Wicked Wind (July 12, 2010)

Ok this little snippet is inspired by the following prompt which came from Daily Writing Practice (see links section). It is entirely freewrite, but was fun to write. Thanks to all who read and comment.

shadowlight

Prompt: Wicked Wind


Wicked Wind
© Marlicia Fernandez (WC 630) 7-12-10


The door slams open against the rough hewn timber tavern walls. Wet leaves swirl around the entry and the man who staggers in. The damp material of his shirt and pants cling to the sizeable muscles of his chest, arms and legs. Hatless, coatless and apparently, witless, he stands there, eyes wide and unfocused. He crouches and leans forward, his head cradled in his hands, elbows resting on his knees. Deep, shuddering gasps rack his sizeable frame. What cold put the fear of God into such a man?

“Close the door, you fool,” bartender snapped. “You’re wasting heat the heat and lettin’ in the weather.”

The barkeep is a good man at heart, patient, kind and understanding. But when it comes to money, either the making or the losing of it, he becomes another person entirely. A real “Mr. Jekyl” to his normally mild mannered “Dr. Hyde.”

The man in the doorway didn’t move.

Barney, that’s the barkeep, slams down the shot glass he’s cleaning , throws his bar towel onto the counter and stalks toward the far end of the bar, fists clenched. I guess I should be thankful he just didn’t vault over it. He’s been known to do that.

“Take it easy, Barney, I’ll get it.” Barney scowls, but returns to polishing the shot glasses lined up along the back of the bar beneath the mirror. I slide off my stool and ease around the immovable mountain man to shut the door. On the way back, I grab the newcomer’s arm and hope he doesn’t take it into his head to resist. He could probably throw me across the room without half trying.

To my relief he follows without protest, his face pale, his expression slack—except for his eyes. Those eyes reflect terror. “Sit down, I’ll buy you a drink,” I say when we reach the bar.
He sits and nods.

“What’ll it be,” Barney asks. “Scotch, Whiskey? Ale?”

The man’s mouth works but nothing comes out. “Scotch,” I say. I drop some money on the table. “Better make it a double. He looks like he needs it.”

Barney grins and nods. “Sure thing G. R. . Whatever you say.”

I turn to the man, sitting, shivering beside me. “Want to tell us what happened?”

Barney arrives with the drink and plunks it on the table in front of our guest. The big man curls his great fingers around the glass and tosses it back in one gulp. The color returns to his cheeks and his breathing eases. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Tis a wicked wind that bodes no good. It howls through the night like a banshee looking for an unsuspecting soul to snatch. Can’t ye hear it wailin’?”

“So you be Irish, be ye?” I lean against the bar, careful to keep my features in the shadows. “What be your name?”

“Sean O’Connor.” The man reached into his pocket and pulled out several coins. He waved to Barney. “Get me another, straight up.”

“Well, Sean-O. You needn’t be afraid of a little wind. Nor the Banshee neither. She be me friend don’t ye know.”

The wicked wind wails louder and I ease into the flickering lantern light. “Ye recognize me know, don’t ye boy? Ye can’t run from me, but ye knew that.”

Sean drops the glass onto the counter, or where the counter would have been, had it been solid…but spirits don’t need solid things, and we be spirits. I smile and lean into the light. “Ye should thank the Banshee for leading ye here. Not everyone gets their final drink.”

I reach out to touch the terrified man with my cold, white fingers. His heart stops. He doesn’t even scream.