there would be spiderwebs bejewelled with dew, holding spherical reflections of the sky, the colour of flayed salmon. His daughter called the dew night tears. Stanley did not like it. There was no reason prescribing sentimentality upon a world already soaked with it, snot and all. But he did think, from time to time, standing in the garden with no one but the birds for company, shivering in the morning chill. Who could lay claim to the dew? For if you term them as tears, surely they must be shed by someone.
In his dreams, there were no menacing shadows, unsetting scenery or baleful assailants lying in wait.
No, it was worse than that.
Goodsir told him his nightmares. It was after Sir John's passing, after Goodsir's second brush with death - the man was making a habit of putting himself in such situations, that much was plain.
"I was at home, the old house, not in Edinburgh." Goodsir said, cleaning the scalpels in a basin, they faced away from each other, engaged in their own pursuits, sharing only space, "I was in my brother Joseph's bed. My own was just across the room, on my right hand side. I was forced to stare at the door which was half open, paralysed with the conviction that there was something monstrous in my own bed, inches away from me. I could not turn my head, however. And the doorway was no longer leading to the hallway, but a long set of black stairs stretching downwards, as if to Hell. No, I was quite certain that it was to Hell those stairs led. Imagine."
"You should mind your diet, mister Goodsir. Halve your dinner. Your sleep will improve and I can be spared hearing all about your nightmares every other day," Stanley said, drawing in his journal, "However riveting they might be."
"Sorry." Goodsir supplied, meekly.
Stanley hummed, and then: "Are you always this imaginative?"
"Not until recently. My dreams now take on a malicious character more often than I'd otherwise like." Goodsir said, there was suddenly no more clatter of metal against metal and the sound of disturbed water swerving in the basin, Stanley took this to mean that he was drying off the instruments with a cloth now.
Then Goodsir asked: "Do you dream of taking your exams, doctor?"
"No." Stanley replied, followed by a small but forceful exhalation.
"That's one thing I had always been dreaming about and actually remembered upon waking. Dr. Munro, my old instructor, an uninspiring man, hard to please. He had the habit of walking into lectures covered in gore, yet to dry, from some poor person's cadaver. He'd watch me the whole time as I tried to answer, hands folded on top of his cane - he had those huge, hairy, abominably soft pudding-ish hands - the more I could not think the more rapidly he tapped the cane with his finger. Lately I am dreaming of his tapping finger bloodied, he himself dressed in gore." Goodsir said quietly, more curious than disturbed.
"It has been a month." Stanley said, referring to Sir John's death.
"It seems like yesterday." Goodsir said, musing, "And the event seems determined to remain there. In all my future yesterdays."
"You think too much. There's nothing to be gained, reminding yourself of it." Stanley said disapprovingly.
"I think it is the event that is reminding me of its existence, rather, constantly so. I do not know how to put it, but I feel that I have little choice, it forces its presence on me." Goodsir said dolefully. He had finished his work. He walked over, lowering his rolled up sleeves and buttoning the cuffs, he asked: "Do you have any further need for me, doctor? I have an appointment with Collins."
"Consider yourself dismissed." Stanley said brusquely, sparing his assistant only the most perfunctory of glances.
"Do you remember your dreams?" Goodsir asked softly. He lingered close with the clear intention of making conversation. How Stanley suffered this man, he'd rather throw himself, naked, into a swarm of bloodthirsty midges, than suffer another gruelling minute of this loveliness incarnate standing in front of him, who would probably sit and put his chin on his knees if only Stanley would ask.
"Yes." Stanley said. He shaded the sky depicted in his journal a pale grey.
Goodsir stood there patiently, careful not to cast a shadow over him, waiting. When it became clear that Stanley was not about to expound upon it, he prompted: "What did you dream of last night, if you don't mind me asking?"
Stanley considered for a moment, not looking up, he sighed deeply into the open pages in front of him. A sketch of an open field rendered in shades of grey.
"Just grass." He said.
Ah, he did remember. Grass. An owl flew over it: a field of verdant currents, broad rolling columns, long thin blades bowed before the wind.
