by C. Mahood
When we reached the inn we were greeted by the biggest and bustiest bar maid I had ever seen. Full of personality, charisma and curves.
“Oooooh a traveller I’ve not seen before! What brings you to the rebels rest then eh? Got yourself in trouble? Or looking to do just that?” She winked.
“A bit of both to be honest with you!” I said as we entered through the doors. The music and chatter was almost deafening inside. Everyone shouting over each other to be heard.
“What was that?” she shouted back.
“BOTH!” I replied. I had wrapped my shirt into a collar to keep Tessa close. The noise, hustle and bustle was making her uneasy and she tucked close to my legs. As we got to the bar the maid gestured to the three taps in front of her a red, black and blue handle on each.
“Beer, stout or ale love?”
“I need to ask you something!” Her face turned to the side, to point her ear towards me.
“I said, I need to ask you something!” I shouted louder. Still she could not make out what I was saying over the hustle and bustle of the establishment.
“What are you having?!” she shouted back at me. It was hopeless, I would never get any sense here now.
“Pint of the black stuff!” I shouted, pointing at the black handle. I know I was in a rush to find Sarah but no one is going to talk for free!
She poured a lovely pint with a beautiful head into a metal tankard. In true style she filled it two thirds of the way, letting the head settle and allowing the beer to settle. I pivoted on my heels to rest my elbows on the bar. Taking in all my surroundings. It’s something most people do the first time in a new bar. Order the drink, nod to those on either side of you, turn with your back to the bar as the drink is poured and then you assess what is around you. Scouting out the place, looking for spare seats, people you may know, people you may want to know, Checking for the toilets and the exits all that. Looking back now I don’t know why I was so shocked, Northland is a place where wonders come, and often the seemingly impossible is very logical. While looking around the bar I noticed all the notable characteristics, fireplace, wooden tables, cosy nooks and crannies, snugs and booths. The memorabilia and oddities behind the bar to look at and start conversations over. The kind of oddities that have been discussed many times before and everyone had a story involving them somehow. The kind of story that usually starts with “See that thing there? Well, my friend’s next door neighbour told me that…” There was one thing that took me at be surprise however.
Looking around at the people in the bar, scattered around from table to table and group to group, like obvious lumps in mashed potato, were people with faces of animals! It’s strange how such major things such as that come second to busty barmaids and alcohol! I asked myself how could I have walked from the doorway to the bar and not have noticed the three men with wolves’ heads standing two arm lengths down from me. Or the large bear that stood by the door, there was a group of four men smoking by the fireplace, the one poking the coal had the face of an eagle, his beak clamped down on a short pipe. How he saw through the smog I did not know but everyone was engaged in conversation and merriment. No one blinked an eyelid, or two. I made eye contact with a fox by the stairs, not the way I would have described it to my mates after a late Saturday session but an actual fox. Wearing what looked like a uniform and with a bag full of papers bursting from its seams. He, or she, I couldn’t tell, dossed its cap in my direction and made its way on towards the exit. I turned to ask the barmaid about twenty questions at once but was interrupted by the vision of the most beautiful black pint with a creamy white head dripping down the side. The world seemed to disappear into oblivion as my eyes followed the slow, thick drip down the side of the tankard. My eyes focused on it closer and closer, but that may have just been my face getting closer and closer until I snapped out of my daze, most likely when my nose touched the cold metal of the tankard. I snapped back to reality with a universally recognised phrase, the phrase that bring every transaction to its next stage.
“How much?” I asked. I reached down deep into my pockets. Just in that moment I realised I had no money. It was the material pocket this could feel the stitch to that gave it away really. Even if I had any coins it would have been sterling and not the currency used in Northland. I patted my pockets and looked up hopelessly.
“Oh, nice try.” The barmaid said as she lifted the pint back over to her side of the well varnished, thick oaken bar again. She must have seen my face flush red with embarrassment because she aimed her gaze towards the musicians. “If you have any rhythm you can sing for you supper, otherwise your more than welcome back when you have some coin to part with.”
