Sat, May 19 2012
| TITLE: | The Morning After |
|---|---|
| AUTHOR: | Sherry Thornburg |
| CATEGORY/TYPE: | First Person Narrative Workshop |
| RATING/WARNINGS: | G, Gen |
| MAIN CHARACTERS: | |
| DESCRIPTION: | First Person Narrative Workshop |
| STATUS: | Complete |
| AUTHOR'S NOTES: | This is also a sneak peak post script to a story called The Hunted |
Morning. It had to be morning. Light was streaming into the room. My eyes aren’t open yet but I can perceive the light even through my closed eyelids.
‘Why can I perceive the light?’ I wonder as I lay quietly in the nice warm blankets. ‘I’m sure I closed the drapes over the window. I open my eyes to see the window not only uncovered but open. Both sunlight and the morning breeze were presently creeping into the room.
“That is irregular,” I say to myself. “I never leave a window open… And I didn’t last night.”
I slip out from under the covers; take the gun out of the top draw of my bed table and pad to the window to close it. Outside I find nothing, no persons in the backyard as I look about, only a few broken vines are left to say who might have climbed my thorny rose trellis to get to my bedroom. I shuddered then to think that someone had broken or had tried to break into my house while I slept. ‘Very bad from for the Master of England’s most elite spies to be taken by surprise in his own house,’ I think angrily. Of course, I had never been a spy myself. I direct, I supervise and I plan missions, but never have I been part of the work I oversee. Some consider that a downfall but I believe it gives me the distance necessary to handle such duties with objectivity.
I then look up at the dawning day finding that the morning is still very new. ‘I shouldn’t have awakened for another several hours yet,’ I think to myself. ‘The sound of the window opening must have been what did it. Had I frightened a morning thief away with my waking,’ I wondered?
I then turn to slip back into the warm bed to undo the damage the cold floor boards have done to my bare feet when I spy a box on the floor by the bed. And on the bed near the footboard, well away from my normal sleeping position on the top of the counterpane, I spy a pudding. It is small raisin pudding with the heavenly smell of warm rum sauce over the top of it sitting in a sliver-serving platter. It is just big enough for one person and my mouth waters eagerly for this unusual breakfast; but I hesitate to accept the gift a moment, wondering what it is doing here and how it came?
I also ask myself, ‘who would have braved the thorny trellis to bring it into my bedroom? It can’t have been too long ago.’ The sauce, as I mentioned earlier, is still warm. The smell of the rum sauce further permeates my sleepy mind with its inviting aroma. ‘That smell must have been what woke me from my slumber so early,’ I think coming more fully awake.
Now that the how of my wakefulness had been answered and why the window had been open, I think to wonder why someone would creep through my window at this early hour to leave me such a tasty present? I set the gun down in its drawer again and pick up the platter. Under it I find an envelope. I then carry both present and note to the bed table, set them down, and then slip back under the covers in a sitting position so I can read my note in comfort.
Inside I find a small missive written in a familiar hand. It says I quote:
Offered in gratitude. Enjoy
Rebecca
“Now here is something that doesn’t happen every day, a bachelor like me getting morning gifts from a beautiful lady,” I say to the room with a smile. It then occurs to me what this gift is for and what debt of gratitude the pudding has been given to pay. I then pick up the spoon lying on the platter to take my first bite.
Last night had been a long one for me. A prominent nobleman, who had become concerned for the life of a former agent, had called me from this very bed and into the streets of London. This former agent had never and is not presently under my authority, but the Earl insisted I take an instant care for his safety with all means at my disposal. The whys were never fully explained by the messenger, but details are often left for later when expediency is required.
I did my duty. I did indeed go to this former agent’s home with several other agents to see to his welfare. In the doing, I ended up saving the life of his servant, who had been alone in the house being attacked by a men bent on murder. After a quick interrogation, I discovered that the would be murderer had been sent by a prominent crime boss whose territory included parts of the waterfront. I speak of him in the past tense because said crime boss was killed last night.
‘A rather odd enemy for this former agent to cultivate,’ I think looking back on it. ‘International spies, yes. An angry Prussian General would not be considered amiss either. And even more expected might have been a few impoverished gaming partners, but a garden-variety criminal? There is a story here,’ I thought as I conducted the questioning.
With a bit of persuasion the henchman soon told me where to find his employer. I took that information and set up a raid. In that raid I ended up saving not only the hide the one I had been sent to protect, but also my most prized only female agent. Rebecca Fogg had been bound hand and foot being carried to her demise when I ordered my agents forward to raid the warehouse. Her relative we found bound and held on the floor at gunpoint in another area. A more completely helpless pair in a worse predicament one couldn’t imagine. But I did my duty. I saved the pair. I even sent them home in my own coach.
And for that I have been gifted this morning treat. As I polish off the last bite, I sit back against the headboard and sigh in contentment. ‘Not even a higher knighthood,’ I think, ‘could be so satisfying and welcome a reward.’
‘Well, maybe a higher knighthood.’
The End.
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