Faster Than The Hound: A Dark Fantasy by William Meikle

Author:William Meikle [Meikle, William]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2021-07-26T05:00:00+00:00

*

One of the children took my free hand, and although they looked gray and cold, the small hand was the warmest thing I'd encountered since my arrival, hotter even than the blasts of heat that the staff had been feeding me. I let the young one lead me through the small courtyard. The main tower itself loomed high over us, and there was a dark entranceway over there that I didn't like the look of at all—but that wasn't our destination.

I—and what seemed to be the total population of the keep—filtered in to what was the most recognizable thing I'd seen so far—a bar is a bar is a bar, no matter where you go. The barkeep even reminded me of George, being slightly fatter than his customers, and with thinning hair on top. As I approached the counter, the adults in the crowd gathered around me, and I finally realized the focus of their adoration—all their attention was on my red hair as it escaped in its usual mop underneath my hat.

The one who'd opened the main gate to me seemed to be taking on the role of spokesman—he and the barkeep chattered animatedly for long seconds, with much pointing at me and fingering of my hair. I caught the gist of the conversation well enough—the townspeople wanted to show me some hospitality as, apparently, I was an honored guest—the barkeep, obviously in common cause with barkeeps everywhere, wanted to know who was going to pay for it.

But the townspeople wouldn't let up—there was more pointing at my hair, more chattering—louder now, almost shouting. Finally, the barkeep relented and poured me a bowl of something thick and hot from a cauldron. He dumped it on the counter in front of me before putting out a hand—I recognized that well enough too—pay first, eat later.

I had nothing of value to give him—but I'd spotted something else common to many bars—the entertainment corner. There was a small, traveling harp sitting on a table. This time nobody followed me as I walked over to the instrument—the place had gone quiet, hushed, and there was an almost church-like air; they were a congregation waiting for a sermon.

A sigh ran around the bar when I sat and took the harp into my lap. It wasn't a guitar, so I wasn't as fluent as I could have been, but I can get a tune out of most strings, and these were no exception. The audience were quiet as I worked my way into it, starting with something slow—a slightly mournful, given my hesitation, rendition of 'My Love is Like a Red, Red Rose'. But by the time I got my rhythm and feel they were clapping along to 'A Man's a Man for a' that.' They particularly liked my folked-up take on 'The Times They Are A' Changing' too, and the barkeep relented enough to fetch me over the bowl of hot soup. It was something green and cabbage-like. It looked like boiled moss than anything—that might even have been what it was—but it was delicious.

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