Ice-Wind Tavern
The wind was very strong, now, and I bundled my heavy fur coat even tighter around my chest as the tails flapped behind me. I lowered my head, and my heavy fur hat slid down further over my eyes. The wooden buildings to either side of me had a yellowish glow radiating from their small, square window panes. They looked comfortable, inviting. Finally, as I peered through the blinding, ice-wind haze, I spotted a sigh hanging by chains over a doorway. It read: “Miller und Shmolvek: Tavernenplatz.”
I gathered my heavy clothing even further against myself, and heaved through the wooden door. Inside, I was blasted with a wave of heat. The tavern was very small, with only a few seats, but it was crowded with nearly a dozen patrons - all local, I presumed, by their manner of their acting and speaking. There was laughter - fuzzy, merry laughter - and a fireplace roared in the back of the room, giving the building a surreal, yellow glow.
I removed my heavy coat and gloves, overcome with the warmth of the place, and set them atop a pile of other coats on a bench by the door as it closed behind me. All of the coats were dripping with melted snow, and I grumbled to myself that my coat should be wet when I leave this place.
“Hello, you are not from around here,” greets the tavern keeper kindly, in German. He is a short, scrawny, middle-aged man with ruffled blond hair and a beard stubble, but his face was kind. This was a small village: I doubted they were used to anyone coming through here very often.
“No,” I reply.
“You a traveler?” I did not answer right away, as a group of three or four merrily-drunk individuals entered into a fit of laughter as they eagerly gathered about a table a few feet away from me.
“Yes,” I reply after the laughter had died down. “I’m coming up from lower Bohemia - South of Prague. I’m on my way up to Nördlingen.”
“Well, what can I get you?” The tavern keeper reached up to a small shelf barley above his head and pulled down a wooden mug.
“Your cheapest drink will be fine,” I reply. “Some tavern crook at the last village robbed me of most of my money.” The tavern keeper paused and looked down for a moment, in thought. He nodded his head sideways as he strained his face and then began to fill the cup with beer from a small barrel.
“Tell you what,” he began. “I’ll give you one for free,” he smiled. “But as business is slow here, you’ll need to buy another one at half price, and a third at full.” He held up his thumb, pointer finger, and middle finger, as the Germans do to signal three. “One and a half payment for three drinks,” I think. “Not quite desirable, yet.”
“Throw in some bread, and you have yourself a deal,” I reply as I finally remove my hat and toss it onto the pile.
“Deal,” the tavern keeper nodes as he hands me the mug. As I drink, at the barstool, and I let the warm liquor fill me, the tavern keeper tries to make conversation. “It’s a good thing you came in here when you did - what time is it? About nine o’clock at night, you think? You could have frozen out there.” I did not reply - I was not tired, yet was in no mood to speak. The tavern keeper quickly sensed this and went about his business scrubbing some of the used mugs with a small grey rag,
As I sat, I stared off into space, oblivious to the joyous and bold laughter of the conversations around me. I was delivered my bread on a small metal plate, and as I ate, I became suddenly uncomfortable. It soon occurred to me that I had absentmindedly been staring right at a man sitting under the small, cramped staircase, as I have a habit of doing. I immediately worried that I had been acting rude, but was more shocked to see that this man - his brown beard and scraggly brown hair creating a sort of mane around his face - was staring right back at me, his arms crossed. As soon as he perceived I was aware of him he spoke:
“You come from Prague?” He shouted across the small room. At this, some of the conversations subsided, their participants intrigued in this new development, but several of them continued in lower tones.
“I am traveling from Prague,” I stated in response. “But I was born in Wessex.”
“Ah, British swine, then.” I smiled - had heard that one before.
“I haven’t lived there in years,” I replied. “My family moved to Hanover and then Nördlingen, so my father could carry out his service to the baron’s of lower Saxony, and then Bavaria.
“Ah, you’re wealthy, then,” the man presumed.
“Not wealthy,” I responded as the tavern keeper exchanged my empty mug for a full one. “Just not poor. Besides, I was robbed a few days ago.” I took a few coins out of my pockets and paid the tavern keeper in advance for the third mug.
“I’m just tossing some humor at you,” the man in the corner under the staircase laughed. “I don’t care who you are or what you have.”
“My sister married a man who lives in Prague,” another man - a young, skinny, clean-shaven fellow, also with brown hair. “Have you heard of a Ahren Adelino?” I shook my head.