Over by the musicians sat a bodhran, larger than one usually used in bars and pubs in Ireland. This one was much larger. I was sure it would have played the same. Maybe harder to hold and I would have to run my hand further and faster up and down the skin on the inside but surely the same idea. Luckily I had taught myself to play the bodhran a few years before. I had gone through an identity crisis of sorts. Being from Newtownards, the 12th of July celebrations were held there a few times. So marching loyalist bands were common. I didn’t like that music, or scene at all, I felt no connection to it or pride, despite being an Ards’ boy and brought up in a Presbyterian household. I preferred the skills played and the good feel around traditional Irish music. So as a drummer I felt the need to learn the bodhran! I was fascinated with pipe bands and the side drummers there. But that’s neither here or there. There was only a bodhran sitting by the corner nook of this tavern. Not a side drum.
I made my way over to the musicians. One played a fiddle. A large man, wearing a rather fine tweed suit. A little snug for him as his belly hung out under the shirt and the waistcoat he wore. Maybe the suit was bought years before because it looked worn and tattered. He had a large ginger moustache that rested and covered the butt end of the fiddle under his double chin. He had kind eyes however and invited me to his left hand side by looking at me, then down to the drum. Beside him was a very skinny man. Like a human stick insect. His skeletal form lent itself perfectly to the tiny tin whistle he held between his thin bluish lips on his grey stubble covered gaunt looking, long face. He wore a thin skinny, tight fitting shirt under a matching waistcoat. His trousers matched and had leather, unworn knee patches. This must have been for comfort as his long, twig like legs kept crossing and alternating between each song. He didn’t look up from the ground as I joined the trio. To his right again was another man playing the accordion. Much older than the other two. He wore an apron from what I could see. He was of average size and build apart from yet another large belly. His apron just about stretched over the front. He was holding and playing an accordion styled instrument. Two wooden handles with a leather spring interior. The sound was identical to an accordion we would know but when pushed it played a chorus or chord sound and when pulled played a single note. He had large boots on clean and as black as his pupils, shining his reflection in them as he played. He had a long grey beard and laughter lines behind his small circular spectacles that hung onto the tip of his nose like blades of grass on the lip of a cliff. He too smiled as I sat and stomped his foot to the jig they played. I picked up what I thought was a bodhran and held it as one. The three men looked at me with confusion. As if they had never seen anyone hold a drum like this. A murmur of amusement came from some of the patrons who had turned on their stools to view the newcomer. The busty worker behind the bar mimed an impression of me playing the drum on my knees like bongos. I felt that if I were to sing for my drink and more importantly gain favour, in turn aiding me to find information of my wife’s whereabouts. If I were to do that I would need to put on a show.
I looked around the table for something to use as a tipper. All I could find was metal cutlery. I looked some more for a beater or a tipper but nothing useful was on the table. As it turned out it was under it. I looked under the table to see Tessa chewing on a wooden spoon, or at least what
once resembled one. I puller the stick from her mouth and wiped it on my trousers. Both ends were a little jagged so I ground both ends hard against the stone floor. Rounding the ends off and getting rid of the splinters. Once it resembled a beater that I knew I raised it to the skin. The trio continued to play as I matched the rhythm of the accordion player’s foot to my own. After listening to a few bars of the tune I began to play. I kept is simple at first, just accompanying the jig with a ¾ time rhythm. I began to feel more confident and noticed more and more patrons turning towards us, stopping conversations in favour of listening to the tune. The melody was familiar. It over time turned into 4/4 time and reminded me of something I knew quite well. Continuing to play the band and myself were in great spirits. We played louder and faster! People began to get up and dance, swinging each other by the arms around the floor, lifting each other up, stomping feet and clapping hands. Over time pints began to appear on the table in the snug in front of us. I had successfully played for my supper but not actually sung for it, so, in true drunken reasoning, I began to sing.
My voice sailing high into the air and commanding the attention of all around.
