The Stranger - Max Frei [127]
“An hour later, his newfound friend came back. Chemparkaroke noticed that he was shuffling his feet uncertainly in the doorway, and shouted to him to come in, since he wasn’t obliged to pay for anything if he didn’t have the money. Then he served him some more soup. The fellow kept muttering about ‘relieving his suffering. ’ By the time I dropped in to the Old Thorn, curiosity-seekers were already gathering. Chemparkaroke was doing a brisk business, so his generosity was rewarded tenfold. And people got what they were looking for. Something extraordinary was happening to the visitor. After the second bowl of soup, he began to babble, and after the third, he broke into the most enigmatic dance I’ve ever seen. It was probably some kind of folk dance. Then he dozed off, and I thought he was there for the long haul, since he was in no condition to leave. Chemparkaroke promised to keep an eye on him, because by then it had occurred to me that this strange bird could well be one of your clients. I even started to wonder—is he really a human being? But what didn’t occur to me was to recall Chemparkaroke’s story about how you, Juffin, dragged this poor boy into the Thorn one day.”
The “poor boy,” of course, was me. Juffin sighed penitently, remembering his recent blunder.
At the threshold the Old Thorn I winced. It was no doubt a great place, but my digestive system refused to agree with that opinion, and a feeling of nausea hit me the moment I entered. The Thorn was so packed that it looked as though the entire citizenry of Echo had received a Day of Freedom from Care at the same time. When our rather intimidating posse entered the tavern, the patrons slowly began to disperse. The red-haired Chemparkaroke assumed a knowing expression and began wiping off the already spotless dishes.
My countryman was asleep on a broad wooden bench. Luckily, he didn’t seem to be one of my childhood friends. That would have been too much. As for his age, he could have been my father—or perhaps the pressure of being a maniac had aged him before his time. This guy looked ghastly—a dirty raincoat, wrinkled trousers, week-old stubble, dark circles under his eyes . . . poor thing. Moreover, he had clearly overindulged in Soup of Repose. His ragged breathing was not a sign of physical well-being. If he had died right then and there, it wouldn’t have surprise me. It looked like that’s where things were heading.
Juffin sniffed fastidiously.
“We’ve spent a whole day looking for this . . . this natural phenomenon? Ugh, how unattractive! Take him, Max, and get him out of here. Chemparkaroke, do you have anything to add to Sir Yox’s story?”
The good-natured redhead shook his head:
“What’s there to add, Sir Venerable Head? An ugly affair. At first he was so funny. Then he started to snore, to moan, to chase an invisible person around the tavern. The customers were amused. People love a clown, even a sick one. But then he fell on the bench and went to sleep. Only I think that soon he’ll be chatting with the Dark Magicians. I often get a hunch about things like that. If you give him something to drink, his legs will start twitching, and it’ll be all over.”
“Thanks for the good news, old boy. I’m all for it,” Sir Juffin muttered. “Good work, Chemparkaroke.”
The innkeeper was flattered, but he clearly didn’t understand why he was being praised. Juffin looked at him wearily.
“Take him, Max. What are you waiting for? He’s not going to dance anymore, that’s for sure.”
I sighed and did the usual prestidigitation