I can only suppose that in the brief (although sometimes maddeningly lengthy) intervals between my constant dreaming at night (more on this later), that any stories that came to mind would be extensions of my dream-state and perhaps that the stories thus engendered would be unintentionally metaphoric in nature. So, reader, you can make what you will of the following tale that occurred to me last night after having dreamt of a large, black bear outside my window and of my father’s voice reaching to me from the grave by telephone.
The Sinking Inn (Part 1)
It was a cold night and I was travelling, by horseback, from the western seaport of Gimroy, up the coastal road and heading to Trethmondy for business there. I had disembarked from the HMS Rudyar that very afternoon and upon being notified by messenger of a certain lady’s request that I journey to that northern city, I secured a horse at the local livery and without further stopping headed forth on my journey.
Now the road to Trethmondy, although beautiful enough on a calm, sunny day, by night and in this early winter season could be, by most reports, treacherous. But I had been assured by the ship’s purser that if I remained vigilant, that the road would prove worthy. Apparently it followed the coast, a good deal of which was cliff-face and a traveller was bordered on one side by the cliffs themselves and on the other by thick tangles of brush and thicket. The road continued like this for almost the entire length of it, except for a small section of a mile or so that ventured inland for a distance of some three or four hundred yards.
I had been riding now for about four hours and was sore and uncomfortable. My steed, purchased from a man at the livery that I perceived was something less than trustworthy, had developed a slight limp and I suspected that he was beginning to lose a shoe on one of his hooves. He was a sturdy enough beast though and responded well to the rein and I had no quarrel with him per se, but the going was getting increasingly difficult and we sauntered along at a dull pace and I began to suspect that it would be only a matter of time before he lost the shoe altogether and I would be forced to dismount and walk him.
I now realized that I had been far too ambitious in setting out when I did and that I should have waited until the following day which had promised to be somewhat warmer. My spirits were low now and it was with glum resignation that we plodded forward.
When we reached the section of the road that I mentioned before and that the locals thereabout had named Himmond’s Leg, after a man that had fallen to his death through having missed the turn, I believe, we headed eastward along the narrower but well-worn trail. I rode along this way, slumped in my saddle and shivering against the wind, for about a half an hour when I arrived at a fork in the road. Nobody had mentioned a fork to me and I had been led to believe that the road stretched, unbroken, its length to Trethmondy. However, here it was.
One side of the fork I judged, because of its proximity to the sea, was probably the one that led to the city. But perhaps not. As I looked about me I happened to spy a small wooden sign that indicated that the fork to the right led to a town named Grommond. I had never heard of this place but the thought of somewhere warm to stop and wait out the dawn would perhaps be welcome. My horse beneath me shuffled nervously and started to head down the other, left-hand fork.
Well, I thought, it would seem that the decision is made for me and perhaps I would make the greater city by dawn after all. Besides which, there was no knowing how far Grommond was up the other way. This line of thought came to naught, however, as some fifty feet along the coastal road I encountered a blockade in the form of a huge tree that had fallen in the wind and now lay across the way, it’s trunk barring two thirds of the road and its massive canopy, a tangle of branches and twigs, covering the remaining third.
Now, it seemed, my options had been reduced to three. I could attempt to cut through the stiff branches with the small axe I was carrying or I could take what blankets I had, start a small fire and attempt to sleep out the night. My third option, and the one upon which I quickly came to believe the best, was to return to the fork and attempt to make the town of Grommond for the night, rest in warmth and comfort and then return to the road the next day with a forester or two in tow to help me clear the way.
I returned to the fork and started along the right hand way but the horse was reluctant and reared slightly despite his worn-out state. I wrestled with the bridle and after a bit he reluctantly lowered his head and slowly made his way up the slight slope.
Not long thereafter I stood atop a rise looking down into a shallow valley and the rooftops of a small town of some forty or fifty houses. It was mostly dark there but one or two lights could be seen even from this distance of about a mile. A town of this size must have at least one inn or tavern, I reckoned and with renewed vigour I headed the horse there. He must have sensed an end to this tedious journey, for he now strode forward with energy and purpose and within twenty minutes we were at the edge of town.
Despite its small size, the central street through the town had been cobblestoned and as we made our way along it, the clip clop of my rides hooves was the only sound to break the silence of the sleeping village. I began to feel that perhaps there was, indeed, no lodging at all to be had here as I had now traversed three-quarters of the main street with no luck and no one in sight.
Suddenly, from around a corner, a man came striding, clad in a great coat and a thick woollen scarf wrapped around his face and neck. He had on a cloth cap and large black boots and was walking quickly, the sooner to be home and out of this damned cold.
I hailed to him and he stopped up short, startled, I suppose, to find anyone about and particularly a stranger on a limping horse. I called over to him, asking him where I might find shelter for the night and did he know of an inn hereabouts. He paused for a moment and, without answering directly, pointed one half-gloved finger up the road. Then he thrust his hand into his coat pocket and strode off up the street. I prodded the horse on and in a moment was at the far edge of the town, standing in front of an… “inn”.
I had never before seen such a place. The structure itself was of a typical construction, with white plastered walls and thatched roof and gables and the like. But there, any comparison to a common tavern ended for the entire building was buried up to the ledges of its windows in the earth below it. And it was set at a crazy angle with one end of the building slanting up to the other. It gave the appearance that the entire inn was being pulled down into the earth and that it was being eaten up, bit by bit, by the surrounding countryside.
Over the door (which could only be reached now down a slope of earth that had been cleared away to allow admittance) hung a rough-hewn, wooden sign that blew back and forth in the stiff breeze. “The Sinking Inn” it proclaimed. So it would seem that this local hostel had not recently fallen upon its position but had been so for some time. At least long enough for them to change the name and this some time ago, judging by the worn look of the sign.
I wondered as to how the building could possibly be safe in this condition but as they say, beggars cannot be choosers, so I dismounted, tied the horse to a post outside, descended the earthen ramp and entered The Sinking Inn.
(PART 2... SOON)
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