by T K Foster
There was a certain familiarity to the scene Billy thought.
Four (five) companions happen upon town one dark and stormy night. The grizzled old guard stands at the gate and looks them up and down.
“Who are ye, comin’ into town at this late hand?” sez ‘e, “What business ye be havin’ ‘ere?”
“We are simple travellers in search of lodging for the night,” sez the first companion, “Our business is ours alone.”
The guard grunts and rubs his hand across the stubble on his forehead, sez ‘e, “Strange ‘appenin’s been afoot ‘ere lately.”
“We just wants a warm meal and a bed for the night is all,” the first companion reaffirms.
Again the guard grunts before he points a stained finger toward the centre of town.
“Ye’ll find what ye be needin’ at the Caterin’ Burro,” ‘e sez, “ask for Bland, ‘e’s the owner, ‘e’ll look after ye.”
So through the mud to the Cantering Burro they sloshed. Indeed, the mud was so muddy that at one juncture, where the road was narrow and sloped into a shallow gully for effectively good drainage, except during rainy periods, poor wee Briar unwittingly managed to sink down so far as to his knees, which to anyone over three feet tall wasn’t very deep at all, and lose his left boot to the sloppy, slushy, sucking road. Of course, once free and terribly sodden, he dived right back in there with his hands and was able to retrieve the lost boot only after several attempts at fighting suction and gravity. By the finish, happy as a pig in mud just didn’t ring true.
“Will you stop playing around Briar and get a move on,” Barret’s voice called from somewhere in the thick of the rain.
None of them had heard of the Cantering Burro, not because they abstained from frequenting the local taverns at all, but the town itself didn’t appear familiar; even to Barret who made a living from peddling his trinkets in many of them.
Point of interest – Barret was what those on the plain would describe as an old, or odd-wares merchant, dealing mostly in strange and often one-off items; anything from and in-between the simple carrion flute, a noisy instrument made from the hollowed out bones of dead things, to the far less accessible red candle he had once sold to a grey bearded chap who subsequently was never heard from nor seen again. Many things were made from metal and one could assume would be handy in the kitchen, other things were stone and ornamental. Jewellery fetched the highest prices though, and everything was unique to his business; a point he had once raised with his supplier and received a confusing and stupid answer to.
They were a duet of father and son, Brock and Barry; they looked altogether human through Barret’s eyes, and refreshingly familiar in a landscape inhabited by the oddest of odd creatures. They came and they went, they supplied and then vanished. They were elusive. Rumour had it they were fugitives; or so according to his good friend Ballders the burro man, they were thieves, and very good ones at that.
As for the Cantering Burro, it was close now, situated on a corner of the muddy streets, wooden in structure with a slanting and slightly crooked roof over a dry verandah. From its windows emanated a warm and welcoming glow, and the heady aroma of beetroot cider in the air bit at their nostrils.
“How splendid,” Rod said. His small nose twitched from beneath the collar of Barret’s jacket on Cetra’s shoulder where he had taken refuge much earlier that day at the onset of rain.
The step up to the verandah was short and solid, a welcome thud as opposed to a sloppy slush. Positioned at irregular intervals around its perimeter were mud laden strips of metal embedded into the wood itself. Assuming these were for scraping the mud from their boots they proceeded to scrape the mud from their boots upon them before entering into the warmth of the tavern.
This very warmth immediately engulfed them in an atmosphere of cider, chatter, laughter and cider; it gave them all a rugged sense of kinship to one another, of having made the day’s journey and ended it, weary and torn, hungry and parched, wanting for little more than a warm meal, a refreshing drink, a hot bath, maybe a good massage, a comfortable pillow to lay their heads, and their own company.
The very tall and stocky man at the bar looked down upon them and grinned, “Welcome young lads and lass,” he boomed over the din, “My word, ye all look beat.”
“Indeed, kind sir,” Briar squealed from below and sort of jumped awkwardly on the spot to get a better look.
The man craned over the bar and spoke loudly again, “Whose wee yelp is that?”
“I’m Briar, and I’m no wee yelp.”
