Brigit's Flame, January week 2
The theme this week is "destiny." I don't really believe in Destiny, and maybe that is why poetry failed me this week. I ended up dabbling with the idea of a world where everyone believes in Destiny because it's pretty much unavoidable.
The Painted Lady sat at the corner of Sin and Lust. The weathered building had once been a respectable boarding house, but times had changed, and now it hosted nearly every vice that was still legal. On a normal day its proprietor, Wayne Dervish, would be in the back of the establishment mindlessly tending to his clerical duties, or drifting through the cantina greeting the regulars and scoping out any newcomers. On a slow day he might be found occupying a bed in one of the empty rooms, accompanied by one of his favorite Ladies of the Night. But today he sat at the empty bar idly polishing the glasses, watching the double doors that led out into the dusty street. Watching, and waiting.
The cook had been to the market that morning, and reported that someone had arrived. "Definitely Preordained, and nobody'd ever seen him that I know of," he breathlessly informed Dervish when he arrived back at the Painted Lady empty-handed. "An' my luck stinks lately, I wasn't stickin around."
"Understandable," Dervish had replied, thinking all the luck in the world wouldn't save a man if his number was up. "Won't be many customers today, anyway, with one of those bastards walkin' around. Might as well go on home." The truth was, even if they'd had customers Dervish would have sent him away. Lucias Howe was one truly unlucky bastard, and although Dervish's own luck tended to run fair, sometimes merely associating with someone like Howe was enough to damn a man.
The first soul to enter the Painted Lady was one of the usual customers, Thornton. Like most of the Painted Lady's clientele, Dervish only knew the man by his last name. He'd had to tangle with Thornton before, when the big man had gotten too deep in the cups to control his innate rowdiness. Thornton's mouth was as big as his body; Dervish himself was an even six foot tall, and Thornton dwarfed him by a good six or seven inches. Broad, too, with an unmistakable voice that shook the whole place when its owner bellowed for drink.
Today, though, Thornton seemed subdued. He perched atop an empty stool at the long end of the L-shaped bar , and Dervish drifted down to meet him. "Usual, Thorton?" In Dervish's drawl the name came out closer to "Thorn."
"Yeah, and keep 'um comin, Derv. I got a shitty feeling about this day."
"You and me both, pal." Dervish poured a glass half full of amber-colored whiskey.
The big man eyed it suspiciously. "Little more, just on this first one, eh?"
Dervish obliged, shocked that he had forgotten his manners.
Thornton downed it in two gulps. Dervish shrugged and sat the bottle down in front of him. What did it matter whether he made any profit on a day like this? He'd be doing well to make it to tomorrow in one piece.
While Thornton was hard at work drinking himself to oblivion, Dervish polished the long bar until it shone. He'd already cleaned every tap and surface, and the few scattered tables were still pristine from when the Ladies had wiped them down at closing the previous night.
As if reading his mind, Thornton asked offhandedly, "Where's the Ladies today?"
"Told 'em to stay out of sight. I heard the news from ol' Luce." He approached Thornton, deciding there really was nothing else left to do but join the man. "Why, you interested?"
"No, just wonderin'. Though if I get drunk enough I might be."
As Dervish reached for another glass and poured himself a drink, Thornton craned his neck to look out the door, as if expecting someone to arrive. Satisfied that the immediate street was empty as far as he could see, he leaned toward Dervish conspiratorily.
"Hey, you know the, uh..."
Dervish knew what the other man was going to say before it came out, but he remained silent until Thornton pulled back the sleeve of his flannel overshirt to reveal the intricate tattoo-like markings that circled his left wrist.
"What about 'em?"
"Well you're Pre...too, aren't you?" He didn't finish the word, as if by speaking it he might call the stranger. Dervish didn't blame him.
"I am, I am. Server. Born to serve." He topped off Thornton's glass as if to demonstrate.
"Has yours ever...changed?"
Dervish set the bottle down thoughtfully. "Not that I am aware of," he shook his head. "But I have heard of it."
"Well mine's still the same. But my father...he woke up this morning with something else. And now I hear tell of this strange fellow coming into town."
Dervish nodded, trying to keep his expression blank as a dull sense of horror washed over him.
"What's it say now?"
Thornton looked back at the street again. Then he leaned over and whispered the word into Dervish's ear.
Dervish, stone-faced, took a drink straight from the bottle. Now he knew the purpose of the strange Preordained. In some ways, he was relieved. But at the same time he felt sorry for Thornton, losing his father like that.
As he struggled to say something comforting, anything, the big man put his head in his hands and made a sound that could have been a sob. "Fates be damned, I'd take his place if I could."
