The Wonder Tales

Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Upon the following evening, Tobias Dwerryhouse occupied his usual post behind the bar at the Moss and Mist. Clover Waregrove’s uncharacteristic liberality was a topic nobody had yet tired of, and Tobias heard all of the stories with no small share of bemusement.

He, too, had received a gift from Clarimond’s mother. Knowing her disapproval of him for her daughter’s husband, he could hardly have been more surprised when she had arrived at the Mist early that morning and presented him with a handsome pewter flagon. ‘It belonged to my mother’s father,’ she had informed him with obvious pride. ‘Will you not take it? It has never seen use since Clarimond’s father died, and what a shame for it to sit gathering dust!’

She would not be gainsaid, so he had accepted it at last. It now sat upon the bar, a subject of hilarity for his regular customers. They recognised it for new, and soon guessed where it had come from.

It was undoubtedly a prize of a possession. The pewter had a deal of silver mixed in, if he was any judge, and its surface was intricately engraved. But Clarimond had been no more able to account for the change in her mother than anybody else, and the flagon’s presence made him uneasy.

His disquiet was shared by no one else, not even Clarimond. She was relieved at the improvement in her mother’s difficult character, howsoever it came about, so he held his peace upon the subject. The spirits of his customers were high and the atmosphere jovial as Tobias refilled tankards, listening covertly to snippets of talk as he passed by.

Barnaby Longstaff sat alone in a corner of the common room, as was his wont. He was deep in his eighth or ninth tankard of beer, as was also his wont. Tobias supposed him to be in his fifties, though his habits of perpetual inebriation had ravaged his face and he appeared rather older. He slouched against the wall, lost inside a great-coat far too large for his slight frame, and observed the merry company from behind the straggling locks of his dirty black hair.

Longstaff had been the town beadle in his youth. What had prompted his decline into drunkenness, Tobias neither knew nor could guess. Now he haunted the Moss and Mist day and night, drinking without cease, and holding himself aloof from the rest of the company.

Tobias watched as Barnaby drained off the last of his beer in a vast gulp and set the tankard down. He rose unsteadily to his feet and staggered out of the rear door of the taproom, heading, as always, for the garden. Tobias could wish that the man would relieve himself at the privy, like everybody else, and refrain from watering the trees behind the inn. But Longstaff remained impervious to all suggestions to that effect, and Tobias had largely abandoned his attempts to dissuade him.

Theodosius Penderglass caught Tobias’s eye, and raised a brow. Tobias nodded in reply, and Penderglass rose and quietly followed Longstaff out. Barnaby had once fallen over a tree root in the gardens of the Mist and broken his collarbone; Tobias preferred to ensure this did not happen again, and Theo was obliging enough to assist. The hour was late, night had fallen, and the dangers of the darkness to a drunk and unwary party were considerable.

Then the common room broke into song, and Tobias forgot about Longstaff. It was the central table that began the verses, of course. All his regulars sat there: Ebenezer Witherspoon, attorney; the chandler, Marmaduke Pauncevolt; Malachi Amberdrake, when his medicinal arts were not required elsewhere; and Fabian Mallory, beadle. The fifth chair sat empty, awaiting the return of Theo Penderglass from the garden. His absence did nothing to dampen the exuberance of his friends, for they sang lustily enough without him, and the song was new to Tobias.

You can keep your bitter beer and you can keep your ale,

I don’t want them red or brown, I do not want them pale!

Naught will do to quench my thirst but a draught drunk crisp and cold,

Not brown in hue, not green or blue, but finest amber-gold!

Cider-bright I’ll drink all night, I’ll drink enough for three,

It’s sweet, it’s tart, it warms the heart, and it comes from old Berrie!

No such song had been heard in Berrie Wynweald in many a year. Of that, Tobias was certain, because cider had not been made or drunk in the town since the orchards failed. The song delighted the company, for it was taken up all over the taproom and sung again and again. Tobias listened with growing unease, his eye straying once more to the pewter flagon upon the counter.

In the middle of the third refrain, Theo Penderglass returned — without Barnaby Longstaff. He lingered by the door until he caught Tobias’s gaze, and urgently signalled with his own that something was amiss. This incomprehensible message delivered, he disappeared outside once more.

Tobias lingered only long enough to refill Fabian Mallory’s tankard, and then he followed Theo into the night.

Lanterns hung on either side of the door, their bright glow driving back the night immediately outside the inn. Barnaby, of course, was some way beyond the yellow circle of light, and Tobias could not see him.

He could, however, hear him. The man was muttering and cursing in drunken syllables, amid some other, strange sounds of which Tobias could make no immediate sense: a dull thud from time to time, and a periodic swish of branches. ‘C’mere, ya little blackguard,’ said Barnaby, and then came another swish and a thud. ‘Stop tauntin’ me! Come on!’

Tobias unhooked one of the lanterns and stepped off the pathway, following the sounds of Barnaby’s slurred imprecations. Far to the rear of the garden was he, so close to the river it was a wonder he had not fallen in. He stood beneath a wizened old tree, apparently fixated upon something he fancied he saw within its branches, for he was jumping and snatching at the leaves in his eagerness to secure it.