"It's a good dream, then? I miss grass." Goodsir said softly, "Just a small patch will satisfy me. Even if it's withered by the summer, sitting on such grass feels like sitting on ash, but I'll trade an arm for that sensation."
How about a field that could drown you, mister Goodsir? Stanley thought grimly, finally meeting the other man's eyes. It was Isis unveiled, what he saw could have struck him dead. The look of adoration he found was uncalled for. He was not used to it. Goodsir had always the tendency of making dog eyes at people, wet and glinting and pathetic, not wanting, but longing to please. Vexed, Stanley found himself increasingly the receptacle for Goodsir's overflowing sentiments. He despised this particular weakness, how his mind was immediately quietened when it was held in Goodsir's gaze. With self-mutilation forgotten, the frenzied rackus was replaced by the susurration of wet snow falling over woodland. So naturally, he frowned.
"I do not usually dream of things that I still hope to see." Stanley said coldly.
"Surely we will see grass again." Goodsir said.
Stanley swallowed a mocking laugh, barely: "Do you think so?"
"Well, I believe so." Goodsir said, seemingly insouciant.
Stanley could feel his eyes grow cold as his gaze sharpened, he studied Goodsir's face in the same manner he would assess a wound. The assistant surgeon grew tense under his scrutiny and wetted his lips. A small gesture that unfortunately, drew Stanley's attention.
"At least your dream could be of comfort to you." Goodsir offered.
"Comfort." Stanley said, without emotion, "We are no unweaned infants. I often think you place too much value on it, mister Goodsir, mistaking something superfluous as essential. It is unbecoming of you to fail here when your judgement is generally sound otherwise."
"We still have a need for it, I think, infant or not." Goodsir argued, "It has its place. Comfort might be superfluous to survival, but I do fancy it is comfort that makes a man wish to survive. At the very least, it bolsters his resolve."
"Even in cases where survival is impossible?" Stanley asked.
"Then comfort is the only thing we can provide, is it not?" Goodsir said, "We cannot wash our charges' blood off our hands and just… leave them, consigned to fate. I sometimes imagine if it is myself on the threshold of death: I am terrified to die alone, unloved and uncared for. I dream of it... I will not wish it on anyone."
"You won't be alone." Stanley said, simply, his eyes unblinking. Surely not unloved. He thought.
Goodsir's eyes wandered downwards and he placed a hand on the operational table, he stroked the surface as if he could touch something that was no longer there: "When David Young died - I have recounted to you the strange incident - but that aside, it occured to me how little difference my presence made. I held his face, I clutched him like - like applying pressure to a ruptured artery to stem the blood flow, as if I could stop his vitality from escaping and contain his terror. But he didn't even appear to notice that I was there. He was alone with death, in the end. Alone, and utterly terrified."
Sensing that the assistant surgeon was spiralling into his reveries, Stanley said: "Mister Goodsir."
"Hmm? Oh I should not foist it on you." Goodsir said, obviously startled.
Stanley intoned: "No medical man, no matter how great, could halt the inevitable. It was hubris to try. But you should not completely discount yourself just because his hallucination had the upperhand." and then, "Are you afraid?"
"Yes." Goodsir's brows knitted together, he looked as if he was at a loss, but he tried to smile: "It is the prevailing sentiment of the crew getting to me, I imagine."
Stanley reached out and picked up Goodsir's hand off the table. He held it loosely, letting it rest on his palm. It was soft, warm, a tangible weight, like some docile critter drowsy with sleep.
"You dissaprove," Goodsir started, his tone tame, looking down at their hands, "But you are a comfort to me." Then he flashed Stanley a grin, his cheeks wondrously flushed, "On your better days that is, doctor Stanley."
Stanley wished to snap back or to scowl. He could perform the latter to remarkable effect even without relying on his stature. But now that he was looking up and Goodsir was smiling at him through his lashes, he found it difficult to wipe his own emerging smile off his face.
"How many patients have you lost, mister Goodsir?" Stanley asked.
Goodsir's face fell, there was no hesitation when he answered: "Five."
