A Trek of A Storyteller

Ch.18: Safe Travels

Night seemed to fall quickly as the three men and the boy sat in their booths, watching as the crowded streets thinned out. Jackson watched as Old Man Hemingway finished the last sparse sips from his tankard.

He contemplated asking where they would stay for the night but decided against it, figuring instead that he would find out and to ask would be a waste of the time they were spending on shore. So he sat across from the old man, waiting for anything to happen.

At long last, Amos stood and placed a hat atop his head, picking up a cane. It made Jackson shudder, looking at the cane so instead he looked away and met the calm, knowing stare of the old man. His cloudy eye stared deep into the boy's grey ones.

"Amos is going up the stairs," the old man said, as if narrating the man's moves even though the tapping of the cane and heavy footsteps were telling the boy all he needed to know. "Chester will go next. Then us," he said. Jackson nodded. "I'll tell Amos not to use his cane. It doesn't help his limp anyhow," the old man, quieter.

"Thank you," the boy breathed. The old man said nothing, just sat back in the booth as the other man, Chester, stood and tipped his hat to them, hobbling his way up the stairs as well.

"He's mute," the old man said abruptly. Jackson nodded again in understanding. After a few minutes, Old Man Hemingway stood and with him, the boy, and they made their way up the stairs as well. The boy offered his arm for the old man, to assist him, but the man waved him off and instead used his cane. It did not tap as Amos's or the boy's past Master's did and the old gnarled wood was comforting in a way. His peg leg thunked dully as a heart rhythm.

They made their way up to a heavy door. Old Man Hemingway opened it and they stepped into an attic. Chester and Amos already made their beds, just cots with hay mattresses against three of the four walls. There were three but the boy spotted a rug leaning up against the wall.

The old man laid down wearily and Jackson lifted the rug, the roll was heavier than he thought and he let out a grunt, stifling it in the darkness. He rolled it out, closest to Chester's and Old Man Hemingway's cots. He did not trust Amos quite yet.

It was not long enough for him to stretch out on it and so instead he curled up like a dog, as he had on his piles of cloth in the Oaktale Compass. He heard Chester stir and felt a heavy blanket lay over him. It was rough, but warm nonetheless. He looked up with surprise. Chester's calm, quiet eyes stared back at his, reflecting in the dim moonlight. He held a finger to his lips.

"Thank you," the boy mouthed. Chester just nodded and got back into bed, pulling another, thinner blanket over his old bones.

The four slept peacefully. It was not perfect, but they could not have asked for much more.

The next morning, just as dawn's faint light was bleeding in, Jackson awoke. No one else was awake yet that he could see, but he heard a rustling behind him. It was Chester. His eyes were open again. The boy and Chester sat together, trying to communicate with their eyes.

It was some time before Chester pulled out a notepad and a pen, scribbling a short message. 'Do you know any good stories?' it read. His handwriting was not neat, nor was it messy. It had charm. The boy nodded and laid on his back, closing his eyes.

He told Chester of a grey cat that, much like him, had been thrown out by her family. She had found her own way in the world and eventually wound up becoming a boy's best friend. Bast, was her name, and she was a good cat.

When Jackson's eyes finally fluttered open, he found all three men sitting on the edge of their cots, listening intently.

"My apologies, I did not mean to wake you," the boy stuttered, embarrassed. Old Man Hemingway waved his hand.

"Nonsense," he said. "It was a lovely story," he added. He stood, the other two following without saying a word. In a disorganized line, all four went down to the pub. There were a few people there already, having a small breakfast. For the most part, the pub was empty.

It was a quick breakfast, no words shared as they all sat in their respectable booths. When all their plates were clean, a waitress came by and bid them farewell. She smiled warmly at the boy.

"Safe travels," she told him. He could hear that she meant it and he nodded to her, pulling out his only money and setting it on the table. She picked it up, tried to give it back but he was already out the door, only a quick smile and a glance back to let her know it was meant for her to keep.