"Tell me about yourself, Ms. Pear," said Huxley, as they sat around the fire.
Virginia Pear, much to her chagrin, failed to find proper shelter for all of the expedition's men. Huxley assured her that this was no problem and elected to set up their camp at the edge of the village, out of everyone's way. Just before dark, though, they were invited back into the village for the evening prayer and a shared supper, which they gladly took. Virginia herself led the prayer and organized the night's dinner, which exhausted Huxley just by watching. He found it especially curious that she was alone. There were no other missionaries in the village, no other white Europeans to share the work, only a handful of devoted native converts that followed her every instruction.
"There isn't much to tell, Mr. Huxley. You see me here? You see what I do? This is my life's work, the culmination of all my efforts. I joined the London Missionary Society at the age of nineteen."
"And you've been doing this all by yourself? It seems a bit lonesome, if you ask me."
"Perhaps now, but I wasn't always alone. When we were young, my husband and I were thrilled to go off to strange, new places and do God's work."
"You have a husband?" Huxley asked nervously.
"I did, once. Christophe was his name. Honestly, I never would have survived the trip if it had not been for him."
"Christophe? Am I to guess that he was the one responsible for the villagers' knowledge of the French language?"
"That's right."
"Ah, so what happened to him?"
"He died," she said, matter-of-factly. "Two years ago, he took ill with some fever from the jungle. When the first signs came upon him, he believed it was a disease spread by the mosquitos, and I'm inclined to believe him. He was a doctor, after all, and he usually understood these sorts of conditions. Unfortunately, he relented, feeling resigned to his fate. He was gone within a week."
"I'm sorry for your loss," he said sincerely.
"I've moved on since, and I've learned to accept it. Some things are simply beyond our control."
"So you're here by yourself?"
"Not quite. I like to think I've become a part of the village. The men and women here are my family now. I was a nurse back in London, and I've become the closest thing to a physician these people have had since Christophe passed away. You'd be surprised how much good one can do by simply applying bandages the correct way or sterilizing instruments to prevent the spread of infection. In a place like this, even the small things can save lives."
"How very noble of you."
"I do what I can, Mr. Huxley. What about yourself?"
Huxley prodded the fire with a long, dry stick and stared into the flames. He could feel the sweltering heat sting the flesh of his hand as he held it close to the fire. The smell of heavy smoke filled his nostrils and seeped down his throat, which would have choked him had he not been so accustomed to inhaling various types of smoke already.
"I'm but a hired hand, Ms. Pear. I've long been a fellow of the Royal Geographical Society, though my true talent lies not in exploration, but in art."
"Art? What sort of art?"
"Flora and fauna, mostly. While we do make maps, I'm no cartographer. We sketch our routes as best we can, but the result is often little more than a rough guide. I examine the native species of a particular area--study them closely, carefully, and I record my observations along with detailed paintings and illustrations."
"That sounds lovely."
"I assure you, it is. Remind me in the morning, once it's light, and I'll display some of my earlier work."
"Oh, I will, and what then? What do you do with your art?"
"As I hastily mentioned in our initial conversation, I make guides for the missions back home. Imagine knowing all of the plants and animals that existed here before you made that arduous journey. Imagine if you had already known what was safe to eat, and what should be avoided at all costs. Imagine if you could name every blossom or identify every predator lurking in the dark places. Imagine if you had known all the dangers, with the opportunity to plan everything well ahead of time."
Virginia smiled, and her teeth looked like pearls in the flickering fire light.
"In your own way, you do God's work, as well. Someone has to give a name to His creations, after all."
"Yes," said Huxley. "I suppose so."
"Well, then, Mr. Huxley, forgive me, but I must be going to bed. There will be a service at sunrise tomorrow morning, and your men are welcome to join us."
"Thank you, Ms. Pear. We may take you up on that offer. Oh, and speaking of beds, you aren't a nun, are you?"
"Pardon?"
"I mean to say: you aren't a member of some monastic order, are you?"
"No, just a simple missionary."
"So you haven't taken a vow of chastity or anything of the sort?" Huxley asked flippantly.
"Good night, Mr. Huxley," she sighed, a trace amount of disgust hanging from her words.
