One Dwarf Short Jake Zablarski

Private Diviner, Episode 1

A free preview

Published by Byrnes Woder 2010

Copyright © Jake Zablarski 2010

Cover design by Drew Reimer

Jake Zablarski has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs

and Patent Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or

transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or

mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any

information storage and retrieval system, without prior

permission in writing from the publisher.

ISBN 987 0 9808127 0 1

Edition B

byrneswoder.com

Summer was coming to a close, the day was bright but

cool and I was at my desk, feet up, admiring the bruises and

barked skin across my knuckles and whistling a happy tune.

Those poor, unlucky elves. Their fine hands may make hard

fists, and their slender arms may be like axe handles in the

raw, but the entire haughty race was born with a glass jaw.

That’s why they avoid close fighting. They want to keep their

distance and fill you full of arrows. You have to catch them

somewhere indoors and cramped, otherwise it’s fip-fip-fip

and for a moment you look like a startled cloak rack and then

you fall dead.

Last night’s bundle of forest spawn won’t be peddling their

wares in this town before next spring.

There was a firm knocking at my door and I called cheerily

for entrance. The door opened and closed of its own accord

and that meant only one thing - dwarves. My whistle faded.

Dwarves are more trouble than elves. They have had more

time to practice.

I dropped my feet and peered over the desk and there she

was: three by two, the loveliest young dwarfette I had ever

seen, placing her on par with a gnarled lump distantly

related to a tree stump, but pinker, smellier, and dressed for

town.

It had been a while since I had a client and an age since I

worked for a dwarf. Perhaps this dwarfette would break my

drought. It would be more sensible to turn her away, but to

be honest, I was out of money and my belly did not like that.

Its complaints were becoming audible.

“What can I do for you, ma’am?”

She pulled a fat pipe out of her bag.

“You could give a lady a light,” she said, “and find her a

chair, in whichever order you wish.”

I kicked out a small footstool from under my desk I kept

there for such occasions. It slid to a stop against one of the

fancy chairs I bought to impress clients.

“Climb on up, but sit right back. The upholstery is a tad

slippery - one hundred per cent river eel.”

The chairs were quite fine, handmade and tooled for

practical jokes involving dignified men falling onto their

over-ripe arses and spilling fancy wine over their brocade

vests. I purchased them for a pittance just last year from the

widow of Counsellor Mott Japes the same day he was hung.

The pair gave my chambers an air of success and expensive

hair oil.

The dwarfette scuttled up and settled back, her stubby

legs crossed delicately at the ankles like cord wood.

“And my light,” she said, waving her pipe at me.

I snapped my fingers and there was a small flash in her

pipe followed by a rising wisp of smoke. She thanked me and

sucked at her pipe like she was priming the home forge and

after a few minutes of that blew out a smoke ring so dense it

fell from her mouth to the floor and rolled into a corner

where it collapsed into ash.

“You are licensed, yes?”

She took a puff of her pipe and hitched her hem a little

higher, revealing a knee like an ancient gall.

“Yes ma’am. As the sign outside says - Greefin Endlives,

that’s end-leaves not lives, private diviner, a journeyman

fully licensed by the Diviner’s Guild, privy to all the guild’s

secrets, at your service. Hire me and you are hiring the best

private diviner in this humble town, if not the kingdom.”

“Best in town? Truly that is not common knowledge, but I

am sure you will do.”

Gruff manners from a dwarf were expected, but the

sarcasm was a bit steep. I would charge her extra for that.

“How may I be of service to you?” I asked.

“I want you to find my betrothed, diviner. He has been

missing for a week and our wedding is soon.”

What a lucky fellow. Of course the only two legged

creature in this half of the endless planes that can make a

lady dwarf look attractive is a gentleman dwarf. Well, that is

not strictly true, but the stench of her tobacco was making

me ill and unkind towards her race. Dwarf “tobacco” is made

of the dried mushrooms that sprout in their refuse pits and

so are a condensation of the already execrable home cavern

stench.

I forced a smile and smacked the top of my desk.

“Excellent. Finding folk is my specialty. I will have him

back in your fragrant embrace before the moon wanes.”

Her plump face folded inwards leaving just a sliver of her

pink eyes visible above her wet nose.

