Need something fixed (Anselm)

Myshka stacked the parchment into the dusty old cupboard with a happy face. Someone had answered her plea for a handyman to fix her barrel. The metal casings on the edge had pulled away from the wood and the spickett needed repair. She found it in the cellar of the sanctuary and just couldn't throw it away. The aged wood would make the wines taste better anyway. The letter said he would arrive mid afternoon, so she set to work cooking up a lamb stew. She didn't have much gold, but she would pay him accordingly and even offer him dinner. Few could resist her cooking abilities!

Hours passed and she straightened up what she could, though her home was still an old abandoned sanctuary, and trying to make it look any less would take weeks. Her attire was appropriate for her personal home, though still quite modest. It was a cream linen, simple dress that covered everything up to her clavicle and down to her forearms. Her hair was pulled back gently and adorned with a sweet brown scarf. She wanted to appear comfortable and welcoming to anyone that appeared in her home. Being strict was something she could never pull off anyway!

Ticking, clicking, the sound of cogs turning, counter-weights swinging and the measured sounds of time's passing intertwined. Dozens of clocks, a multitude of watches and hundreds of other mechanical creations made their rhytmic sounds, intertwining and mingling until there was little more than a buzz, a constant throb of many machines. It was the sound of Anselm shop and workplace, a place of ordered anarchy, of ordered rows of cans of bolts, nuts, screws and tools, all hung up wherever there was space. Cogs, wheels, springs in rows inside drawers, seemingly scattered at random, but conforming to a pattern that seemed almost impossible to grasp. The old clockmaker understood it, of course. He knew where every part lay, how many of them were left...He could probably even tell you where the cog came from, how sturdy or weak it was, how well it'd work just by looking at it...And frequently would...

Anselm had largely locked himself away here for the past week or so, if his guess was correct, sleeping intermittently on the chair and eating whenever he didn't forget to...He had been trying to keep busy, to keep his mind away from the laboratory that was now locked and spotlessly clean...A far cry from the morning after his run-in with Joek and his crew. Not that the blood had disturbed him too much, nor the...devices the body of his attempted robber and murderer had been turned into during the run of his inspiration (Skinned, dissected and hooked up to a number of electric nodes, if you have to know), he had dug up bodies before and experimented on them...It was the fact he had killed the man before that. Anselm knew that the robber would have given no quarter either, that he was lucky to be alive...But he also knew that those were rationalizations of one moral fact. He had killed when it wasn't really necessary. Cold-blooded, calculated and callous murder...The fact he didn't feel guilty about it only made it worse...So he had buried himself in his real work, taking up as many jobs as he could, interacting with customers as best he was able...Just to keep his hands busy, his mind of things. He had to figure this out before it got worse...Preferably fast...His pale fingers danced like spiders on the inside of the clock he was working on, switching gears around, adding new ones and replacing the old...He thought best when his hands were busy...

Suddenly, a clock somewhere near the back of the shop went off, a small one, with a crystal peal. Anselm raised his head from his work with a start, getting up and walking over hurriedly. He only set the clocks when he needed to remember something. There was a piece of paper tied around the arm, he took it and unrolled it...The job at the old church. Completely forgotten about it. He'd taken it mostly as an excuse to keep busy, to interact with people...He ran a hand through his haggard hair...Still half an hour of time to get ready but...Better put on some clean clothes, wash up a bit...He bolted to the small, haphazard “kitchen” area of his workshop, putting on a pot of coffee before heading to the back of the house. A bucket of water really was all he had time for...The cold would wake him up too...

So it was half an hour later that the old clockmaker left his store, his hair and mustache still wet from the bucket of icy water he had poured over himself to get out the soap, a large bag of tools and materials slung across his rapidly put on working clothes. The circles under his eyes were a little darker and he moved a little more nervous than normal, his pace quick and his eyes low as he slipped between the early afternoon crowd like an excited eel...but he didn't look too worse for wear at least, considering how little he had slept. The job was something about a distillery keg or something, not his usual bread and butter, but really, it wasn't like anyone else was going to take it...Craftsmen usually were an insular, haughty lot, not content to dabble or do freebies...Anselm didn't really mind...Perhaps it would be good to do a little good right now. It'd make him feel less...filthy perhaps. He took the most direct route to the place, arriving just a few minutes after the clock he had repaired a week ago struck 2...The sound still sent a shiver across his spine. Anselm knocked, nervously straightening his hair and adjusting his glasses and coat as he waited for the door to open...

