The Samhain Chronicles

The boy sat in the corner of the room, huddled and sniffling. He trembled with cold and fear, as he had no idea where he was or how he got there. There were two women and a man in a long white coat who often came into the room and tried to talk to him, but he couldn't understand what they were saying. Once or twice the women tried to touch him or move him to the bed across the room, offering him food or a warm blanket. He didn't trust any of them though and didn't like being touched, especially not after the man in the white coat tried to poke him in the arm with something long and sharp. It hurt a lot and scared him terribly, so he'd scrambled away from the man and hid in the corner. He'd been there ever since, pressed close to the wall and screeching like a wounded feral animal at anyone who drew near. The last time he'd seen them felt so long ago now...but then again, his concept of time seemed a bit skewed. How long had he been in this strange place anyway? Hours? Days? Weeks? He couldn't say for sure. His stomach hurt, and his skin itched and prickled badly all over, particularly so on his back just below his neck. He scratched the spot, then whimpered as his fingernails raking over his skin triggered a flare of pain.

Suddenly the door to the room opened again, and a man he had never seen before strode in. He was short and wiry, with a full auburn beard frosted with patches of white. His thinning hair and slight paunch around his middle were indicitive of his age, and yet his vibrant emerald eyes sparkled with a kind, youthful gleam. His eyes crinkled with a smile as he set his brown leather satchel on the floor and knelt down a few paces away from the boy. "Hello, there," he murmured.

The boy gasped in surprise, relieved to hear words he understood but still incredibly cautious of the stranger all the same. "H-Hullo," he mumbled back timidly.

The kind stranger reached into his forest green blazer and pulled out a handkerchief, then offered it to the boy with a small grin, "Here; dry those tears now, Son. Everything's alright." The boy let out a small squeak and recoiled at the man's sudden movement, which earned a soft, comforting shush. "Easy now," the stranger murmured, holding up his other hand palm-side out reassuringly, "you have nothing to fear. All is well."

The boy blinked slowly, soothed by the man's words and warm tone of voice. "All... All is well," he repeated softly, then hesitantly took the handkerchief and dried his eyes obediently.

The man's smile widened a little and he nodded, "That's right, Lad. I've been wanting to meet you for a while now. They've told me so much about you, and yet everything about you is still a mystery." He scooted a little bit closer, causing the boy to give an involuntary little flinch, but the boy found he was more curious than afraid. For some reason, this man was different than the other people he'd seen recently. He didn't know why, but he trusted this man implicitly after knowing him for only a handful of minutes. The man reached out and took the boy's hand, then very gently stroked the pale pink fresh scars on his arm. "These marks..." he muttered pensively, "...they're quite unusual. Can you tell me how you got them?"

The boy began tearing up again, squirming at the man's touch. The gentle brush was soothing, but at the same time it felt as if a colony of fire ants began crawling under his skin. "I... I dunno," he whimpered, pulling his arm back to fulfill the intense urge to scratch it. "Th-They burn," he sniffled, looking pleadingly up at the man, "C-Can ye make it stop? Please?!"

The man nodded and opened his satchel, "I can try. Let me see what I have here." After rummaging around in the bag for a few minutes, he produced a small jar of ointment that seemed almost to shimmer for a moment, and a small linen satchet of herbs. The boy watched transfixed as the man slathered his arms with the ointment and sprinkled the herbs on top, then covered up the concoction with several layers of gauze bandages. The burning and itching stopped within a few minutes, replaced by a pleasantly cool sensation that seemed to radiate all throughout his body.

"Th-Thank ye," the boy sniffed, rubbing the gauze on his arms curiously, "How... How did ye do that? Are ye a wizard?"

The man let out a short, wheezy laugh and shook his head, "Dear me, what a fantastic notion! No, Dear Boy, I am most certainly not." He gave the jar a little shake before putting it back in his bag, "It was just a bit of aloe, coconut extract and oat butter along with a tiny bit of thyme and witch hazel. Works wonders, or so my forebears believed."