“Wanes?”

“Gets thinner and disappears. The moon does that.”

She spat out another smoke ring.

“How long is that, man?”

“In three days. A day is the bright time when the sun…”

“Don’t get smart, diviner. You overground types always

think you’re clever and you mostly all perish before you find

out you are not.”

“My apologies, ma’am. Just a little humor that missed its

mark. But three days. Of course, that is if you have a

personal item, preferably old and dear, belonging to the

sought, and once you have paid my small and humble

retainer.”

I opened up my Diviner’s Guild ledger and pulled the

tattered quill out of the inkpot it was soaking in and held it

ready over the page.

“What, may I ask, is your name?”

She went fishing around in her bag.

“My name?”

“Yes, your name. For the ledger. Diviners are required to

record all details of each job. For assurance reasons. And the

tithing. Mainly the tithing.”

She threw something onto my desk that looked like a

small, crushed animal.

“Here is some of his loin hair I collected from his small

brush. In your language my name is Fairest Granite

Daughter of Damp Cavern Lower, Fifteenth Branch…”

I was deafened, captivated and disgusted by the clump of

dwarven off-fallings staining my desktop with their visible

scum and shining grease. Tiny white points were moving in

the fibers. My stomach began to fill my throat with the

breakfast I had so carefully chewed on account of there

always being a bone in the porridge.

“Are you writing this down?”

I sat up and scribbled in the ledger in shiny wet ink below

older, dry scribbles.

“Oh yes, oh yes, granite… cavern… branch… what do your

friends call you, may I ask, hmmm?”

Fairest Granite Daughter blew out smoke and said

“Millie.”

“Wonderful.”

I wrote Millie in the ledger.

“My retainer for this request will be two silver coins from

Lord Feril’s mint or a thirty second of a baker’s weight in

gold.”

“How much?”

I returned the quill to the pot and shut the ledger.

“I know. It is expensive, but my rates are set by the guild.

I have no choice. I must stick to their prices or be fined.”

She returned to fishing around in her bag.

“Well, I have neither coins nor gold. Will you take this?”

She held out her spade like hand and in the calloused

palm a red gem sparkled. I walked around the desk, took it

from her. It looked good. I opened the door and held it up to

the light. It was even in color and showed no occlusions. It

belonged in a fat ring or heavy pendant, not in my desk

drawer.

“Of course I will take it. Unfortunately I do not have any

change on me.”

She waved her hand.

“That is fine, you are guild registered. Is the personal item

adequate?”

I looked from the gem to the hairy lump.

“Five days with that.”

Followed by a week of baths, a purgative, and a course of

leeches.

“You said three before I paid you!”

“I also said a personal item. Something your betrothed

might treasure, like jewelry or weapons. Off-fallings are not

precious, so the process will be more involved and take

longer.”

“We are to be married in four!”

She pounded her fist into the arm of the chair, cracking

the wood underneath the upholstery. She sneered at it.

“Wood! Pah! Find him in three like you said and I will give

you a bag of those stones.”

I cursed my dead ancestors, my living ancestors (Grandpa

Glane - landlord and owner of this shack that was my

chambers and my home and whose debt I was immensely in),

my unborn children, my greed, my aspirations.

“Three days it is! I will divine night and day til your

betrothed is found.”

Millie put her pipe in her bag and slid off the chair. She

gave a little curtsy, nodding like a cat about to cough up a fur

ball. I managed a small bow back.

“Thank you, diviner. I will see you in three days.”

“At sunset. Three days at sunset.”

“Sunrise! Sunrise! Do not imperil our wedding day!”

Her stamping shook the walls and made me fear she

would put her foot through my floor.

“Sunrise it is. Right here. My humble chambers.”

She stomped out of said humble chambers. I followed her

out and stood under the tree that shades my door and

watched her stomp downhill towards the riverfront. When

she was quite distant I broke a small branch off the tree and

took it inside where I stabbed the pad of dwarf smut and

threw it and the branch into the fire where it burned and

crackled fierily.

Perhaps, I thought, I should have asked her for his name,

not that it is needed.

