Jim the Scrufflegrog

Chapter 2

It was late Summer, or early Spring depending on what takes your fancy, and the fields were filled with the chitter chatter of the leaves discussing last nights events. Great tree trunks sighed and bowed under the pressure of holding such conversations whilst the wind whistled through their gnarled branches. Fierce field mice rode large seven-eyed steeds through the valleys sounding a hunting horn signalling the start of the day.

A few miles East as the crow strolls stood Cranbourne Tavern, sorely neglected and in need of a bulldozer. A mote of dust spiralled down from the rafters and landed with a gentle hush onto the rickety wooden floor within. Through the murk and haze a rotund figure bustled between round tables and square chairs.

"Eeeeeeeuuuuurrrrrrrggggghhhhh" The slippers cushioning the figures twenty six toes groaned their exasperation after years of being under the heel of oppression. Oppression in this case being five hundred pounds of fat and bone. The fat and bone in question made up the owner of Cranbourne Tavern, Master Sweetsalt.

Sweetsalt was a character, and not just a character in this story, he was known throughout Branfree and beyond for his famous alcoholic concoctions, bushy beard and a tendency to attempt to ride a unicycle mid conversation.

It had been a busy night for Sweetsalt. The tankards still lay on the ceiling where the members of the "Glue4All" club had stuck them hours before. Ashtrays brimmed with used nicotine patches and the barrels of tangerine cider stood empty behind the spit shined bar.

Sweetsalt had a busy morning ahead of him, he had to water his beard, polish his slipper, brew a batch of slug mead and harvest more marmalade thistles in time for the village fete. The village fete was exactly, more or less, three weeks away two weeks ago.

It was a marvellous spectacle that drew crowds from all over the land to witness its (sometimes) yearly wonders. Sweetsalt had been crowned "Best Baker and Brewer" every other year, an honour which he upheld with pride. When his spectacled eyes fell on his many rosettes hanging from the floor his beard would bristle with satisfaction.

I should at this point probably mention Sweetsalt’s beard in more detail. Reader, when I say it was a bushy beard, I really do mean a bushy beard in every sense of the phrase. Small jam jars nested within its twisting stems, squirrels held meetings on the best place to buy nuts in its furrows and a gardener had been commissioned to trim sections of it into figure heads, horses and flamingos. Sweetsalt had been born with his beard, his aging mother often commented on her joy when the doctor informed her of it during her second baby scan.

Because unlike our world reader, and unlike our species, Sweetsalt’s kind were recognised of being male and female by their beards. Males had beards ranging from the monstrous to the gigantic, whereas females wore delicate goatees and handlebar moustaches paying homage to their fathers bicycle farms.

This year the village fete was to be held in the shade of the oak tree just beyond the fields neighbouring Cranbourne Tavern. Large lines of trestle tables were to be adorned with gingham blankets, and from miles away listening ears would be able to hear the planks creak under the weight of festivity. As the fete was to take place so close to Cranbourne Tavern Sweetsalt was feeling much more confident about his chances than usual. He wouldn’t have to shut shop for a long trip to attend and his twenty six toes would be saved the anguish of bunions.

As Sweetsalt opened the rickety oat door to his tavern and looked out over the many meadows haphazardly dotted with sleeping patrons he breathed a sigh of contentment. Life really was good, any mild annoyances or severe indigestions were but a distant memory in the mind of life.

Two of the morning suns could be seen bickering over whose turn it was to create shadows in the nearby valley, whilst the third chased away the moons loitering after a hard nights work. Clouds drifted back and forth debating when to squeeze a shower of orange droplets to pacify the farmer’s marmite crops. A flock of flip flops darted to and fro over a meadow in the distance, playfully attacking each other with fanged soles.

　

To the East, it actually could have been the West as the wind vale atop Cranbourne Tavern had been knocked skew whiff a few years previous in an altercation between a pheasant and a narwhal, a pillar of green smoke wisped towards the heavens.

Now Heaven wasn’t a religious paradise in this world; it wasn’t a place where the good went when they left their bodies behind. In this world Heaven was a small village filled with beggars, vagrants and washing machines. Sweetsalt made a point of never going there unless he absolutely had to, usually when he ran low on supplies for his top shelf spirits reserved for the hardiest of the taverns drinkers.

Thankfully the top shelf was brimming with distilled liquids so he had not had to contemplate the risky business of a Heaven visit for some time. The wisp of green smoke however played on his mind. Where did it come from? What caused it? And more importantly, would it be able to add a more smoky flavour to his trouser whisky?