The boy nodded, feeling a bit embarrassed by his ridiculous question, "I see. So... ye're a healer, then?"

The man pursed his bearded lips and nodded, "I suppose you could say that. To be more specific, I'm a doctor; however, my specialties lie in healing the mind instead of the body." He extended a hand cordially with a grin, "Dr. Horace Wilson, at your service...although, you may call me 'Horace', or just 'Doctor' is fine."

Very hesitantly, the boy reached out and accepted the handshake, "Alright... Doctor... It's very nice to meet ye."

Dr. Horace chuckled, "The feeling is mutual, my Dear Boy. May I have the honor of knowing your name, now?"

The boy's grey eyes lowered to his knees, moving back and forth rapidly as he searched his memory. Surely, he had to have a name. After all, it would be ridiculous for a boy of his age not to have a name. How old was he, again? Twelve? Thirteen? He couldn't seem to recall. In fact, he couldn't seem to recall anything about himself before that nice man and lady found him walking along the highway... A swell of panic filled his narrow chest as he suddenly found it hard to breathe, and fresh tears began spilling down his cheeks. "I...I c-cannae remember," he sobbed, burying his face in Dr. Horace's handkerchief, "Please... all I want is to go home! Can ye help me?! I need to go home!!"

Dr. Horace shushed him comfortingly again and pulled the boy into a hug, "Of course, Lad; just tell me where your home is, and I will be glad to return you there. Am I correct in assuming you live up North, as your accent suggests?" The boy paused his snuffling to think, but no matter how hard he thought, he couldn't remember anything about his home except that he needed to return. Someone was waiting for him...but who? When the boy spent too much time thinking and forgot to answer, Dr. Horace rubbed his shoulders gently, "What about your parents? Do you have a mother and father? Even just a surname is enough to start my search."

The boy held his head, which had begun hurting quite badly the harder he thought, "I dunno... I cannae remember anything! Dr. Horace... Who am I?!"

The kindly doctor held the boy's face gently in his long, thin hands and dried his tears with his thumbs. "You are a very brave young man," he stated, "that much is clear to me. I will help you, Son, if you'll allow me to. I've already spoken to the other doctors here, and am prepared to care for you in my own home for the forseeable future."

The boy blinked in awe and astonishment, overwhelmed by Dr. Horace's kindness, but there was a tiny part of him that still held reservations. "Why?" he asked, "Ye don't e'en know me. Why are ye being so nice?"

Dr. Horace moved his hands from the boy's face to his shoulders and gave them a knead, his emerald eyes filled with warmth and concern, "Because...that's what I do, Lad. I'm a doctor, and it's my duty - and my passion - to help those who need it. My home isn't much, I'll admit, but it's definitely better than this drafty old hospital. If you don't wish to go, however, then I shan't make you. The choice is yours, Son."

The boy thought about it long and hard for a while, weighing his options. Dr. Horace was a stranger, but he genuinely seemed like he wanted to help. The other adults he'd seen appeared to desire the same thing, however he couldn't understand them and there was an aura around Dr. Horace that he felt inexplicably drawn to. "Alright," he nodded shyly, "I'll go. Thank ye...Dr. Horace."

Dr. Horace smiled widely at the boy's declaration, "I'm glad to hear it! But, if I shall be helping you, I'll need to call you something, yes?" He stuck his hand into his trouser pocket and pulled it back out a moment later with a long, fine chain between his fingertips. He caught the round silver pendant hanging from the chain with his other hand and held it out to the boy in his palm.

"You were found wearing this," he explained, his eyes sparkling with intrigue, "Do you know what it is?" The boy shook his head, picking it up to examine it. Dr. Horace pointed to the face engraved in the silver disk, "It's a mediallion; this is a picture of a very holy man who died long ago. He's the patron saint of courage, strength...and captives." Dr. Horace looped the long chain over the boy's head gently, and smiled, "His name was Daniel... St. Daniel. That's a very good name, don't you think?" The boy folded his lips in pensively, then slowly turned the medallion over. On the back was an engraving, a single word which he had to squint at to see clearly. Dr. Horace glanced at the engraving and hummed with intrigue, "What's that? I didn't notice that before. Looks like a name. Can you read it?"

