Our narrator does something unwise that gets up the nose of the landlord, but you can always rely on Brontes to made a bad situation worse.

A two-part tale.

| Part One | Part Two |

Series Link
-1-2-3-4- 5-6-7-



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Boris, I must say, has never been the kindest of landlords, nor could the gruff polar bear ever be called 'genial'. Still, his ales are good, his inn is decent and it's open when you need it. That's important. For a fox like me, getting on in years, you really appreciate having somewhere to spend a sociable evening. Someplace warm–where you can tell a yarn, sing a song, sup a drink and have a laugh or two. Boris's Inn had a fire permanently blazing in the hearth, a new television–colour, no less, thanks to the insurance money when the last one was broken–and a motley crew of regulars, myself included.

When mid-winter rolled around, snow and ice lay hard on the ground. Although it sounds poetic, it was nothing of the sort. Ice on the cobble-stoned street made walking treacherous for me, and I had to use my walking stick as a support. The bitter wind sucked the warmth out of me no matter how well wrapped up. I felt every one of my many years as I shuffled along into the gale, my face wrapped in my favourite scarf and my old battered cap stuffed down hard over my ears. I crossed the Green cautiously, headed for the comfort of my cosy berth beside Boris's hearth. As I climbed the steps at the entrance, thinking that a hot whiskey would chase the chills from my joints, I spotted the lumbering form of my friend Brontes stalking up the road from the barn in which he had taken lodgings.

"Brontes! Are you not cold like that?" I called as he approached. He shook his head dismissively and kindly held the front door open. While I peeled off my many layers and hung them on the special peg I considered all my own, the minotaur shook himself like a great big dog to dislodge the snow and water from his bare pelt, drenching me with the spray. He was a sight that would stir the blood. Barefoot, wearing only his leather loincloth and the black harness that held his silver axe on his back, it appeared that being almost naked in the freezing cold didn't knock a stir out of him.

"I," said he as we pushed our way through the crowded common room, "do not feel cold like you do, old fox. In my homeland, far north of here, we have snow on the ground not just for six weeks as you do, but for a full six months. A chilly evening like this is nothing unusual."

Boris stood behind the bar, polishing glasses with a snow-white cloth that matched his shirt, and his face. He gave Brontes an icy look as the minotaur ordered drinks for both of us; an unusual thing for him to do and most welcome, I can tell you.

"You have money to pay for these, bull?" Boris growled, placing his glass carefully onto a pyramid of its sparkling brethren. He folded his cloth stiffly, folded his arms and looked directly into Brontes' face without blinking. I gave a little sigh. I really could do without the landlord's lack of trust in my big bovine friend, all the more so as I was really longing for a nice hot toddy, and could almost smell the cloves. Brontes, miffed, tugged the cord open on the small pouch that habitually hung from his waistband and opened it carefully, picking out four or five silver coins. He put them on his palm and held them out for the bear to see, giving a little snort: his way of saying "so there".

Satisfied, Boris turned away without a word, filled a metal tankard with fresh water, then switched on the kettle for my hot toddy.

Relief got the better of me, and I suddenly remembered a conversation I had with an old friend the previous day. In a too-loud voice I said "You know, Boris, we should really have a bit of a do here for the First Day of Spring this year."

The gods only know why I had the misfortune to suggest this, how it–of all things!–came into my head right at this time, and quiet the conversation became in the common room just as I spoke. No sooner had the words had left my mouth, it seemed the entire bar was full of merry agreement for my idea. Boris's shoulders hunched–always a bad sign. He slowly turned from the measures and set my glass down with a heavy thud, sloshing the precious liquid onto the shiny counter. I put my ears down and pretended I was invisible, took a sip of my toddy and realised just how badly he had taken the suggestion. There was no brown sugar or cloves in my drink. It was just a measure of whiskey, drowned in hot water. Disappointed, and just a little hurt, I took my glass and retired to the far corner, where the minotaur was sitting, arms folded, glaring huffily around the room. I figured it might be safer there.

"Can I join you, Brontes?"

He nodded stiffly, so I sat down on the bench beside him. For a crowded room, there was a lack of people immediately around us–not all that unusual, as the warm leathery smell of wet bull is a bit of an acquired taste, and he had this awful habit of randomly challenging people he thought were staring at him ... yet no-one ever complained when he stared them down, for some reason. I imagine the ale-houses in his homeland are a riot on pay-days. Trying to make conversation, I looked down at his tankard and wrinkled my nose in a smile.

