Post by Grimm on Nov 6, 2006 16:53:09 GMT -5
I was on my way to meet the Devil when I proposed to the coachman that we stop at a tavern I had been told stood at a bend in the thoroughfare, and which, from past travels, I knew we were quickly approaching, for I was quite familiar with this particular stretch of road. I could not recall any such tavern from the days of my youth, but assumed it had been built during my absence from the area. The coachman agreed, and mentioned that he too could use a little cider to warm himself after such a long and frigid journey. We had been traveling since early that morning, when houses and trees were nothing more than ghosts passing by and the sun still rested below the horizon. The coach’s wheels crushed through ice and hoar frost and I had been forced to stomp my feet and beat myself quite vigorously in a failed attempt to keep from freezing to death. It had been a most unpleasant journey to say the least.
But then we rounded the bend and I caught sight of the tavern. The coachman pulled us up alongside and reined the horses to a stop. It was a non-descript structure, simple, made of wood with a tin roof, with nary a sign to advertise the name of the establishment or the services offered. Only a flickering glow in the windows stood testament to its occupancy. In fact, had I not previously been encouraged to stop here we would have passed by without a second thought. That being said, the coachman and I were weary and looked forward to having a bit of rest and warmth on what yet remained a long trip. We stepped through the door, cheeks blasted ruddy from the cold, and shivering, and were greeted by the hiss of gas lanterns and the crackle of a fire in a great stone hearth. The aroma of hickory smoke and baked apples, roasted meats and foreign spices, bombarded our senses. It was just as we had hoped.
On most occasions I would have thought such a welcoming place in such a barren land would be filled to the gills with others such as myself. Other than my traveling companion and the landlord, though, there was only one other gentlemen within sight. He was perched at the table closest to the hearth and was quite a specimen, to be sure. Tall and thin, dressed in a suit of clothes that, although not at the height of fashion, showed him to be a man of some means. A bookdealer, perhaps. He had a head topped with long curly hair the color of rust, and chin whiskers which were braided and decorated with beads, such as some of the more savage peoples are wont to do, which I had learned about in my readings. He had what appeared to be a cup of coffee resting in front of him, and I could feel his blue eyes following us as we crossed the room. Yes, I could see his eyes reflecting the dancing flames of the fireplace, and they were of the most brilliant blue. I felt as if they cut right through me to the foul weather outside. I nodded a greeting in his direction as we passed, and he returned likewise. I fear I shall never forget those eyes. Years have passed and they haunt me still.
I could hear a clock tick the seconds off, away in an unseen corner of this fine tavern. We admired the simplicity of the building. Exposed beams criss-crossing overhead were the most extravagant decoration in sight. They appeared to have been constructed in the Dutch tradition. When the landlord brought my companion and me our cider and roast duck, I inquired as to the identity of the disconcerting stranger. The landlord glanced in the direction of the bright hearth and, I swear to this day, a pall briefly cast on his heretofore rosy countenance.
“That, kind sir, is Phinehas Grimm. He was a highly regarded foot soldier during the war for Independence. He resides not far from here in his family’s manor, which sits deep in the woods in an otherwise empty hollow. The gentleman lives alone.”
I glanced in this Grimm fellow’s direction. Phinehas the zealous, perhaps? Named after the very man who stayed God’s wrath from the Israelites when he executed the sinners in the temple…I would not discount it. The zealot took a sip from his cup, but his eyes never wavered from their gaze, which was fixed directly at us. I was curious as to our host’s reaction to the man, but was not comfortable asking him outright. Instead, I asked about his occupation. Again, the landlord was quite anxious upon reply.
“No one knows for sure. He travels quite a bit. Gone for days to who knows where and for who knows what purpose. There is word he often takes to sea, and participates in activities that I will not utter here. No one watches after his homestead, but there has been talk about strange sounds coming from the hills in the direction of the House of Grimm. The usual tales abound, mostly discounted by folks of reason such as ourselves, but to be completely honest, sir, I would not venture down that hollow alone, whether it be at the witching hour or noon time under the brightest of suns. There’s been talk about some of Grimm’s atrocities committed against the enemy, and some folks say he isn’t satisfied. True stories or not, I’d avoid his company, if I were you.”
Normally, I would agree out of politeness but make a note to myself not to put too much stock in such talk. Solitary men and dark hollows do not a fiend make, but something about this gentlemen set me at unease. If pressed I would admit that I was nervous in his presence. Frightened, even. I had entertained the idea of spending most of the day at the tavern, but upon considering this Phinehas Grimm I could not finish my meal fast enough. I believe the coachman was of similar opinion for he bolted down the duck and gulped his cider in record time.
