Of Snakes and Giants

[Nathaniel Blackwood]

“I will never be able to forget him! Ever!” cried the woman yet again and quickly hid behind an elaborate handkerchief.
Nathaniel stopped counting the iterations of the same idea produced by the young widow when the number became bigger than seven. His mind almost drifted away, but he caught himself just in time, nodded, and spoke his ‘of course’ with an unexpected softness for a man of his size.

She wanted a funeral, naturally, but on the cheaper side (so much for the great love the two shared), even though the quality of her mourning attire told the tale of extra funds. Nathaniel figured they were saved for the remaining living only, which was a shame. Normally he would push the widow towards a more… luxurious experience, but he felt generous that day and let himself be persuaded to save on extra extravagancy.

He saw the widow again much sooner than he had expected. Not on the day of the funeral, at least, but rather before that. He saw her on Friday, in a place he never expected her to see so very early: in Felix’s shop. And he did not very much like what he saw.
The visit itself was nothing much, one could guess, save for the fact that it could be perceived as obscene entertainment for a woman of her position. But no — there was more, for the inconsolable darling was all smiles, the loss of the ‘love of her life’ seemingly forgotten forever. Or at least for the time of her visit to the shop of one young, handsome Felix Forsythe. And no amount of London smog could hide the window front and the picture of her in it: gloveless, keeping her hands in Felix’s palm, giggling and batting eyelashes at the young man. And Felix was smiling too.

Nathaniel did not like that burning, deafening feeling that started boiling and brewing inside of him. He never liked it, never liked experiencing it, and yet, there was nothing he could do about that particular force of his inner nature. The indecency of the woman did not bother him. What bothered him was the fact that she was being indecent with his Felix.

He pondered briefly whether he should make his presence known or should he watch a little longer, passing seconds igniting the flame of his seething anger. His body acted quicker than his thought process, for several heartbeats later he was turning the handle — the bell above the door chiming with temporarily subdued urgency.

The widow rose to her feet so quickly that, had it not been for Nathaniel's predator-like observation of her every move, it could have appeared as though she had never sat in the customer chair at all. Gloves suddenly in her hands, she whispered “Mister Blackwood” and swiftly disappeared with another, more frantic chime of the bell.

Nathaniel turned to Felix slowly and, without saying any hellos, quethed heavily: “What was that about?”

[Jacob Smith]

“So, what do you see in my future?” Mrs Whittlock purred, holding out her hand.
Usually, Jacob avoided fortune-telling. It was a low business, lacking any variety or creativity. Essentially, everyone wanted the same: love and money — money to get love or love to bring money. Nevertheless, he did not turn down the offer to read a hand, for he also shared a simple human love for money, especially the easy kind. Who is he to deny a pretty face an opportunity to hear his least imaginative lies?

Mrs Whittlock was a rare sort of returning customer. She was delightful company, with an easy smile and vivid eyes. The recent loss of an older husband both terrified and relieved her. With her looks (and some funds to her name), she surely would not stay widowed for long if she desired. Gently holding Mrs Whittlock's hand, Jacob told her exactly that, although in a more sophisticated manner. The sun shall never set upon her, he promised, and Mrs Whittlock seemed to take that ludicrosity well. Her amiability meant a generous payout, so Jacob continued to spin his yarn.

His own fortune turned when a winter’s chill entered the room alongside a familiar tall figure. Mrs Whittlock got instantly flustered, grabbed her gloves, barely remembering to leave a few coins on the table, and promptly left the shop. Apparently, she didn’t want to be seen in the company of a warlock and a man of ill repute. Such an expedient retreat was understandable but humbling nonetheless.

Rattled by the loss of a customer, Jacob rose to his feet and met Nathaniel’s glare. Suddenly, a winter’s chill was not the only thing that ran down his spine. He would not survive this long if he couldn’t recognise hostility at a glance. Jacob froze.
“Is Mrs Whittlock a relative?” he asked warily, trying to perceive a source of Nathaniel’s ire. Before, Nathaniel didn’t seem to mind the way Jacob put the bread on the table. What changed now?
Just in case things go awry, Jacob took a step sideways to put a table between him and his sudden visitor. Caution was his middle name along with ‘a liar’ and ‘a bastard’. Alas, a staggering difference in size didn’t stack the odds in his favour.

[Nathaniel Blackwood]

“Do I look like Mrs Whittlock’s relative?” asked Nathaniel, uttering the words slowly, his gaze now monitoring Jacob’s emotions and body movements.

Now that the widow was out of sight, his anger subsided for a couple of brief moments, but only to remind Nathaniel that he was still fully clad in his winter attire. With slow deliberation he removed his hat first, then his gloves, and placed them on the table that separated Felix from him.

Felix, in turn, looked absolutely alarmed. That near-dread in his eyes had a strong potential to sober Blackwood up; but the moment was not good, and so all it managed to do was put more fire into his already burning suspicions. Why would one be alarmed if not guilty?