"Are you sure you don't want something stronger than that, a big strapping minotaur like you?"

He peered quizzically at me, then shrugged. "I do not drink alcohol," he said simply, angling his head, horns framing his wide face. "Before you ask, it is not because I do not want to get intoxicated. I am not affected by beer or ..." he leaned towards my glass and sniffed the vapours rising from my ruined hot toddy, "... or from spirits, like you do."

Intrigued, and quietly hoping to keep out of the way of a polar bear whose happily drunken patrons were bombarding him with more and more outlandish party ideas, I quizzed my friend about his aversion to booze.

His people, he explained, can drink any amount of liquor without feeling ill-effects. I thought to myself that this was a talent many of the burghers of our little town would appreciate, particularly on the Monday morning after a sporting Sunday. But Brontes and his kin don't even indulge their talent as drinkers. He went on to bemoan the waste of good grain 'ruined' in the making of our favourite tipples.

"So," I finally asked as I grew more and more annoyed at his smug expression of superiority, "you never have been drunk in your life? What a poor life it must be!" He was taken aback by my attitude and became defensive, like any red-blooded male. He peered imperiously down his snout and huffed with annoyance. "I have been intoxicated," he confided quietly, "with salt."

I laughed, despite my better judgement. "Salt? Yeah, right."

Grumbling, he tugged his money pouch from the waistband of his loincloth, opened the knot of the binding and spilled the entire contents on the table. His five silver coins rolled around for a moment (proving that it was all the money he had), a small pair of primitive pliers joining them. He carefully pulled the one last item from the depths of the pouch - a smaller version of it, with a tiny drawstring. He opened it and held it out to me. "Salt," he said, "taste it." I dipped my little finger in cautiously, and placed a single grain on my tongue. It was indeed plain honest-to-goodness salt.

"And -- eh -- this makes you drunk?"

He nodded, seemingly pleased, with my interest in his kind. I pondered the concept of getting spaced on something as basic as this, "I see ... we just sprinkle it on our food to make it taste better."

He explained it all to me then, rattling on and on about the country he came from, and how all the cattle–sorry, all the minotaurs, I mean–were given a small salt ration each month. Some (just like certain people who live around here, whose names I shall not mention) used it all on the first couple of days, leaving me with a bizarre vision in my mind's eye of a drunken herd (if that's the right collective noun for a bunch of minotaurs) staggering around town, singing songs and causing trouble. Suddenly I felt very relieved to live in a town far, far away from Tauria.

Some others, he added, shared their salt with their comrades, and a smaller percentage sold their 'salary' for coin, and the most frugal of them saved it for months and years to use as a dowry. I wondered what they would do if their houses got flooded. It was all very peculiar, but as I thought a little more about it all, I realised that our money and notes were pretty much the same, except it didn't taste nice or get you tanked. Brontes carefully poured a few crystals into his palm and licked them up with his great big pink tongue. He leaned back, just as if he had downed a hot toddy–with cloves and brown sugar. I admit I envied his simple pleasure.

Something entered my mind. "Brontes," I whispered, looking around, "I think it might be better if you didn't share your–er–salt interest with too many people." He stared at me over the edge of his tankard, shooting me a look of perfect disdain with those solid black eyes of his. "I mean it," I said, trying to get the point across without riling him too much. "I'm sure that wouldn't be a big problem at home, where you don't have much of the stuff around, but it's different here. There's even salt shakers on the tables here when they serve food, for heaven's sake! I wouldn't like anyone to do something to you."

The bull snorted and guffawed, then petted me on the top of my head as though I was a child. For a split-second I understood exactly why Boris felt like he did about the thick-skinned bovine, but I shook that unworthy thought our of my head, pushed his arm away, and dropped the subject. After a pause, he broke the silence.

"I do appreciate your thoughtfulness, friend fox," he muttered, his face solemn. "Forgive me if I dishonoured you by my reaction. The salt, you see ..." I sighed and drained my glass, my thought of another one tempered by Boris bellowing at the patrons that continued to press him for a Spring Holiday party. I knew if I asked for a refill now, I'd probably get just a glass of hot water, without the glass. You know the way. Boris doesn't like anything to disturb his perfect little world. With little else to do, and my name no longer welcome, I decided to head home, leaving Brontes in his corner and Boris in a temper.

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Join in next time for the second part of this Tarbh Tale! Same bull channel, same bull story!