The tune was more familiar now than ever. What resembled G chords, C and D. In the order I knew. G,C,G,D! I started the song singing and speeding the beat on the skin with “Must it take a life for hateful eyes…” Now if you recognise these opening words you’re a person of fine taste, if not you might be considered just as lucky because you can now discover for the first time the wonderful song that is `Drunken lullabies’ by `Flogging Molly.’ The tune and rhythm always strike well with a drunken crowd. The final lines shouted loud and proud are “Because we find ourselves in the same old mess, singing drunken lullabies!” This tavern was no different from the pubs and punk gigs in Belfast! The revellers sang loud, danced in a mosh of spilt beer sweat and laughter. This continued long into the night. Something magical happened, that often does after copious amounts of alcohol and good craic. My problems disappeared and were forgotten. For hours we played, slowing and slowing. I didn’t know very many traditional Irish songs, and would refuse to learn any rebel songs, so I sang what I knew would translate to the timings and setting I was in, `Shipping up to Boston’ by the Dropkick Murphys, `Wild Rover’ and the old favourite `Whiskey in the Jar.’ I have to tell you now. It was something else playing and singing these songs in a place they had never been heard before! Why stop there? So I led some strange traditional irish folk versions of Slipknot, Pantera, Nirvana, Soundgarden, Pearl Jam, Alice in chains and I have to say, hearing Slayer played on a bodhran is a thing of odd beauty. I felt like a rock star. Maybe it was the sense of pride, or the adrenalin that only musicians can understand, but most likely it was the booze. The night drew to a close, most had stumbled home or at least to somewhere to sleep. The barmaid and the man who was playing the accordion were sweeping and cleaning the tavern floor. Lifting tankards, wiping remains from the tables and sweeping under afterwards. There was a collection of scraps, bread, chipped potatoes, sausages and carrots put in a bowl and set in front of Tessa, who made very short work of licking it clean. Then proceeded to fall asleep once again under my chair. The last of us that remained around table were telling stories of each other’s’ wives, girlfriends and partners and laughing about people they knew around the villages. I nodded and laughed when appropriate but was sobering up at a quickening pace. The ale was thick but not as strong as you would assume. I suppose this is how they sell more, keep you drinking longer. It seems business and commerce prosper in Northland too.
We continued to talk until the barmaid and the man wearing the apron came and sat with us. During the conversation I had picked up the names as the evening progressed. Firstly there was the large burley fiddle player Boro. His jolly manner infected everyone and his deep chesty laugh was so contagious you couldn’t help but smile when entrapped in his aura. Beside him was Twathan. The skinny tin whistle player, people called him Twiggy for short though. An appropriate name if ever there was one. The barman and the older man with the beard and the apron was called Shaw, the barmaid was his daughter Bonnie. She was married to a guardsman in the local prison and he had to work several extra shifts, as many of the men from Renir had united with Sáann's army to march south. Meaning those left behind had to work double shifts to keep the prison guarded. In turn she had not seen very much of him in the last few weeks and pined for her sweetheart with every sentence. Once the act of flirty, easy and seductive barmaid had been dropped, the true, vulnerable and real Bonnie was visible. We spoke about the times and the regulars, who said what, who had done what and with who for a while longer until conversation had dried up. Along with our tankards. I had sobered enough now to open my mind once more. The reality of my situation came thundering back to me like a comet colliding with a mountain face. The gravity of it all stunned me. I felt weak with worry and dread. I needed to get on my feet and begin looking once more for my better half. The one person in this world that gives me hope, enjoyment, passion, deep unforgiving and unapologetic love.
“Thank you for such a truly warm welcome, a superb evening and conversation to soothe one’s soul but I must ask you all now to aid me with my true reason of being here.” I had made my way to my feet. My legs felt a lot weaker than I had expected. Like they had both decided to clock out for the evening, leaving me to look like someone on stilts for the first time. The lack of use over the past few hours and the copious amounts of alcohol will tend to do that to your balance. I steadied myself with the table, well more like propped myself up against it and continued to address my fellow musicians and listeners.