The chill returned with startling immediacy. "Don't say that," Dervish advised. But Thornton already had.
The Painted Lady sat at the corner of Sin and Lust. The weathered building had once been a respectable boarding house, but times had changed, and now it hosted nearly every vice that was still legal. On a normal day its proprietor, Wayne Dervish, would be in the back of the establishment mindlessly tending to his clerical duties, or drifting through the cantina greeting the regulars and scoping out any newcomers. On a slow day he might be found occupying a bed in one of the empty rooms, accompanied by one of his favorite Ladies of the Night. But today he sat at the empty bar idly polishing the glasses, watching the double doors that led out into the dusty street. Watching, and waiting.
The cook had been to the market that morning, and reported that someone had arrived. "Definitely Preordained, and nobody'd ever seen him that I know of," he breathlessly informed Dervish when he arrived back at the Painted Lady empty-handed. "An' my luck stinks lately, I wasn't stickin around."
"Understandable," Dervish had replied, thinking all the luck in the world wouldn't save a man if his number was up. "Won't be many customers today, anyway, with one of those bastards walkin' around. Might as well go on home." The truth was, even if they'd had customers Dervish would have sent him away. Lucias Howe was one truly unlucky bastard, and although Dervish's own luck tended to run fair, sometimes merely associating with someone like Howe was enough to damn a man.
The first soul to enter the Painted Lady was one of the usual customers, Thornton. Like most of the Painted Lady's clientele, Dervish only knew the man by his last name. He'd had to tangle with Thornton before, when the big man had gotten too deep in the cups to control his innate rowdiness. Thornton's mouth was as big as his body; Dervish himself was an even six foot tall, and Thornton dwarfed him by a good six or seven inches. Broad, too, with an unmistakable voice that shook the whole place when its owner bellowed for drink.
Today, though, Thornton seemed subdued. He perched atop an empty stool at the long end of the L-shaped bar , and Dervish drifted down to meet him. "Usual, Thorton?" In Dervish's drawl the name came out closer to "Thorn."
"Yeah, and keep 'um comin, Derv. I got a shitty feeling about this day."
"You and me both, pal." Dervish poured a glass half full of amber-colored whiskey.
The big man eyed it suspiciously. "Little more, just on this first one, eh?"
Dervish obliged, shocked that he had forgotten his manners.
Thornton downed it in two gulps. Dervish shrugged and sat the bottle down in front of him. What did it matter whether he made any profit on a day like this? He'd be doing well to make it to tomorrow in one piece.
While Thornton was hard at work drinking himself to oblivion, Dervish polished the long bar until it shone. He'd already cleaned every tap and surface, and the few scattered tables were still pristine from when the Ladies had wiped them down at closing the previous night.
As if reading his mind, Thornton asked offhandedly, "Where's the Ladies today?"
"Told 'em to stay out of sight. I heard the news from ol' Luce." He approached Thornton, deciding there really was nothing else left to do but join the man. "Why, you interested?"
"No, just wonderin'. Though if I get drunk enough I might be."
As Dervish reached for another glass and poured himself a drink, Thornton craned his neck to look out the door, as if expecting someone to arrive. Satisfied that the immediate street was empty as far as he could see, he leaned toward Dervish conspiratorily.
"Hey, you know the, uh..."
Dervish knew what the other man was going to say before it came out, but he remained silent until Thornton pulled back the sleeve of his flannel overshirt to reveal the intricate tattoo-like markings that circled his left wrist.
"What about 'em?"
"Well you're Pre...too, aren't you?" He didn't finish the word, as if by speaking it he might call the stranger. Dervish didn't blame him.
"I am, I am. Server. Born to serve." He topped off Thornton's glass as if to demonstrate.
"Has yours ever...changed?"
Dervish set the bottle down thoughtfully. "Not that I am aware of," he shook his head. "But I have heard of it."
"Well mine's still the same. But my father...he woke up this morning with something else. And now I hear tell of this strange fellow coming into town."
Dervish nodded, trying to keep his expression blank as a dull sense of horror washed over him.
"What's it say now?"
Thornton looked back at the street again. Then he leaned over and whispered the word into Dervish's ear.
Dervish, stone-faced, took a drink straight from the bottle. Now he knew the purpose of the strange Preordained. In some ways, he was relieved. But at the same time he felt sorry for Thornton, losing his father like that.
As he struggled to say something comforting, anything, the big man put his head in his hands and made a sound that could have been a sob. "Fates be damned, I'd take his place if I could."
The chill returned with startling immediacy. "Don't say that," Dervish advised. But Thornton already had.