“No, she is a client. She was absolutely devastated when her husband died”, Blackwood’s voice was becoming more deep with each and every step he took while going round the table. In order not to waste time he was also unbuttoning his winter overcoat, eventually leaving the garment still stung with coldness on the nearest chair.
“You know, the husband we are yet to bury”, Nathaniel stopped in his tracks and put his hands on the back of the chair, his eyes watching Felix’s painfully handsome face. “Funny to see her so… imprudently happy in your company.”

[Jacob Smith]

Mrs Whittlock was not a relative; nevertheless, Nathaniel’s fists were itching. Alertly, Jacob observed how his visitor removed any garment that might restrict his swings and took a few more steps back until his back was against the wall. This tiny shop of his didn't have enough space for a retreat.

The last fight Jacob had happened ages ago when he was still a boy. Fighting was greatly discouraged on the school grounds, meaning they had to go beyond the fence to paint each other’s faces with dirt. But he retained a trick or two. The key to defeating a larger opponent, as he remembered, was to trip him up. A sudden punch to the gut might be a good start. Or a throw of a chandelier to the face. But never before had Jacob faced such a Goliath.

In his pained attempt to plan his first moves in the upcoming battle, Jacob completely missed a point of Nathaniel’s attack. What does all of this have to do with a funeral? In his confusion, Jacob stopped searching for an impromptu weapon and finally looked at Nathaniel.
“Wait. What is this all about?”
While he agreed that initiating a séance before the funeral was in poor taste, he was not going to judge Mrs Whittlock for it. She was paying him, after all. However, Nathaniel’s palpable reproach took him by surprise. Jacob expected a great many things from him — not all of them malicious, but a ‘holier than thou’ attitude was not on his list. This realisation made his blood boil, diminishing his fear and caution.

“Well, if you are not aware, for some reason, making people happy is how I keep this fine establishment afloat. The same way you keep yours by putting them under the ground. So what made you come here now to scare away my customers and criticise my methods? Sunday service?” Jacob challenged him, looking him straight in the eye, his words charged with indignation.

[Nathaniel Blackwood]

“Making people happy,” Nathaniel echoed with an astonished chuckle. “We all make our client-people happy, Felix, that is exactly what doing a good job means. Even putting people under the ground is something that can make them happy — relief and all, you know? What exactly we are doing to make those people happy is what matters. And no Sunday services have anything to do with any of it.”

Nathaniel let go of the back of the chair and made a motion to move a few steps closer to Felix, but checked himself and just glared at the young man instead, his heart still pounding heavily with fury and an enraging possibility of betrayal.

“Do your methods of work always include lewdness?” he asked after a brief pause.
And then a thought stung him: was it really all that it was between them, too — just an undesirable kind of work? That would explain a lot.
Nathaniel straightened his back and, despite his better intentions, moved and stood close to Felix at last.
“Oh, my dearest Felix, how I missed you! My ancient husband is dead at last! I’m yours to take” he said mockingly, taking Felix's hands in both of his and looking longingly into his eyes.
“Is that how you conduct your business here?” Nathaniel asked in his normal voice and let go of Felix’s hands, getting visibly angry again. “Now I see where your preferences lie.”

[Jacob Smith]

For the first time in a long while, Jacob was at a loss for words. He was used to spouting nonsense with a confident look, even when he had no idea what to say. But not today. Nathaniel put him on the back foot. So much for making the first trick move!

He observed a little performance with amusement and confusion. In fact, Nathaniel wasn’t that far from the truth. Mrs Whittlock did seem at ease in Jacob’s presence — just the way he intended it. He strived to make his customers relaxed enough to loosen their tongues. Trying to break through a sceptic's guard usually was not worth the effort. Comfort and a just pinch of excitement, on the other hand, made money flow into Jacob’s pocket.

“Lewdness?” he finally uttered. The idea was ludicrous. “What do you — wait, is that about the reading? I can hardly read a palm through a glove, can I? And what does it have to do with my preference anyway?”

Or was Nathaniel expecting a chaperone? He was older and a bit old-fashioned, but even he would not deny a widow, even a young one, her agency. Moreover, Jacob’s charm had limits. Pulling wool over the eyes of multiple women at the same time would be a much more challenging task, wouldn’t it? Surely, Nathaniel would recognise the wisdom of the old saying: divide and conquer!

If Sunday service or a concern for the widow had nothing to do with Nathaniel’s outburst, so what had? What made him change his mind after all this time? Was he so suddenly expecting Jacob to change his way? Jacob’s anger burned even brighter. Still, at a loss, he angrily poked Nathaniel’s chest with his finger.

“Why do you even care?! I do not storm your parlour to tell you how to conduct your business!”

[Nathaniel Blackwood]

Nathaniel could only roll his eyes in response to the palm-reading comment. He didn’t see any point in arguing this silly sentiment—they both knew it was only a cheap excuse, and pointing this out was frankly insulting to everyone involved.

