A Map of Glass - Jane Urquhart [85]
When a few moments later he went back inside he was introduced to the ghost, a certain G. Shromanov, whose unpronounceable Slovakian first name had been long ago contracted to “Ghost,” and who, according to his own admission, was primarily a stableman. Being born to love horses, he had worked at all three inns on the road, until the railway made the full-time care of horses almost completely unnecessary. Fortunately, however, he was also a rope-maker, a kettlesmith, and had been for at least a year roving through these parts searching for bears as a would-be bear trainer. He proudly confessed that, although he had been born in Europe, he could also read and write in English, and was occasionally able to acquire extra income by writing business letters, sometimes even love letters, for those who had never mastered the alphabet. Added to all this, he confided, he could mend pots, make medicine, tell fortunes, administer spells and curses, sing while accompanying himself on the mandolin, and perform a sort of speedy Spanish stomp that required much night practice to keep it up to the mark—hence the thumping that had interrupted Branwell’s sleep. With much clapping of hands on either side of his head, Ghost demonstrated several noisy staccato steps. The floor shook, the bottles behind the bar clanked, Branwell’s headache throbbed.
“Fryfogel’s his best customer,” Kelterborn announced.
For what? Branwell wondered. Bear training? Cursing? He couldn’t help but remember Fryfogel’s remarks about the people who worked the road.
“Best customer,” Ghost agreed. “He’ll pay any amount of cash to get his fortune told, he’ll pour any amount of whisky. I already predicted that his walls wouldn’t be decorated, that you wouldn’t be arriving for damn near twenty years.”
“Well,” said Branwell, “you were wrong about that because here I am.” He lifted the wooden valise that served as his paintbox as proof of his trade.
“Oh, you’re here all right.” Ghost settled into the chair nearest to Branwell. “You’re here, but you’re not there, if you catch my meaning. Let me see your palm.”
Branwell offered his hand to Ghost and then bestowed an amused smile on the other patrons in the bar.
“No, sir,” said Ghost. “Not a sign of the Fryfogel in the immediate future. In fact, I see no trace of the walls of an inn at all … which is odd because I can see the Tavern Brook out the window. And wait … beside the window there is a painted wall—but it’s far, far in the future—and, even so, there is nothing about an inn in these parts, nothing about a tavern, wait, no, there is something about a tavern, but not that tavern, there’s a painted ceiling, of all things.” He glanced quizzically at Branwell. “Wouldn’t you go blind doing that? Wouldn’t you all the time have paint dripping in your eyes?”
Branwell had no idea. “I never paint ceilings,” he said.
“No you don’t,” said Ghost, “not yet. But, there’s no doubt about it, you will.”
Five days later, in the midst of one of the continuing squalls, Branwell trudged through the snow to the station. He had not been able to reach Fryfogel’s Tavern; in fact, the weather had been so consistently bad that at times it seemed impossible to believe that beyond the somewhat greasy interior and smoky ambience of Kelterborn’s log establishment, a village of some sort existed. He had done absolutely nothing during the course of the preceding days except inquire repeatedly about meteorological conditions in hopes that he might be able to wait out the storm and listen to Ghost—whom he had discovered was a voracious reader of newspapers when he could get his hands on them—tell more tales than he cared to hear about Tiger Dunlop, John Galt, and some other confident tycoon called Talbot who was in full control of all the lands at the western end of the lakes. These much-talked-about capitalists were both resented