Page 7 of The Vampire's Thirst
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Her rickety door banged against the jamb.
“Hey, girl. You home?”
It was a familiar voice. “Ernest. I’m over here boiling a pot for tea. Can I get you a cup?”
“Sounds good. How ya been? Your dogs are going a little crazy out here. Something’s stirring them.” He slammed the door, scooting out a chair as he dropped a bulging plastic bag onto the floor beside it.
Chiara paused to listen. Sure enough. The animals were howling. Could be a coyote. Could be a field mouse. Victor, Boris, Ivan, and Peter didn’t care. No prey was too small. They loved to hunt. She turned to the whistling kettle. After extracting two cups from the cabinet, she returned one, replacing it with a bigger mug. Plunking a tea bag in each, she poured in the hot water. Afterward, she carried them to the table. “Help yourself to the sugar and cream. You know where everything is, Ernest.”
As always, her neighbor stirred one teaspoon of sugar along with a dash of milk into his tea. He sipped it, aahing before he leaned back in the chair. “Hits the spot. Best drink around.”
“It’s store-bought chamomile. Anyone can make it.”
“Better made by your hands.”
Chiara angled her head toward the bag on the floor. “Laundry?” Since several of her neighbors were without power to their cabins, she took in their dirty clothes. The extra income helped.
Ernest slid his gnarled hands onto the table, his knuckles swollen from arthritis. His leathered, mottled skin told the story of a man who labored outdoors most of his hard life. Now he suffered the cruelty of the wear-and-tear disease, his deformed fingers frozen into painful jagged forms which he wrapped around his cup to enjoy another taste.
Ernest must be in so much pain. I could… No. I can’t.
“Are you here for your oil?” It was the best she could do.
“Yep. It’s time again. I’ve been using it a lot lately. Ran out.” He patted one jacket pocket and then the other, reaching into the last one to extract an empty bottle which he handed to Chiara.
After she set her teacup down, her chair scraped along the linoleum flooring. From the pantry, she called out, “I’m going to have to find more wild mint in the woods come spring. Though the oil’s getting low, I have enough to last the winter.”
“If you need any help, I can send the grandson along.”
Ernest always tried to put Chiara together with the young man. She appreciated the thought but ruled out all relationships. “No, thank you. Besides, its growing season is over.”
“You are alone, girl.”
“I have four unruly wolfhounds. I don’t need a guy.”
The dogs yelped and howled louder.
“I’ll be on my way.” He pocketed the oil, almost dropping it when his fingers struggled to grip it tightly. “You’ve got some critters to settle. Maybe they’re hungry.”
“Maybe.”
Ernest stared as if he delved into her soul. “What’s wrong, girl?”
“I don’t know. Life’s so complicated.”
“You never should have given me the remedy for indigestion. Then I wouldn’t have spread word of your miracle cures.”
She nodded.
A few years ago, she shared an herbal concoction with Ernest to help his indigestion. Afterward, he sent a hiker limping onto her front porch, bruised from a fall. She administered arnica, known for helping painful contusions. When a visitor complained of congestion a week later, she offered him horseradish root. A client suggested she place a donation box near the door. Eventually, people crowded into Chiara’s peaceful life, disturbing her self-imposed isolation.
“But let’s put the blame where it belongs. You forage for plants to make your own pantry pharmacy, increasing your supply year after year. What’s that say?”
“I’m my own worst enemy?”
Laughter rumbled from Ernest’s chest when he made his way out, dropping a few bills into her box. “You need to set prices for your remedies. People should pay for your efforts.”
