A Customer

Joseph:

I wipe my sweat-covered forehead before shaking my hand and grabbing my rag. I finish cleaning the mug before putting it down with the others. As I stare at my one dozen mugs, I look around my bar.

It's a small bar, barely enough room to hold 12 customers, despite my mugs. It's also poorly lit. The only lights coming through the one open window and the cracks in the wall are from the sun and the lava outside.

Shielding my eyes as I look through my window, I see the sun as it starts to set.

"Closing time," I say, throwing my rag over my shoulder. Walking out from behind, I put the three chairs on the table before walking toward the door. About to lock it, I stop when I hear something. The doorknob is shaking, and a second later, it turns.

The door opens and a woman with long blond hair enters. She's wearing a short-sleeved shirt and long pants, both of which are sewn from rags. Strapped on her back are a crossbow and a quiver filled with bolts.

"Hmm," I say, looking at the woman. "If you're here to rob me, save yourself a few bolts. I haven't had a customer in over a week. The register is empty, and I don't have a coin on me."

The woman looks around for a bit, examining my bar, before turning back to me.

"I'm not here to rob you," the woman says. "Thought, from the look of it, it would be the most exciting thing to happen to you all year long."

I want to say something back to the woman, but honestly, I can't. As much as I'd hate to admit it, she is kind of right. This hadn't just been a slow week.

"I'm about to close up," I say, walking back to the counter and grabbing a clean mug. "So what will you be having?"

"What do you have," the woman asks, taking a seat at the counter. "Anything fancy?"

"I have water," I answer, checking my inventory. "Cold water in fact."

"Cold water," the woman repeats, "That's rare."

"I have a small hole down here. I dug it the first week I bought this place. It's covered and in the shade."

"Give me a mug," the woman orders, "Cold water."

I kneel down and scoop up a mug of cold water. Shaking it a little, the extra dropping falling back in, I place it down in front of the woman.

"Ten stones," I say.

The woman lets out a long whisper as she stares at the mug of cold water.

"A little pricy, don't you think? No wonder why you don't have any customers."

"Cold water is hard to come up. Especially when you're this close to the lava."

I nudge my head toward my window.

The woman grabs the strap across her chest and turns it around. She reaches into her quiver and a few seconds later, pulls out a rather large brown sack. I hear a thud as the sack falls onto the counter.

"Here's ten stones," the woman says, "And a little extra."

Hesitate at first, I slowly take the bag and open it.

"This isn't a trick," I think. The bag is filled with stones. There could easily be a hundred in here. I haven't seen this many stones in a long while.

"Thanks for the tip," I say.

"That's not a tip," the woman says after taking a sip of the cold water. "That's for something else."

"And what is that exactly? Look around, woman. There's nothing in here worth a hundred stones. The bar itself is worth only about 20. 25 when there are customers."

The woman takes another sip, she looks right at me.

"That took me almost two years to gather," she starts. She then points to the crossbow and bolts on her back. "I worked hard to earn all that money. Guarded a lot of travelers. Been in a lot of fights. Been in more life or death situations in one month than most people in their whole life."

"What are you telling this," I ask. "I don't care."

"I'm saying I worked hard to earn all that money," the woman says. "All to give it to you. The reasons? It's because, after almost ten years of asking around, of following every lead, of chasing every stupid rumor to its source, I finally found one that led me to you."

"To me," I repeat. "What the hell are you talking about? I'm a barkeeper. I'm sure there are plenty of other barkeepers out there. Some I bet, with more even customers than me."

"But you weren't always a barkeeper, were you? Joseph."

I drop my rag to clap my hands.

"Congratulations on already knowing my name. It sucks I don't know yours."

"My name is Heather," Heather says, "And the reason I'm giving you my savings is that I want to hear the story. The true story of Ebonie Ken."

As soon as I hear that name, I feel my heart stops. My arms freeze and my legs go numb. I almost fall but I manage to catch myself.

"Ebonie Ken," I laugh, "You're funny. You know that. You're really funny."

I grab the bag and throw it back at her.

"Sorry Heather, but that's just a legend. It's a story travelers tell among themselves so they don't get bored."

"No," Heather says, stomping her fist on my counter. She snatches the bag and throws it back at me. "As I said, I spent ten years looking for you."

"You wasted ten years then," I say. "Ebonie Ken isn't real. He never was."

"According to what I learned," Heather says but I cut her off.

"Whatever you learned, whatever you heard, let me tell you now. It was all a lie. Just some lie to get whatever it was you offered them. You got scammed. You lost money and time. Now, please get out of my bar. It's closing time."

"I'm ordering another drink," Heather says.

"So sorry," I say, "But no. We're out."

"I'm not leaving this bar," Heather screams, "Not until you tell me what you know."

"And what's that supposed to be? What exactly do I know?"

"Just to tell you," Heather says, "When I first heard about this, I checked. I triple-checked just to be sure. I make sure I didn't waste my money or my time."

"I'm losing interest," I say.

"According to what I've learned, what I've heard, what the people I have asked said, Ebonie Ken wasn't just a rumor. He wasn't just a story travelers tell themselves so they don't get bored. He was real. He was flesh and blood, and you were a member of his crew once. You knew him."

"Where did you hear that?"

"From some really, really old guys and women," Heather answers. "It took a while, and a lot of asking, but they finally answered me, and their answers led me to you. Unfortunately, by the time I learned your name, I was out of money so I had to pause my search and earn quite a bit before coming here. I worked and worked for this, so please, please tell me what I want to know. Please, tell the true story of Ebonie Ken."

I stare at Heather. The once calm and quiet woman who entered the bar is now gone. Sitting in her place is a sobbing, crying woman, begging for me to tell her a story.

"Damn it," I say, letting out a sigh. I grab a mug myself and scoop up some cold water. "Fine. You win."

"I what," Heather says.

"You win," I repeat, taking a drink of the cold refreshing water. It feels amazing, the cold water against my dry tongue and throat. I drink the whole thing in one gulp before slamming the mug down. "I'll tell you the story of Ebonie Ken."

"The real story," Heather asks.

"The real story," I sigh. "You're right. Ebonie Ken isn't a fairy tale, but he is a legend. In your quest for the truth, did you learn that people often refer to him as the Walking Armory?"

"Yeah," Heather says. "It was because he was always armed. Right?"

"He wasn't just armed," I say, "The man never went anyway without his weapons."

"His weapons," Heather repeats, "He had two pistols and two swords."

"He had four pistols actually," I correct. "Two on his belt and two more hidden in his boots."

"He had pistols hidden in his boots?"

"Oh yeah. Besides the four pistols, he also had two swords, also on his belt, a rifle strapped to his back, and two knives hidden in his sleeves. And that's what he usually carried with him. When he actually entered a fight, he grabbed a few more swords and guns."

"Damn," Heather says, "It's a miracle he could move."

"My story starts over 30 years ago."