“It’s a big city.” By this point, all of the conversations had subsided, and aside for the ruffling of clothing and the sounds of clinking mugs and plates, all were silently curious as to what I, this strange traveler from far away, had to offer.
“You are a merchant, then,” another fellow inquired.
“Yes,” I replied as I took another sip of beer.
“Is that why you carry that satchel bag,” the same man asked. I looked down at the satchel bag that hung below my shoulder.
“No,” I reply. “I had received a letter a few weeks ago from my mother, claiming that my brother is horribly ill with that strange coughing sickness - you heard of it? - well, never mind, then. So I’m on my way up to Nördlingen to be with him in his final moments. I have not visited my family for a few years, and each time I come, I bring a book, because my brother likes to read.”
“So you have a book in there, then,” the tavern keeper asked.
“Yes,” I reply.
“Can you read,” he asks.
“Yes, can you?”
“Only me and that man over there,” the tavern keeper points to an old man who had done nothing but sit silently in the corner of the room, along the opposite wall as the man under the small staircase, next to the fireplace. “Can I see it?” I open the satchel bag and hand the tavern keeper the large, leather-bound book. “Ein Blick auf den Herbst,” he reads the title out loud. “Who wrote it?”
“I did,” I reply.
“Oh, an author we have,” the man under the staircase laughed merrily.
“Not really,” I reply. “It’s my first book.”
“May I see it?” There was a sudden silence. The old man with long, grey hair, the long face, and long nose in the back of the room had finally spoken. I slowly gathered the book, paced over to him, and sat down across from him. With the book on the table, the old man began to flip through the pages of poetry and prose. “It’s a love story,” he stated.
“Yes,” I reply, swallowing suddenly for some reason. “It is.” He turned back to the first inside page, and saw my name.
“Fremont Gerard,” he read.
“Yes, that is my name,” I replied. To my surprise, the old man reached inside his pocket and pulled out a small envelop.
“I am the postmaster of this town,” he stated. “That is why I can read. A letter came just yesterday, addressed to this village with your name on it.” I took the letter from the man, eagerly at first, and then cautiously. “How could that be?” I thought. “Surely there is some mistake.” But the name on the letter was clear: “Fremont Gerard.”
I opened the letter cautiously, and pulled out a small note of my mother’s handwriting. I read it, as all around me stood silent. It read, in German:
“Dearest Fremont, I am grieved to inform you that your brother, Lamar, has died. I am sorry that you could not be with him in his final moments. By the time you receive this letter, he will likely have already been buried. Your father has been given a few days off to grieve, and we are well provided for by the local nobility, so do not fret for us. I have written twenty letters, and sent them to all the major places I supposed you would be stopping at on your way home. If you do receive this, please, don’t burden yourself with coming back, at least not until the summer - we don’t want you to become sick like your brother did (the doctors say it was likely the cold that led to it). With warmest love and deepest regrets,
- Your Mother, -Henrietta”
As I read, the warmth and fuzziness of the place began to swell inside me. Something unpleasant and warm began to rise in my throat, something that I had a hard time holding back. No one inside the tavern questioned me: they could infer quite well what had happened. Finally, after long silence, I spoke.
“Do you wish to buy the book,” I asked the old man in a crackly voice.
“What, do you not need it?”
“No,” I replied. “I hired a printer to make a few copies in Prague. I have others.” There was a long silence, and I could tell that the old man, though he wished to buy the book, did not offer to because of the offense he may cause me. Finally, he seemed to realize that him buying the book was what I wanted, and he paid for it gracefully.
“Where are you going, It is late,” the tavern keeper asked as I finished off my last drink and walked over to the pile of coats where I put on my coat and hat.
“To the next village - there is a carriage station there, is there not? Good,” I reply. “I can get their by morning, and pay the fare for a full ride home to Nördlingen with the money I just made.”
“What are you going to do for food,” the tavern keeper asked, clearly concerned for me.
“I don’t know,” I replied. “I’ll think of something,” Then, as if by some unseen magic, one by one, the patrons of the tavern got up, and placed small amounts of money upon the bar counter. And without counting it, the bartender grabbed a few handfuls of bread, cheese, and even some dried meat and offered it to me. It was worth much more than the patrons had paid for. I didn’t want to accept it, but I could tell that by refusing the offer I would be offending them.
“Thank you,” I say, as I placed the food items into my satchel bag. And without another word, I brought my collar up over my nose, and pushed out through the door and into the ice-wind haze.