The Windmill's Keeper

With One Eye and Lacking Face

Aurim slams his cup against the mahogany bar table.  He wheezes as he leans over, cackling, short of breath.

"And then he said 'I'm sorry, but we can't keep you any longer if you can't handle your divorce and a job'!" Aurim mocks and bursts into a fit of laughter, spit flies onto Sean's face.

Sean gives Aurim an irritated glare as he slowly polishes a glass.  It's the same lecture every night, two hours past closing.  The same event for two months.  Sean growls lowly but keeps his composure as the customer continues wailing.

"Ohhhh come to this planet, they said," Aurim hiccups, he leans forward, his face invading Sean's personal space, "Ohhhh you'll get RICH!  With lots of JOB OPPURTUNITIES!" He bursts into another hysterical fit.

Sean remains silent, polishing his glass behind the bar counter.  At least this annoying customer is enabling Sean to afford extra groceries.  He keeps his face idle, deep blue eyes glued to his customer.  

Aurim's foot gets caught on his own cloak, he fumbles as he steps down before collapsing onto the cherry wood floor.  Blood from the drunk's nose pools on the freshly mopped ground.

The barkeep steps from behind the boundary of the table and towers over the fool who just broke his nose and lays barely conscious on the flooring.  Sean writes a bill and drops it.  The piece of paper glides valiantly, gracefully flipping in the air before it lands on the drunken man's head.

Sean's cold eyes flick to the pile of empty glasses, "One-hundred and four dollars."

Aurim groans, "I don't have that money!"

Sean's eyebrows wrinkle, his face contorts in disgust.  He speaks in a low, stereotypical Russian accent, "you make me stay two hours after closing.  You pay me for my time."

The man rolls onto his back, his red eyes stare at the moose antler chandelier, fixtated on its gentle flames, "please, I'll pay you tomorrow."  Aurim moves his pink hair behind his pointed ears.

Sean's towering figure hovers over Aurim, a large, callused hand grabs the drunk's shirt collar.  Aurim's feet hover now two inches above the blood-pooled floor.   Sean growls as his massive figure treks across the bar, gripping Aurim as if the drunk was a kitten.  Sean kicks open the heavy double doors before chucking Aurim from the porch into a dumpster across the road.

Aurim rolls out of the dumpster as the heavy bar doors slam shut.  He groggily stares at the sign next to the building that is lit by a neon light:  The Drunken Catfish.  He stumbles back onto his feet, grunting in frustration at the sight of his cloak.  A large tear in the cloak to always remind the fool whose foot caught the silk.

_____________

It did not take very long for Aurim to return to The Drunken Catfish.  Only twelve hours has passed and Aurim snoozes face down on the counter.  Sean mutters to himself in his native language as he stares at his now hungover customer.

"If you keep this up, that thing will feed on you during the upcoming festival," Sean fills a pint with cider before sliding it to a man on the opposite end of the bar.  

"What a load of bu-" Aurim starts in his frustration.

Sean growls, interrupting the pink haired man, "this ain't no superstition.  Every year on the festival of faces, the creature feeds on the face of one who has least contributed to Tharwa."

Aurim groans at the generic story he hears from every citizen.

"It's true," the man on the opposite end of the bar mutters as he takes a long sip from his mug, "with one eye and lacking face, it seeks yours.  I've lost a buddy of mine to that thing."

Sean nods as he adjusts his hat and the yellow jacket brooch that connects his cloak.  Each citizen wears a cloak with the resemblance of an insect elytra, and each cloak bears a brooch for the corresponding bug.   The cloaks serve no purpose, it is just polite to cover your shoulders.  

Someone sits down at the saloon tight piano and plays a gentle ragtime song in 4/4ths time.  For some reason, any song in 3/4ths are considered blasphemy.

Sean sings along with the song under his breath as he finally polishes off a glass before another person gave him a new filthy shot-glass.

Aurim leans against the table, his head throbbing, "how would it know you contributed the least in order for it to hunt you down?"

The bar goes silent, only the piano playing, of course only three other people besides Aurim are in the saloon.  

"Why should you care," the man drinking cider sneers, "you don't believe in superstitions."

"I recommend heading back to work, Aurim," Sean peers up at the hungover fool, "don't underestimate how valuable your time is."

Aurim rolls his eyes and complies.

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A large room filled with nothing but towers of plants stretch as far as the eye can see, as if it were a void of plants and towers.  The smell of earth fills Aurim's nostrils.  He sighs and checks each tower one-by-one, checking to see if each plant in each tower is collecting enough light or watered.

Tharwa, unlike other colonies on this planet, focuses on agriculture, specifically vertical farming.  A hydroponic system of exposing roots to water with nutrients found in soil.  The planet is constantly shrouded in thick heavy clouds, a habitable gas giant with a solid core, so indoor farming is crucial.   All of Tharwa is powered by a singular traditional windmill at the edge of town.  To reduce energy, with the exception of the vertical farming towers, torches and oil lamps are used to light the eternal darkness.

"Only eight more hours of labor," he sighs.  Aurim was desperate for work, and sent to this planet.  It was either work in Tharwa, city of agriculture, or everywhere else to mine for silver.  

He proceeds to his labor, humming a song, careful not to commit blasphemy.

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Author's Note:  Hello, I am back from the dead.  I am only testing the waters with this story, but it is one I have been developing for two years.  I want you to know that I now write music.  If you want to hear the songs for this story, I will post links in my bio.  I also have a youtube channel, but it does not have all of my songs.