Note: Lament of the Asphodels was written as part of Captain Swan Big Bang 2016. Check back every Tuesday for two (2) new chapters.
Lament of the Asphodels
Chapter 4: In Memory of Charybdis
A very long time ago in the Midlands, the Flying Monkey closed for the night, and after the last staff member bade a cherry good night and took leave, the atmosphere descended into stiffness and stillness. The Barkeep disliked his own pub afterhours, for when it was empty, it possessed all the charm of an abandoned warehouse with the scent of a decrepit brewery's latrine. He only tolerated it when absolute necessity demanded it of him, which, as it happened, included tonight.
Of course, modifying his schedule to mirror that of the Sheriff was far from essential. Perhaps that was why he never told another soul about it, that he might avoid tiresome lectures or overzealous advice. Some time ago, the Sheriff began to frequent the pub on Thursday nights, and not long after, the Barkeep shifted his weekly duties to that same night. A handful of employees remarked upon it once or twice, but no one ever asked outright about it.
He decided this was because his change had been executed with tact and stealth, but truth be told, there was not a soul in New Brook that failed to notice. No one asked because the reason was exceedingly obvious.
The Sheriff was a beautiful woman. Her eyes were a soft, warm green, and her hair was golden-blond, matching the pale beauty of her skin. Her stunning appearance complemented her assertive approach to her position, and there was not a person in New Brook nor the surrounding towns who did not know and respect her. The Mayor and the Judge of New Brook adopted her two years after the birth of their fourth son. People said that she was reared for her position. Her father, the Mayor, imparted his leadership skills, and her mother, the Judge, imbued her with a passion for law and a sense of consummate fairness.
There was no bachelor or maiden seeking a wife that did not harbor the dream of marriage to the Sheriff, so the Barkeep's less than cunning attempt to spend some measure of time with her was quite commonplace. Every man and woman found an appropriate (and in some instances, inappropriate) manner to vie for her affection, though the Sheriff had long avoided and dismissed matrimony.
Indeed, there were whispers (and never anything louder, out of fear or respect, no one could say with certainty) that her resistance to nuptials had been born from tragedy, for there was one black spot on the otherwise unmarred life of the fair Sheriff of New Brook.
As the story went, long before the Barkeep relocated and opened the Flying Monkey, there was a terrible storm up the coast. So sudden was its approach that none suspected its danger until the eleventh hour. The Midlands rarely experienced such an abrupt reproach from nature, so the day was marked by all those who lived to remember it.
It was so long ago, in fact, that the Sheriff was but a First Deputy preparing for her current position. At that time, a young man took up residence in New Brook under the title of the Locksmith. Rumors of the man's checkered and sordid past lingered in certain circles, but they failed to discourage the Sheriff, who reciprocated his affections to some degree, which in and of itself was a noteworthy event for New Brook's gossip mill. The couple departed for a romantic vacation aboard the Sheriff's family ship, The Yellow Bug, two days before the worst storm in Midlands history. They were aboard that very vessel when the winds fell, but what transpired during that tempest remained ever a mystery.
Some facts never came under question, however. The first was that The Yellow Bug went down that night in violent disarray, and what little of the ship that was recovered stood in evidence of such a catastrophe. The second was that the Sheriff survived, and the third, that the Locksmith did not.
The Sheriff herself admitted to ignorance on most of the night's events, and many dismissed this aberration of her character as a result of trauma, dehydration, hypothermia, exposure, and other such physical phenomenon that inhibit the strongest minds and fiercest memories. She recalled that she and the Locksmith escaped The Yellow Bug on a lifeboat only for it to fall prey to the same relentless storm and sink into the sea.
Without a vessel, they were sure to drown, but as chance would have it, part of the lifeboat remained aloft and afloat. It was not large enough to fit them both, let alone serve as a means to shore, but it could suspend one person above the water. As the Sheriff recounted it, they took turns sleeping for a few hours at a time while the other kept watch for anyone who might save them.
Unfortunately, even after the wind and rain stopped, it took nearly a full day for a formal search to be mounted, so by the time a rescue crew spotted a makeshift craft in the Endless Sea, there was only the Sheriff, alone and very near death. Most of the crew insisted that she was unconscious for the duration of transport and remained so even after they delivered her to shore and the doctors took charge of her. Yet at least one - and most importantly, the one who was the Bayman or who had served as a Loblolly boy, depending on the account - reported that, during the time she was under his medical care, she spoke lucidly about the events leading up to the Locksmith's death. Whatever she said was so horrible that the man who heard it refused to repeat it, even when the Sheriff herself entreated him to do so years after her recovery.
