Time passes ever so quickly, doesn’t it? Seems the days float by at breakneck pace without me ever realizing. I constantly stare at my work calendar and the dates must not register as here I am, shooketh, at the end of April. And in my “easy” set goal of one post per month I am rushed, in a stupor, forging something, anything to get out on this electronic soapbox. Hence the title, it really did sort-of, kind-of write itself. It took on legs before I even realized what was happening, but I hope you enjoy this piece of fantasy writing inspired by procrastination and the ever-marching trudge-ry of time.

Out Before the End of April  

That old codger at the end of the bar punctuated every utterance of sound with a simple phrase,

“Out before the end of April.”

Spoken in common tongue, with a rhythmic tone almost like a lullaby to put babes to sleep. From the way he looked, I’d say he had never sired offspring or ever had an inclination to do. A man content to drown sorrows in exchange for coppers, to keep to himself, to pass warning to those dumb enough to engage with him. Travelers found his verbal tick to be amusing, a sign of an aging, addled mind. Poor soul, hardly ever said anything else. Seemed content in his contempt for other words, haggard in his ability to communicate.

Almost a rite of passage for strangers to this small lumber town, “Make sure to buy the bugger at the end of the bar a drink and hear his siren song,” a common passing. Folks sure do love to trod on the downtrodden. Fools, the lot of them. Locals know that his song is one of experience, one of torture, and one of warning.

“Out before the end of April,” he sputtered as he struggled to finish the ale freshly bought by a stranger. Dripping through his beard, to the bar, to the floor, he had no qualms about his thirst. Focused in his need to cloud the mind, to forgive and forget.

“Won’t you say anything else you old bastard?” A smile missing a fair few teeth jeered in a too-close manner. Some sort of ruffian, a guard hired for a traveling merchant maybe.

“This one’s lost it, you’re wasting your coin.” His companion with a little more sense than hair but then again not that much.

“How much fucking ale do I have to shove down your throat before you say anything else?” Punctuated by two more cups sliding down the bar.

“Out before the end of April,” his voice aching with desire as he reached towards the cups.

“No, no, no, not another drop until you say somethin’ else.” Always a wonder where drunk men get this type of nerve. As if alcohol unlocks some secret, belligerent confidence that requires everybody in the room to acknowledge it.  

The old man’s fingers brushed against the cup handle, so close to what he so desired. The toothless man seized both hands, malice in his grip, pulling the old man off the stool and to his knees.

“You want the ale, you gotta say something else!” A challenge.

The old man looked up, a pained expression on his face, his eyes a flurry as if searching for something. Desperation mixed with anguish as he plunged through synapses and cells searching for something that wasn’t there. His eyes became focused, and unfocused, and finally a bright smile crashed across his face. He looked as if he had finally found salvation, an escape to this stranger’s torment.

“Out before the end of April,” he yelled in triumph! This raised a laugh from near-empty bar. Locals languishing in yet another stranger’s attempt to unlock the secrets of their most infamous patron.

“This man’s useless, come now let’s get on with it,” acquiesced the bald man. More sense than I’d expect in a sword for hire, but not enough to understand his companion. Not enough to understand that some men just can’t let things go, can’t let things be. The toothless smile, grinned a horrifying grin.

Not quite a popping or a cracking but a definite agonizing scream as two of the old man’ fingers we’re broken in a flash. The barkeep took a step back as multiple patrons shot up, hands to hilts. I turned to face the scene, but mostly I wanted to finish my beer. These travelers wouldn’t be stupid to draw steel in a place like this, would they?

Toothless released the man’s hand as he tossed him to the floor, sending bar stools and cups asunder. With a practice stepped, that indicated some sort of military or man-at-arms training, he unsheathed his sword and arched it in a small semi-circle.

“Don’t even think about it lads. I’ve run this blade through thirty men you couldn’t even disarm. Sit the fuck down, and let me handle my business.” The bald man also drew his blade, an honorable choice, but stupid in the sense that he follows this man without it.

Toothless turned to the old man who wriggled his way towards one of the fallen cups, woofing it down with broken fingers akimbo. Boots fell heavy on floorboards as he approached the huddled figure on the floor. The tip of the blade made a swift movement, shattering the cup from the shattered fingers. The blade found purchase beneath the old man’s chin, pressing just enough to cause pain, and bring his attention to bear. 

“Now’s your last chance before I gut you like a pig. Say something else, anything else before this poor barkeep has to sweep your blood into the streets.” hissed Toothless. A horrible, and dangerous slurring punctuated his voice. As if the ale amplified his lust for pain, and power.

Time slowed, the bar silent in anticipation. Every patron slowly weighing options, planning their next move, silently hoping that the drunkard with the sword keeps his ire focused solely on the old man on the floor. I was having a fairly not-horrible evening up until this point.

“Time’s up,” Toothless took a heavy step forward and readied steel. Towering over the man as he prepared to strike, a terrible momentum barreling toward one, cold answer. The old man scurried backwards, toppling over broken cups, and bar stools. Hobbled by broken fingers, he pressed himself under the bar, as small as he could make himself. Whimpering, crying, pleading with the air around him. He whispered softly, almost to himself.

“Out before the end of April.”  

Toothless raised his blade, his resolve true and focused. The muscles in his arms becoming taut, no hesitation, way steadier than I expected a drunk man could. As the blade started it’s horrid forward lunge, an unexpected hand caught the wrist. The bald man steadied himself in front of his drunk companion, his arm strong in its conviction.

“Come now Rarik, he’s not worth it. Just let it go.” This bald man is full of surprises.  

Toothless, I guess Rarik now, softened a touch. His face straightened as if exiting a stupor, the sword in his hand slowly coming out of his companion’s grip to rest at his side. A quick return to sheath and Toothless took a few steps away.

“Rotten old bastard,” he spat. And began a long and shameful walk towards the exit of the bar. His companion turned slightly and began to follow, bearing all the hardships of a man with an idiot for a companion.

Seemingly on queue from some sick theatrical production, the old man gathered up all the cups he could find and placed them on the bar. He steadied his stool, and looked happily into a half-full mug. He downed it, rewetting his beard and most of the front of his shirt. With a shit-eating grin smothered on his face, he swiveled towards the two retreating men and let out a long and woeful sigh…

“Out before the end of April.”

I was halfway out of my booth before I realized the situation had somewhat resolved itself. And I say somewhat meaning not in the slightest. 

A Sneak Peek: should I continue this particular foray.

“It’s an old line from an even older song. ‘Out before the end of April’ is the final line of the final stanza in the Elvish folktale about the dark forest of Esselthorn. And the only reason you don’t recognize it is because he’s saying it in the common tongue. Elue sass vien tosaa.” I’d get a lash for that butchering of Elvish, and of course my knowledge of the old world betrays me, and didn’t I say I didn’t want to get involved?  

A hush fell over the bar. Every man, woman, and child in the realm had heard stories about Esselthorn. The horrors of too long thorns, trees that grabbed, and the vicious Elves who inhabited it.