“Of course yer not,” the man ventured, “I can see that now. My apologies to ye young feisty fellow. Now, what can I do for ye all on this here cold and damp night?”
“Would you be Bland?” Barret asked and fidgeted his weight from one leg to the other.
“Actually young fellow,” the man said with a grin, “I consider myself quite on the interesting side.” He extended a big hairless hand to be shaken, “The name’s Brand. Ye must have met up with Bollard at the gate; drunken old coot he is. Bet he told ye there was strange ‘appenin’s afoot ‘ere too.”
Barret nodded.
“Ugh, he’s full of rubbish, always standing out there rain or shine, trying to put the scare into anyone and everyone.”
Brand was a big man. Re-establishing the fact that Brand was a big man and quite capable of being his own bouncer, he placed his two big hands on the top of the bar and said in a low, guttural voice, “What’ll it be, young friends?”
“Good sir,” Barret announced in his self-appointed-spokesman-for-the-party voice, “we are after a hearty meal and lodging for the night.”
“And a bath would be lovely too,” Billy said, raising his hand as if needing permission to speak.
Brand grinned again and spread his arms open wide, “Ye are cold and wet, and slightly soiled at that. Welcome to my establishment. Welcome to the Cantering Burro. Me and the missus will well look after ye.”
They were served piping hot duckenbroth from a large pot hanging above the red embers inside an imposing stone fireplace; it had been simmering since before sunset. Two round loaves of crusty brown bread accompanied it with a wooden bowl filled with chunks of goats’ milk butter to spread. It was all very delicious. Four steins of beetroot cider were placed before them and Briar was the first to grab for one. He drank it down fast, and then slammed the container hard onto the table and belched.
Rod emerged completely from his collar hideaway and descended Cetra’s arm to the rough surface of the table where he smiled at her and licked his teeth.
“Oh, Rod, I am very sorry,” she said, “You must be hungry too.”
She ladled the broth out in her spoon and placed it on the table like a little bowl, then ripped off a palm sized chunk of bread to go with it. Rod was delighted.
“Should I be drinking this?” Billy asked, cringing at the stein filled with beetroot cider and considering whether his mum and dad would approve or not.
Barret clucked his tongue and broadened his Irish accent, “An leanbh beag,” he said and then laughed, “Try it, it’s full of iron.”
With a slow hand Billy reached for the potent red beverage and lifted it to his lips. Its smell was earthy and sweet, like beetroot and honey. In fact, it tasted good, bitey, but very good. Although he wouldn’t drink it all, two more gulps and he slid it across to Briar, who caught it, winked, and kept it for after.
“The missus and me,” Brand said, rejoining them, “well, the missus, is drawing ye a hot bath in yer room upstairs. Should be ready shortly.”
“Splendid my good man,” Rod spoke through a spattering of bread crumbs.
Brand looked at the small rodent on his table.
“Ah,” he said, “a wee desert mouse. Long ways from home aren’t ye me furry fellow?”
“Indeed, a journeyman I’ve become with these interesting folk.”
“Good for the spirit, travelling is. Done it myself before starting the Burro and taking up with the missus.”
<
br /> “And a keen establishment you’ve made for yourselves I must compliment.”
“We both thank ye kindly,” Brand said before diverting the conversation, “But I must ask, and I don’t mean to appear rude by doing so, but how old have you reached by now?”
It was a fact known to only a few that the humble desert mouse was capable of sustaining life for many hands, living by his wits and his will to survive against all adversity just on that thin threshold of a chance that something interesting may happen along and so whisk him away on the journey of a lifetime. Thus, for a species who do not live by true family units and whose males are all essentially wandering bachelors, Rod’s answer of 11,384 days was consistent with such longevity, and therefore scored a “well done” from Brand and a “good one” from the table nearest their left.
During such time as said conversation was taking place, and having finished her meal in its entirety, Cetra politely excused herself from the table.
As well, adjacent to a second and far less than grand fireplace compared to the big one used for cooking, a trio of musicians had gathered to sit and play. Their sound was lively and Celtic to Billy’s ears, with instruments not dissimilar to a violin, a banjo, and a guitar; all appeared to be made of timber and were very basic in design and decoration.
