A book...is one of the few havens remaining where a man's mind can get both provocation and privacy.

[westin-sagert.livejournal.com]

[Late morning of Thursday, June 17 (day 382)]
[Sagert's Books]

It is rather a pleasant day; blustery but not cool. My legs feels rather better today, and I spend the morning on light errands. A stop by the library (really, I must suggest that they see about shimming up some of the shelves; I find that I am rather tired of the occasional volume dropping on me), and then the General Store and the bakery, and a pleasant stop at the Miskatonic before returning home.

I actually do manage an hour or so in the basement. Just planning, really, but I have a few ideas I would like to note down...

I am feeling quite refreshed when I come back up. Not exactly enough to go out again, but I set the sign out to indicate I am open, and brew up a cup of tea. Perhaps someone shall stop in; if not, well, I can certainly look forward to sitting and reading for a moment.

[Open to Samuel, and possibly others]

Comments

[westin-sagert.livejournal.com]

"You might say I was raised to it. I was born in Styria, in Austria-that-was. After my parents died, I was raised by a monastic order in the shelter of a great library. They see their mission as being keepers of the past, and gateways to the future. I was studying languages and history by four or five years old."

"An education to be envied," I say sincerely. "All too often, such matters are left until much later in life, and fall by the wayside entirely." I sigh and glance around the room at the shelves. Oh, I do understand that most people don't appreciate them, and I don't require company to enjoy a book, but I rather wish there was a little more interest in them in town. "I met one newcomer to town who didn't actually believe that any of my books were not Bibles, and expected a lady of her acquaintance to be whipped for reading. It was frankly--" well, it was disgusting, really-- "shocking."

We turn back to the matter of Esther. "I may have encountered her," I say, remembering that day at the Carnival. "She seemed friendly enough, although I found her to be... surprisingly candid." Which is probably the best way to summarize it, all things told. I shake my head a little, setting it aside. "Perhaps a little lonely, all told. I couldn't say."

I must say, Durand's focus on local beliefs is a touch unsettling, although certainly admirable. "Coincidence. Gossip."

"One would hope," I say softly, picking up my tea.

"You've mentioned Doctor Constantine before. Perhaps I should speak with him myself. I find often the best way to investigate is to simply follow a thread until it unravels and I find three more. Invariably, in a community so small, mysteries overlap."

"It is rather insular," I say, and hesitate a moment before going on. "The young man in question was... left in a very upsetting state. But I am sure that you have experience with asking people about delicate matters." It would suit me quite well to have Constantine's standing in Excolo shaken a little, but... well, the man is a physician, and he could not save his patient. It is a circumstance which I cannot help but feel for.

[samuel-durand.livejournal.com]

"An education to be envied."

He gives every indication of meaning it. And of course he's right, in many ways. I'm grateful for what I know. Grateful for the languages I speak, the skills I've acquired. But I came to see far too early that it was not charity, no matter how they meant it, nor a gift without cost. Knowledge was intended to remake me, to unmake me, to winnow my innate possibilities and set me on a particular path.

Oh how they worried, when I was young.

" "I met one newcomer to town who didn't actually believe that any of my books were not Bibles, and expected a lady of her acquaintance to be whipped for reading. It was frankly shocking."

"I can imagine," I say with distaste. "I trust she didn't linger long in town?" I would gladly have whipped them both. Not for reading, or for not reading. For surrendering the movements of their soul to the movements of another. No better than beasts. Saddled and mounted by words. Dried bones and phantoms.

My head hurts. I must be unused to tea.

"The young man in question was... left in a very upsetting state. But I am sure that you have experience with asking people about delicate matters."

"That's probably fair." I rub my temple for a moment, then force my hand to stillness. "I've seen far too much to be easily shocked, but some still secretly like to try," I say wryly. "Others are more tight-lipped, but they tend to open up when they realize that my interest is in the big picture, not in judging them for whatever tawdriness they engage in. Trifles."

[westin-sagert.livejournal.com]

"I trust she didn't linger long in town?"

"Actually she's quite settled in," I say, which is something of a relief, especially as I can add "and she seems to be getting over such peculiar ideas. Glass--" I catch myself-- "your pardon, the town mortician--even gave her a gift of a book." I sigh a little and set my tea back down. "I do wish that there were not places still promoting such ideas, but I suppose there will always be those who presume to deny knowledge to others."

