They called him Mouse, the odd one out in a large, boisterous family of innkeepers who never seemed to have much to say. Always quiet, always tucked away in some out of the way spot. This week under one the dark table in the corner where any number of not quite legal dealings could be taking place. The next week, it may be one of the great casks in the pantry, emptied by a particularly busy festival days. Always watching, with dark eyes that saw all.
As she had with the five boys that came before him, when finding him underfoot, Mistress Mirda wasted no time in finding some task to occupy him. “Children without work will find mischief, mark my words,” she’d say as she cast eyes about the prosperous establishment. Dark haired, apple-cheeked, and plump, with a gracious air of welcome and warmth once a similarly plump purse was spied, the mistress seemingly never stopped moving. To sit at your ease in her presence seemed an affront, unless you were an admonished guest.
The inn was a large, airy place, with shutters thrown open to catch the light and to allow the tempting fragrances to waft along the breeze and snare the unwary. Mistress Mirda ran an unusual establishment; to hide the art of her cookery away in the dank stone that had been the kitchen was unthinkable. And so it was that she commanded that the oven be sat next to the bar, with one end devoted to the neverending work of creation. Whether it was vegetables being chopped for the bottomless cauldron of stew, dough being pounded before being allowed to rise for bread, or sugar being sifted to dust the tops of her cakes like errant snow, there was never room for mere patrons at Mirda’s end of the bar. In time, her befuddled husband ordered in the carpenters to build a wholly new bar across the cavernous hall for those that wished to enjoy their cups without being smacked by a wooden spoon for succumbing to the temptation of a not quite ready morsel.
The master of the house was, by all accounts, a great deal older than his bustling wife. Once, his life had been one of order and hardship as he had enlisted and served for a score and a half years. It wasn’t until the family business came to rest upon his shoulders that he returned to the Midlands and the inn that he only remembered as a young boy. Once, he may have cut a dashing figure in the rough leather and chain that was a soldiering man’s lot. Once, he may have stood tall and certain, wielding the sword that still hung above the largest hearth that all may know the master for a brave man.
Once Remy had been many things, and had had many plans for how he would spend his later years. Being the youngest son of a youngest son, it had never been his expectation to be the last of his line. In truth, even after the fearsome red plague had swept the land and he received the news, he had intended only to visit The Middle of Everywhere just long enough to sell whatever would fetch a price and retire to the Citadel.
While there was the building and goods within upon Remy’s arrival late one spring, there was no one left to pay to fetch any kind of price. So it was that the man who had been a steady soldier turned his hand to homely tasks; brewing beer, fetching wood, and washing the linens. As the weather warmed, a trickle of traffic began upon the crossroads. They bore news of the sickness from the south abating due to a cure coming from the fae Queen Titania’s court. Every peddler, bard, and wanderer coming up from the southron road carried pretty little flasks of the swirling dark liquid to be given freely to any that asked.
Jewels of the Queen, they were to be remembered as, tiny crystal bottles shaped like raindrops. It only took a drop of the precious potion would cure the afflicted, even if they were at death’s door. Magic, all said, nodding sagely as they clutched their doses close and praised the name of the Queen.
The plague had claimed over half the residents of the Midlands without rhyme or reason- one child would be stricken down while their brother showed no signs. While some recovered, it was rare, and those that had suffered from it were frequently marked with bloody pockmarks that they would wear for the rest of their days. Smaller villages to both the south and the east, even unto the borders of the elven forests had simply ceased to exist.
By his first fall back in his birthplace, Remy’s beer no longer fouled when he brewed it. His bread smelled like it should while baking, and if it had a few inedible lumps here and there, he had long known that was part of a soldier’s lot. The small kitchen garden he had found had been tended by some unknown niece or nephew’s small hands, the miniature tools still laying upon the workbench. Strangers would occasionally see the broad shouldered man with his shaggy grizzled dark hair smiling sadly over the potatoes as he washed the dirt from them before peeling, but something about his grim, weathered face stopped the questions from being asked.
And in those days, there were more than enough sad tales of survivors. No one wanted or needed to hear Remy’s.