”Ehm, good afternoon...I'm here for the repairs...of the distillery equipment?” He asked, fidgeting with his bag a bit, offering up the little paper he had found posted on the notice board....

Myshka looked up quickly at the knocking on the huge double doors. The tapping would have been lost to the large space inside and the thick material of the surface it was being applied to, had she not been making a point to hear it in the first place. She took one more look around and grabbed hold of the old iron rings, pulling open the heavy doors to reveal a peculiar looking gentleman. Myshka smiled, "Yes! Thank you so much! You were the only one to answer my post. Please come in."

She led him down into the cellar reminding him to watch his step and watch his head. There was a board that she still managed to smack her head on a few times. Granted, she was probably several inches taller than the original tenants. Myshka ducked and brushed her arm forward, pointing to the rather large barrel in question. It was too heavy for her to carry, so it stayed downstairs. Her smile vanished when she noticed the door to her "special room" was wide open. Hurriedly, she moved over to it and pushed it closed, looking up at him with the smile again, "Sorry...when the door is open, it makes the room even colder." It was a lie. But figuratively speaking, the bloody streaks, bones, and destroyed furniture often did make everything a little colder.

Anselm wasn't sure what exactly he had been expecting, but the lady of the house wasn't it. Not being an extremely religious man, far more interested in science and mechanics to spend much thought on the metaphysical (aside from the occasional inspired foray into magic and the occult), so he was unfamiliar with most moderate cults and their practitioners. So, perhaps he had expected more severity, in line with certain more...Monastic orders...Or the exact opposite, given the rise of a number of pleasure...Excuse me, bacchanal cults. The lady that let him in fit neither of those ideals though, neither the strong severity and asceticism of a sister, or the...Passion of some of the ladies into these other cults...The thought made him blush slightly. He nodded slightly as she urged him in, keeping his eyes slightly downcast as she closed the door behind him. Anselm had noticed that she was rather...pretty and that made him even more nervous, for different reasons then before. He never had been comfortable around women, always managing to say the wrong thing at the wrong time, when he managed to say anything at all...And now that he was a lot older and quite honestly, a lost cause...There was a bit of shame to it...

”That's ah...a pity, ma'am...” He said in his typical, rusty-sounding voice, just above a whisper but seeming to echo through the old church. Anselm noticed that there was still quite some work to be done before this place was actually worth being called finished in his book...The glass needed some work, the walls could use a touch of paint here and there...A craftsman like him wasn't easily pleased with any kind of work...He followed her down the stairs, ducking and watching his step carefully as instructed, fiddling with a bit of tinder and some fire stones, trying to light the headlamp he usually wore when working at night. A small lantern with a complex set of lenses and mirrors...”It is a busy period for coopers, I suppose. The grain and grapes are growing quite ripe...” A weak attempt at conversation, mumbled more than said...

She pointed out the barrel...An old thing, by the looks of it. Anselm walked over, adjusting the light and peering at the construction. Quite solid still, salvageable...He pursed his lips, dropping his heavy satchel to the floor and starting to select materials and tools, looking up as the lady moved with surprising speed to close a certain door...Harder than usual. Anselm thought nothing of it, as usual blind to anything that didn't involve mechanics...But the lock on that door was surprisingly sturdy...Complex too, at least three bars in different places on the door...Plus a chain on the other end...Strangely, the lock was new too...He nodded as the priestess gave a slightly rushed explanation though. No reason to pry...Perhaps some relics or something in there...

”Of course...Cellars like these tend to be drafty...” He knelt next to the barrel, starting to tinker, carefully tightening the wood in some places...”So...What exactly are you going to distill? Maybe I can make some improvements...” Anselm's voice was beginning to sound a little louder, a little more certain as he began to work...Began to get absorbed by the little keg...It was simple, honest work...But he could spice it up a little...maybe just a tinge. To make it better...Helping was alright.

Myshka nodded at his acceptance of her excuse for shutting the door. She cocked her head and let her eyes wander in thought, "To be honest...I am not sure. I am new to distillery and...well...I learned to make sweet wine just recently. It isn't necessarily for worship purposes, so I imagine I would like to be able to make ciders and other kinds." She stopped and realized how that might sound coming from a holy woman and went on, "Not...that I partake in over-celebration or anything. I just like to learn, that is all." Myshka enjoyed the taste of alcohol but knew that she could not over-indulge, so it wasn't exactly a lie.

