How to Confuse a Madman

[catch]

Catch clutched the paper to him like a life, and only until it began to unravel in tattered snarls between his fingers, from the effort it took to pry it away, did Catch allow the girl to coerce him, to pull his trembling arms down until his frightened, tear-bright eyes were forced to look upon her. His eyes waver, but they are caught by her red-rimmed own, even as a fish is caught on a line; they jig, and they dance, but they are held by the one who owns the pole.

"I can f-fix it," he mouths more than whispers. She needed his help? Who would need Catch's help? Helping meant giving things, and Catch was already on edge from Miss Genny's hair being all knocked away.

[Tolleson]

How does one keep from confusing a madman? Shaking her head softly in reply, the hair now too short to sway so noticeably with the movement. How he could fix -this- she would be interested to learn, but not tonight.

“This hair is like the feathers in your hat, it doesn’t hurt if they fall off... ...nothing is wrong" But that wasn’t quite true was it. All the same she was trying to calm him down, Catch had been doing so well too. While she had his eyes, fidgeting, fighting and struggling as they were she would try to impress the importance of her next words before releasing whatever was left of his precious poster. “Please don’t tell anyone.”

That was one way he could help, surely. Probably a lot safer than having him help her wipe up the blood or treat the cut on her head, which is what she retreated then to do. A tentative step back was taken as she picked up the hair, shook it free and set in on the dresser. A few inches away was the washrag lounging on the egde of the basin and pitcher. Dunked, wrung, and placed on her head she dared not leave her back to Catch, worried as she was of his already fragile mind crumbling further.

[catch]

Catch hadn't wanted to contemplate the feathers falling from his hat. It was another horror that she, unwittingly, unleashed on him, yet he could not blame her in the least. He did not thrust himself at her, but huddled back near her bed, watching her with wide eyes, the ruins of the poster held up to his mouth, his lips feeling every crumple, every thread. His eyes did the same, watching Miss Genny place a compress on her head. A head distressingly void of hair.

"I-I-I'm g-good at kuh, keeping promises," he ventures timidly, uncertain of what would fall off next. A nose? Eyes? Fingers? How could she make pies without all those things? He looks down to the poster again, and splays his delicate fingers over the printed drawing. He still didn't know why she cried, and he was too frightened that she may lose another important piece if he asked.

[Tolleson]

Sometimes the eyes of a person told their entire story. For a criminal, guilt or lies, shadows danced behind shady glances. In the eyes of a child one might see want or shame, regret, and fear. Catch was hardly a child, though she looked to him now as if he were - searching for some way to simplify an explanation or reassure him. It had never worked before, a blush or flour, even her flame hair.

“I-I can get you a new ..drawing,” resigning herself to the fact that Catch would probably not be any more comforted. Lowering the cloth the blood was already browning, she’d stopped bleeding. A few harsher scrubs and her hair, the hair on her head, would be nearly clean. Setting the cloth down she’d find a small, handheld mirror atop the dresser and exchange the cloth for it to inspect her work.

[catch]

"A-are there many?" he asks, and his eyes wander to whee the pile of papers had fell. It was a polite question only, but it did niggle in his brain, growing into a little worm that curled in his tongue. "Why d-did they make so much? -s it b-because he had such a handsome hat?"

Now, that was a thought. And as Catch looked down at the torn artist's visualization, he suddenly felt a pang of jealousy, an emotion he has been feeling far, far too much lately, and it made him scowl. Why, his hats were twice as nice. Why was he not on papers?

[Tolleson]

“There are. Hundreds maybe,” pre-occupied as he was she ventured slowly to take a seat nearby on the bed, a fresh compress held on her head. Nothing else falling off, at least for now. Such a handsome hat, it was probably stolen too. “No,” she peered over at the poster, the rendering was a bad resemblance, though they’d got the hat right and his hair. Hers was quite similar, identical except that it was a mess and contained bits of dried blood.

Taking note of Catch’s sudden turn to a jealous mood she would frown, “He’s a thief... and a bad man. They want ... they made so many so people will recognize him.” Her tone was almost scolding, angry, but not at Catch. If anything the last thing she wanted was to see his face on one such poster. “If you want to show off your hats... perhaps Mr. Burnie... Ser Glenn will draw you,” she smiled trying to forget or cover up her anger, the idea of the map-maker drawing a portrait of Catch was amusing enough.