One day, late in that first fall, Mirda came upon the inn from the western road. Her dark curls were a tangled mass beneath the kerchief meant to keep her respectable, her feet bare and bloodied from where the road turned to cobbles at the edge of town. With naught but a makeshift sack upon her back, she came to beg a crust of bread. Remy, being soft of heart to see the plight of so young a girl, gave her an entire loaf, fresh from the oven.
On such small gifts can fates be set.
For this indifferently executed loaf had more inedible chunks than usual. Now, perhaps another girl would have considered this a deterrence tactic so that beggars like herself would move along more readily and simply have left in shame. Perhaps a more stupid or prideful girl would have charged her host with unkindness.
Mirda merely broke apart the bread and nibbled the bits that she could while staring around her. There were cobwebs in the corners, one attached to the sparse broom that wanted straw. Similarly, the bar wanted scrubbing, the hearth needed the ash bucket to be filled, and the stew bubbling along warmly in the cauldron needed a few pinches from the spicing boxes.
Remy leaned against the bar, using a dirty rag to smear grease around the inside of a pewter tankard and tried to think of a comforting topic of conversation for the wayward beggar girl. “Where are you bound to, mistress?”
She spat out a rock hard chunk of the bread, feeling around her tooth with her tongue to ensure it hadn’t broken. Looking up at the kindly man with his large hands and comfortable face, she took the first of many gambles to come.
“Here, apparently. Get out of the way and let me save that poor soup before it’s completely ruined.” Sliding off the stool and refusing to wince when her feet touched the floor, she pulled the rag out of Remy’s hand, examined it closely before sniffing it. “Phew! Where’s the bloody laundry then?”
Remy indicated the wash basket, his face taking on the bemused expression it would wear for most of the rest of his days.
By evening, Mirda had set the common room to rights, though on the lower end of her standards, to be sure. Within the month, she had moved the kitchen works to the end of the bar, and by spring she was with child and they were married.
When Mouse was born, the inn had gone from a place of grim accommodations offered with a certain spare, militaristic flavor to the finest inn in town. Mirda would turn praise away, always solidly stating they did fair enough, thank you, but they were no Grey Dragon Inn. As no one from The Middle of Everything had ever visited that place that had become the stuff of legends, there wasn’t much else to say about that.
The Sword and Board Inn never lacked for guests, and as the business was built back up again, the small back garden was enlarged and tended by Remy and Mirda’s ever growing brood. Six sons and four daughters tumbled in and out of the doors, bursting with energy and bringing the assurance that life would in fact continue on. To be sure, there were few local families that had been as blessed; so much so that when it came time for the older boys to take up trades, the town masters came, hat in hand, to beg to take them as apprentices. In a few more years, suitors came to call for the girls, for to be able to take one of Mirda’s daughters to wife, one would enjoy all the benefits of Mirda’s early teachings. And all four of the girls had been blessed with their father’s tall form as well as their mother’s bustling nature and ability to see the advantages of and improve their situation. All parties considered themselves well settled.
Remy and Mirda would ponder from time to time in the dark of night who would take up the inn when they were gone. In those early days, it was almost something to laugh over- that there could be a time in which such a conversation might be even necessary was unthinkable. As the children began to become taller than their parents, the tone shifted to one of mild unease. As age settled on Remy’s once broad shoulders, it became a conversation they no longer wished to have, and anytime words began to lead down the path to it, Remy would wave a hand in dismissal and muttered, “You’ll see what’s best, Mirda. You always do.”
Usually those words made her smile with the compliment, but more and more they left a cold chill across her heart as she wondered how many more winters Remy would take up his position by the fire to tell wandering tales of his adventuresome days. Several silver hairs had found their way into her own dark curls, to be tucked most sternly beneath her ever present respectable kerchief.
Some things never really changed.