Theo Penderglass stood watching this strange behaviour, arms folded and a deep frown upon his young face. He had prudently stationed himself in between Barnaby and the water. Barnaby ignored Tobias’s approach, too intent upon the tree even to notice the light. Theo, however, greeted Tobias’s arrival with relief.

‘He is badly drunk,’ whispered Theo, ‘but there really is something up there. I saw it myself, a flash of something silver.’

‘Moonlight upon the leaves,’ said Tobias.

But Theo shook his head. ‘I think not. And I am nowhere near as drunk as Longstaff, my friend.’

Tobias stared into the branches of the tree. Was that a flicker of bright silver he saw, as the branches thrashed and swayed? A gleam of moonlight, nothing more, for the moon shone full and lustrous upon the garden.

Barnaby, undeterred, made one final, great leap. His hand closed tight around some particular branch; he shook it powerfully as his feet returned to the grass, and something fell. Something rounded and glinting silvery in the light of Tobias’s lamp.

Barnaby fell upon it with a cry of jubilation, and in his exultation he held it up high. ‘What a beauty!’ he crowed. ‘And all mine!’

For an instant Tobias could not breathe, for Barnaby held a pear in his hands. A fine, ripe, beautiful specimen, fresh and fat and mottled silver.

‘Stop!’ cried Tobias, but too late, for Barnaby had already carried the fruit to his lips and taken a great bite. He ate the pear in a frenzy of eagerness and soon it was gone, every morsel devoured. Afterwards he stood licking juice from his fingers, a dazed and delighted smile creasing his wrinkled face.

His eyes met Tobias’s, returning his stare with a sober clarity Tobias had never before seen in him. His habitual scowl had gone, and he smiled.

His next words, however, did not surprise Tobias at all. ‘I think I will have another beer.’ He stretched, made some swiftly-aborted attempt to rectify the crumpled untidiness of his coat, and sauntered back into the taproom.

Theodosius gave Tobias a long look. ‘How long have you had pears growing out here?’

‘I never saw one before today,’ Tobias answered grimly. He did not waste time searching for more among the trees, for no further promising glimpses of silvery skin met his eye. The branches swayed, light and free, clearly unencumbered by any more heavy fruits.

Wherever the pear had come from, it had fruited alone.

Tobias strode back into the taproom, returning the lamp to its former place by the door as he went in. Barnaby stood with quiet sobriety by the bar, empty tankard in hand. He really was sober, Tobias realised upon regarding him; it was no temporary impression. Barnaby stood straight, his pale eyes bright. The hand that held the tankard was steady, its customary tremblings all forgotten. His fellow drinkers were still in full flow and the song rose to a crescendo around him, before ending in a flurry of laughter. And sour, moody old Barnaby laughed along with them.

Tobias refilled the proffered tankard and handed it back with a sense of regret. Barnaby Longstaff, sober! What a shame that the man could only trail straight back to the drink.

A question burned inside him; many questions, but one in particular rose to the fore. As Barnaby raised the beer to his lips, Tobias leaned forward and said: ‘How did it taste?’

Barnaby smiled dreamily. ‘Like paradise,’ he replied, and took a swallow of beer.

His face twisted in instant disgust and he gagged. He slammed the tankard back down upon the bar, retching, and to Tobias’s dismay he heaved up the contents of his stomach all over the polished oak floor of the taproom. The singing stopped abruptly as Barnaby staggered back, wiping his mouth.

‘Sorry,’ he croaked. He snatched up the tankard and drank again, trying perhaps to rinse the foul flavour from his mouth. But no more than three mouthfuls of beer did he manage to imbibe before he retched again, with the same outcome.

‘Ale,’ he gasped. ‘Mead. Anything, Dwerryhouse.’

Tobias complied, but swiftly wished he had not, for a swallow of ale produced the same unpleasant result, and a mere sip of mead was sufficient to set the poor man heaving again. Tobias at last set water before him and Barnaby drank deep. Every soul at the Moss and Mist waited in heavy silence to see whether Longstaff would contrive to keep it down.

To Tobias’s relief, he did. He drank off a flagon of water in eight quick gulps and stood panting, his skin stark white and sweating and an expression of utter horror in his eyes.

‘I feel strange,’ he announced in a tremulous voice, and then fainted dead away.

By the following evening, the story was all over town. Barnaby Longstaff had lost his stomach for alcohol, and could not take so much as a drop without losing his dinner. Sober he was and sober he must remain, for it made no matter what manner of drink he attempted to imbibe. Beer, ale, mead, whiskey, wine, port or brandy; all brought the same miserable fate upon him.

That night, his customary seat at The Moss and Mist went unoccupied.

No one in Berrie North could account for the sudden change in Longstaff. His talk of strange fruits and silver pears was attended to by none, for no one much cared for the ramblings of a known drunkard, however uncharacteristically sober he might now be.

None save Tobias, that is.

