Hook's Tale by John Leonard Pielmeier

Author:John Leonard Pielmeier
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Scribner

INTERLUDE

HOOK AT ETON

Chapter Seven

As the sun rose I spotted the Plymouth coastline. I flew high above the sea, hoping that any fisherman, looking up, might mistake me for a great bird. Heading west, I circled Saint Michael’s Mount, then flew north. I plummeted landward as swiftly as possible, and touched ground just as the morning’s sun was first gracing rooftops. Daisy, nestled in my hair (to which she had retreated halfway through the flight), awoke and stretched. I adjusted my indigo wrap, drew my Wedding Knife, and walked as boldly as possible into the front room of the Wretched Traveler.

A man of forty-plus years stood behind the bar, washing glasses from the night before. The inn was much shabbier than I remembered it. The man turned to greet me and stood dumbfounded. I could hardly blame him. Before him stood a near-naked fourteen-year-old boy wielding a knife and bearing a miniature crocodile atop his head. I leapt across the room to the top of the bar, aided by a combination of Flying Sand and Never-Isle litheness. Daisy hissed at him as I pointed the knife at his throat.

“I’m looking for Scroff. He took something from me and I want it back.”

The barman’s mouth dropped open in fear and astonishment. Like Scroff and his ma, he was missing his lower front teeth. Poor dental hygiene clearly ran in the family.

I explained myself: “You’re the father, I presume. Your son attacked me in the barn several months ago and stole from me a locket that belonged to my late mother. I’ve come to retrieve it.”

The man managed to choke out a word: “Locket.”

“Yes. A locket. He ripped it from my neck.”

“No. No.”

“Yes. He did. If he’s sold it, his life is worthless. Where is he?”

The man swallowed, then began to gasp for breath, as if he were having a fit.

“ONE LAST CHANCE!” I shouted. “WHERE IS YOUR SON?”

“Not possible,” he rasped.

I whipped the knife across his throat, not deep enough to cause serious injury, but enough to draw blood. He clutched his neck and staggered back, knocking over several glasses and a bottle of gin. The fumes of the alcohol made my eyes water.

He thought he was dying. He held a hand, wet with blood, in front of his face to ward off another blow. “Please, sir, please,” he begged, “have mercy.”

“Do you know of this locket?” I demanded.

He nodded.

“And?”

“Course it’s sold. It were gold !”

“To a pawnshop? A local merchant?”

He nodded.

“Retrieve it. I’ll give you an hour.”

“Not possible.”

This was absurd. He was stalling, wavering, lying to protect his son.

“Why? Why is it not possible? WHERE IS YOUR SON?” I roared as Daisy let out a peep that I’m sure she meant as a threat.

He caught his breath, stood a little straighter. He wiped tears from his eyes. He seemed on the verge of hysteria. He was preparing for death.

“It were me,” he mumbled.

“What? What was you?”

“It were me what took it. I’m Scroff.”

The world stood very still. I couldn’t believe my ears or eyes.

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