Inn-keeper now raises his head from his papers as the boatswain begins to snore louder. But he will not take any action unless other customers give a sign, or should the tavern become crowded. I pack my parchments and tools, express my gratitude to the keeper and leave the smoke and chatter of 'Joseph&Quill'. Once outside, I pick a tiny bell from my pocket and ring; the resulting tinkle can hardly be told from the yelling wind; nevertheless there is sudden commotion and in no time there races a team with black beasts followed by small carriage driven by one of those black-clad servants in his cloak, who convey travelers betwixt here and Dutreath, never giving up their grin:
”So, Meester, ye done with yer affairs, eh? Shall I take you to the places of the living and ye tell me a fresh yarn?” he queries with croaking voice.
”Nay, Tom. I am bent to a good walk along Dutreath, if you please.”
The hideous-looking servant croaks a short laugh:
”Why, Meester, ye'll catch yer death in this weather! But hop in and let the dark scapes swallow us.”
I rest in my thoughts as my repugnant driver whips the horses forward along the rocky road, built ages ago perhaps for first tin miners and traders, whose towering buildings litter the coastline. The wind slashes across my face bringing the smell of salty sea onto my nostrils, which presents a welcomed exchange to the singular smell of fish emitting from the figure of servant in front of me. The last extent of small woods swallows us for a moment. The wind is more chilling when we cross the last hill and the dark Dutreath opens in front of us, opening the churning black-and-white sea. A pair of ruined tin mines stands against dark yellow-and-red horizon under the heavy blanket of clouds; the wind howls above the rumble of breakers hammering the cliffs. My driver turns to me and croaks:
”What do ye make of that, Meester? More dwellers from the misfortunes of sea, eh?”
Two figures approach along the road, trying to keep hold of each other and hats. The sight forms a testament of unwilling solitude and distress; yet not first one for me. Fine garments and colors are distinctive even in this stormy darkness, soaked and glistening. I must realize these are of foreign nobility. I disembark and instruct my driver quickly:
”Sit still, Tom. Mind your face, you may have a couple of new customers soon; gently now.”
The faces of the couple lighten up as they take a note on me. The wife or mistress takes a stronger brace of his man or lover, who starts in begging voice:
”Je prie, m'sieur! You must help us, we have arrived through all storm and pain, croyez-moi; we do not have possessions but ourselves. In the port they told us to get here to wait for carriages.”
It is a sad observation I have to make of this couple but I take a reassuring attitude as I bow:
”Milady, Sire: I see you are from foreign waters. Please, let me make an arrangement but through one provision: You both must keep your minds open. There are such matters in effect now that it would be most futile for me to attempt explanations. Please, my driver will take you forth to an inn, where you must talk to the keeper; he shall take care of you; and he shall clarify you a few things which you must listen as open-minded as possible.”
I know these words will be of little consolation in the face of the truth, which is still far beyond for the newcomers.
”Merci, m'sieur! You have saved our lives! I thought our troubles would never end. We barely escaped from rebels, crossed the sea in a storm most horrible but suddenly we found ourselves in the strangest port! We had great joy to meet you. Merci again!”
I return the courtesies and turn to the driver:
”Tom, see them to 'Joseph&Quill', I advise something strong. I think they shall know better after that.”
The servant croaks his acceptance, keeping his face hidden. As soon as the two have embarked, the carriage whirls around and vanishes to return direction with its puzzled passengers. I wear my tricorne and sigh.
~~~~
They will understand, in time. Or at least if Tom, their driver by some accident shows his grinning skull prematurely; these drivers, who all carry the same name 'Tom', see when their customers are not quite aware of their own state and thus behave gently.
I have attempted to explain these matters before but the resulting sorrow, the sadness and inevitable denial are always overwhelming. I can hardly recollect realizing my own tragedy; when my boat emerged suddenly amidst the horrible storm into a dark port not in charts: Dutreath, where I met only dark figures instructing me to walk inland along the road until the carriages arrive, or an inn comes into sight. It is a port which denies its existence in any daylight.
In ”Joseph&Quill” I was handed the tools for collecting the tales spun by souls visiting the inn; by my own choice for I found it too overwhelming to go further. I write them up, I never go out of ink nor parchments; I do not know where written tales vanish but there is always room in my satchel for tales of such like the yeoman; the brisk forester, who met his fate in a fishing boat. He has the knowledge but in the end it is a question of acceptance. Bosun, the light-hearted boatswain went overboard from a man-o-war near Penzance; he understands also but that does not hold him from the bottle. Trader, the diligent salesman washed ashore with dozen other passengers from a freighter, now slowly blown to pieces against Cornish rock. He will continue his trade but some customer with a living soul may resent the affairs.
The carriage drivers are drowned offenders, doomed to ferry fresh souls of the drowned to the inn and further; their horses are not necessarily ordinary beasts and it would be unwise to query their origin. The inn-keeper is the sole living soul; he got a lifetime sentence from burning bonfires to lure ships onto the rocks and looting them. His sentence contains serving the souls claimed by the sea, in an inn whose existence is in doubt; the original burned down century ago. Local living souls may only observe some unnatural activity on the property now and then; but when no harm is done, they go on with their lives until sea claims one of them and the soul with misfortune shall witness the truth.
Walking the edge of cliffs and tasting the salt from the gales, I tighten my cap and hold my tricorne; observing a wreck of a sloop, the remnants of one mast rocking fairly visible out in the sea over treacherous rocks, which claimed the lives of the latest, noble refugees.
***
Thank you for the time taken to read this piece. Author has taken an involuntary chuckle in thinking about the gadgets this ancient-looking text has been read from, and in depth of his little head hopes that Horace Walpole, Ann Radcliffe and Sir Walter Scott could see this modern way of enjoying also their literature. Or perhaps they do.
* * * *
Discover other titles from Mika Paananen:
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