We paid our bill and bid the landlord good day. Even after exiting the tavern into the cold frosty morning, I could feel the eyes of Grimm upon me. The sensation chilled me exceedingly, more so than any northern wind could ever hope to inflict on the most destitute of men.
But then we rounded the bend and I caught sight of the tavern. The coachman pulled us up alongside and reined the horses to a stop. It was a non-descript structure, simple, made of wood with a tin roof, with nary a sign to advertise the name of the establishment or the services offered. Only a flickering glow in the windows stood testament to its occupancy. In fact, had I not previously been encouraged to stop here we would have passed by without a second thought. That being said, the coachman and I were weary and looked forward to having a bit of rest and warmth on what yet remained a long trip. We stepped through the door, cheeks blasted ruddy from the cold, and shivering, and were greeted by the hiss of gas lanterns and the crackle of a fire in a great stone hearth. The aroma of hickory smoke and baked apples, roasted meats and foreign spices, bombarded our senses. It was just as we had hoped.
On most occasions I would have thought such a welcoming place in such a barren land would be filled to the gills with others such as myself. Other than my traveling companion and the landlord, though, there was only one other gentlemen within sight. He was perched at the table closest to the hearth and was quite a specimen, to be sure. Tall and thin, dressed in a suit of clothes that, although not at the height of fashion, showed him to be a man of some means. A bookdealer, perhaps. He had a head topped with long curly hair the color of rust, and chin whiskers which were braided and decorated with beads, such as some of the more savage peoples are wont to do, which I had learned about in my readings. He had what appeared to be a cup of coffee resting in front of him, and I could feel his blue eyes following us as we crossed the room. Yes, I could see his eyes reflecting the dancing flames of the fireplace, and they were of the most brilliant blue. I felt as if they cut right through me to the foul weather outside. I nodded a greeting in his direction as we passed, and he returned likewise. I fear I shall never forget those eyes. Years have passed and they haunt me still.
I could hear a clock tick the seconds off, away in an unseen corner of this fine tavern. We admired the simplicity of the building. Exposed beams criss-crossing overhead were the most extravagant decoration in sight. They appeared to have been constructed in the Dutch tradition. When the landlord brought my companion and me our cider and roast duck, I inquired as to the identity of the disconcerting stranger. The landlord glanced in the direction of the bright hearth and, I swear to this day, a pall briefly cast on his heretofore rosy countenance.
“That, kind sir, is Phinehas Grimm. He was a highly regarded foot soldier during the war for Independence. He resides not far from here in his family’s manor, which sits deep in the woods in an otherwise empty hollow. The gentleman lives alone.”
I glanced in this Grimm fellow’s direction. Phinehas the zealous, perhaps? Named after the very man who stayed God’s wrath from the Israelites when he executed the sinners in the temple…I would not discount it. The zealot took a sip from his cup, but his eyes never wavered from their gaze, which was fixed directly at us. I was curious as to our host’s reaction to the man, but was not comfortable asking him outright. Instead, I asked about his occupation. Again, the landlord was quite anxious upon reply.
“No one knows for sure. He travels quite a bit. Gone for days to who knows where and for who knows what purpose. There is word he often takes to sea, and participates in activities that I will not utter here. No one watches after his homestead, but there has been talk about strange sounds coming from the hills in the direction of the House of Grimm. The usual tales abound, mostly discounted by folks of reason such as ourselves, but to be completely honest, sir, I would not venture down that hollow alone, whether it be at the witching hour or noon time under the brightest of suns. There’s been talk about some of Grimm’s atrocities committed against the enemy, and some folks say he isn’t satisfied. True stories or not, I’d avoid his company, if I were you.”
Normally, I would agree out of politeness but make a note to myself not to put too much stock in such talk. Solitary men and dark hollows do not a fiend make, but something about this gentlemen set me at unease. If pressed I would admit that I was nervous in his presence. Frightened, even. I had entertained the idea of spending most of the day at the tavern, but upon considering this Phinehas Grimm I could not finish my meal fast enough. I believe the coachman was of similar opinion for he bolted down the duck and gulped his cider in record time.
We paid our bill and bid the landlord good day. Even after exiting the tavern into the cold frosty morning, I could feel the eyes of Grimm upon me. The sensation chilled me exceedingly, more so than any northern wind could ever hope to inflict on the most destitute of men.
