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THE TAVERN
Bartleby
It has been terribly grim work, this wrapping of bodies in bedsheets from the rooms and wiping of blood from the tables and floor. He did not know a man’s eyes could allow so much water to stream from them, but the tears have not stopped their movement along his cheeks since he re-entered the bar area. The two remaining patrons, one of them an adventurer of some sort, have helped him – desperate, it seems to do anything, even this grisly work, to avoid listening to whatever whispered terrors still lingered within their minds. “Horrible ..... just ..... horrible,” he mutters to himself, repeating over and over again the only word that seems to make sense.
He is worried about Maria. He has checked upon her twice and she has grown so very cold – Even her breath is cold.
He forces himself to be strong. “Ye’re doin’ fine, boyo,” he says, walking over to the adventurer and placing a reassuring hand upon the man’s shoulder. “Don’t know what I’d be doin’ without your help.” Turning to the other, he says, “Why you’re the blacksmith’s son – Tim, is it? Lucky I am he raised such a fine lad as yourself ..... Aye .... a comfort ye are, the two of ye.”
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