The boy crinkled up his face in concentration as he slowly sounded out every syllable, "Mmm... Mac...doo...gall... Is that right?"

Dr. Horace chuckled and nodded, "Sounds right to me. That's a very good name, too. Would you like it to be yours?"

The boy smiled for the first time that he could remember and nodded, "Daniel... MacDougal... aye, I like that name."

* * *

"Daniel... Daniel, can you hear me?"

Danny was brought out of the pleasant memory by a warm, familiar voice, and Dr. Horace's lined, worried face came into view above him. "Unnh..." he groaned, blinking to clear his blurred vision further, "D-Dr. Horace...? Is... Is it time to get up already...? But I'm so tired still... Five more minutes, please..."

Dr. Horace slapped Danny's face lightly, helping knock off more of the cobwebs clouding his brain. "Daniel, pay attention, please," the doctor said sharply, "I need you to focus! Listen to my voice, Daniel, and do as I say. You've overdosed on your medication; do you remember?"

A foggy memory floated to the surface of the Phantom tormenting him; it was telling him to hurt Penelope...and said something about a boar... Or, was it a bull? Possibly both. Danny felt himself start drifting off again until Dr. Horace's sharp voice brought him back to the present. "Overdose," Danny mumbled, nodding affirmatively to Dr. Horace's question, "Feel sick..."

"As you should," Dr. Horace scowled, then began rifling through the bag he carried. In fifteen years, he'd never gotten a new one, which was both endearing and a little frustrating to Danny. The old satchel was practically falling apart, but whenever he tried to buy Dr. Horace a new one it was returned every time. Eventually he gave up, thinking the bag must have some kind of sentimental value to the old psychologist. After a moment or two, Dr. Horace produced a tin thermos and poured a cup of liquid out of it. It had the consistency of a heavy syrup (or maybe motor oil was a closer comparison), and was a deep, inky black when Dr. Horace poured it out. When the cup was held under Danny's nose however it looked closer to a very dark green instead of black, and smelled strongly of licorice and grass. "Drink," he was ordered, and he obediently took a sip. The potion was exceedingly vile, making Danny gag the instant it touched his tongue. It tasted of strong herbs and a used barbecue pit, with a few turpentine notes on the finish. He wanted to spit it out, but Dr. Horace held the cup firmly to his lips. "Drink, Daniel," he ordered again, a bit more firmly, "I know it tastes horrible, but it really does help." Against his instincts, Danny finished off the whole cup, then flopped back onto the bed with a groan. Dr. Horace put the thermos away quickly then and rushed to the kitchenette, coming back a handful of moments later with the waste bin in hand. Whatever was in the potion seemed to have done its job, as within minutes Danny's stomach was voided and his head was starting to clear.

He spat into the bin in vain to try and flush the taste of bile from his tongue, then looked up as Dr. Horace offered him another cup. "Wh-What is that?" he asked apprehensively, not exactly eager to try yet another revolting concoction.

"Herbal tea," the doctor sighed, "for your nerves. Helps with stomach cramps as well. Drink up."

Danny relaxed as he took the cup, humming softly at the pleasant flavor of honey and ginseng. "Thank ye," he murmured, then fluffed his unkempt white locks as he studied the pitch dark sky outside his balcony door, "How long was I out?"

Dr. Horace pulled over Danny's desk chair beside the bed and sat in it backwards, "Not long; an hour or two at the most. Your young lady friend was very quick about calling me. She seemed very afraid for you."

Danny's eyes widened with shock and worry as his memory returned in razor sharp focus, and he was then painfully aware of Penelope's absence, "Is she alright? Where is she?! Can I see her?"

Dr. Horace placed a hand on Danny's chest as he tried to sit up and pushed him gently yet firmly back onto the bed. "She is not what I am concerned about right now," Dr. Horace frowned, his expression stern but caring, "I need you to explain to me exactly what happened, Daniel. Tell me everything, and don't leave out a single detail."