A Kinrowan Estate story: 3 a.m., When The Veils Are Thinnest

ivy

Sometimes I believe that the door off the Courtyard into the Pub here is just a little too close to The Border with, oh, let’s just call it somewhere else and possible somewhen else. It would certainly explains some of the strange things and people that end up here, usually late at night.

Such was the case one late Fall evening when several strange beings wandered in here, one seeking refuge and the others seeking him. What happened is the story I tell here.

The first was a dead bluesman, or at least it was assumed he was dead given he was murdered long ago, who showed up with his guitar slung over his back. Clad in a sharp suit and elegant hat, he sat down in a corner table, back against the wall, and started playing the blues, really old tunes at that. Never said hardly a word, but ordered whisky which was paid for with silver dollars that were truly collectors items.

Several weeks after he appeared, two very dark-skinned impressively large individuals equally well-dressed as the bluesman showed up and attempted to remove him from the Pub. (You should realise that only those with The Sight such as myself could See that any of these individuals was unusual. All others thought they were just human.) He smiled at them, showing a lot of teeth and played a low chord that made them turned sharply around and leave.

Not so his luck with the red-haired, green-eyed, leather-clad woman who, for those with The Sight, had black wings, more like those of a crow than an angel. I thought She was The Angel of Death but the look on his face suggested something much more dire. She ordered one of the best whiskies we had and sipped it as she looked at the bluesman. It was a sad smile, a smile that suggested she had a job to do but wasn’t a job she wanted to do.

I’m old enough to know who she was, but was surprised she was here as I’d only seen her a few times down the centuries and I knew she was never the bearer of good news.

She finished drink, nodded to Reynard and walked towards the bluesman. She talked quietly with him for a while and then left without him, which surprised me as the stories about her always say she never leaves without her, errr, prey.

And the bluesman was now playing ‘Cross Road Blues’.

ivy

About Hrafnfreistuor

I was hanged upon The Tree and I talked to My Ravens. Isn’t that enough to say about myself?

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