"We sometimes encounter people, even perfect strangers, who begin to interest us at first sight,
somehow suddenly, all at once, before a word has been spoken." -Fyodor Dostoevsky
Arthur was completely happy running the tiny inn, which was set atop a hill in his tiny village. At night he would run the tiny bar and he would talk to the people about their tiny lives. Sometimes the tiny boy from across the road would work as a stable hand. Arthur's life was completely devoid of anything large, but he didn't mind it one bit.
One quiet winter night, when Arthur was busy filling up a glass of whiskey for the shivering fisherman from down the road, the front door of his inn was thrown open, and the biggest problem he would ever face stepped into his life.
The only word for the man was 'big'. He wasn't bigger than the town's blacksmith, or the gruff sailors that sometimes visited, but large enough to make loud, echoing footsteps as he stomped the snow off his boots. His smile was too large for an elephant, his muscles matched his height, and he was quite obviously the most annoying thing Arthur had ever laid eyes upon.
He was strange, though. His step did not carry the saunter of a rough winter sea, his skin was not weathered by the constant wind that pushed at sails, and there was no visible weapon hanging at his hip. He wore spectacles, which Arthur thought he would never see on a sailor, let alone a customer. A sailor he clearly was, from the style of his clothes to the build of his body, but he was certainly the oddest sailor of the seas.
He nodded his head as a sort of greeting, to both Arthur and the fisherman, and leaned up on the bar as if he were the one who'd built it.
"May I be of service?" Arthur asked tersely, his eye twitching at yet another one of those customers. "Sir," he added, though it wasn't very felt.
"Aye," the man said, brushing some half-melted snow from his hair. "Rum and a room, if you'd be so kind."
His words were said with all the sincerity of a preacher, but his playful smirk opened the door to his true emotions. Arthur's eye gave another twitch.
"The rum will be a ha'penny."
The odd sailor nodded, and seemingly out of nowhere he tossed the copper at the inn keeper, who would not have caught it had this not been the usual behavior of his clientele.
Arthur tossed a bottle back at the large man, who did not seem to notice the hostility. Instead, he uncorked his alcohol. To Arthur's surprise, he did not guzzle it down, but instead took a sip and turned his attention to the fisherman.
"How are the waters, would you say?"
Arthur had no idea how the odd sailor knew that the shivering man at the bar was a fisherman, and therefore knew the sea. It wasn't as if he looked apart from anyone else in the village, although, with it being a fishing village, perhaps it was only safe to assume.
"Cold, I assure you," the man replied, through chattering teeth. "Not a favorable wind in sight, either. You should be docked for a while."
The man shrugged his large shoulders. "The sea is a mistress, always indecisive and unpredictable."
The fisherman gave a light chuckle. "She is, isn't she?"
Arthur left the men, the ocean was of no concern to him, and returned to running the few chores left of the day. He was about to start wiping down the bar, when a loud chorus broke out from two stools in the corner of the room.
"Fifteen men on the dead man's chest!
Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!"
Arthur's jaw clenched and his eyes narrowed. 'A bottle of rum indeed.' He thought. At least it explained the oddity of his new customer. He was not a sailor at all, but a pirate, and an idiotic one at that. If Arthur had any sense, he'd fetch some sort of official and have the man hanged.
But Arthur was from a small fishing village, and Arthur had very little sense.
"Aw, what's the frown for, girly?" The sailor asked, his fourth bottle swinging in his hand.
"Girly?" Arthur squawked, all traces of formality leaving his posture.
"Aye, you've got the look about you. From the swing of your hips to the turn of your nose."
Arthur felt the blood rise up to his face, boiling under his skin. His fists clenched, and the drunken fisherman immediately ducked. He knew this behavior.
"Girly!" Arthur repeated, the vein of his neck throbbing. "Who the devil do you think you are? You enter my bloody inn, and under no provocation you insult me?"
The pirate laughed heartily, which did not go unmarked, and cast a wink towards the fuming man. "Never meant no offense! The name's Jones." He crowed, his head falling forward onto the lip of the rum. He drained the last of it, and hoped off his stool, swaying.
"Now," he sighed, as if he'd finished taking a long afternoon nap. "About that bed, eh?"
Arthur's grip slipped. His fist came up, as it normally did, in his famous right hook. He was not the most muscled man in his village, but he was certainly strong. It would surely be a knock out.
Yet, before his arm had even reached the proper angle, his fist was stopped short. This jarred him, the bones of his right limb creaking.
"Oh-ho-ho!" Jones cried, his hand tightening around the inn keeper's fist. "My mistake, it seems the girly's got spunk!"
The fisherman, who'd previously been happy to laugh and sing with the curious pirate, was now edging his way back outside, preferring the cold to the heat of the argument.
Arthur wrenched his fist back, pretending like his bones had not been crunched. "By my word, you'll never find a bed in this town! Crawl back to your whore house and your molding ship!"
"I do doubt that," said Jones, his mouth pulling down into the traces of pity. "Like I said, I never meant no offense."
The fisherman was now safely out the door, and probably off to tell those he favored to keep out of the inn for a while. Being a winter night, it wouldn't be much of a problem.
Jones leaned down. His breath carried the foul stench of rum, yet his teeth remained white. Arthur noted again that he seemed to have no weapon. What sort of pirate did this man think he was?
As the man bent at his waist, a small silver key slipped out from under his shirt and sea-coat. It hung on a small piece of twine. Arthur's eyes went straight to it. For a moment, he forgot about his anger, he forgot about his throbbing hand. Instead he longed for the sea. He longed for the feel of waves on his cheek and salt on his breath. He needed to go West. He wanted to chase the sun.
Jones tucked the key back under his shirt, a curious look on his face. The moment the gleam of the silver was gone, Arthur snapped back into his anger.
Jones had wide eyes behind his spectacles, and he set the bottle down on a nearby table.
"Never," said he, a quietness to his words, "did I think it could be someone like you."
Hello everyone! I'm not sure if I want to continue this or not, but I think I will someday. Treasure Island inspired this, and if you're into reading, I definitely recommend the book! It's got pirates and death and a creepy old blind man.
I had some trouble with the dialogue, but I think it turned out okay in the end. I'm actually pretty proud of this. Thanks for reading.
I hope you enjoyed!
-Mallory
