The Taproom

The chanting came before the lights. Deep guttural chanting, echoing across the moonstruck hills and lightning-flashed valleys, booming loud and strong, tuned to the rhythm of trampling marchers’ feet.

As this noise came to ears, all din in the tavern quelled to a silent whisper, people’s ears perked like animals, their eyes wide, the drinks suspended between their lips and tables.

The chanting grew closer. Louder and more forceful; so loud now that it nearly rose above the tumult of the storm outside, and the glazed, dimmed windows of the tavern brightened with electric light.

“Daddy,” said a boy, pulling on his father’s sleeve, “what is it?”

“Shhh,” he father hissed, not looking down. Everyone’s eyes were on the door leading to outside, which was shut against the rain.

“Daddy,” the boy insisted.

“Roderick, shut it!”

The old bartender, thin-faced and wide-eyed, was quivering behind the counter; his pupils shot about the room, coming back to the door every few seconds, and his hands were scuffling with his necktie. “Oh my, oh my,” he muttered.

The marching from outside halted with a definite stomp; the chanting ended in one loud blast. Silence, but for the rainwater pattering against the window pane; hushed, hard breathing from everyone in the tavern. From outside, the distinct noise of a man dismounting a horse sounded; he barked an order to some of his soldiers, and – in a matter of seconds – the door to the tavern blasted asunder in a spray of splinters and dust. The tavern people’s tension broke as the door did: they screamed or grabbed one another and the little child yelped as his daddy hoisted him into his arms, clutching him close. From the cloud of dust at the door in swept rainwater and thrashing winds, and with it strode a soldier, one of high esteem, with shining gold buckles on his greatcoat, a peaked important cap over his drawn face, and clapping, knee-high boots upon his feet.

He looked about the frightened tavern then ordered his troops into it; they flooded in, clacking on the cobblestone floor, rifles aimed at the drinkers and bartender, who shivered and sputtered.

“Daddy,” Roderick whimpered.

“It’s fine, hush now, son,” his father soothed.

“You, bartender," the bartender looked like he'd been shocked, "yes, of course, you,” the officer roared. “I have it here, under decree of the Emperor that you did knowingly, wilfully and maliciously threaten to corrupt the incorruptible Empire by harbouring wanted rebels in your establishment.”

The bartender couldn’t reply but for his shaking of his head.

“Oh, so it was accidental?”

“I didn’t know sir. I didn’t suspect, sir...”

“Mmm, I believe you. Somehow I imagine the Rebels wouldn’t elect a peasant’s run-down cesspool, like this, to horde their members.”

“N-no, sir.”

The officer indicated to two soldiers to search the rest of the tavern, and they trampled upstairs.

“Hey!” Roderick’s father growled. “You can’t do that – you need a warrant.”

“Silence, peasant. Go back to your drinking and money-misery,” spat the officer.

“It’s disgusting: you have no right.”

“The Empire has every right, and I act as a servant of the Empire. Now shut your mouth, you drunkard.”

“It’s—”

The officer quickly unsheathed a pistol, pointing it down at Roderick’s father’s forehead with a click. “I said be quiet. I will not repeat.”

For a few moments there was forced, reluctant silence. Then tousling scraped from upstairs, and a young man was thrown, bleating like a kicked lamb, down the stairs onto the stone floor. His face was bruised and reddened, but handsome, with thick black hair. He was Roderick’s brother.

“Henry,” Roderick’s father started up in his seat, “Henry!”

“Father,” his son croaked. “I’m –”

“This is the Rebel sir,” one of the guards said to the officer.

“Henry Teal, isn’t it?”

“Yes sir. Good.” The officer shifted the position of his weapon, so it hovered above Henry’s head, then fired one shot, directly downwards, passing through Henry’s skull and into the floor; the boy’s body became limb, splayed; it was evident he was dead.

A quick inhalation in the barroom broke the moment. The calm, as it were, before the storm.

Roderick’s father leapt from his seat, his face aghast, screaming, “You shit! You evil fucking cunt, I’ll kill you all, I’ll –” launching himself at the officer’s face, hands scraping, fists flying and his fingers trying to wrest the gun from the officer’s hand. He failed, was whipped backward, teetered and (his eyes here twisted to Roderick) the officer loosed another resounding shot, straight into Roderick’s father’s chest. The man stumbled, hands still outstretched, leaning against the wall of the tavern, till the officer shot again – and Roderick’s father slumped to the ground.

There was dismay in the taproom. No-one moved, each person stood or sat still. There was a bad feeling, and no-one could - would - dare to move his or her eyes. Everyone was with mouth tightly pursed; the women and Roderick wept softly. The officer dusted himself over, nodded to his men, who then filed out.

On his way to leave he turned to the barman.

“Did you sell that man a drink, bartender?” the officer said, indicating Roderick’s father.

“I, I did, sir...” the bartender stammered.

The officer raised his weapon once more, shot the bartender in the forehead and then strode out.



JUST TO CLARIFY: THIS IS A PRELUDE TO AN ACTUAL STORY - JUST SOMETHING THAT HAS BEEN FLOATING ABOUT MY HEAD. I MIGHT CONTINUE, SO JUST DON'T FEEL LIKE YOU WALKED IN AT THE END OR MIDDLE OF A STORY.



Continuation of the Taproom

Chapter Two, as it were.



“It’s the Empire, you know. It’s him, the Emperor, and nothing else. Look at us, look at us – poor, dirty, barely enough to feed our own mouths, barely enough clothes to sling over our shoulder, keep us warm at night. One room. That’s all we have, Mother, one room. To house us all, we have one room, and it’s not even ours! What kind of government is it, that allows a family like us to live in one room, eat from one loaf a day, lie in one bed? What kind of government? And then he is up there, with his generals and ministers, in their golden palaces, eating veal, hunting to their hearts’ content, laughing and drinking – while we suffer, and scrounge, here, down here, in the Pits! What kind of government, Mother? Well?”

Rants such as this were common in the Devon household, and usually began over dinner. Roderick’s cousin, Leo, would hear a comment in the street, and over his segment of bread he would speak, and speak, banging his hand on the table, gesticulating with his knife and his fork. No-one else spoke over the dinner; his rants and cries seemly feel on deaf ears; Roderick’s uncle, Maynard, was old and frail, a Revolutionary once, he had been wounded, but survived to live out the rest of his days as a chair-bound vegetable.