I packed a pipe and considered my next move through the

lens of Millie’s red stone. My dingy chambers looked quite

rosy through it, rosy and kaleidoscopic. The rough bench and

table by the fire folded like golden petals around the heart of

the spattering fire.

A bag of these would change things, even after the hefty

tithe the guild would expect. I could give up the humbleness.

I could purchase my Master Diviner’s cap directly, skipping

the ten years of accumulated journeyman fees and the often

fatal constructive rites at the top of Mount Screamdeath.

A preparatory drink was in order. Blind Wellam would be

sad to see me today - the usury on my tab was keeping his

boys in corduroy breeches. Betty Garters would also be sad,

but she would hide it behind her smile and face paints.

I locked my chambers, turned my shingle against the wall

and headed up the hill along Towardsriver Lane, waving to

old lady Greeley who was leaning out her upper window,

spitting into the street, her long grey hair and aged bosom

hanging over the ledge. She waved back and spat over my

head.

“Where are you heading off to on this horrid morning,

Greefin?”

I stopped to address her.

“I’ve got a mind to pay Blind Wellam a visit.”

Old lady Greeley sniffed and tugged the top of her bodice

up.

“That dwarf lady pay you up front?”

“Madam! Diviner-client privilege forbids me from

discussing that.”

“Poor pale bunny.” She spat over my head again. A small

rainbow appeared in the mist - a good omen. “I thought a

dwarf would be smarter than that. Well, if you are still there

tonight I hope you will share your good fortune and provide

an older dame an ale.”

“Only the finest ales for you, Madame Greeley. And good

day to you.”

I bowed and walked on.

“It’s a horrid day. My man Mitt died on a day just like

this.”

Her man Mitt died of a catarrh, the same catarrh that

appears to have rendered old lady Greeley immortal and the

street outside her home treacherous.

Towardsriver Lane, along with Woodward and Kingsward

lanes, is one of the three crooked spokes that bring most folk

and goods in and out of Hill-on-the-river, with the castle

playing the hub.

Towardsriver starts at the long wooden pier that runs

along the river bank, passes through the warehouses of the

merchants and the flophouses and alehouses frequented by

the boatmen, rivermen and poor travelers, then the

ramshackle shacks of the drunken wharfies, many suffering

a roof confiscated by the landlord for outstanding rent, and

then the ribbed and curved cottages of the boat builders.

Next comes the stretch where my chambers sit, a collection of

tinkers, tacklers, sail makers, transport agents and assorted

river trades. Old man Greely had made a fair living carving

oars until the catarrh claimed him.

Up Towardsriver from my chambers were the Middens -

too far from the river and not close enough to the castle for

any care. The river pebbles petered out underfoot and the

dirt road wandered drunkenly off true and was etched deep

with cart tracks still unbroken since the last rain. The lane

here did not so much widen as the shacks slumped away

from the track and each other and in the voids between

weeds and saplings grew as fodder for tethered goats and the

occasional ox. It was a place of petty troubles and small

hopes.

The castle end of the Middens started where the

cobblestone thieves, Middeners in need of hearths, abutted

the town guard’s patrols. Here, where the road could be

called cobbled rather than rocky, was Towardsriver Market,

an open square with a giant oak in the centre, local farmers,

and craftsmen, mostly Middeners, with their fruits,

vegetables and wares laid out on blankets or sitting straight

on the cobbles. Dogs prowled about here and a butcher paid

to keep a couple of great spotted pigs, too big to be bothered

by the dogs, tethered to the oak and they fattened on the

spoils. Around the markets were storefronts for a barber-

surgeon, a breadman, the pigs’ butcher, and a leatherman.

Past the market the buildings started to grow fancy. Paint

and not just whitewash appeared on the walls. Balconies

appeared and started to extend over the street, further and

further til they just about bridged the lane and their view

was of a bedroom and their bedroom was a view.

Towardsriver kinked here and just as the castle gates

came into view the cobblestones gave way to paving stones

and the houses, too, were stone and their rooves all tiled by

order of the king.

The street traffic grew finer as did the shops, and the

chambers of scribes, solicitors and successful members of my

own guild appeared amongst the apothecaries, stationers and

tailors.

