Quaff
Your Porridge, Rummy!
An
Intellectual Quandery By Nathaniel Jones, Esq.
The door of the village inn swung open, pipe
smoke seething from the open passageway. One lone townsman stumbled out into
the cold
"Come
on, now. Let's go, big fellows. You know the way." Coaxed the driver
as the old weak horses slowly began pulling the rickety carriage through the
dusty streets. "That's right, boys. That's fine."
The
carriage slid through the streets, wheels creaking and cabin shuttering with
each bump and hole in the road. As one onlooker would later describe it, the
old black box and bone thin horses appeared to be the herringer of death himself,
and wondered if perhaps it would be for the advantage of that man's soul to
turn right around and pray to God that the passenger did not see his face.
The carriage passed by many a man and woman that night, many of whom the likes
of this particular night had seen the better of, and want not to be in the
likeness of men such as these, if not all so far gone as this themselves.
"Whoa!"
Yelled the driver, as he pulled the reigns on the beasts before him. The carriage
had reached the end of its path, and the passenger, banging on the windowless
door, was evacuated from the cabin as a captured spider from an open palm.
He fell out onto the dank ground, and after picking himself up, he pulled
his cane and hat from inside the compartment, and, grumbling, walked toward
his abode. His stride was lopsided, his face the same, and his home even the
more so than his face. He entered his shambled residence, and tossed his belongings
beside. Taking off his shoes, he moved to the fireplace, and in short notice,
had a small, yet big enough, fire going in it. He warmed his kettle and his
hands, and as the steam filled the air, his woman enter'd the room with his
pitcher.
"'Ere,
now, let me get that for ye." Croaked the old
woman, whose appearance, at once the precognition of a once powerful witch,
was now as of an old mangy dog. "I might as well, I suppose. There's
a bowl of porridge left from this ev'ning, if ye be in good taste for it."
"Yes."
Gasped the man, the first word uttered since ordering his rum at the inn some
two hours afor.
"It's
still a mite warm, tho I suppose you'd prefer it the warmer. Drink this, then,
while that's on the stove. It'll calm your nerves." Stated the old woman,
pouring the hot water into a mixture of leaves and herbs, a tea she had been
making since her younger days. The man took his mug and drank of it. Then
putting it aside, he bade the woman,
"Rum."
The
old woman took the mug back, and after drinking the potion herself, splashed
some water in the face of the man. "Now, listen here. If ye were wantin'
rum, you should'a stayed at the inn. I won't have any of it in this house,
and by the stench of thy breath, I can tell you 'ave 'ad enough already. Here,
now, take this porridge. It's hot now."
"Rum!"
Stormed the man, his face turning a bright red, and his fist hitting his table
awkwardly, knocking his bowl askew.
"Porridge!
You want something to drink, drink this. Quaff your porridge, rummy! It'll
be the only thing you can have for the night." Shouted the woman, slamming
a spoon into the bowl of porridge. The man, looking at her with the eyes of
a drunk being denied his liqueur, did not object. He took his spoon, and sipped
the sup. Tossing the spoon to the floor, he grabbed the bowl, quaffing the
whole thing.
"There
now, ya see?" Asked the woman, pointing a gnarled finger at the man's
shirt. "Ya've gone and made a mess of your clothes. Now, off with ye.
It's well past the moon's rise, and you'll feel a mighty fool when you arise
in the morning if ye don't sleep now."
The
man silently rose from the table, and, leaving his mess behind him, strolled
to his chamber, and changing into his night things, fell fast asleep.
