Another Place at the Table by J.B. Jones (e novels to read .TXT) 📕

Next, Soli walked in with a fur stole around her neck and a radiant smile. The stole then opened vivid, intelligent-looking eyes that were colored a green found only in the Northern auroras. It yawned a mouthful of pointy teeth my way. The tip of its tail twitched and ears swiveled as it examined the room and occupants.

"I met a bard over in the Silver Mountains named Nugent, Ari. He had this cat and I had some silver nuggets burning a hole in my purse. He calls it 'Fever' because he was writing a song about cat scratches.  Isn't that just the weirdest thing?  Anyhow, you got any room in your heart for a kitty?"

She dumped the lynx onto the table where it arched its back in a luxurious stretch and looked from Hal to me with haughty calm. It then sat, licked the pads of its paw, and wiped tufted ears with delicate care.

I couldn't speak and didn't have time to do so, anyway, because the next thing through the door was a huge pair of gleaming white tusks over which beady, evil-looking red eyes blazed and all perched on the brawny neck of a monstrous boar.

And Amity was riding it.

I almost fell from the bench as I laughed. The fellow she'd been flirting with when she'd arrived had been trying to coerce her into taking a ride on the beast.  He now had an arm around her waist and oozed 'gallant protector' from every pore. His hand strayed perilously close to the Promised Land, as he ushered hog and rider into the room.

"He's mine, Arabesque," Amity squealed.  "The pig, I mean."

She stared at her admiring suitor, swatted his wayward hand with a smart rap, and continued, "The pig with four legs, that is."

Her wannabe paramour had the good grace to appear contrite.

"Want him?"

Both Woodsie and Halloran blinked in surprise.

"I mean the boar, you two.  Sheesh."

We all laughed with tension relieving guffaws. Hal got up and fetched drinks and snacks, the animals did stuff things with four legs do and the mood in the room, and in me, was changed for the better.

New tears, with a sweet and different flavor, coursed down my cheeks. I took a deep swallow of cool ale and tipped a mug to absent friends.

Woodsie, Soli, and I were having a 'wetting down' party at the Faded Tabard Inn for the newest crew member.  We called him 'Chops' because none of us could get our mouths around Nguyen Tran Boi, which is the name he was born with. He didn't seem to mind; pleasant fella, worked hard, had an odd sense of humor.

Case in point: "Dai Uy! Look-see!"

Chops said that a lot and it always caused me to cringe before turning to 'look-see.'

Just now, the slightly-built young woodsman had Nightmare the Bear's muzzle in his hands and a scant whisker's distance from his face. A small piece of Lanfarian trout protruded from Chop's mouth.

'Mare's focus was on appetizers and I was not at all sure that Tranny's face wasn't on the menu.

Turned out I need not have worried, though. Cats like fish, too.

My friend Soli's lynx had been watching, tip of her tail twitching to and fro, waiting for an opportunity. Fever sprang onto the table-top and, with a quick swipe, batted the morsel from between his lips. 'Mare backed in surprise and the feline felon followed her prize to the floor with a graceful leap.

I tipped my mug of ale in a gesture of thanks to those Gods that watched over drunks and fools and then took a long pull from it.

I pointed a thumb at my chest and corrected my newest charge.

"Yo, Chops?  No Dai Uy." Pointing to a group of militia types in another part of the room, I said, "Captain is in Army. You call me 'Boss'."

Chops laughed and lifted his arms with clawed hands splayed and a ferocious, but comical, look on his face.

"You Boss! Like spider in dungeon!"

He then waved a butter knife with bravado and menace, clasped his chest and sagged against the back of his seat. Nightmare swiped the rest of the fish on his plate before he recovered.

I chuckled and turned back to the bar only to find Amity, by coincidence attired in a silk camisole designed to resemble a spider's web, posing her own fierce arachnid imitation over my next tankard of grog. Halloran's view of this display no doubt pleased him as I spied his casual, but circumspect, adjustment of the fit of his faulds.  I laughed but my good humor evaporated when I heard,

"T'would've been better had the bear chewed the shyte's face."

This surly comment caused me to pause before I took my next swallow of beer. Hal cast a sharp glance at the table of military men from which the comment had sprung, then turned to me.

I finished taking the drink, and with exaggerated care, placed the mug onto the gleaming bartop. Amity's artfully sculpted brows were raised in surprise, or maybe it was alarm.

Much of the room, those closest to hearing the nasty statement, grew silent. Woodja and Soli were looking at me as I pivoted on my barstool; in neither's face did I see any hint of hesitancy. 'Tis a wonderful thing to have friends at your back.

...and it affected Chops not a whit.

Oh, he was aware. The tension and actions of those surrounding him did not go unnoticed. It simply did not have an impact on him.  He fussed with Nightmare a bit longer then drained his beer.

Rising from his seat, he nudged 'Mare with his hip and slipped past the bear searching for scraps around the table. He came to the bar, mug in hand.

Holding out the cup for Amity,  he asked, "'Nother? Is right? Please, more?" Amity favored Chops with a blinding smile and an extra-saucy pivot that showed why the Tabard's clientele was growing as she moved to refill his mug.

"Dai..." Chops smiled a chagrined 'ooops' and made the correction. "Boss."

I winked and motioned, tankard in hand, for him to continue.

"War is long and long ago, Boss. Not none of my brother, no sister..." He seemed lost for a moment.

I provided a gentle prod, "You mean family?"

"Yes. That is word. Not none of family in war. In ville only. Grow rice, grow pig, not fight." He took the tankard from Amity and blushed as the beauty caught his eye and smiled at him.

"Not fight, still lose." His sloe eyes were downcast for just the briefest moment, then snapped onto my own with a fierce glare.

"Soldier come. Soldier my country, soldier no my country, no different. Soldier take only." He glanced at the table of military men then turned back to me.

His stature seemed to grow. He stood tall, proud tilt of chin, direct gaze of piercing black eyes and soberly announced, "I no ville...

"I no live ville, no more," he said.  His chest swelled a bit and his hands made fists.  He appeared determined and confident.

Chops turned to face the table where soldiers sat.  He stated, with calm assurance, "And soldier no take from me, no more."

One of the militiamen hawked a gob and spit it into the nearest spitoon.  He pushed away from the table and rose, hitched his belt and made a show of adjusting his weapon's sheath to a more comfortable position against his side.  He gripped the pommel of his short sword and tugged it out a bit then reseated it a few times.

Chops watched, his attitude serene.  His friends - no, that is not quite right - his family, Woodja, Soliloquy and I,  stood with him.  Four of us, a young bear and a semi-wild cat, faced the table of soldiers. 

Before the militiaman made another move, more of the Tabard's customers began to rise from their tables and benches, too.

Behind his gleaming ironwood-topped bar, Halloran thumped a stout cudgel against one palm with a hypnotic rhythm.

  No.  Soldiers would take no more from Chops.

Text: Jeffrey B. Jones
Images: Photo Credit, David Niblack, Imagebase.net.
Editing: J.B. Jones
Publication Date: 10-07-2014

All Rights Reserved

Dedication:
Not a dedication, but rather a plea... In my mind's eye, I can see instances that a clever and creative graphic wizard could bring to life on these pages. I offer an invitation--and a challenge, perhaps--to all of the talented artists and illustrators who might come across this piece. Put your imaginations and skills to the test. Create the visual companion to the words found herein, whether that be cover art or depictions of the scenes that caught your fancy.