Fiddler's Green

I

Sing, O' Muse, as we learn to pass the time with stories, tales of knaves becoming knights and the weak becoming strong. We tell of the grey, the dark and the white; the savior and the villain. How is it that we can be sure who is who? Happy endings are expected, even if they are not required, so I cannot promise that this story will have one. The ending to this story escapes me, even years later.

We start our tale with the girl who darted between the carts, huffing as she grasped at the strap of the leather bag with both hands. The rain rushed down in sheets, obscuring her vision as her hair fell into her face. The corset she'd been forced into by her landlady was sworn at as she tried to fix the boning that was pressing into her ribs before she stepped into the pub. Hesitating, she began wondering if it was all for naught, picking her skirt up as she stepped up onto the curb and reached for the handle of the wooden door.

Hit by a rush of heat and light, she wrinkled her nose at the smell of rum and body odor. The barkeep was old enough to be her grandfather, but she bit her lip to avoid retorting back at him. You see, that would do nothing to endear herself to anyone she was looking for aid from. A roar of laughter picked up behind her at a joke yelled, so she pursed her lips and sat down at the bartop. The red-haired man next to her was rough around the edges, someone her parents had warned her about when she was younger and she lived in the City.

"Need some 'elp, love?"

"I'm looking for someone who can take me on their ship for passage." She replied evenly. "I'm willing to pay a fair price and work."

"You? Litt'l lass?" His accent was thick as the smell of gin on his breath.

"Yes. Me."

"Bad luck to have a woman on a ship. No one'll take ya." He downed his glass as the girl sighed, wondering if she was reaching for the moon to only have it rain down in shattered pieces. She hadn't been a girl for years, not really.

"Fill 'er up, Stan." He gestured to his mug and the bartender obliged, bringing it over to a wooden keg by the brick wall behind the bar. The dark liquid foamed by the edge, and though she honestly couldn't tell you what it was, she knew it was alcoholic.

"I just need to get to New York." It felt like the entire pub stopped. Perhaps it did. The drunk beside her and Stan the barkeep wiping down the top with a grey rag gave her incredulous looks. She knew what they were thinking, and she grasped the knife she had hidden in her dress more closely, pulling a sack of coin out of her bag. They started to go back to their drinks, too preoccupied to listen to a futile attempt.

"I need to get back home." She repeated, downing the absinthe in front of her. He hooted at her stalwart expression, raising his newly filled mug in a challenge. The bartender leaned over, his toothbrush-like mustache quivering as he talked in his strange accent that she still hadn't adjusted to after four years.

"Lass, this place 'ere 's no' where ya wanna be lookin', aye? Be'er luck for a passenger ship." Well, it was true, but she wouldn't take no for an answer. I learnt that firsthand. He adjusted the spectacles on his face and turned his attention back to wiping the bar. Stan had a small frame and the girl wondered how he managed to keep a pirate bar in check. Shaking her head, she took a moment to survey the bar, wondering if she was going to continue shooting into the brown.

It had low hanging and almost dank ceilings that were ubiquitous in that time with all the rain. There was an almost mildewy stench that mixed with the dust, hay, manure and body odor. Minimal light from the lamps on the wall and those hanging down from the ceiling cast shadows over the men cackling around wooden and circular tables. The only portrait on the wall was a photo of the Queen. It was a strange sort of Camelot if there ever was one. The men were nearly all sailors, that was clear, but which type, she couldn't tell. There was an odd arrangement of men at each table, some were clean shaven, wearing naval uniform and avoiding the rowdier bunch by the corner in darker and dirty clothes, their beards and eyes wild with drink and their weapons openly carried.