So when the boy named Mouse reached the age in which boys were apprenticed out and no masters came, there was a thought in Mirda’s mind about making an innkeep of him. But it crowded in with a thousand thousand other thoughts that pressed more closely to matters of the day- the cow’s milk was failing, the wandering bard was caught in the hayloft with Mistress Lyta’s youngest girl and must be chivvied out of town, a hole had sprung up in the tin wash tub and must be mended without delay. She did see that Mouse spent a great deal of time with his father, and when she had a moment to hope for anything for him, it was that he was learning something of their trade.
Remy, now more befuddled than ever, sometimes did not remember Mouse as his son specifically. Over the score of years since he had returned home, countless scores of small boys had danced attendance upon him that they may wheedle more stories from him, and he had called them all lad. In his way, he loved and taught them all, with a certain fondness but no real concern. Far from teaching Mouse the hard won lessons he and Mirda had discovered together, his mind wandered from his own adventures to those he’d heard over campfires of long ago.
As for Mouse himself, like most children, he learned a great deal that he probably wasn’t supposed to. He found all the places to keep himself quietly away from the maelstrom of his mother’s intentions for what chores were good for growing boys. He listened to all the talk of the inn, working out how the pieces of the world fit together. That was what he liked, to guess what would happen next. When he heard two field hands talk about how the wheat crop was failing, he knew that Mother would raise the price of beer come the fall, and the old failing cow would be slaughtered for sausage. He knew that young Lynelle, so enamoured of bards, would be sent away to the priestesses to stay for a time, then come home when a likely match had been arranged.
He could have told Mirda to prepare all the guest beds for the mighty delegation that came from the east from the Citadel to treat with the fairy queen after the second year of poor harvest. Mouse didn’t like to say her name, even in his own mind, but could not have explained why. All spoke her name in tones of deepest praise and reverence, yet Mouse heard so many things that he never saw the intention behind her deeds.
And there were so very many deeds attributed to her.
Once, the year the Mouse turned ten, her emissary came to stay at the Sword and Board. It brought all the locals to the grand common room that night, that they might hear Lord Puck sing and tell of it to their grandchildren one day.
Puck figured in any number of stories Remy told; they had met of old upon the roads from time to time, and it seemed he had been a figure giving advice or admonishment for every hero’s quest. For some time, Mouse had even wondered if any such person existed, or if he was something of a stand in character anytime someone in a tale was about to do somewhat foolish.
So when he turned up in the dooryard without gilded cherubs circling about his head, blowing silvery horns to announce his presence, Mouse took him for just another traveler.
“Take your horse, sir?” he asked politely as the wiry man dipped a length of fine white cloth in the brimming well bucket and began to wearily scrub at his face. It was long, mobile, with a mouth that seemed to have a natural smile and one side that quirked upwards.
“Very kind,” the man murmured, the tone at once strong and musical as he passed the reins over to Mouse.
“You’re a bard!” Mouse said as he led the horse to the brimming half barrel that served as the watering place for livestock. The man laughed breathlessly as he leaned against the well and scrubbed briskly at his neck and ears.
“I am, lad, when it pleases my lady. And what might your name be then?” The man smiled, and his face was transformed from the weary traveler to someone you wanted to know and share a meal with for the talk that would follow.
Like so many before and after, Mouse returned the warm smile easily. “They call me Mouse, if it please you sir.” The boy touched the brim of his flat cap, belatedly recalling his manners.
The man laughed, a free sound that spiralled up and up, lifting a chuckle out of Mouse even though he hadn’t a notion as to what he was laughing for. “And do they call you this because you scuttle, or because you watch quietly from the edges of things, my lad?”
Beaming with goodwill, Mouse shrugged. “I suppose it is a bit of both, sir.”
“Fair enough, lad. Isn’t it lovely how sharing a laugh can make strangers friends? I would like to think of you as a friend here, you know.” The man sank his head into the bucket, scrubbing the grime from his fair hair before tossing the fouled water away. Mouse passed him a bit of rough toweling from the rack that hung by the well.
“Shouldn’t friends share names?” Mouse asked, a bit surprised at his own boldness.