I stepped smartly past the opening of Guilds Lane and

followed the edge of the plaza in front of the River Gate

around to the right and into Walls End, the shadow land of

Hill-on-the-River, literally and perpetually in the shadow of

the castle wall. There was room enough for an oxcart to

travel down the muddy fill of an ancient moat between the

doors of the establishments and the wall, but not enough to

turn. The carts had to trundle around to Woodward Gate and

then it was a series of lefts and rights and down canted

Tipcart Lane to get back to where they started.

Blind Wellam’s alehouse was set in Wall’s End, but

through the patronage of stout hearts like myself Blind

Wellam had moved his wife and boys into a rented cottage

within the walls of the castle itself, rubbing shoulders with

merchants, military and members of Lord Feril’s court, all of

them appalled by his presence and demanding taxes on ale

be raised to the point where Blind Wellam is forced back

outside the castle walls.

On the wooden sign swinging from the beam outside Blind

Wellam’s alehouse was a faded painting of a crying dog,

which gave the alehouse its original name, but everyone has

been calling it Blind Wellam’s since Blind Wellam’s dad,

Blind Wellam, a bricklayer renowned for crooked lines and

forthrightness, took a liking to the place and threw the old

owner into the muddy street. The poor fellow, being an uphill

gent, could not swim and drowned in a puddle while under

the wheels and dancing hooves of an oxcart whose novice

driver could not believe oxen were incapable of walking

backwards and was sure his stick and Blind Wellam’s

encouragement was enough to change the world.

Blind Wellam comforted the young widow. She gave him

the keys to The Crying Dog, they were married and the

previous owner was trampled deeper into the sodden earth.

He is still under the mud track there, his burial marked only

by a shallow scratching of two initials on the castle wall

above the spot. I like to think they were scratched in place

late one night by his widow, who may have stumbled out and

away from the glowing, noisy doorway, drunk and sad on

jenever, pricked by conscience and feeling the poor fallen

man deserved a sign of his being and his passing.

The younger Blind Wellam, his mother’s comfort and

discomfiture, was like his father - rough, gruff, gregarious

and greedy - so he grew into the same name. He was born

Teefren, but once Blind Wellam met his own fate (his head

broken by a falling ale barrel as he slept off the morning’s

drinking in the alehouse cellar, stretched out in front of the

barrels he had stacked himself in the straight towers he

preferred over the bricklayer’s interleaving that reminded

him of the guild he had escaped, stability be damned),

Teefren was Blind Wellam from then on.

His mother had given up the drink and frequenting the

alehouse, keeping to her room upstairs where she sewed and

watched the oxcarts trundle down Walls End, so the alehouse

fell into another Blind Wellam’s lap through another man’s

accidental death. He knew everything ran in threes and his

impatience at his own demise had made him cautious,

careful and suspicious. Except when drunk, then he was

reckless and dangerous and violent, picking fights and taking

challenges and demanding his fate to come to him. In the

morning, sore in the head and the demons of nextday

haunting him, he would stay in bed and keep the covers up

and shiver and wish his father was a better bricklayer.

Entering the alehouse was like being swallowed by a

shadow. The doorway was the only real source of light and

that was received second hand from the castle wall. I have a

seen a drowned riverman with a warmer glow than the

fireplace. There was a lantern up on the cornice behind the

bar, but no matter how bright the hour it was always well

past dusk at Blind Wellam’s.

The regulars were at their table near the bar. A sorry lot.

Half had been making uphill progress before Blind Wellam

started offering credit. Now they sat in rags with their sons,

feeding them sips of ale to keep their strength up for the

carriage home.

That day Blind Wellam was in shouting form, so he must

have been clean of the drink for a twoday, the demons

banished again and that was enough relief for him to forget

his waiting fate for another twoday before its grey

inevitability drove him back into his own kegs.

“Greefin! You meager magician, you are late paying your

compounding tab. You will need more than brass if you plan

on drinking today.”

Blind Wellam stood with his arms braced on his side of the

bar. Fair Maggie, his wench, stood behind him rolling her

dark eyes. She tucked a strand of her black hair behind her

ear and held the tip of her long nose. It was an obscene act

and it made me smile.

“Men with debts like yours should not be smiling. My boys

are going hungry and I’ve got a cellar full of empty ale kegs

because of your inebriate ways.”

