Woodbrush tavern, a welcome respite tucked away somewhere along the scattered trails of the greater Firwood.
The tavern, in some legends, is said to be a mythical bed and breakfast that will appear to many lost travellers in their greatest moments of need, these same legend tellers have also been accused of being unnecessarily melodramatic and of having spent too much time in pubs–but hey, that’s mythology.
…
Dragging the deadweight of Aya through the tavern door, Carrick heaved forward, stumbling over a doormat and accidently knocking his companion’s head against the door frame.
Surging back into consciousness, a short string of swearing, quite unrepeatable in polite text, was drawn from the injured Lundrian, who then attempted to stand and found that the world was spinning far too much to do so.
With a quick apology, Carrick carefully put his dazed friend down onto a lounge and walked over to the bar with a polite nod toward the bartender, ‘Ah, hullo friend. What ah, do you have to drink?’ the wizard said, scanning his eyes across the quiet tavern and hoping that their entrance didn’t draw too much attention.
‘Rat larger’, replied the bartender as he picked up a dirty glass, half heartedly cleaning it with a towel.
‘Oh…good, how much rat is in it?’
The bartender, with only a subtle movement, managed to clean the ale glass in such a way that let Carrick know not to ask such questions; letting the tension hang for a moment he then relented with a slow blink and muttered the word ‘less’.
Pausing to consider this single option carefully, Carrick placed some coins on the bar, ‘two please’.
…
Still quite delirious from blood-loss Aya was happily explaining the intricacies of healing medicines to a thoroughly disinterested Postman who had stopped to ask if she was ok.
‘You see healing draughts are actually a kind of liquidised wort, which is why they go off if you don’t properly seal the vial. Now, if you chuck just a little pinch of sugar into the batch it … well, ruins the healing properties of the potion … But then, if you keep it somewhere dark, like I don’t know, a sock drawer, it’ll turn alcoholic.’
The Postman placed down his mug and leaned closer to Aya. ‘Miss, please leave me alone.’
…
‘Why are people in the country always so unfriendly, Carrick?’ said the sulking Lundrain as she slumped down at the table.
‘Aya, I’m over here.’ Carrick furtively waved from an adjacent table.
Blinking, The Lundrian looked up to a rather frightened farmer and softly swore brimstone. Pulling a vial from her potionsmith’s bag, she poured the contents into an empty mug left on the table and then dropped the vial in as well. ‘Want one?’ Aya proffered the mug to the confused stranger: halfway through his bowl of soup.
‘Ah, no miss’ said the man, putting down his spoon and readying himself to flee into the night with great cowardice.
‘Your loss buddy’ Aya waved as she turned around and sat with Carrick, finally at the proper table.
‘I thought you were out of healing draughts?’ Carrick asked, looking at the faintly glowing mug.
‘Nah, this is mainly just Mudwort* –Burp- stops the reflux. Aw man, I feel like I’ve been slapped by a house brick’ said Aya as she placed her head onto the table in exhaustion–it was a table well worn from many years of deep regrets and much similar moments of welcome head support.
Several rounds of rat larger later Carrick was struck by a moment of honest clarity.
‘Aya? Have you ever owned something so precious that you couldn’t bear to ever lose?’
Aya took a draught of her drink and considered her answer, ‘Yeah, my mum once gave me a tea towel that I loved so much I never had a use for it.’ she said staring intently at the soft flicker of a candle that rested upon the table
‘Tea towel!? … Have you been drinking?’
‘No, well yes, go on sorry.’
Carrick sighed and lost his gaze within the middle distance. ‘I’m not a very good Wizard, Aya. Magic users of my ilk draw their power from written text and this requires a great deal of tawdry things like practicing handwriting and arcane study. As it were though, we really should be able to use any old book with the right spells for a focus, but I’ve only ever been able to use one…the one I left back on the wagon.’ Carrick paused, finally wallowing within the great regret of his own making.
‘Are you mad? Why didn’t we go back? None of this would have happened if we went back.’
‘I thought if I forced myself out of my comfort zone I could make it work, but ah, yeah not-so-much.’ Drawing a worn book from his bag he continued, ‘I do have this really nice back-up spellbook, see the little tree on the cover, but I’m struggling to cast anything from it. I can’t even summon a disappointing looking moth anymore and that’s a spell some people cast by accident’.
‘You’re an idiot Carrick, and I forgive you for that’ said Aya as she finished her drink and felt, for the first time in over a fortnight, that everything might be ok.
…
Nights end and time slowly rolls on.
As the last drunk is left behind, or even swept into a corner, a new day will be close to follow.
—
*Mudwort: a hardy weed that is known to grow in peat bogs.
It is, primarily, a nocturnal plant that will uproot itself and walk to another part of the bog if it feels like it needs a new outlook in its life. For more details on Lundria’s plant life try reading Abernathy’s book of botany and how to survive it. Available at all good Alchemy stores.
J.McCray
2020
Sunday Short Stories 