[catch]

"He takes things without trading?" Catch was trying to understand, his brow drooping even further down over his eyes. He has heard the word 'thief' before, and the more he looked at the picture, the less he wanted one of his own. Why, he always made certain to leave things in trade. He even left things when he took treasures from rubbish-piles, because he could not understand why anyone would want to throw away such valuable things, and figured it was a test, of sorts. Or a trap. He was careful to not spring them. every time.


"I d-don't want my picture," he says, firmly, his jealousy gone all at once. Why, this man was nothing but a thief! "I'm n-not a bad man." Just like that he crumples the paper between his large hands, and his eyes drift up to see the frightening absence of hair, shorn short just as his curls had been. "... why did your hair fall out?"

[Tolleson]

She'd nod in a positive answer to his question about trading in an effort to keep from sounding too angry. "You're a good man Catch," absolutely certain of her statement her smile didn't falter. Though it would have been very amusing to have Glenn draw the mad man with a hat, or many. Catch did have an impressive collection of hats, she’d seem them. Sometimes all at once, stacked directly atop one another and paraded proudly about the tavern below. “A hair hat!” Struck suddenly with the most ingenious way to describe the wig to Catch she just blurted it out. How cleaver she was thinking herself, especially because to him it probably had looked like she’d taken off a piece of her head. "It didn't fall out, I cut it and made it into a hat so I can wear pretty hair," that wasn't exactly how it had happened, but it was, ironically, the truth. "I just thought .. was worried I had hurt my head," patting the floppy compress atop her somewhat matted, damp hair.

A sympathetic but happier look was offered to Catch hoping this silly explanation might leave him to worry less. Her face entirely out of sorts to pull off the expression as she’d intended hopefully he understood her meaning. With how much she had been crying, surely she looked an unhappy mess.

[catch]

Catch listened carefully to her explanation, and Miss Genny may have been relieved to see the way he relaxed, his muscles unwinding one-by-one, until he was just as jovial as he had been before her hair poured out. Better, in fact. She had said he was a good man, and he almost didn't hear about her hair-hats. It was intriguing, and he thought a moment about it.

"D-do the hairs go all the way down to your brains?" he asks, still crumpling the paper between his fingers, but now from excitement rather than contempt. "Maybe o-one of the horses will lend me theirs!"

[Tolleson]

Watching his muscles ease was a great comfort, she too seemed to physically relax at the sight of it. He was recovered and for the time so had she; her fears or worries, whatever had made her cry had been forgotten, for the most part. Thats was friends did after all, whether or not he knew it Catch was, in fact, a very good friend. Removing the cloth from her head it seemed that the cut had given up all the blood it needed. Thankfully she'd wear her longer hair to the ball so no one would find fault with the girl who by all rights ought to have been covered head to toe in bruises, bandages, and scars. Not to mention she had no intention of possibly seeing James looking like a bumbling boy.

Despite the eased tensions she still found some of Catch's statements quite peculiar. "I don't think they go down that far," she was almost laughing then, imagining the man with a full head of hair from a pony's tail. The texture just wasn't quite right.

"Perhaps, but you will have to be careful... people might not recognize you," she was, after all, speaking from experience.

[catch]

It was very much like the skins, wasn't it? That had been such a silly thought of his, and dangerous, thinking that he could disguise himself using skins. He had thought he could just put the skins and the person back together again, but he knew now that he would not have been able to. So he thought through his plan, bearded chin jutting and eyes narrowed, and finally shook his head.

"I d-don't want to snatch them bald," he tells her, rather reluctantly. He could certainly have used his own hair, with curls down to his waist, but it had been matted and filthy, and they had thrown it out when his head had been shorn. Wouldn't a horse's mane be grand, though? Maybe then he'd have the courage to ride a horse, as he's seen nearly everyone do.

[Tolleson]

"That is very considerate, the other horses might not think him so pretty if you took his hair," after all, she had used her own hair. Would it be thieving to take someone's or even something's hair? She wasn't entirely sure if Catch made a distinction between people an animals, he'd been so worried about poor Lady Cluck after all. Though he seemed to have been forgotten since, or at least, Genny hadn't brought her up. Though her ladyship had placed in the chicken coop in the small garden behind the Dagger with specific instructions not to be slaughtered. And as far as a pie-maker could tell, she was as happy as a clam. Though definitely a chicken.