The man grinned at him, inclining his head as though they were duellists, and he was conceding a well scored point. “Truth, Mouse, so let us clasp hands as friends then, and you can know that I am called Puck.” He leaned down and seized Mouse’s forearm in the greeting that served as the greeting of equals.
Mouse gasped and released the traveler’s forearm hastily, in the same instant tried to make a bow. “My lord! My apologies, I didn’t mean to-“
“Nah nah, Mouse, none of that there. And please, lord me no lords, and if you would be a friend, keep that name tucked under your cap if that’s what’ll happen beyond the door.” Puck’s tipped the boy a conspiratorial wink, giving his cap a tug down over his eyes.
The rest of the evening passed in a blur for Mouse, watching as one of the realm’s legends effortlessly charmed his mother by almost but not quite flirting with her. With Remy, Puck took a different tactic, gravely clasping his arm and thanking him for his service. He insisted on regaling the tavern with what he swore was a true tale of Remy’s heroism that the man was too modest to tell that he had happened to hear at Riversend.
Mouse didn’t even know his father had ever been to Riversend. And he’d never seen his mother as a girl to be flirted with.
After paying court to his hosts as was proper, Puck turned to the guests, making it a point to pass words with everyone that stopped into the Sword and Board that night (and there seemed to be more than half the town that found an excuse to stop in for some reason). He spoke very little of himself, saying only that he traveled all the lands as a part of his business, and had seen everyone everywhere.
“But I am homeward bound now, and right glad I’ll be to put my boots up by my own hearth for a time. Not that it isn’t perfectly lovely here, really the finest inn aside from the Grey Dragon.” All looked to Mirda for her customary demurrals, but she only buried her face in her apron to hide her blushes.
Eventually, the traveler was asked for the news of the realm. “Ah, that’s dusty talking, so it is,” he said, and as though conjured, a half dozen tankards of foaming brown ale appeared upon the table. He took a deep pull of the closest one, then gave them the word of doings at the Citadel.
The mystical Moon Quarter continued to rise, impossible crystal spires wreathed with the mists of the Citadel. With the red plague fresh in memories, the Temples of Erdu and Danu were accepting all willing initiates that their numbers remain strong. Was there a temple here? Puck inquired, and shook his head ruefully when he was told it had fallen during the great sickness. Soon, he said.
To the east and south, the elvish tribe that held sway in the dark forests of Mlentha’s Folly had once again become restless since they were no longer welcome upon the Monstrous Isles. Who or what was there, anyway? No two tallies seemed to agree on this point, but there were a number of fantastic stories about sea monsters that wore crowns and suffered the inhabitants to bring it plunder and the lovliest of maidens for it’s snacking pleasure. Another account was presented for consideration that stipulated it as the place all the misbegotten creatures of the gods retired to in shame for their own ugliness, so at odds with the light and beauty of Myskaria. A third tale came forth with the idea that it was a place of demons and the dark fae that consorted with such creatures.
All turned to Puck, as he was the most travelled amongst the company, and he raised his hands, laughing. “Gentles all, it may be that all of you or none of you are correct. For all my wanderings, I’m afraid I have a marked preference for dry land; I have but once put my feet upon a boat’s deck, and heartily desire never to do so again.” He took a long pull at his fourth tankard and wiped his mouth upon his sleeve before raising it with a wink to Mirda in compliment.
“I do want to say a bit though, if I may about demons.” An uneasy murmur made its way around the common room, and Puck put his hands up in a kind of patting motion until quiet was restored. “All I’m saying is that when you hear the wise men tell the beginnings, they remind us that angels and demons are of the same stuff, that just made different choices, and when you got down to it, neither choice was really wrong. Add to it that the memories of the old life were given back, and they are pretty much just like anyone else.”
Puck picked up his fifth tankard and let the murmuring go on a bit before picking up the news. “Dwarves are being seen abroad again, so don’t be surprised if some come by with their wares for trade.”
This caused an excited buzz to go around the room, and even Remy’s eyes focused sharply on Mirda as the two exchanged a significant look across the bar. “What of the Fae Queen?” one young man asked, his eyes bright with interest.
– not the end.
Curiouser and Curiouser 