CH. SIX
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The last job she had to keep herself busy with were The Bricknicks. They repair things. Builders built, they repair, and according to Gally's sloppy work, they have quite a lot to repair.
But it's boring, because The Keeper doesn't really speak except for telling her what to do... which was handing him all kinds of things. Just like she had to do with Gally.
"Hey, where are you going?!" The keeper yelps from his place up a ladder, where he's repairing something in the roof of The Homestead or whatever.
"Hell." Joan makes her way to the wood, where she steals a block wood, knife, and axe from the Builders. Walking back with the heavy stuff in her hands, she sits down on the same trunk and starts her work.
She cuts the wood in four pieces, taking one of them. That one, she start carving in. Once the shape, after at least half an hour, is to her liking, she steals sandpaper and scrubs it all over the wood.
"Explain what you're doing now?" The Keeper peeks at her work.
"What does it look like?" She holds the thing up. "Do we have rocks or anything?"
He sighs. "Over at the lake. Center of the woods."
And she vanishes again, carrying her tool with her in case someone decided to be funny and steal it. It's the start of a hammer. A better one, but she will somehow need to carve rocks in the right shape too, if she wants it to work.
On her way to the lake—the mossy smell telling her where to go—her eye catches something in the corner.
The Deadheads.
Nick.
Curious, she moves toward the weird statues that stand there. Made with branches and skulls, some kind of... animals? Whatever, it's creepy.
Below that, there's multiple names carved into multiple blocks of wood. A specific one catches her eye.
Let Nick be a message, no escaping through the box.
Her breaths stagger for a second, but she recovers fast and looks at the other names. Stephen, George, Justin.
A fast whoosh of air behind her makes her spin around, and her eyes wide.
Fire. It's everywhere. The trees are burning to the ground, the rotten smell of the corpses behind her makes her wince, and the sun's shooting flares at the area.
That's where it's coming from. The sun that had been so giant in the kitchen has now exploded, and everything's on fire.
It can't be real. Three seconds ago, everything was fine and— was it? She wasn't paying attention to see.
Eventually, she decides not to start yelling for help and walks back to the lake to collect a big stone.
The lake is beautiful, though. The trees around it haven't burned down. There's a few flowers and interesting green plants, and the water is clear. Perhaps she'll come here more often.
With a good rock in her hands, she also takes a few flowers and plants that give her a faint recognition... as if they're good for something. It itches her brain. Did she know more about all of this in the past?
Once she turns around, the fire is gone. Great, another hallucination.
But her happiness of finding all these supplies overtops the confusion, and she cheerfully returns to the Homestead. She stacks everything in front of her, then starts finishing off the hammer.
In the meanwhile, she gets another idea. But first, the hammer. It's finished after another half hour of struggling with the stone, and it's definitely not perfect.
Although... the grip is fine and it's heavy enough to slam a nail with. "Here." She hands the Keeper the tool. "Try this."
She doesn't care much about his confused reply and goes on with carving in the stone. A strong stick in a hole of the stone, then hammering on it with one of the dull hammers they had, so the stone breaks.
It does, into a perfect piece for her to use. She gets her sandpaper and starts working.
Two hours and dozens of sandpapers later, the middle of the stone is deeper. AKA, it has turned into a bowl.
The Keeper of the Bricknicks has already left for lunch, but she was too busy to follow him. Out of more stone, she makes a round tool. Beads of sweat run down her forehead from working, her arm aches, and her fingers are red from using all the sandpaper, but she continues.
When that's done, she puts her stuff down and takes her jacket off, hotness heaving her breaths. She takes a few seconds to calm down, then leaves her stuff to get some water.
"Hi," she breathes at Frypan, gulping for air before she speaks again. "Can I get some water? Oh, and also, do you have oil? I don't think you have jojoba oil, but maybe olive?"
He stares up and down at her. "Don't exhaust yourself too much, Greenie." Then he starts filling a bottle of water.
"I have a name now," she says. "It's Joan. I remembered— no, Gally actually remembered it but it's my name."
"Oh, really?" His eyebrows shoot up. "Gally remembered?"
"He randomly called me Joan, as if I already told him my name. So yeah, I guess." She takes the bottle of water, immediately pressing it to her forehead. A relieved sigh leaves her lips. "Olive oil?"
"On its way. What do you need it for?"
"Bare wrestling with monkeys." She takes the oil from him. "Thanks, Fry! See you at dinner."
