Barnaby the Wanderer

Chapter 42: Sometimes There Are No Words

Bodkin sat to table in the common room of the Pomegranate, chewing on hot sausage, cold thought.

Last night I met my own granddaughter. Don't even know her ma's name. Probably old Mercutio never asked. And pretty Maggy Swynthe drowned herself cursing him. Cursing me.

He looked about, young eyes appreciating how morning light turned dirty window glass to dusty glory. While the air of the room wafted with flower smells of summer Persephone, mixing with cooking scents from the kitchen, smoke from the hearth. Ghost perfumes of beer and wine rose from the floorboards to haunt the sensitive nose with memory of revels past.

And everywhere sounded a pleasant buzz and bustle of a busy inn on a quiet day. Horses and carts in the street, clatter of cups and plates, bits of song and barks of dogs.

What would this morning seem to old Mercutio? With his rheumy eyes eight decades old, ancient nose twisted large and useless by time. Age-deafened ears catching only weak echo of the sounds of the day.

At which thought, the old man in his head laughed.

At eighty and more, you might as well have your head in a bucket. Not hearing much, not smelling much, not seeing much, not tasting much. It's why we stole the Elixir of Youth. To feel this alive again.

"Yeah? I'm thinking maybe there was another reason you didn't want to be Old Mercutio anymore."

I wanted this. To be young again.

"Maggie Swynthe drowned herself cursing the father of her child. Or her children? Don't know the litter count. Bet you don't know either. After all, according to Crow, offspring of Old Mercutio came plentiful as kittens in spring."

The old man voice said nothing.

"Maybe old Mercutio reached a day in his long years where it all looked a damned stupid business. Decided to drown himself same as Maggie. Just by a different cup."

Arrogant child, thinking you can understand. A man's life is not a boy's dream. Maggie did as she wished. In girlhood and womanhood. Exact as did I.

"And you both ended yourselves."

Forget about it! That's all washed clean. Over!

"Is it? Is forgetting the same as washed? 'Cause Persephone seems full of your ghosts. Same as my head."

They don't matter! Move on. Regain our skills, not our regrets. Keep head down and eyes sharp.

"To do what?"

To do things right this time! Make ourselves rich and famous and happy! Achieve victories folk will talk about for years. Continue our legend!

"Last night I heard my legend. Says I was a cock, a grin and a light-fingered piece of wandering dogshit."

Stop being childish.

"Sure. Give me a few years and I'll get it done."

Fool. You're arguing with yourself aloud. Drawing attention when you should be sitting quiet. Shut up and listen to the room. Are thief-catchers and the Questioners on your trail?

Bodkin sighed. The old voice wasn't wrong. He needed to be careful, get back to the business of staying alive and on top of things.

He looked about. Finding a few folk eyeing him with mixes of pity or distaste. Seeing a boy in dirty clothes talking to himself. Probably deciding he was cracked.

Perhaps they had the right of it. Maybe the old man in his head was him being bedlam. Fine, he'd make it work to his favor.

He continued eating, no longer speaking, keeping an ear cocked to the chatter and clatter of the room. Not surprisingly, chief topic was the night's bells and whistles.