Week 182: The Innkeeper
Their scars tell time like rings on a tree
The pink and purple bruises as a knight takes off his armor. Emaciated bones of a mother and her children. A man in the corner drinking alone and muttering to himself.
And the innkeeper, whose bar used to span the entire room now only covers a quarter like a crescent moon. Boards, hammers and nails sit at his side ready for more patrons in need of shelter.
The innkeeper’s clothes are draped over him as if their stitches grew too much to cover his body.
The door bursts open. Snow and ice gush into the inn.
"Storm's picking up outside", said a traveler. "Got room to warm my bones?"
The innkeepers point to the side hallway. Rooms line the walls. Newly built. The wood is the same color as the quarter crescent bar.
The traveler walks past leaving sloshes of snow that the innkeeper sweeps away.
One child starts crying from hunger. Bread appeared on a plate before him. The child didn’t even realize until the smell reached him. The Innkeeper poured water for the family. The contortion of hunger released as he saw the child gobble the bread. His posture straightened as he walked off.
The mother, grateful, eyes the innkeeper. She remembers him keeping the bread for himself. Her eyes bounce from the muscles clinging to his bones to the empty plate at the bar where he hoped to eat lunch.
The Innkeeper goes outside.
The earth is the color of a fresh canvas and blistery cold. On the horizon, he spots a moving pack of people at least 15.
He looks back at the inn, only one open table and open room, his room. His bar is almost gone. He eyes the incoming group and his tools. One more time, he goes to work.
The wood from the bar holds the walls but he's got no other items to burn in the fire for warmth. An oak tree sits outside. He grabs his axe and walks out in his scarecrow clothes. The innkeeper closes the door behind him to keep the shelter warm.
The knight watches the innkeeper leave. The mother watches him barely carry the tools out. The drunk in the corner stops drinking and raises his glass, a toast to the living dead.
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The oak tree stands tall unaffected by frozen wind and drooping icicles.
The innkeeper readies his axe. He hears the people approaching. He swings, it barely makes a dent. He swings again, this time a small cut the size of his fingernail. He swings again but misses. The weight pulls him to the side and he falls in the snow. The group reached the inn and opened the door.
His arms are too weak to help him get up. The drunk stands at the door and welcomes them in. He sees the innkeeper outside. Their eyes meet, both sullen and sunken from pain.
—
The innkeeper wakes up in a warm bed. Covers over him and fresh clothes beside him. He hears people outside. He tries moving but his muscles are sore. They haven't rested in years.
The drunk came into the room with a plate of food and patted him on the shoulder and left.
He gets up slowly, body unaccustomed to rest. He limps to the walls and looks to the bar.
People are rebuilding his bar. The knight is serving drinks.
The mother and her children are caring for others. The drunk is cooking meals.
The Inn is ok. And for the first time, he can rest.