And she vanishes before he can even ask about her crazy reply.
Joan collects every single thing she needs, which is the tools she made, the flowers, plants, and the oil. She tucks the bottle of water in her pocket, as far as it can go in, and makes a jog toward the edge of the woods. There's a giant flat stone there, and the sun has heated it up. Perfect.
She places the handmade bowl on top of the stone, hoping heat will morph into the mixture she's about to make. She takes the orange flowers she plucked. Calendula flowers.
The stone tool she made helps stamping the flowers in the bowl. She doesn't use her hammer, but keeps it here before someone lies about who the creator is. Slowly, she adds drops of oil into the bowl. Just a few.
Then it's a lot of stamping until there's only a few small pieces of flower left, the rest a thick liquid.
"Watcha doing?"
"Helping Clint and Jeff out with this," she murmurs at Camil. "You mind getting me a towel? A thin one. Need to squeeze the excess out."
"Girl, do you know how hard I worked to get here in this chair with all the heat?"
"Alright. I'll go myself. Watch my—"
"I'll go," he interrupts. "You continue with your witchcraft."
Rolling her eyes, Joan continues. Camil comes back after a while, a shirt in his hands. "This is thin," he shrugs.
"Is it your shirt? I don't wanna make anyone angry that I ruined their shirt."
"Eh. Nope, it's not mine. But gosh, don't let me wheel there again!" He wipes sweat off his forehead. "Just use it. Those stinkin' shanks won't even notice. Besides, Sloppers can wash it."
She pulls at the shirt. "They can't wash it if it's ripped."
Camil watches her take a big piece of the shirt, hold it above the empty bowl where the oil was in before, and pour the mixture of oil and flowers onto the shirt, squeezing so only the clean liquid drops into the bowl.
"What's it for? Hold up, you said it's to help Jeff and Clint. In what way?"
Joan chuckles lightly. "It'll be a cream they can put on bruises, abrasions, et cetera."
"Oh, nice." He nods approvingly. "How do you know about this recipe?"
"I don't. I just remember the flower has benefits and know oil has too. Not sure where this way of making it comes from." She shrugs a bit. It hurts her back, which is probably sunburned by now. "Also, look at my hammer! I made it, along with this bowl and the stamper."
"A mortar." He nods. "Cool, Joan. Perhaps they can give you a whole new job! The Gathering's tonight, after all. I'll have a word about your creations. If you'd like, at least."
A smile grows on her face. "Oh, god yes. They can improve all the building's with the tools I'll make, and people will heal quicker, and maybe I can help the kitchen, too."
"But," he says, "what if kids argue about just asking The Box for this?"
"I can make it in a day. The Box takes a week," she replies.
Sadly. She's getting impatient. It would be nice to get her clothes, period products, razor, and everything else.
"Good statement," he compliments. "And—"
"Is that my shirt?"
They both freeze. Then slowly, the duo looks up at a tall figure, who happens to wear a pissed off expression.
"Gally! What a lovely reunion here!" Camil holds out his arms, but Gally steps aside, clearly not fazed by the greeting.
"Camil, you dumb idiot," she hisses at the boy. "You took Gally's shirt?"
"I'm not the one who ripped it!" He peeps. He turns back to Gally. "But I'm sure you have multiple shirts. Besides, who says you even need shirts? Show 'em what building got you—"
Gally gives Camil a glare that makes him shut his mouth right away. "You ruined my shirt."
"No, only looks like it," she says. "Sorry that I ruined your shirt, alright? I didn't know it was yours and Camil assured everyone has enough shirts, so it wouldn't be a problem if one goes missing. I promise we won't—"
"Don't promise me a thing ever again," he fumes, as if she ever promised him anything before.
"Fine. I guess I will use your shirt again, then," she murmurs, slightly pissed he doesn't accept her apology while she really meant it. "Do you want it back?"
He stares at his shirt, which she's holding out at him with delightful eyes, then looks at Camil, who wheels a few inches back, and then at her. "No," he sneers. "Have fun with it."
"Sure I will." Her eyes narrow. "I'm making an oil with it. Maybe take some, it'll calm you down."
His jaw clenches. The anger that doesn't belong to her evolves, just like that, yet it feels slightly different today. She can't figure out what.
Then he angrily walks away, leaving Joan with some kind of satisfied feeling. She finally made him leave her alone.