The girl picked a piece of cobweb from her head piece, "I have made some lamb stew. Would you like it now while you work? Or save it for when you can relax?" If he had other work to tend to after his job here, she wouldn't want to keep him too long.

Anselm knew a bit about distilling, about alcohol. Not much about brewing it, really, only the basics...And the way ethanol reacted to other stuff. Surprising stuff, alcohol, useful in a variety of means. A cheap ways of sterilization, an even cheaper one as an aenasthetic...And of course as a means to forget, to change perception, a psycho-active substance that could create dependency, relaxed behaviour or a variety of other states of mind. Hard to control, easy to come by. Made him wonder why it was so socially acceptable...Was that perhaps by reason of its disinfecting power? Interesting though....Sweet wines, ciders...Not his cup of tea. Anselm was a gin man, straight from the glass, down the throat, like his father and brothers. He didn't have much of a stomach for it, nor the physique to take a lot...But he did imbibe, once in a while, on his own time of course. He made a lousy drunk, the crying kind...Anselm didn't really care for those evenings, when he stared in his cups and the frustrations and tears seemed so much more unassailable than they already did...But it calmed him. A good cry, a feeling of...relaxedness...Perhaps that was what this one wanted to offer too...He nodded.

”So you want it versatile? No leftover tastes?” He could try and burn the barrel more thoroughly on the inside, then perhaps varnish it with that thick amber-like fluid he had found in pine. Glassing it with fire would give the barrel an almost porcelain interior, he surmised, allowing it to be quite easily cleaned...He selected his tools quickly. Then condensation was important so...Yes, steam there and a cold water pipe here...And some pressure valves. ”Ethanol, boils at a lower temperature then water...” He knew how he'd route some valves through the wood almost on instinct, adding what seemed like glass out of nowhere. Bits and bobs, metal, glass and wood, pots and other tidbits seemed to appear from his bag and utility belt, others from somewhere else...There was a haunted, obsessed look in his eyes as he worked frantically, preparing and starting with the basic work. Yes...Distillery. The smell of wood mixed with the memory of grapes, the ones he had grown organically from that sulphuric compost once...The ideas were there, again. A keg to make sweet wines? Ciders? He could make more, much more, better, improve...Stew? He looked up from his work, almost forgotten that she was still there, his eyes wide and wild before...reason reasserted itself...It had only been a minute or two, but already the barrel looked decidedly different...

”Oh...Oh thank you, but not right now...” He gave her a slight smile, a bit uncertain of himself. Few people had ever seen him work, he felt...Uncomfortable at it. But this was alright. She wouldn't be too...Judgmental. Religious people sometimes were that, but she seemed alright. ”When I'm done would be nice though...I've ehm...Forgotten eating a bit..”

His stomach chose that exact moment to loudly voice its discontent at this behaviour, causing Anselm to jump slightly, dropping the small screwdriver he'd been working with, clattering loudly ont he floor. He blushed....

Myshka stared in amazement as he worked. It was like his hands knew what they were doing on their own and his mind was busy figuring out what to do next. Handiwork was impressive to her. Throwing spices into a cauldron or a bowl while thinking of what to do next was about as far as she got with that. She nodded at his answer and smiled sadly at his admittance of forgetting to eat. It happened...it wasn't her place to scold him, and so she wouldn't. Myshka had forgotten a few times in the past month, and she was ashamed of it each time. Places people were struggling to feed their families and yet she didn't feed herself because she forgot. No time for sadness now, she had company!

She bent down and picked up the tool carefully before holding it back out for its master to take. Myshka couldn't help but offer a small grin. Not one of laughter at his hunger, but of comfort.

"When you are finished, you may come back upstairs for your food. I won't leer over your shoulder any longer. I have my own work to do! Please come get me if you need anything at all." She turned to leave but caught one last glance at her special door. It made a small gurgling and rumbling noise in her own stomach. It had been two weeks since her last outbreak. Was it two weeks? Could it have been longer? That made her nervous...she needed to kill something soon. The thought of warm, raw lamb made her stomach almost roar. Sheep then...she needed one of those. Myshka looked back Anselm and placed a hand over her stomach with a little laugh, "Um...I guess all this talk of food makes me hungry too! Hehe...I'll uh...I'll be upstairs." She turned once more and exited.