"I have no doubt that you remember every single one of them." Stanley said as he played with Goodsir's hand absentmindedly, stroking his finger, tracing the tendons and knuckles that felt so much like small pebbles, he spoke without inflection, "Their names, faces, what ailed them and what made them smile, every decision you made in their treatment. What did they die of, and how ."
"I should not dwell on them, I know. But how can I not remind myself, if I aspire to be better?" Goodsir said, the hint of petulance in his voice prompted a bitter half smile from Stanley.
"You are very welcomed to dwell." Stanley said, "I have stopped counting a decade ago. After a point, it was just a number. It's foolishness, keeping a number in one's mind like a broken chronometer. Why, for sentiment?"
"Because of Sierra Leone?" Goodsir asked softly, treading on spring ice.
Stanley turned his face to the left a little, which counted as a head shake: "The act of providing comfort stems from care. To comfort your patient even if he will die, do you court suffering as a pastime, Goodsir? It is nothing but the self-abuse of your own virtues, if you ask me. I have no respect for a medicalman who wears his suffering like something awarded to him, as if it was noble to be affected for the loss of a patient."
"I was not... completely unaware of this challenge when I entered the profession." Goodsir said, "If I can avoid pain, I will, but not if it deprives a man what's due to him: I will treat him as how I wish to be treated, to try, at least. I know my ability to deal with loss is wanting. But if I am to operate on David Young today, I will not waver."
"Do you fancy yourself prepared?" Stanley asked, quirking an eyebrow. For what to come, he meant.
"I wish I am." Goodsir said, his eyes was intense with wretchedness as they met Stanley's, "If only for the sake of the men, I wish I can be."
Stanley exhaled through his nose and shifted his head as he studied Goodsir's face: so full of the expectation of grief, the sorrow and agitation was achingly naked. I will not wish that for you, he thought, as he let go of Goodsir's hand. He could still feel the tenderness of it between his fingers, it invited him to knead, to rub, to bruise and to mutilate. It was ready to shed its skin so Stanley could peruse bared flesh, a fingernail could lacerate it. Goodsir might cry and Stanley would relish the tears: he wished above all things for this man to remain vulnerable. To rather be the skin of a newborn, unscarred and unhorned.
"You will finally be competent, then." Stanley said.
Goodsir took his freed hand in his other and rubbed at the places where Stanley's hand had made contact, harbouring a rueful smile to himself.
"What is your appointment with mister Collins about?" Stanley asked.
"I find watercolours an effective means for relieving his mind. I offered to teach him, also to give him some society. You might have noticed, he has been out of sorts lately." Goodsir replied, he looked at a distant point with his forehead slightly creased, "It's worrying."
"I do not have much association with our dear second master, but I trust you to have it in hand." Stanley said drily, urbane, turning away from his assistant, "You do not want to be late."
"Doctor Stanley." Goodsir said with a smile, excusing himself. Stanley could not admit just how much he relished the sound of his last name when Goodsir pronounced it, smiling. There was something about it, when the flesh on a man's cheeks were pulled up against their teeth and the soft palate was raised. He could hear the smile, it turned his name into a warm, approachable and lovable thing. As if it was a joyous affair for Goodsir just to roll it lovingly off his tongue.
With that, Goodsir exited the sickbay.
-
A year from now, Stanley would dream of a sea of grass which once might have thrived exuberantly on these rolling hills, but now parched and burnt by the sun, they had turned golden. Their long leaves were bristle. They stood tall and still in the stagnant air, sentinelling a land of thirst and dreadful longing. He saw Goodsir lying among them, crushing the grass, his mouth open: a cornucopia of shales. But then he was standing beside Stanley, talking excitedly. The blazing sun and the sky that stood still suggested scorching heat, Stanley felt only the absence of feeling. He took hold of Goodsir's shoulder and silenced him with a kiss.
That was how he realised that he had reconciled with Goodsir's death. At long last, he had admitted Goodsir into his gallery of loss. In the morning he would remember his dream, one orphaned tear among many that bejewelled the spiderweb. It laid there, unclaimed. Then day came and it evaporated, now it sounded silly to suggest that it existed in the first place.