Friday Fodder – Good or Bad?

Was it good or bad? Only time would tell. Three moments in a row, and in dangerous proximity.

The first moment had been out of Barry’s hands. He’d begun to close down the bar just before midnight when two dismissively apologetic patrons arrived. They demanded cheap ale and pulled up stools across from each other at a round wooden table.

Barry might have refused them entry if the fire in the hearth had already been extinguished. After serving the ale, he propped himself up on his elbows, the knife-edge of his gaze quietly mincing his guests. They didn’t seem to notice his chilling disposition. They were busy snapping at each other like scorned lovers, glancing over such topics as the waning plague and the unceasing rain causing the season’s disastrous harvest.

The second moment had stung like salt in the barkeep’s wound. The patronage were several pints down when the door once again swung open. An old man entered, using the sleeve of his dark cloak to wipe something from his lips. He relied heavily on a twisted pine walking stick, moving toward the bar like a leaf blown over the ground, trembling, folding, in fits and starts. The bar’s dim candlelight spread thinly across his face, deepening the lines of his furrowed brow. His bulbous nose whistled with each in and out-breath.

“Boy,” wheezed the old man. “Forgive me for the hour, but I must ask you a favour.”

“What’ll you have?” asked the barkeep, having missed the old man’s words, distracted by the others.

“Can you read and write?”

Barry paid closer attention to the tired old man across the bar. “Some. What do you need?”

The old man pulled a small sack from his cloak and set it on the counter. As he untied its thin leather knot, his fingers struggled to find a secure purchase. Eventually, the dark linen cloth dropped open to reveal the contents: a stained scroll of parchment, a quill, and a sealed ink flask.

“The time has come for me to produce my last will and testament. My affliction… well, you see my vessel crumbles by the hour, I’m afraid.”

“Perhaps a family member-”

“Gone, or dead… dead to me.”

Barry thought for a moment and then nodded sincerely, arranging the writing materials on the counter. He waited as the old man maneuvered his way up a stool.

“I, Jonathan Alfred Bassenthwaite, being of sound mind, draft this document as my official last will and testament. Here follows an exhaustive inventory of my earthly possessions, as well as my final decision as to their bequeathment. Item one….”

The barkeep was a faithful scribe as Bassenthwaite flatly stated his inventory from memory. It was an impressive feat – Barry wasn’t even sure he could name every style of liquor on the shelves behind him. However, the novelty soon faded as the list grew past the front side of the parchment. The old man turned out to be a very successful dairy farmer. To the barkeep’s dismay, he included the name of each cow, as well as several anecdotes about their respective personalities.

It was mindless work, handled subconsciously as the barkeep’s thoughts wandered back to the other two men in the bar. They’d grown louder and were each pitched forward, so close that they had to be exchanging breath. Daniel, the barkeep heard him called, was a dark curly-haired young man who could barely contain his seething anger. He lorded over his older, more timid associate, Father Clarke.

The men took several gulps of ale in wicked silence, the flickering candle between them painting their faces orange like the edges of a sunset. Daniel relaxed into his seat, disquietingly calm. His non-drinking hand fluttered around something silvery at his hip, and Barry felt an unseen force pressing on his temples… trouble was brewing.

Meanwhile, Bassenthwaite’s tone had shifted. He was done listing items. Now he spoke softly, almost dreamily, barely heard above the renewed argument across the room. Each word lingered on his cracked lips, as if taking a second to bid him farewell.

He announced, “All of my assets I leave in their entirety to my son… and there, yes there” he pointed, “you may write your own name.”

The barkeep froze in his writing and set down his quill. “I beg your pardon?”

At that very moment, Daniel stood and shoved the table toward Father Clarke. Their flagon pinwheeled through the air, spraying what little ale remained before crashing to the floor. The barkeep lurched around the bar to intervene, but the old man did not stir. Clarke backed slowly away from Daniel, who had drawn his dagger and was advancing with a sinister smile. The priest touched the tips of his fingers once to his forehead, his sternum, and each half of his chest.

“Out!” bellowed the white-knuckled barkeep to Daniel, stepping in front of Father Clarke.

Daniel pricked his thumb with the tip of his knife and exhaled. Then he pulled out a little coin purse and rifled through it.

“It’s on the house,” said Barry sternly.

“I can pay.”

“Just go.”

With that, Daniel was gone, leaving the door ajar in his wake.

Too late was the third moment; a sinking feeling in the barkeep’s stomach. Moonlight flooded the Southern window as Bassenthwaite’s stool tipped backward and slid out from under him. He fell onto his back peacefully, making no attempt to soften the blow. As he did, his arms opened out into the graceful posture of a crucifix. This pulled open his cloak, revealing a crimson stain around a V-shaped puncture wound in his chest. He lay there stone-cold and still, no longer the trembling mess he had been.

It was not an old, sick man who had walked into the bar, but a walking dead man.

Barry fell to his knees, his head spinning. Old Man Bassenthwaite had been attacked with a spade, or something similar. Times were tough and people were desperate, but why had he taken such pains to travel into town in his final moments? He’d called the barkeep his son. Was that possible? Barry checked the will, looking for clues. There, scribbled in as an aside to the inventory, was a name, Mary Rose. It had not given him pause before, but it did now: that was his late mother’s maiden name.

Minutes later, as the barkeep imbibed of his own ale, three new silhouettes appeared in the doorway. Barry covertly tucked Bassenthwaite’s will away under the bar.

“We’re just about to close up, gentlemen,” he said.

The one in front waved a hand and his companions hurried forward obediently. They dragged Bassenthwaite out into the night, leaving their leader alone in the bar with the barkeep and the now blubbering priest.

The man approached the bar. “Now, my father didn’t talk your ear off, did he? He can be so embarrassing the way he prattles on.” The younger Bassenthwaite let a hefty sack of coins down on the counter. His fingernails were framed by thin lines of congealed blood. He pulled the barkeep in by the shoulder.

Then, with grating arrogance, he said, “I believe this is a fair price for your discretion.”

Barry watched in silence as the man strutted away and slammed the door behind him.

“Father Clarke,” he called, unfurling Thwaite’s will on the counter and writing in his own name.

“Can I get a witness?”