Virginia Pear, much to her chagrin, failed to find proper shelter for all of the expedition's men. Huxley assured her that this was no problem and elected to set up their camp at the edge of the village, out of everyone's way. Just before dark, though, they were invited back into the village for the evening prayer and a shared supper, which they gladly took. Virginia herself led the prayer and organized the night's dinner, which exhausted Huxley just by watching. He found it especially curious that she was alone. There were no other missionaries in the village, no other white Europeans to share the work, only a handful of devoted native converts that followed her every instruction.
"There isn't much to tell, Mr. Huxley. You see me here? You see what I do? This is my life's work, the culmination of all my efforts. I joined the London Missionary Society at the age of nineteen."
"And you've been doing this all by yourself? It seems a bit lonesome, if you ask me."
"Perhaps now, but I wasn't always alone. When we were young, my husband and I were thrilled to go off to strange, new places and do God's work."
"You have a husband?" Huxley asked nervously.
"I did, once. Christophe was his name. Honestly, I never would have survived the trip if it had not been for him."
"Christophe? Am I to guess that he was the one responsible for the villagers' knowledge of the French language?"
"That's right."
"Ah, so what happened to him?"
"He died," she said, matter-of-factly. "Two years ago, he took ill with some fever from the jungle. When the first signs came upon him, he believed it was a disease spread by the mosquitos, and I'm inclined to believe him. He was a doctor, after all, and he usually understood these sorts of conditions. Unfortunately, he relented, feeling resigned to his fate. He was gone within a week."
"I'm sorry for your loss," he said sincerely.
"I've moved on since, and I've learned to accept it. Some things are simply beyond our control."
"So you're here by yourself?"
"Not quite. I like to think I've become a part of the village. The men and women here are my family now. I was a nurse back in London, and I've become the closest thing to a physician these people have had since Christophe passed away. You'd be surprised how much good one can do by simply applying bandages the correct way or sterilizing instruments to prevent the spread of infection. In a place like this, even the small things can save lives."
"How very noble of you."
"I do what I can, Mr. Huxley. What about yourself?"
Huxley prodded the fire with a long, dry stick and stared into the flames. He could feel the sweltering heat sting the flesh of his hand as he held it close to the fire. The smell of heavy smoke filled his nostrils and seeped down his throat, which would have choked him had he not been so accustomed to inhaling various types of smoke already.
"I'm but a hired hand, Ms. Pear. I've long been a fellow of the Royal Geographical Society, though my true talent lies not in exploration, but in art."
"Art? What sort of art?"
"Flora and fauna, mostly. While we do make maps, I'm no cartographer. We sketch our routes as best we can, but the result is often little more than a rough guide. I examine the native species of a particular area--study them closely, carefully, and I record my observations along with detailed paintings and illustrations."
"That sounds lovely."
"I assure you, it is. Remind me in the morning, once it's light, and I'll display some of my earlier work."
"Oh, I will, and what then? What do you do with your art?"
"As I hastily mentioned in our initial conversation, I make guides for the missions back home. Imagine knowing all of the plants and animals that existed here before you made that arduous journey. Imagine if you had already known what was safe to eat, and what should be avoided at all costs. Imagine if you could name every blossom or identify every predator lurking in the dark places. Imagine if you had known all the dangers, with the opportunity to plan everything well ahead of time."
Virginia smiled, and her teeth looked like pearls in the flickering fire light.
"In your own way, you do God's work, as well. Someone has to give a name to His creations, after all."
"Yes," said Huxley. "I suppose so."
"Well, then, Mr. Huxley, forgive me, but I must be going to bed. There will be a service at sunrise tomorrow morning, and your men are welcome to join us."
"Thank you, Ms. Pear. We may take you up on that offer. Oh, and speaking of beds, you aren't a nun, are you?"
"Pardon?"
"I mean to say: you aren't a member of some monastic order, are you?"
"No, just a simple missionary."
"So you haven't taken a vow of chastity or anything of the sort?" Huxley asked flippantly.
"Good night, Mr. Huxley," she sighed, a trace amount of disgust hanging from her words.
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