How strange is was that sometimes Catch could frighten her with how curious and odd he was, but most of the time she felt as she did now, comfortable. So utterly trusting was this dirty, sweat and tear covered girl that her glassy eyes for all the worry were still placated and serene in his presence. He had done that, perhaps with intention but probably without knowing. The towel holding hand slid off her head as her arm dropped to her side and she laid back on the bed, her feet firmly on the floor, legs bent, so that from her knees up she reclined. Wisps of coppery red fluttered about her ears until landing gently and releasing an invisible puff of cinnamon, vanilla, and sweat; the scents of the pie-making trapped in what remained of her hair. Meanwhile the damp, deep auburn and ruddy black clumps flopped down, reaching for the opposing edge of the bed. Her height was such that once flattened out on the blankets, her hair did nearly fall off the other edge. Had this been any other man she would not have been so trusting, guarded even around James.

Air strung her eyes as she stared at the old beams that held the ceiling up, "Catch, do you think... I mean... if I knew who that thief was. Do you think I should tell Mr. Burnie?" She had forgotten to say Ser Glenn but surely he knew who she meant. Then again, if he had been anyone else all the details may have added up by now.

Conflict and contemplation rested heavily upon her, almost physically as her chest struggled in the rise and fall of deep breaths meant to keep her calm. On the one hand there was the consideration she had for her brother, to report him and have him caught would mean prison, exile, perhaps even death - she didn't fully know the extent of his crimes so for as much as she could read in a book, it would be impossible to tell what his punishment might be. Considerations also had to be made for herself, if he was caught without her help they would come to know who he was and surely accuse her of harboring a criminal. What were the other options? She did trust Burnie, but less and less so in the last few weeks as she came to question his sensibilities and the moral turpitude of which at least a handful had insinuated.

[catch]

Catch watched her, stretched on her bed, a gangle-tall girl-boy that sprawled horizontal across her sweet-smelling bedding. It smelled like pies. Carefully, cautiously, as if he knew she were relaxed and not wanting her to yell, or hit, or chase her from her rightful territory, Catch sidled to the far side of her, and crept onto the vanilla-crisp sheets. He did not invade her space; for such a big man, he could curl into the tightest of balls, with only his head, the rise of his great, humped shoulders, and the slope of his back apparently visible, arms and legs tucked under. Like a loyal dog, he lay at the foot of her bed, watching her with his curly-bearded chin making a wrinkle on the sheets, a similar wrinkle spreading across his maimed forehead.

"... Ser Glenn," he said, and she would know then that Catch knew who she spoke of. "He is so very strict. He might d-do something very terrible." Like whippings, or worse. Maybe he would tear his tongue out, like he had said to Ser Descant? "But it's n-not very good to hide thieves, s-so I've been told. Then they come through and nick everybody with glass knives 'til they tell."

[Tolleson]

"Strict?" Repeated as a rhetorical question, she seemed to be searching faint shadows and distant memories in her own mind, trying to find a time when Glenn was strict. Had she been too isolated in the Dagger? The map-maker Glenn, the Mr. Burnie she knew didn't seem that strict. Sarcastic, blunt, intelligent even to the point of being manipulative, but cruel? He had changed though, hadn't he. That strange, ever present smile. With an eyebrow raised she would turn to face him, her hair too short, too light to lie properly as gravity would like and so it simply stuck up. Green eyes rimmed in pink and red searched Catch's face, as he snuggled up on the bed. If she disapproved she did not express it, seeming as relaxed and as comfortable as before. "I suppose you're right..." But she had no idea what he meant about glass knives.

"But I'm not hiding him," lest he get the wrong idea, she tried to smile. But the weight of these troubles was rather like an oncoming storm, barely noticed until the dark clouds released their burdens, her heart inundated and suffocating in a sea of conflicting worries and cares. This time her eyes did not water against the heavy, sinking pain in her chest. Maybe she wouldn't tell after all, either way they'd keep her too. Glass knives didn't sound pleasant and she didn't want to find out whether or not Catch was speaking riddles or realities.

[catch]

"Yes. Very strict. He p-put silver on the Dreamlady when he needn't to. I told him she was Wild." Catch still felt that old uncertainty, torn between the wolf-woman and Ser Glenn, who had told him so many things and helped a creeping, skinny thing that he had been, purely from the good of his heart. But that had been before he'd gone down the maggot-holes. When Ser Glenn had come up again, he said things that made Catch's head hurt. Made the worms squirm uncomfortably.

The addled man shifted, freeing a long arm to pat, very gently, at Genny's upturned knee. "You are good. You d-don't make pies out of bones, or other horrible th-things. And your hair is just a hat. B-but you wouldn't help a bad man." He knew her quite well, did Catch. When he was done with his comforts, he'd shyly draw his hand away, tucking it again underneath his body.