He did, however, silently gasp at the finger gesture. Nathaniel looked down at the hand first, then looked straight into Felix’s eyes.
There was no remorse in them.
“I would like to see you try. In fact, you would probably thrive there, wouldn’t you? So many women-in-need to be touched! Or is it just Mrs Whittlock’s type that deserves the time of your days and nights?” said Nathaniel in a voice a little louder than was probably appropriate for a spirit-filled place, while still struggling to fight the conflicting feelings the poking finger was giving him. “But, believe me, you would never catch me touching widows inappropriately, as you just were.”
In actuality, Nathaniel was not at all sure he would have abstained, had he not been involved with Felix, but he liked to think he would.

And what did Felix mean by this “why do you even…”? The implication of the question was not kind to Nathaniel’s already rotten mood. He was stunned when the echo of the words finally reached his conscience.
“You mean to say I shouldn't care?” finally managed Blackwood, even though he was starting to suspect he didn’t want to hear the answer. What if he was still nothing but a job gone wrong? “Or that I don’t have the right to care?”

[Jacob Smith]

Nathaniel sounded so wounded that Jacob had to take a step back, restraining his anger, and have another good look at him. What exactly was he dealing with today? What made Nathaniel so fiercely enraged about the presence of women, widowed or otherwise? If Jacob did not know better, he might have thought he was dealing with a jealous husband! He encountered those before; it was never pleasant to happen in their line of fire. The thought was both ridiculous and chilling. Surely, this giant of a man could not feel threatened by a young widow?

“You are a very hard man to read, Mr Nathaniel Blackwood, I give you that. And reading people is my bread and butter.” Jacob said more calmly, shaking his head. “If you are not here to beat the living soul out of me, I suggest you take a seat.” With a pitiful creak, he moved a chair closer to his fearsome guest and made a welcoming gesture. He waited for a heartbeat before taking the other chair — long enough to make sure Nathaniel was not keen on punching him.

“How did I end up in this mess?” Jacob thought as he stared Nathaniel down. It was probably his fault for not crossing the Channel after their first encounter and continuing to lead this man on. Now, Nathaniel decided to put a claim on him, and only spirits knew what kind of warfare he might bring to fight off alleged trespassers on his territory the next time. However, Jacob still hoped to be wrong in his presumptions. He liked his shop a bit too much to flee London.

“I know you are not a huge theatre enthusiast,” Jacob started explaining patiently, “but when you see Romeo and Juliet tripping over their dead relatives to be together, their actors are not really in love, they just pretend to be. It is called acting. This is what I do at work. I act, however, for a much smaller audience. You just seemed a bit confused about it previously.”

[Nathaniel Blackwood]

Standing in the shop at that very moment, Blackwood did not want two things: to ‘beat the living soul out of Felix’, and to sit down. He was way too wired up to be taking any seats, but when Felix sat on a chair, Nathaniel reluctantly followed. It would only hurt his neck to stare down the man from this height.
He regretted his decision immediately, for in this lower position he could watch the whole scope of Felix’s performance from up close. The anger inside him became so strong that the heat it produced became almost palpable in the air around Blackwood. He nearly forgot how to breathe for a few strong moments, and he still had nothing nice to feel and say when he finally remembered the how-to.
To his own surprise, though, he remained seated, but that was probably just out of pure shock.
“Oh-h, ac-ting? Is that what you’ve been doing here? Do tell!” Nathaniel put on the most wide-eyed, naive, and innocent look he could possibly muster, and put his elbows on the table, resting his chin on the palms of his hands. “I’ve never heard of acting before, Mr Forsythe! Is this acting just a poor excuse for all things inappropriate that people do behind closed doors? Mmm?”

[Jacob Smith]

Never before had Jacob seen so much red on someone’s face as on Nathaniel’s at this very moment. Perpetual candlelight in the shop only deepened the impression. It was akin to an erupting volcano, with all its glow and searing heat. It was so full of fire and brimstone that Jacob half-expected Nathaniel’s hair to start smouldering. One moment, he was a man, another — an ifrit, but it happened so quickly, Jacob had no time to get scared.

Nathaniel turned out to be a worthy opponent in a sarcasm contest; he could hit a nerve with the cruel precision of a street surgeon. Among battling feelings within Jacob’s soul, fear, confusion, and amusement had to move over and give way to anger once more.
“Inappropriate?!” Jacob jumped to his feet, so he could tower over Nathaniel for a change and shrieked to his face with the brazen stupidity of someone poking his head into a raging volcano. His voice hit a pitch he had no idea he possessed. It hurt his throat, and he slumped back on the chair, coughing. “You have a guh— gall to… to tell me about th— things behind closed doors?!” he managed barely.

Jacob thought he had moved on from the whole mess of his first encounter with Nathaniel. But it was before this maelstrom of a human decided to stick his fingers in Jacob’s pie. Now, the echo of pain, shame and humiliation resurfaced and burned like a bile in his stomach. Nathaniel had a knack for forcing himself into someone’s life, didn’t he? Jacob wanted to scream at his infuriating visitor or maybe hit a thing or two for good measure, but unfortunately for him, he already knocked himself out.

It took a while for the cough to subdue and for his voice to return. Still clutching his throat, Jacob forced himself to speak: “Fine. You won. I may be a passable swindler, but I am new to being a whore. Could you at least tell me what you bloody want from me?”