I nodded and tried to look bored rather than pleased.

“How much,” I asked, “has it grown to now?”

The room went silent but for rasping whispers as the

ignorant were informed. The drinkers had a superstition

about enquiring upon one’s tab - the owner of the house will

demand it paid.

“Mother!”

Blind Wellam took Maggie’s broom and banged its end

against the ceiling.

“Mother!”

“What?” came the muffled reply.

“Bring the ledger! Greefin has made an enquiry.”

The house followed her footsteps track through rooms

overhead, the jingle of keys, hinges squeaking, footsteps to

the stairs and all eyes were upon her as first her black shoes,

then her ankles and the rest of her appeared, grey and prim

in simple blue dress.

“Hello, Greefin. How is your grandfather? We haven’t seen

him for a while.”

“His legs are gone. It would take two boys and a

wheelbarrow to get him here.”

“Ah, we have boys but no wheelbarrow.”

“Ah, he has a wheelbarrow but no boys.”

The impossibility of the situation brought a gentle

clucking from Mother as she placed the ledger on the bar and

opened it to a well thumbed spread of pages.

“Will it take long to sum? I am mighty thirsty.”

“Only as long as it takes someone to get me a light.

Wellam! Light!”

Wellam pushed Maggie down the bar.

“Grab the cornice lamp for Mother, drowsy wench.”

Maggie threw her broom at him and flounced to the corner

of the bar and up a stool to grab the brass lantern. She

thumped it down with a rattle at the head of the ledger.

Mother unhooked its pierced shade and a yellow wedge of

light brightened the smudges, fingerprints, tankard stains,

and two columns of hen-scratched figures, one mostly empty,

the other mostly full.

“Can you read numbers or would you like me to pronounce

it?”

“I am a diviner, Mother. I read numbers as easily as I read

the future.”

“Then allow me to pronounce it for you…”

“Just point me the number in question.”

I leaned over the book and followed her gliding finger to

the bottom of the page, and over to the next, which she

turned and I followed, another turned, upon which a

muttering went from the audience, some bored and some

counting pages and others adding up ledger rows and eyes

widening, but another page fell and the numbers moved into

that incomprehensible range that even trained diviners

struggle with, though no doubt they are familiar to bankers,

accountants and publicans.

At last the finger stopped, the yellow nail pressed into the

page and above it an inky caterpillar of a clumsy length.

Without the stone in my pocket I would have dropped into

the most despairing of moods and in need of many ales at

any price. With the stone it was but a pittance.

“I see,” I said and then slowly, like a mummer might, I

leant over until my forehead was against the bar and sagged

at my knees.

Blind Wellam’s breath swam like a warm, fetid cloud

between my face and the wet bar as he bent in to laugh at

me.

“Will you be paying that in gold or coin today, milord?”

The house broke into raucous laughter.

I lifted my head to look up at him, nose to veined nose.

“Neither, stink-breath.”

“Stink-breath?”

I stood up straight.

“I will pay in jewels!” I cried out and held aloft Millie’s

deposit and it twinkled even in the alehouse gloam.

Blind Wellam staggered back against his shelves like I

had produced a snake, his mother pulled at my arm, jumping

like a child, trying to drag it down while the crowd’s laughter

turned to cheering and the thunder of tankards on tables and

boots on the floor. They called out my name as tears rolled

down their faces, my freedom giving them a hope they never

had.

I let Mother take the jewel from my hand and she studied

it shrewdly in the lantern light.

“I expect quite a bit of credit and a fair bit of gold in

change, Mother.”

“You will have to take coin,” she said sharply. “We only

have coin.”

“But I have no wheelbarrow.”

That got more laughs from the crowd.

“Borrow your grandfather’s,” came the reply. You would

think they would be happy, but usurers hate getting money

more than they hate giving it out.

“Now, Blind Wellam, I would like an ale. A fresh ale from

a fresh keg. Wait!”

I held up my hand.

“I want a fresh keg. One of your best kegs, one of the kegs

you share with your neighbors on the other side of the wall!”

The cheers rang louder. The regulars had been joined by

passers-by who had heard their commotion.

Blind Wellam rolled out a barrel with staves still white

and rings still shining.

