Chapter 2 Last Mug, Last Tales
I use the break to retie my hair. It was slick with sweat at my temples, and I adjusted the ring at my neck. It always sits a little off-center by this point in the night, the metal warmed to the pulse in my throat. The ring kept my mind centered through the night whenever it began to wander toward the sea and the cemetery west of the island. Snapping out my wandering thoughts, I readied myself to dance out with a full plate of warm bread for the customers.
When I return, the volume has only grown. A couple is arguing over cards, the scar-faced woman in the corner has drawn a crowd for her story of the time she cut a shark open to save her brother’s arm. Even the band is playing faster, the beat thumping up through the soles of my boots to get me through the rest of the night.
I glide from table to table, hands always busy refilling, collecting coins, smoothing over the beginnings of trouble. The subtle tension in my shoulders never leaves. It’s not fear, not exactly. It’s more like the awareness that I am the hinge on which this whole room swings. One wrong misread of the customer always spelled disaster.
At one point, a sailor gets too loud, smashing his cup against the table. I move over there before the noise can multiply. I lean in, my voice soft but cut with steel.
“Break one of my mugs, and I’ll start adding them to your bill. Or I’ll take something very personal from you if you’re out of coin.” I make a show of looking down pointedly at his crotch.
He stares at me, blinking, and then just laughs.
“Fair enough, girl. Pour me another.”
I did not move right away to fill his mug. But to stare him down a bit more before tapping the rim of his mug with my nail, a warning. He nods and then refills. He seemed to have gotten the message. I move on.
The floorboards creak with every footstep; the windows sweat from the heat. Laughter comes in waves, each crest higher than the last. I thrive on it, but as the hours crawl by, I start to count the minutes between table checks, the way some men count the hours to sunrise. The worst of the rush was over now.
I pause at the bar for a breath. Taking in a moment of calm. Outside, the lamps along the dock are little more than smears of light in the fog. They seemed to call to me. I begin to think about how easily I could just slip out and walk the boardwalk, letting the wind tangle my hair with the salty air, but I never do. Not while the tavern still needs me.
A shout from the corner. Someone’s started an arm-wrestling match. I roll my eyes as I pour myself a shot of rum, swallow it, then slip through the crowd to referee. The loser—predictably, the merchant—slams his elbow down, howling. The farmhands jeer, the women cackle. I give the winner a half-laugh.
“You get a free drink. Just don’t break anything.” Laughing as I move back to the bar to get the drink.
I am pouring the winner's drink when I feel someone's unnerving stare. Someone at the far table, eyes bright and unblinking. I meet their gaze, hold it a moment. The person’s stare breaks first, turning to the dregs of a glass. I let myself exhale. That one gave me the creeps.
The last stretch of the night was here. The drinks keep flowing more slowly than before. The laughter never really dies, only shifts in tone and tempo. My feet ache, my arms are sticky with spilled ale, and my throat is raw from shouting over the din. I began to kick out a few men who were more interested in getting into my bed than the drinks I was pouring.
Taking a jug over to one of my regular customers, the harbormaster, who always told me of his stories of the sea, the tavern was calm in this last hour. I always made a point of sitting with him when I could.
“Hey there, old man.” I smiled at him warmly.
“Hey there, girl. You look tired today.” He eyes me with his weathered gaze.
“Eh, nothing that a mug of rum and a good story can't fix.” I wink at him as I refill his mug and fill one for me.
“Eh, I see, at least someone thinks so highly of me.”
“Hey, I never said anything like that.” I retort with sarcasm.
He laughs with a deep rattle. “I am guessing its the same charge for this mug?” He asked with an eye raise.
I pointed my finger at him, “See, now you get it.” We both laugh. And he tells me some of the tales he has heard over the past few days. I come back with another mug of ale for both of us and the last of the bread. He leaned in to whisper.
“There have been sightings of the famous pirate ship The Ghost.” The old man told me. He seemed to even have a twinkle in his eye about this. A pirate ship hasn’t been seen nearby in years. It seemed odd that they never came by, but I never spent too much time to think about it. I had my mother to worry about, and now the Tavern. The harbormaster spent the rest of the night retelling stories he had heard of the famous pirate ship, The Ghost.
But as the last patrons drift out and the tables empty, there’s a hush that settles, soft as a promise. I stood at the threshold, one hand on the battered doorframe, the other fiddling with my mother’s ring.
I turn to survey the wreckage. Crumbs, coins, half-remembered stories smeared across the tavern. Looking over the now empty tavern, I began to feel the tired heaviness in my bones. That I feel every night after we close. For the first time tonight, I let my shoulders slump, and my defenses drop.
For a moment, I let myself imagine that I can hear the ocean’s hush beneath the laughter of the night, calling to me, but a quieter room waiting on the other side of the walls. When the door finally clicks shut and is locked. It all faded away, and I was truly alone.