“I am a traveller and new to Northland. I have come from somewhere far from here. I am pursuing my wife who has no knowledge of this place. We were separated and brought here by what I can only describe as sorcery. I am familiar with the eastern counties of Northland, but no knowledge of the west. I am sure my wife travelled a similar road to me so I imagine she is in these lands. I ask only that you listen to her likeness as I describe her to you and recall if you have seen her?” I begged to them and began do describe Sarah’s perfect, soft features. Her light blue eyes with a dark ring around the colour part, that pulled you in and forced you to fall in love with her, the moment you looked into them. Her hair that was soft, long, blonde and fell through your fingers like silk. Her hands so soft and kind that a single touch of her skin felt as though it had the magic to heal any ailment. Mental or physical. Her voice that could fascinate you and hypnotise you when she spoke of anything. Her roman, goddess physique, angelic face and shield maiden height. On description I realised I had simply described the most perfect goddess to them. I did not think they would believe me from this description alone but it must have been the passion and longing in my voice. I was not hopeful however by the expressions on their faces. Bonnie explained that she recognised the faces of every person who dawned the doors of the Rebel’s Rest but no one to this description had come this far. After much discussion we reckoned that if she had been summoned to Northland the same way as me, she must have come the same direction. On knowledge that she is not the most sociable of people she would most likely have avoided the inn and stuck to the main road leading to Renir. I decided that both Tessa and I would head to the city and try to follow in her footsteps.
“Chris my boy, before you go please understand, Renir has a long history and it is a dangerous place. Betrayal and murder runs like blood through the stones that built the walls. You say you know much of Northland? Let me tell you the history or Renir and its warm throne.”
Tessa jumped from the ground to my lap. Her head resting on my shoulder and her eyes struggling to stay open but slowly getting tighter and tighter until they eventually close.
“I held a good rank among the greatest of this world’s spirits, I bathed in the light of the King himself, and often took seats in his company. I stood with them at every occasion from the most official and regal, to the most mundane and tedious.” Shaw began, proud a
nd reminiscing as he spoke. He made no eye contact but instead looked onward as he continued to speak.
“Now this was long before I put my time into this place, the Rebel’s Rest was only a dream of mine at the time. Anyway, as part of my duties as King’s guard I had been charged with keeping a specific record of their doings quite like a memorial, if you will. I kept parchments and scrolls of my companion’s lives and triumphs. Some of them are here, behind the bar in my quarters. This was under the personal order and ordination of the great King Falair himself.
I’ve seen the truth with my very own eyes, how his lady’s excellence is unparalleled and her beauty, second to none; men would laugh and try to deny this simple truth. I must implore you however, that you believe I have not, or would not, powder my words, or bend to the weight of power and riches that would seek to bury my truth under closely guarded dogma and throne ordered propaganda. This would not happen. I speak to you now as a simple man, an innkeeper, a free man, a man with marvels to share, and to the ignorant or foreign, marvels to reveal.” Shaw continued to stare forward, refusing to catch my gaze.
On that cue, he took breath and fell silent for a moment, waiting for an interjection of denial and jests from me or the other musicians who must have heard this well-rehearsed tale, many times before. When none came, his tale went further along.
“I had been there amongst the royals in the high seats, looking down upon their annual festivities. Great games that engulfed the hearts of all citizens of all races in Northland. You’ve all surely heard the stories of sweat, and blood shed for the entertainment of the crows? From small stables, meeting halls, town squares, fields and even in the King’s very own Pantheon on the eastern shore of the Troll Gap. Sitting amongst us were the figureheads of the most honoured houses and factions, wide-eyed and mouths wider still with drinks spilling from their chalices and slow cooked meat in their hands, glaring down upon the sand where the greatest knights, archers, and mercenaries gathered to claim fame and riches in exchange for the blood and defeat of their adversaries.