"I've seen far too much to be easily shocked, but some still secretly like to try," Durand adds, rubbing his head. "Others are more tight-lipped, but they tend to open up when they realize that my interest is in the big picture, not in judging them for whatever tawdriness they engage in. Trifles."

"Well," I say, "there is something to the truism that confession is good for the soul; at the very least, people do like talk about themselves. I imagine that is a great help in your work." I wonder if as many people open up to him as he thinks. I myself would not, but then I have grown quite bitterly used to people not appreciating my work, and there is hardly any benefit to be had from explaining it again. People are so tiresome sometimes... "There was an alienist in town for a time, but I believe he has moved on. Are you sure you wouldn't care for more tea?" I always find it helps with a headache, myself.

[samuel-durand.livejournal.com]

"Actually she's quite settled in, and she seems to be getting over such peculiar ideas. Glass--your pardon, the town mortician--even gave her a gift of a book."

"Oh? You have a most welcoming and inclusive community indeed. I must wonder, is it a result of your settlement's rather unusual success? Or was it the cause?" I muse silently for a moment, ignoring the throbbing in my head. "There are certainly many benefits to heterogeneity, but... one might wonder if such a policy is always wise. Many seeds grow in fertile and untended ground, and not all of them are benign."

"I do wish that there were not places still promoting such ideas, but I suppose there will always be those who presume to deny knowledge to others."

Now that would smart, if my life wasn't already one continuous succession of lies. And truths that might as well be lies. "Oh yes." I shake my head. "I've known the sort."

Something nags at me from what he said before, and I sift back through it to pick out the name. Glass. It's an unusual name, one I've only encountered once before. Could it be the same person? How far am I willing to stretch the bounds of coincidence? "Your mortician, this... Glass." I furrow my brow, sorting through all I can remember of the person I shared the road with for a time. "A woman? With an extensive folk knowledge of herbs?"

"Well, there is something to the truism that confession is good for the soul; at the very least, people do like talk about themselves. I imagine that is a great help in your work."

"Wherever any group of people comes together, there is an economy of confidences. Investment. Transaction. Exchange. Depreciation. Dividends." I close my eyes for the briefest of moments, to relieve the pressure behind them. "Maybe even as a species, we aren't so much defined by having secrets as by the need to tell them. Some--even most-- people want to stand revealed, sometime." Often not to me, but to someone I can reach.

Even I'm not immune to this urge. Without someone else to see you, sometimes you feel like you're nothing but smoke. A play of light across a reflective surface. Of course, it isn't as though I can have people who know my secrets just out roaming free. You have to take steps.

"The ones that don't, well..." I make a dismissive gesture with one hand. "They often have a way, unconscious or not, of alerting me to the very people they'd rather I didn't speak to. A perversity of human nature. Everyone has someone's secrets to barter."

I've left the hapless monk persona in bed, it would seem. It's all right. I expect he would have bored Mr. Sagert to tears. He's no small study himself.

I give a friendly smile. "In the end, though, it boils down to this: for the purposes of my work, I'm not interested in 'who' people are, only in 'what' they are. What they represent in the greater order of things. I'm discreet, I don't share what I've learned, and I'm never around long enough to threaten anybody's reputation."

Technically true, though hardly the whole picture. Occasionally reputations are the least of their worries.

"There was an alienist in town for a time, but I believe he has moved on. Are you sure you wouldn't care for more tea?"

"You've gone to more than enough trouble." The timing makes me wonder if he's recognized that I'm in pain. I would be irritated at showing weakness of any sort, but I keep my tone casual. "I don't drink tea very often, and sometimes it affects me adversely."

"Anyway. An alienist? Very quaint." The psychiatric profession is not one I'm particularly friendly toward. If ever there was a field where knowledge was inextricable from the modes of being that produced it. "If he hadn't moved on, no doubt I could have learned something. Though mostly the wrong sort of thing. Not exactly a big-picture profession."

[westin-sagert.livejournal.com]

"Oh? You have a most welcoming and inclusive community indeed," and-- really, I hadn't thought of it as my community. I don't suppose I have much of a reason to stay--beyond Morningstar, of course. Perhaps I should--well, I certainly shan't pester the man. Nonetheless, a polite gift might open up the way to asking if there was anything in particular he wanted done. I should think on it. "I must wonder, is it a result of your settlement's rather unusual success? Or was it the cause?"