That said, the Burro was filled with good cheer; indeed, its cup did runneth over.
Though despite all this merriment, Barret was none too happy with such a sight as he beheld going on near to the large doorway at the far end of the bar.
It was a big fella that leaned with his hand against the wall and one leg casually crossed behind the other; his broad shoulders dominated a smallish head with a face that was wrinkled and stub-nosed and bordered on both sides by pointy, but droopy lobed ears.
Between this behemoth and the wall was Cetra, and she appeared to be trapped by her own naive politeness.
Barret felt his Irish blood boil.
He stood to his feet and scraped the chair on the floor behind him. He waded his way through patrons to the far end of the bar. He did not take his gaze from the big fella’s back.
For one fleeting moment Cetra was able to catch Barret’s eye before he was completely obscured behind the big fella’s bulk.
Barret stopped and tapped the big fella on the shoulder.
He was a big fella.
“Hey, big fella,” Barret growled confidently and stood his ground, “the lady’s with me.”
Big fella turned around languidly and looked Barret up and down. “Who are ye,” he laughed, “to be thinkin’ she’d be hookin’ up with a topey turd like ye?”
Barret tensed ready to go.
“Name’s Barret the Irishman, and if I’m set to be ripping your ears off I’d at least think it partly polite to hear what name you go by.”
Big fella’s head flinched, his eye winked, and he cracked his neck.
“Spanner,” he spat, “dealer of pain.... in all.... manner.”
“I knew someone called Spanner once,” Barret chided, “he was a real tool.”
“What ye say?” Spanner fired.
“I said,” Barret said, “I’m telling you to leave the lady alone.”
“Leave the lady alone, ye say?”
“Right... leave the lady alone. Are you deaf?”
“What?”
“I thought so.”
What ensued was a short pause, during such time as Spanner huffed and collected his thoughts. Once having collected his thoughts he then exploded.
“I’m gonna rip yer head off ye topey head.... ripped.... off.”
Finally, Barret thought.
Still tensed ready to go and his Irish blood burning through his veins, Barret raised his fists ready for the fight. “Come on wing nut,” he taunted, “have your go.”
But before any knuckles could be swapped, or blood be spilled, a commanding voice rumbled across the tavern floor. It rattled steins and shook the walls, it quelled lanterns and silenced patrons, it completely threw the musicians out of tune. It was Brand, and he was bouncing.
“Take it outside boys,” he said.
Such was his dominance and influence within the community that he demanded the attention of everyone, even more so when he announced that all bets were on.
“All bets are on,” someone else cried from within the crowd.
It was enough to excite.
So much that the doors were held open and the two men were escorted out to the muddy road, encouraged by the wagers set for’n’agin them both.
Thankfully it had stopped raining.
As for the others?
Rod hitched a ride with Billy, and he and Briar now stood at the front of the crowd positioned on the verandah, watching as their good friend Barret and his very big opponent were encircled by a cheering mob of spectators.
“My money’s on Barret,” Billy yelled over the noise.
“What’s money?” Briar asked, breaking his chant of fight fight fight from the rest of the crowd.
“Money...! You buy things with it.... You pay for dinner with it.”
“Yeah?” Briar said, “Nope, we use gold for that.”
Billy gaped.
“You’d bet on Barret?” Briar said surprised, “Why on Bradley would you do that?”
“Because he’s got the advantage.”
“How do you think?”
“He’s Irish.”
Cetra, on the other hand, had gone in a completely different direction. Knowing that men had to be men and that fighting was just one of many excuses men had to exalt their manliness; putting aside the idea that it was all to do with keeping a woman’s honour intact, which it wasn’t, that was simply an excuse – like having to scull the three steins of beetroot cider placed before you on the table just because you were dared to – she decided to separate herself from the ruckus and retire to their room where she met with the missus, who had just finished drawing their bath.
“Hello the missus,” was her greeting, “I am Cetra.”
The woman looked up from steaming water and wiped her hands on the apron around her waist. “Cetra is it?” she smiled between ruddy cheeks, “Name’s Beth. Well pleased to meet ye young lass.”
