Cardomon: Drunkard's Den

Noon the next:

After a frosty morning Peter and Mellisa went out. Down to the pond, left at the junction, one trail circles the entire water body, the lower end crosses a marshy expanse and a split-log causeway atop trestles spans muddy streams. They took the other spur, up the Vale.

Traversed a low peninsula above pond and marsh, descended to the alluvial valley floor.

Trail forked: main path to the left. Turned onto the less traveled route, a gentle downhill for another mile. Deep riparian woods rose around the path, traded spaces with patches of dry meadow, gravel hummocks and low swales broke up the flats, turned the country confusing.

Around the point of an ancient river bar, beneath a pair of leaning trees that buttressed each other and formed a wooden arch, gateway to a small clearing. At one edge stood a tiny A-frame cabin with a metal flue pipe rising from the peak, it smoked. Sour atmosphere reeked of alcohol and something fermenting. Surrounding the shed lay a jumble of decrepit furniture: ratty sofas, tattered chairs, cabinets, a bed, all scavenged out of Old Firstown.

It was a cold day, still icy in the shadows.

Peter: “Here it is, Drunkard’s Den. Nobody’s home. Kinda early fer this crowd.”

“There’s smoke in the chimney.”

“Someone’s cookin’.” He trotted ahead, up steps to the cabin’s front porch and pulled the door open. A cloud of ethanol vapors rolled from within. Peter spied friends: “Derisee! Delgard!”

Two voices: “Peter!” Delgard, self-proclaimed Mayor of the Den, squint eyed, pot-bellied and bandy-legged, wore a rough, scissors-cut beard and happy red eyes. Derisee, his wife and Official Whiskey Taster, pear shaped body and face, flushed, and long lanky wizened hair, once black.

“C’mon outside. Mel wants t’ see ya.”

The couple rose, stumble-walked to the porch, Derisee sat on the edge, her legs dangled: “Did you bring your guitar?”

Peter sat alongside, his toes touched the ground: “Nah. We got bizz’nizz.”

The physician watched Delgard come down three steps from the porch to her side. She appraised the couple, saw problems: “I wanted to know how you folks are doing?”

Delgard’s smile had a hole in the center: “Fine, Doc. We got the good life.” A slight lisp.

She forced her own smile: “What happened to your teeth?”

“Fell down, hit a rock—hurt like hell!”

“Anybody look at it?”

“Taralisa pulled the stumps and gave me herbs, told me to stop drinking. I still got the herbs.”

“You should go to town, to the clinic. They can fix that.”

“It’s all right. Don’t bother me anymore.”

She didn’t shake her head, she wanted to cry. She kept a tight smile: “How many people live here?”

“About a dozen, comes and goes. Sometimes we got a real crowd, even Townies!” She watched his tongue behind the gap.

“I want to see everyone. Can you show me around?”

“Sure, Doc. Don’t know if we’ll see them all. Some guys don’t like to be found, they stay in the jungle by the river ‘till they want company.”

“Show me what you can.”

Delgard led her across the clearing, the path disappeared under woodsy shadows.

Peter smiled at Derisee: “Whatcha cookin’?”

“We ferment sweetroot. Makes good gin.”

“Mmm… If I weren’t with Mel I’d have a drop. But, y’ know? I smell a problem.”

“What?”

“Y’ need to vent th’ shack. Them vapors build up near th’ fire and it’s Boom! yer own volcano! An’ all over ya! Delgard’d be a real burning man! Leave th’ door open when y’ cook.”

“Sorry, Peter. It was cold this morning. We started cooking just to have a fire—haven’t even had any gin yet.”

“Ain’t too late, y’all catch up. But wait ‘til Mel goes—‘kay? Jus’ courtesy t’ her.”

“All right. That’s kinda sweet, the way you say that. You like her, huh?”

“I’m in awe. Always been, but I’m sorta married to Luenda now. We gotta boy—Edzy!—didn’ y’ know?”

“We never hear any news down here. I’m really glad for you. Luenda… I know her, doesn’t she have sisters?”

“Ahhh… They ain’t around no more.”

“That’s too bad. They’re not dead?”

“I can’t say fer sure. Won’t be back.”

“What a shame.” She shook her head for a few seconds: “So, how come you didn’t bring your guitar?”

“Not th’ right time. Maybe I’ll come ‘round later. I got a buncha new songs, learned ‘em last night.”

“Really? Did you make them up?”

“Nah. It’s a collaboration. Starts with tunes Mel learned from Jack Conroy—remember him?”

“Charlene’s husband? Yeah, he’s a nice singer.”

“Sorta: we made th’ words last night singin’ by th’ Hearth. Taralisa does th’ best.”

“Can you sing one?”

Smiled: “Not now. Need my guitar, an’ yer gin.”

Mellisa and Delgard returned fifteen minutes later. Socrates joined them. Shirtless, in ragged trousers, he showed xylophone ribs and a skeletal face. He walked slowly, leaned on her elbow.

The physician, to Peter: “This man hasn’t eaten in a week! Go! Run to the Hall, raid the larders, bring as much food as you can. This is an emergency!”

He jumped from his perch, made a dust cloud with his feet, was gone.

Delgard and Socrates sat at Derisee’s shoulders.

Mellisa: “You are getting your calories from alcohol: it’s killing you!”

They accepted the statement with nods.

“How do you normally get food?”

Delgard: “Sometimes we fish and hunt. Dig sweetroot… ”

Derisee: “We don’t eat it much. It’s for gin.”

“Yeah. Sometimes folks bring food, but they forget, too.”

Mellisa: “It’s abysmal! Nobody should starve, food is everywhere! I’m going to change this situation.”

Another trio of nods.

“People die here sometimes?”

Delgard: “Yeah, Doc. Sometimes… usually they get sick a few days, booze fever. Turn to dust in their sleep—just crazy.”

The physician cried.