George Manwill: A Short Story

Nobody knows how they get here. The “why” is easier to figure out: dying mother, child who is starving, disaster in their future, a case of bad luck. Whatever it is that afflicts them, we have a cure for it. Our little cottage brims wall-to-wall with shelves. Each one holds jars, vials, boxes, mugs, globes, glasses, tins, everything. They're filled with “things.” Most of them, these days, are just filled with liquid, only distinguishable by their color and consistency. I think we used to use more solid things, but I guess Oma and Mama have started blending them before they're needed. I no longer know where the materials come from, or how they're mixed, but I'll learn someday.

So, whether it's bankruptcy, a horse with a broken leg, or a dying fiance, they show up here. Like I said, I've never known how. I'll just come down for breakfast one morning, or be out on my way to stargaze with the centaurs, and there they'll be. Haggard, distressed, desperate. Stinking of the World of Men.

Mama says it's not my time to start The Family Business (I don't know why it's called that because it's not like we get anything in return for our services), but I think it must be coming up soon, because tonight she and Oma woke me up in the small hours of the morning to sit me down and tell me a story.

“Madeline, today we're going to share something with you. It's very important to our Business, and you must listen carefully.”

“Here's a cup of Ladyflower tea, dear, and an almond crumpet. Don't listen to what your Mama says, it's not all that serious. What had happened was--”

“Oma! Please treat this with more respect! If Madeline is to enter our line of work, this is the first and most crucial step!”

They had begun one of their silly disagreements again, with my mother much too dramatic for her own good, clashing with Oma's easygoing and humorous side. I sat, waiting for someone, anyone, to begin.

My Oma sighed.

“Your mother was your age. It was Midsummer, and the dryads and elves were making such a racket over in Pinewood forest that neither of us could sleep.”

The elves had not lived in Pinewood forest in centuries. I realized, for the first time, that this was the first time I was being told a story from before my own birth.

“So, naturally, your mother climbed into bed with me for a story. The star shower was in full-swing that time of year, so there was plenty of light to read by, but as I went for the bookshelf, we heard a rude THUMP in from the kitchen. We rushed to the noise, and we heard glass breaking. The kitchen was a mess. Shattered vials and broken scales. Seeds that are tiny and impossible to pick up covered the floor. Eyeballs rolled towards us. Everything was out of order, but in the midst of the rubble, in the very center of our kitchen, sat an atrociously smelly, extremely large, dark-skinned, and very bald man.”

“He was covered in what looked like clay dust, but I guess the humans call it mud, and wore the most grotesque sacks for clothing. I was too shocked to be scared.” My mama interjected.

“Oh, come off it,” sneered Oma, “You yelped and clung to my leg for dear life.”
“Who was the man? Was that your first customer?” I asked.

“Don't speak,” said Oma. “It didn't take but a wave of my hand to clean up the kitchen, while your mother prepared some tea for the visitor. We didn't, and still to this day, don't know how he ended up in our kitchen. None of the enchantments or seals or locks on any of the doors were broken or tampered with. And he didn't get in the chimney because we don't have one.

“The man began to speak to us. He didn't seem to be alarmed at being in our kitchen; all he kept saying when we asked him how he got here was 'Oh, it's all arbitrary.' That's all we could get out of him. As he sat there and drank his tea, he told us his name was George Manwill. He said there was a place called Mississippi, strangest name I've ever heard to this day, where he was from. He said he was a cotton picker, and that he wasn't a free man. Try as we might, Madeline, even after all these years, your mother and I still don't know what George meant when he said that. All we knew was that when he said that, there was an exhaustion and cry for help in his eyes so deep we knew we had to help him somehow.

“He didn't ask our names, didn't ask our stories. Didn't act like it was out of the ordinary at all for him to be right where he was, in our world, on our kitchen, on a midsummer's night. All he did was sip his tea gratefully and look down at his hands. They were cracked and dirty, with rivers of dried blood and still-open wounds flowing across them. That was our first encounter with someone from the Land of Men, and we were terrified. We guessed that some awful creature or sickness had done this to him, had reduced him to what he was, but we still don't know. Out of everyone we've had show up here after him, nobody has ever looked that worn out, ragged, and beaten.”

I took a deep breath. This is not the story I was expecting. This didn't even sound like the visits from men and women that I had come to know. When they sat in our kitchen now, they cried to us. The begged and pleaded for whatever malady afflicted their life and they ask us to help them in any way. But the thing is, they usually look a lot better than this man they were describing. It was eerie the way George kept his troubles to himself. For some reason, intuition told me he had had the greatest need out of anyone who popped into our kitchen.

“What did you do for him?” I expected a remedy. I wanted them to say they mixed something up that made his pain, his disfigurations, and the fact that he was “not a free man” go away, and sent him skipping back to the World of Men.

But Oma shook her head.

“He sat there at our table all night, Madeline. Didn't ask for food, or even more tea, or any help we could give him. He just stared at the scar on the top off the table, where your hands rest now.”

“You couldn't help him?”

“We didn't know how.”

“So in the morning he was just gone? Like the rest of them?”

“Not exactly, Madeline. We sat there until the rays of sun broke weakly through the kitchen curtains. The man seemed to be thinking. He got up, and walked through that door, to the outside.”
“He went outside?!” Nobody had ever left the kitchen. Even I'm not supposed to just walk outside. This world is a harsh place if you don't have friends here.

“Yes, walked right out and into the woods.”

“Why? What did he do there? When did he come back?”
“He didn't.” Oma said.
“We know we can't answer all your questions, Madeline, as much as we'd like to know ourselves. But all that we can tell you is that from that day onward, we would wake up every morning to find a vial of liquid on the doorstep to the cottage. The first day it was thick and gold, and marked 'for healing.' That night a man whose wife was about to die in childbirth showed up in the kitchen. We knew the liquid was for him. Every day and night since then, we've had special visitors sit in that same seat at our table. Every morning we wake up to a new batch of liquids, a new batch of miracles. We can't explain it. We thought our clan was the only one able to do this sort of magic, but the truth is we haven't brewed anything in over 150 years, but now we've helped more people than any of our ancestors before us.”

I tried to soak it all in. Now I realized why they called me down here just before dawn. The sun was streaming through the kitchen curtains, and I rose and walked to the back door. There, perched elegantly on the stone ground, were 5 little glasses filled with rich and colorful liquid. I went to pick one up. There were bloodstains on each vial.