“They are fighting downstairs,” Cetra commented.
“Oh they are? Good for the bonding it is, the men make new friends that way.”
Beth was a sturdy woman, not large by any account, and certainly not skinny or timid looking, but big boned and muscular and somewhat attractive for a publican’s missus, if that meant anything at all.
“Well,” she said, “I’m sure ye’ll be wanting to get yerself cleaned up now. Once yer all done with just rinse the mud off yer boots in the same water and leave them by the fire. I’ll sort the bath out in the day.”
“Thank you Beth, you are very kind.”
“If ye be needing anything else just let me know.”
Then she was gone, and Cetra settled into the first bath.
Meanwhile the fight downstairs proceeded.
Although Barret was no match in weight, he was confident in his speed and agility. Spanner was big and slow.... and dumb. Sure he could probably wrestle a medium sized Hump to the ground, but if Barret kept away from that hold he was sure capable of knocking him to the mud.
Yes.... the mud.
Spanner’s fists were hard and heavy. It was the bulk behind them though that posed the biggest threat, for the fists themselves were slow and inaccurate, and when they swung through the air they had a difficult time making contact with Barret’s head which, to Spanner’s growing frustration, continued to duck and weave.
In the same tense, during those moments of ducking, Barret was able to shoot a couple of punches into the big fella’s lower stomach, producing little effect, but when he weaved he found the opening to sink a few hefty lefts in just under the ribcage on Spanner’s side, causing him to gasp heavily and wince.
Barret figured he could go on this way forever, wait it out for the big f
ella to tire and collapse through exhaustion, but where was the fun in that?
For a moment, just out of interest, he dropped his guard.
Spanner saw the opportunity and struck out, hitting Barret squarely on the left side of his face and sending him deep into the mud.
The cheers that followed rang into the night as a couple of diehard Barret fans entered the ring to help him out of the mud and back into the game.
Billy and Briar booed Spanner from their balcony seats and Rod screamed encouragement to Barret whilst sparring with the air on Billy’s shoulder. They were caught up in the crowd, indulging themselves in the jostling and all the oohing and aahing, not having given a single thought to their female companion and her whereabouts.... what was her name again? Cetra?
Lucky for some, but unlucky for most on the betting board, Barret came to his feet again with nary a scratch. No blood in the mud, no news of a bruise, he was cocky for all to see.
Cocky that is, though not necessarily brave.
He was smart enough to get a few more punches in to the body, he was lucky enough to hook a powerful left to the big fella’s jaw; he was cocky enough to clap his hands and cheer for the home team. He was so caught up in himself that he failed to see the two consecutive hits that would send him back into the mud.
The first one went to the stomach. Hard and heavy and driven by muscles as strong as a Humps; it stole the wind from him and made him gasp as his body doubled in two.
With his boots stuck in the mud he was able to keep his ground, but that left him open for another.
The second one went to the chin. It was an uppercut that sent him flying backwards through the air to land once again embedded in the soggy road. This time Barret was down for good, out for the count, silenced for two hands. It was long enough to render the fight over and Spanner the victor. Cheers were sung and winnings were exchanged, and soon the crowd began to disperse.
Barret pulled himself from the mud and sat upright, gazed at Billy and Briar as they slopped their way toward him.
“Great fight,” Briar called out.
“Good one Barret,” Billy agreed, “You ok?”
“Yeah,” he said, but looked away at the big fella who was moving toward him now and the large open hand that was extending his way.
Barret smiled and laughed as he was hoisted up out of the mud. No words were exchanged at this time; they shook hands, eyed each other respectfully, and then separated. It was a great moment.
“So how much did you win pig-boy?” Barret said to Briar.
“Huh?” Billy said.
“Well you didn’t think he was going to bet on me did you?”
“I would have.”
“And you would’ve lost. But Briar didn’t. Come on pig-face, nice win or what?”
“Very nice,” Briar admitted coyly.
“Good,” Barret said, “You can pay for the beds.”
CHAPTER THIRTY TWO