“Maggie!”

With Maggie’s help he righted it and then with a black

metal pry he dug out the crown and opened it up right up.

Maggie handed him a tankard and he dipped it in and filled

it and passed it to me.

I faced the crowd and put the tankard to my lips and

drained it, the ale going down like honeyed water, the crowd

banging their own tankards again.

Blind Wellam could brew when he set his mind to it.

“Now that, my friends, is ale,” I said to the house. “Grab

your tankards and come have your fill, this drink is on my

coin!”

I filled my tankard again and moved down the bar to

escape the crush.

Toothless men gulped down ale faster than their throats

could accommodate, spilling it on their shirtfronts which they

promptly took in their mouths and sucked while they waited

for another dip in the keg.

“Aye!” screamed One-eyed Feete, “I have come upon all

dizzy.”

“And I!” yelled Fatty. “The floor moves under me!”

Cries of “Poison!” went up and Old Yardie turned from the

keg and shouted them down.

“This be no poison! This be grog! Real grog, strong and

sweet like lords and ladies in the castle drink to be lively!”

He drained his tankard and danced a jig. This convinced

the crowd. They cheered and dived back in.

I waved over Maggie and gave her my tankard and she

filled it for me, her head disappearing into the barrel to fill it.

“Thank you, Maggie-pie. Have one yourself.”

She shook her head and looked down her long nose at me.

“Ale is a demon’s latch key. Blind Wellam told me himself

and I have seen it in him true enough.”

The man himself came over, cradling something in dark

blue velvet. He unwrapped a crystal decanter filled with a

golden liquid that appeared to be shining with its own

interior light.

“Would you like a glass, Diviner?”

So generous of him. My own generosity had warmed his

heart and now he was bringing out his other treasures to

share. I felt a flush of happy warmth and benevolence and so

gave him a smile.

“Ah, Blind Wellam, you are a fine host. I would indeed.

What is it?”

He produced two small glasses and placed one for me and

one for himself. They were suprisingly clean.

“This liqueur is from a land far to the north.”

He removed the stopper.

“It is made from berries that only appear in the winter.”

He poured a stingy measure into my glass and the same

into his.

“On mountain ledges that look down upon the clouds.”

I picked up my glass and sniffed it. Someone had caught

the winter sun and bottled it.

“Every winter people die collecting the berries and only a

few barrels are made each year.”

I took a sip. It burnt then numbed then tickled my tongue

and throat and left a warm trail that I could follow all the

way down to my guts.

“A bottle makes it to our lands only once in a lifetime. This

one my father Blind Wellam bought, swapping my brother

Conniving Ade into slavery for it, a decision for which even

unto this day our family remains grateful.”

I emptied my little glass.

“Perhaps I could have another taste of your fine liqueur,

Mr. Wellam?”

My eyes at that moment may have resembled those of a

pup, but that drink was exquisite and there was no

demeaning oneself in its pursuit.

“Of course, diviner.”

He poured me another and I sipped at it while half a very

fine ale sat neglected at my elbow. I had met her younger

sister and she was much prettier.

Blind Wellam took his own glass and had a sip. Color

entered his gray face and a spark lit in his eye. When he

smiled at me I knew his guts were glowing like mine.

“Lovely,” he said. “The keg’s run dry. Shall we get these

fellows another?”

I waved graciously. The poor sods could have all the ale

they wanted. Two kegs, not even three kegs, could match the

small drink in my hand. My heart was momentarily filled

with sadness that these men and boys, delighted by ale, who

would be astounded by this liqueur, may never taste it.

I eyed the bottle. It seemed to tease me with its ghost - a

second bottle hovered amidst the first. I eyed the crowd.

Then I eyed the bottle again. The level was quite low,

definitely not enough to share. And one does not want to

introduce disenchantment in so many. It would be a cruelty

to render their ale, their only compensation, undrinkable,

their food the rotting leavings of others, their clothes

stinking rags held in place by mud and filth, their friends’

faces broken and pustuled masks. I could live with that,

diviners are at home with the truth, but these less than

ordinary brutes would be crushed. I sighed and drained my

glass.

Blind Wellam produced another decanter. This one filled

with a brown fluid that seemed intent on twinning.