Whatever the events aboard The Yellow Bug that led to the death of the Locksmith, the Sheriff had survived. It took two months for her to recuperate physically, and many more beyond that before she resumed her duties as First Deputy. She overcame the stigma and guilt surrounding the tragedy, and in the years thereafter, she had something of a meteoric rise to Sheriff.
There was not one person who could question her abilities or dedication to her position, yet all battles mar their survivors with one scar or another. The Sheriff was no exception, for to this day, a crippling fear of the ocean haunted her. It was so severe that simply looking at the coastline triggered paralysis-inducing terror that, as rumor had it, required a full day in the hospital for her recovery.
Moreover, to this day, the wreck of The Yellow Bug and demise of the Locksmith remained a matter of mystery. In the countless years since, it became something of a curiosity to sleuth hobbyists and their ilk, and whenever the topics of local gossip became sparse, there was always some excuse to return to New Brook's favorite unsolved tragedy.
The Barkeep had been privy to the story second and third hand, as people in his position were oft spoken to more freely than friends or confidants. When the Flying Monkey first began operation, the locals assumed that an outsider would fail to acclimate, and none saw any reason to hide their opinion from him or one another. Reliable employees had been rare as diamonds in those days, and on far too many occasions, he stood in as bartender. Though he'd never admit it, his time pouring drinks was a blessing, as it granted him insight into the town and its residents that an outsider would otherwise never obtain.
More importantly, it made his choice to assist his bartender from time to time an unremarkable event, which, in turn, afforded him several intimate conversations with the Sheriff. No one would ever regard her as loquacious, but after a few shots of bourbon or stiff gin and tonic, she'd provide her own harrowing tales the likes of which only the Sheriff of large-yet-seemingly-small town had to offer.
The Barkeep glanced at clock, though his internal timepiece already afforded him the awareness that it was far too late to expect the Sheriff to saunter in under one pretense or another. Yet he couldn't bring himself to accept it and retire home for the night.
The minutes ticked by, and anger crept into his heart, overtaking the genteel aspects of resignation and disappointment. The Sheriff always came into the Flying Monkey on Thursday, yet he'd only seen her twice in the past three months. The rumor mill was astoundingly silent in regards to the Sheriff's personal life, yet there was likewise nothing in the way of news that explained her absence, such as an no investigation that consumed all her time and energy.
The Barkeep hadn't realized he'd been pacing until he attempted yet another glance at the clock. He never stayed until such a late hour, and the only thing left to do was retire for the night and hope that, next week, everything would return to normal.
"Damn it, Emma," he muttered.
The tension in his shoulders and neck ebbed and eased, for he gained a measure of satisfaction from the intimate act of speaking her born name. Only blood relations and the most cherished of companions - lovers or spouses - ever referred to someone by the name his or her parents gave them at birth. That was how he saw the two of them: deeply connected in a way beyond friendship.
He satisfied his closing ritual in record time, locking the doors minutes later. He marched up the hill toward his home, the night's beautiful silence wholly unnoticed as his mind continued to think about the Sheriff.
The Barkeep had a reputation as a stern employer - a necessity borne from the earliest years of his enterprise - but, on a less formal note, he was widely regarded as a good-mannered and pleasant man who kept more than his fair share of secrets. His affections for the Sheriff was hardly clandestine, yet the same could be said of countless suitors. To her, he had always been the friendly bartender pouring the next round and that was entirely his fault.
He had waited in the shadows for some indication of her interest, and whenever she flashed him an unearned smile or tipped an immodest flirtation his way, he responded with playful coyness on the inane and antiquated idea that mystery made him desirable.
You can't let her go without a fight, Walsh, he thought.
The Barkeep had no way of knowing that at that very moment, the Sheriff was neither alone at home nor fulfilling her duties. He was entirely unaware that the competition for the Sheriff's heart had already begun in earnest, for not three months previous, the Bailiff started courting her discreetly.
End-of-chapter-notes: In Greek mythology, Charybdis was a sea monster that embodied a whirlpool, which captured ships from the Strait of Messina.
Bayman was a common title for someone who manned the sickbay of a sea-bound vessel, especially a warship, with duties similar to those of a nurse at a hospital.
Loblolly boy was a common title for the same position, predating Bayman by several decades.