‘Clarimond,’ he had said to his lady earlier that day, as they sat eating lavender tea cakes in her pretty parlour. ‘Did your mother chance to eat anything unusual, a day or two past?’

‘Why, did I not tell you?’ she cried. ‘How shabby of me! In all the confusion, you know, I have been quite scatter-brained.’ But she fell silent without elaborating upon this point, and eyed Tobias with clear misgivings. ‘Though I am afraid you will think me mad,’ she said, confirming his forebodings.

He sighed, and set down the last bite of his cake uneaten. ‘Pray tell me. I shall not think you mad.’

She bit her soft, pink lips and frowned. ‘An apple!’ she disclosed. ‘I know it sounds improbable, Tobias, but I swear it was so. Just what mother wished! And so beautiful a fruit, too. I half wished I could keep it for myself.’

‘Plucked from a tree in your own garden, I may surmise?’

‘Yes, though I did not so much pluck it as catch it when it fell into my hands.’ She looked quizzical, and intrigued. ‘How came you to guess that?’

So he’d told her the story of the silver pear, and listened to her more detailed account of her mother’s golden apple. The two had parted at last with an agreement to seek each other’s counsel at once, should anything else untoward occur. Especially if any more such curious fruits should appear.

Tobias had walked through the gardens before he departed. He’d stood upon the bank of the river behind Thistledown House, and gazed across the stretch of water that divided her home from his. The two ancient trees were not so very far apart, he thought, watching the branches of his distant pear tree swaying in the wind.

Tobias was not left long to wonder about the source of the strange song sung at The Moss and Mist, the night of Barnaby Longstaff’s distress. Two nights later a stranger came through the open door of his tavern, and presented himself at the bar.

The newcomer was a strange fellow. Small was he, his head barely higher than Tobias’s shoulder. He had a slender, slight build to match his diminutive frame, though he was no frail creature, for he moved with a wiry grace suggestive of hidden strength. He wore a coat of motley patchwork over trews of mulberry cloth, a shirt with lace at the throat and a tall pair of boots. His c****d hat was of green velvet, and this he swept off as he bowed low to Tobias, revealing a lining of crimson silk. His hair was the colour of chestnuts, and tied back with a silken ribbon. A set of silver pipes hung upon a second ribbon around his neck, and he carried a polished black fiddle slung over his back.

‘I am told,’ said he in mellifluous tones, ‘that you brew a particularly fine honeywine.’

‘I serve such,’ said Tobias. ‘But ‘tis made over the river, in Southtown.’

The stranger did not seem to be deterred; on the contrary, his black eyes sharpened with interest. ‘Over the river,’ he repeated, and said with a smile, ‘Then I will certainly take a glass.’

The man had the air of a discerning connoisseur, so Tobias proffered his best: a light confection, made from Ambrose Dale’s own clover honey. His guest took a sip of the pale golden wine, then a gulp; a second swallow and the glass was drained.

‘Another,’ he said with a glinting smile, and drank it straight down. He returned the glass with a flourish. ‘Southtown,’ he said ruminatively.

Tobias fetched another bottle, a lavender honeywine that Clarimond preferred. ‘New in town?’ he said as he poured.

Apparently sated, the stranger sipped the new wine with an air of deep concentration. ‘Yes,’ he said, his smile wide and satisfied. ‘But I think I will stay a while.’

‘We have rooms.’

The man shook his head. ‘A moonlit bower is to be my bed, my pillow the crisp night air, my blanket the star-strewn skies.’ His eyes twinkled oddly as he spoke, perhaps with merriment, or something else entirely. He dipped a finger in his honeywine and traced it over his lips, then whistled a snatch of a tune.

Tobias c****d an eyebrow at so strange a response, but held his peace upon the subject. ‘You’ve travelled far, I think,’ he said, casting an eye over the man’s curious garb.

‘In a sense,’ agreed the stranger. He looked closely at Tobias for the first time since his arrival, his black eyes intent and full of a meaning Tobias could not read. At length, he grinned. ‘It sometimes happens that history comes a-calling,’ he said. ‘It is well to pay attention, when it does.’

With which cryptic utterance, he downed the rest of his honeywine and wandered away. He drifted between the tables, humming snatches of a brisk melody. The curious stares of his fellow drinkers he answered with bows and smiles.

‘It is far too quiet in here!’ he said, and fetched his fiddle from its place across his back. He struck up an air at once, and within three bars Tobias recognised the melody which had so recently taken over his common room. His customers knew it, too, and soon took up the tune. The stranger’s voice rose above the rest, and when the familiar verses came to an end, he sang on alone.

He went on, playing faster as the song progressed and ended and began again, his bow a blur upon the strings of his fiddle. The final verse poured forth at such a speed, Tobias could barely distinguish the words; but the fiddler never missed a syllable, nor grew short of breath. He finished the song with a flourish of his bow and a ringing laugh, acknowledged the cheers of his audience with a sweeping bow, and darted for the door. He was gone in an instant, disappearing into the night with only a final, parting flurry of notes by way of farewell.

Tobias watched for him some time afterwards, but he was not seen again at The Moss and Mist.