“What is this now?” I asked. “This new spirit dances,

undecided if it wants to be one bottle or two.”

“It is oak brandy, pressed by elves from oak blossoms and

leaves, sweetened with spring sap and aged for centuries in

the hollow trunk of a living tree. It is quite strong and should

only be drunk from a silver bowl.”

“I will like to try that,” I said, “despite its despicable

origins.”

A polished silver bowl appeared, smooth and shining like

it was cut from the moon. Blind Wellam poured a long

stream of brandy to fill it. I picked up the bowl with both

hands. It was quite shallow and some sloshed over the rim

and it was cold on my skin, but when I brought it to my lips

and drank it burned like fire and it tasted like fire, a forest

fire, a forest fire in the spring with some hint of floral

perfume being driven out of blossoms by the heat rising up

into my nose and for a moment I felt I was in a forest, deep

beyond any path, in silver moonlight, but encased in a tree.

No, I was a tree, and then my senses returned and Blind

Wellam had not moved, he still had the bottle in his hand.

“Also, diviner, you must drink it all in a single quaff. Down

the rest.”

“As I must.”

I drank it down, returned to the forest and the tree’s

interior, but this time I lingered there while the seasons

flickered past and only the moon was constant. At last the

silver light began to warm and then I was back in the bar,

now with two Blind Wellams before me and beside me two

Old Lady Greeleys drinking two tankards of ale and spitting

merrily in unison upon the floor.

“The keg is dry,” the Blind Wellams said. “We have opened

another for your friends.”

“Excellent,” I said. “Is there any more of that snow berry

liqueur? This elvish brandy is too harsh on my palate and the

sensation of being trapped inside a tree begins to disturb

me.”

“Pardon, diviner?” they replied. Their heads were big and

they leaned over me and I felt like a child mewling in a crib

while looking up at its parents and wondering what monsters

it had been born too.

“Snow berry,” I cried. “More snow berry!”

“It is gone,” they said calmly and it was true. The bottles

had disappeared. I wept into the crook of my arm, mourning,

then I remembered.

“Tree brandy!” I shouted.

“Try this instead,” the Blind Wellams said, standing at

arm’s length from each other now. Fresh glasses were placed

in front of me and in them was dark liquid.

I gulped one down. The taste was interesting and the

effect was enervating, like my head was full of little rooms

and all their shutters were being thrown open to the day.

“This is good. What is it?”

“That, my friend, is lantern fluid.”

“It really is quite good. Who knew?”

“Not me. Would you like more?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Here, have a tankard. The fine ale is exhausted. I have

opened two house kegs for your friends.”

“You and your twin brother, together, you two run a fine

house, a fine house for ale and snow berry.”

“Thank you. Drink up.”

“Is there really no snow berry?”

“That is snow berry in your glass.”

“Oh, thank you!”

I drank it down, tilting my head back, pouring it down my

throat until I fell and landed flat on a fine mattress the Blind

Wellams had laid out behind me, and Maggie, sweet Maggie-

pie was shooing the gnats from my face. She was being a

little rough though. I swear she was using the back of her

hand, which is a difficult thing to sleep through.

“Away, Maggie, away. You are worse than the gnats!”

“Wake up,” she said, “you stinking whore-son. The Captain

of the Guard wants a word.”

“Away, Maggie. It is too dark, too early.”

The wind left my body and two of my ribs were moved up

quite violently.

“I ain’t your Maggie. Get up.”

I opened my eyes to the rough boots of a town guardsman

decorated with surprisingly delicate silver buckles. One boot

was dirty, one was clean around the toe, freshly polished on

my belly.

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About the Author

Jake Zablarski is a native of the Pacific Northwest. A civil

engineering drop-out, Jake spent a large part of his life

travelling and working on some of Europe's largest

infrastructure projects throughout the 80s and 90s. His

major interests are books and concrete formwork. He cites

his major influences as J. G. Ballard and Gary Numan.

When not working as a consultant, he spends most of his

time at his cabin in the mountains, surrounded by trees and

books and accompanied by his life partner Dora, an educator,

and their three bullmastiffs Snaps, Wizz and Chump.

byrneswoder.com