"I couldn't in all fairness speak to that," I say thoughtfully. "I suspect there are mercantile considerations as well; I understand the town has grown quite well since the weekly market was instituted. The one feeds into the other, perhaps." Of course, there has always been some disdain for the carnival, but I would not count that as uninclusive. Simply a distinction of propriety.

"Your mortician, this... Glass." He frowns a little. "A woman? With an extensive folk knowledge of herbs?"

"Ah." I am rather blinking. "That could be her, yes. Tall for a woman, quite dark with black eyes?" I always rather suspected some form of aniridia, although that wouldn't address all the characteristics... In any case. "Glass Beddau. I understand she's been here three years now." Really, that would make him the third person she's known from her travels to have come to Excolo. Peculiar, but I have certainly seen stranger things.

"Wherever any group of people comes together, there is an economy of confidences. Investment. Transaction. Exchange. Depreciation. Dividends." He closes his eyes, and I imagine he is seeing... perhaps an interwoven network, the growth and change of history. "Maybe even as a species, we aren't so much defined by having secrets as by the need to tell them..." Durand grows positively eloquent for a moment, and I think of Constantine, and what I have said of him.

Everyone has someone's secrets to barter."

"Do you find," I say thoughtfully, "that moving so quickly through communities limits your position for such barter?"

"In the end, though, it boils down to this: for the purposes of my work, I'm not interested in 'who' people are, only in 'what' they are. What they represent in the greater order of things. I'm discreet, I don't share what I've learned, and I'm never around long enough to threaten anybody's reputation."

Reputations, I suspect, might be more delicate than a man who is used to moving on truly understands, but I simply nod. Durand politely declines the offer of tea, and I murmur an of course as he continues. "An alienist? Very quaint. If he hadn't moved on, no doubt I could have learned something. Though mostly the wrong sort of thing. Not exactly a big-picture profession."

"It always rather struck me as wool-gathering done in tandem," I say. Empty pontification, people who can't command interest buying it instead... I shake my head. "I mention it more a comment on people's desire to speak of themselves, really." I brush the matter away.

"In all honesty, I would not want to begin today," I say, gesturing towards his maps. "I have most of what is required, but I would want to gather everything necessary first--" I think linen will be in order, an anchor in the place of signatures-- "and plan out the work. I'd be quite happy to hold them, of course, but given the work involved in their creation I of course understand if you would rather they be out of your possession as little as possible."

[samuel-durand.livejournal.com]

"That could be her, yes. Tall for a woman, quite dark with black eyes? Glass Beddau. I understand she's been here three years now."

"That sounds about right." It could be that I'm mistaken, that the disconnected images of that tall woman streaked with road dust were not spurred by his words, but planted by them. Memory is a tricky thing. It's why I write everything down. "How fortuitous, to see so many familiar faces in a place like this. Perhaps the charms of Excolo naturally draw travelers of a certain stripe into its orbit."

In truth, I'm not all that pleased. I need to consult my notebooks and see what I wrote down about her. I don't think there was any bad blood between us, but that's not my primary concern: my concern is whether my different cover personas are about to collide in a spectacularly ugly fashion. This may require delicate handling.

"Do you find that moving so quickly through communities limits your position for such barter?"

"Oh yes." It's the simplest answer, though the truth is slightly more complicated. "I could never completely overcome outsider status in just a few days or weeks. Quite often I have to operate through local intermediaries." And they come in all shapes and sizes. "A community is a broad and interconnected web. With as many points of access as there are members." Or even trusted non-members, for that matter.

He then turns back to business, and I lean forward attentively. When he comes to the subject of whether I should keep them until he is ready to begin the work, I consider for a moment. It's true that I dislike leaving them with others, but ultimately I settle on the gesture of trust. The horror with which he reacted to the tale of the inept binding told me enough. "Keep them. A man who takes himself and his profession seriously can be trusted to keep them safe. I can be reached at the Whitechapel, if we do not see each other again until you are done. And I understand, better than most, that quality work takes time."

I do not mention payment. Men of a certain sort often find such talk gauche and beneath them, as though their concerns were purely mercantile. It is unspoken: he may name his compensation, and I will make it.

I rise, and offer my hand. "It's been a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Sagert. Many thanks for the tea, and for a most enlightening conversation."