Losing a Friend
[Originally written for Nanowrimo 2018. Told from the viewpoint of Jane Westmuir. Also starring Giuseppe Franco.]
”Peppe!”
The dark-haired man raised his eyes to take a look at me. He had wrapped his sleeves up and his left cheek had a streak of dirt in it.
”What is it?”
He asked, continuing to load manure into the wheelbarrow, looking like he didn't really care what I was about to say. Even when it was a fairly warm summer day outside, it was pleasantly cool in the stables. If you didn't mind the smell of horses, of course.
”It's rare for you to come this far, Westmuir.”
He scoffed and eventually turned around, to give me a sly grin.
”What is it? Spit it out.”
He asked, clearly waiting for a trivial answer, or a new task I might be carrying, but when he saw my tired face and red eyes, the smile died on his lips.
”Francis is dead.”
I told him bluntly, shaken by my own, hollow voice. I must've looked like a ghost, my shoulder length hair usually on a neat ponytail now hanging free and my fists clenched tight. I still had yesterday's clothes on.
There was a moment of silence.
”How?”
Giuseppe eventually asked, eyes dark like the sky before a tropical storm. He didn't need to ask who. He already knew.
”A Sniper spell. He didn't have a chance.”
He let out an angry shout full of grief and threw the pitchfork away. It made a nasty sound when it hit the stone floor. The clang echoed in the empty stable. I understood my mistake at the moment I saw his strong hands shaking and for a second, I feared more for my life than in the trenches of Somme or on the field of Waterloo. You didn't want to make Giuseppe Franco angry, unless you were content to die with a fractured skull and a few broken ribs.
But to my amazement, he didn't bash my face in, but turned around, and with a heavy sigh went to pick up the pitchfork.
”How many of the oldies left?”
He asked, now in a calmer tone.
”6, the last time I checked. Marriott died last month, Jules didn't come back from the last mission and now Socks got Francis, I don't...”
I stopped. The words just got stuck, but Peppe seemed to understand.
”Well, Westmuir, what are you going to do?”
He asked from me and his eyes were calm, maybe in a way the water is in the middle of the Atlantic ocean, but it was enough for me to gather myself up. I took a deep breath, Peppe waited patiently. He knew that this was hard for me too.
A horse neighed outside.
”There is one promising youngster in the training. I think he'll do well enough as the head of the monster department.”
The Monster department. That was the nickname for all things weird that walked, crawled or flew. Sometimes even swam.
”So you really think I'd listen to some brat?”
”It's Sharpe's nephew.”
I just couldn't keep it in. Sometimes Peppe's attitude was giving me the hard time.
”Sharpe's… Are you serious?”
”Mm. He's a good kid.”
”Just barely older than the youngest of mine, you know.”
He shook his head and sighed.
”Let's have a drink when I'm done. To Francis.”
”Yes. To Francis.”
I nodded and turned away, my shoulders trembling. You left us on the worst possible time. Like you knew we would need you the most when you'd be gone.
”Peppe!”
The dark-haired man raised his eyes to take a look at me. He had wrapped his sleeves up and his left cheek had a streak of dirt in it.
”What is it?”
He asked, continuing to load manure into the wheelbarrow, looking like he didn't really care what I was about to say. Even when it was a fairly warm summer day outside, it was pleasantly cool in the stables. If you didn't mind the smell of horses, of course.
”It's rare for you to come this far, Westmuir.”
He scoffed and eventually turned around, to give me a sly grin.
”What is it? Spit it out.”
He asked, clearly waiting for a trivial answer, or a new task I might be carrying, but when he saw my tired face and red eyes, the smile died on his lips.
”Francis is dead.”
I told him bluntly, shaken by my own, hollow voice. I must've looked like a ghost, my shoulder length hair usually on a neat ponytail now hanging free and my fists clenched tight. I still had yesterday's clothes on.
There was a moment of silence.
”How?”
Giuseppe eventually asked, eyes dark like the sky before a tropical storm. He didn't need to ask who. He already knew.
”A Sniper spell. He didn't have a chance.”
He let out an angry shout full of grief and threw the pitchfork away. It made a nasty sound when it hit the stone floor. The clang echoed in the empty stable. I understood my mistake at the moment I saw his strong hands shaking and for a second, I feared more for my life than in the trenches of Somme or on the field of Waterloo. You didn't want to make Giuseppe Franco angry, unless you were content to die with a fractured skull and a few broken ribs.
But to my amazement, he didn't bash my face in, but turned around, and with a heavy sigh went to pick up the pitchfork.
”How many of the oldies left?”
He asked, now in a calmer tone.
”6, the last time I checked. Marriott died last month, Jules didn't come back from the last mission and now Socks got Francis, I don't...”
I stopped. The words just got stuck, but Peppe seemed to understand.
”Well, Westmuir, what are you going to do?”
He asked from me and his eyes were calm, maybe in a way the water is in the middle of the Atlantic ocean, but it was enough for me to gather myself up. I took a deep breath, Peppe waited patiently. He knew that this was hard for me too.
A horse neighed outside.
”There is one promising youngster in the training. I think he'll do well enough as the head of the monster department.”
The Monster department. That was the nickname for all things weird that walked, crawled or flew. Sometimes even swam.
”So you really think I'd listen to some brat?”
”It's Sharpe's nephew.”
I just couldn't keep it in. Sometimes Peppe's attitude was giving me the hard time.
”Sharpe's… Are you serious?”
”Mm. He's a good kid.”
”Just barely older than the youngest of mine, you know.”
He shook his head and sighed.
”Let's have a drink when I'm done. To Francis.”
”Yes. To Francis.”
I nodded and turned away, my shoulders trembling. You left us on the worst possible time. Like you knew we would need you the most when you'd be gone.
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