The Dregs of the Tontine

“Master, he won’t leave. What shall I do?”

The bartender glanced in the corner, recognized the customer – well, not really. Instead, he recognized the bottle in front of the customer; it had sat in a corner cabinet for years, getting dusty. The former bartender-owner had gone through an old journal, his husky voice full of emotion, explaining the importance of the legacy bottles. That’s how he phrased it – “legacy bottles.”

The new bartender-owner was certain he’d never seen this customer before. And no one had asked for a bottle from that cabinet tonight. And though it was busier than normal, he would have known if someone had jumped the bar, had helped himself to something seen as sacred.

“It’s all right, Johannes, I’ll see to it. Why don’t you call it a night, you’ve done the mopping, yes? Then go on home, lad, you’ve earned a bit of rest. Be safe, hey? Don’t get picked up by the press gangs.”

“Can’t catch what they can’t find. I take the sky route home.” Johannes slid his feet out of his clogs and set them in a cubby behind the bar. He padded in soft-soled leather to the kitchen, where the barkeep heard him climb the ladder, to the roof.

With all the unrest going on, he’d forgotten that his assistant had had an unsavory past. Maybe he’d handed the bottle to the customer, after picking the lock? It was possible, but unlikely, and it still didn’t help close the bar.

If the barkeeper wanted a job with mysteries, he’d have joined the church.

He grabbed a freshly-washed cup, and approached the stranger. “Hey, friend, we have to close for the night. We must, it’s the law. My family can’t afford the fines if we don’t, and I’d be shipped off tomorrow on a navy ship to fight this infernal war. You’re in danger, too, of the curfew, so I suggest you drink up, and sneak away, before some arrogant little sergeant uses the excuse to swagger in and round up his next load of recruits.”

That seemed to rouse the stranger. “Eh, I paid for this bottle years ago, as you can see. In blood, in pain, in betrayal, in tears. All four, indeed, bonds that no witch can break, and no wizard can hope to match with mere magic alone. I need to stay all night, so if you’d pour for me, I’ll keep to myself in this shadowed corner while you tidy. And send the rest home before they find themselves in danger, I hear the Watch making the rounds.”

And just like that, everyone else still nursing a drink suddenly stood up, settled their tab by throwing money in a bowl on the counter, and shuffled out.

The barkeeper didn’t hesitate. He locked the door behind them, snuffed all the lights except one nearby, and returned to pour a drink for the stranger from an almost-full bottle.

Funny, how the stranger seemed more solid in the near-darkness. He shifted, and his bandaged hands rested on the rough wood of the table. “My thanks. I- had a bit of trouble on the way.”

“What would compel you to return to a war zone?”

“Obligation.” He nodded at the bottle. “I signed the label with my comrades, so many years ago. A tontine, paid for in real gold, our signing bonus. We left with a song on our lips, sure we’d return in weeks, covered in glory. Our lovers wouldn’t even have time to miss us, we were so young and foolish. I watched them die. Each of us carried the weight, the memory, of watching our friends leave this existence. I was the last one, and I was captured. I was only released recently, and made my way home.”

I couldn’t help it. “You just made Halifax yesterday?”

“I do not understand your reference, good sir. I have missed much in my time away.”

“What I’m saying is, your timelines don’t match up. That bottle has been collecting dust in my cabinet longer than I’ve been the owner here. If I recall the debit book correctly, it has languished somewhere between fifty and seventy-five years. And captivity adds, not removes, age. You look to be no older than twenty. Something doesn’t add up, my friend, a newly-released soldier, who has claimed to come here, on the cusp of an entirely new war, to drink a bottle to dead men? Which you haven’t touched, even though I’ve poured for you? Well, I find it more than a stretch to believe it all.”

“Ah, you have a suspicious mind, in these strange times. What’s your name, friend?”

“My Mam taught me young not to give my real name to strangers. ‘Barkeep’ works fine, everyone here uses it.”

“You think I’m something eldritch, to try and steal your soul?”

“I think you are already dead, and the only one who returned to fulfill the promise.”

“Am I? I…”

“Think back, soldier. Think hard. What’s the last thing you remember?”

The stranger got a faraway look in his eyes, which then widened in horror. He started crying silently, large trickling tears. The barkeep noticed they didn’t land on the table.

“Easy, there. I would say ‘be at peace,’ but that’s a morbid joke in this situation. I would also comfort you, but I’m rather afraid you would vanish. What can I do for you? You can’t drink this, can you? Or, is there a way?”

The soldier sniffled, wiped his nose with his sleeve. It didn’t leave a mark. “Ay, I don’t know what to do. We were desperate, we were, to have one return. I was deemed strongest in something… I know not what. Sarge, he knows. He has us pool together whatever-it-is. I was sent. Sent back.”

“And everything you knew was gone.”

“Strangers in my bed. Families, lovers? Tombs in the graveyard. There might be family, but it was scattered by the war. I don’t know where to go, what to do. This was the only thing I could remember. This old bar. Where we signed to our company, where we signed our lives to death, and where we signed our souls to a bottle.”

“Are you solid enough to do this?”

His ghostly lips firmed, seemed more present. “I will do this. For them, I will. Hand me the cup. You can touch me, I will not fade away.”

The barkeep picked up the cup, and the soldier fumbled a bit with his bandage-covered hands, but the cup lifted to his lips. He took a swallow, and the liquid vanished. “For you, Eduardo,” he murmured, and the cup came down.

For the next, the barkeep ran and fetched the journal. The full name of the soldier for whom he drank, and few jotted notes on their shared memories, names of family members who may remember a handsome man off to war. He scribbled quickly, neatly, and the ink cooperated for once.

Another swallow, and “For you, Thaddeus,” and he learned about another soldier, his life, his love, and the pregnant lady he left behind. The barkeep was charged with finding that lady, and perhaps giving her a bit of money that was saved and hidden at the family’s farm.

And so the barkeep wrote, and filled the cup, when it ran low. And fetched a cup of his own, to join in the toasts, for writing can be as thirsty work as the telling.

When both were done, eleven lives were crammed onto a few pages, crabbed writing looking unfamiliar and strange in the light of a single guttering candle.

The soldier sighed, pushed the bottle towards his companion. “My time is nigh, Barkeep. I have used up all my strength in the telling of the memories. And here is a gift to you: leave this place. Run. The war goes badly, and we on the far shore can see dimly what comes. Blood, death, destruction. Gather your valuables and your loved ones, and flee. Leave town, take a certain road, stop at a certain farm, look for some hidden gold. Then go. North is safe. If you stay, you will die.

“But please, do a dead spirit one last favor: speak of me, you who have shared my tontine, who have recorded the long-gone memories, and have been a faithful steward. I salute you, generous person, and will speak kindly for you on the far side.”

He gave a quick salute, and was gone.

There was one swallow left in the bottle.

The pen was sharpened, the bottle tipped, and smooth alcohol like liquid sunshine poured over his tongue. Then he wrote what poured into his mind.

Farewell, Antonio, a steadfast soldier, who gave comfort to his comrades as they fell, one by one…

*******

The assistant returned bright and early to help pack the second wagon. The first, with the barkeep’s wife and children, was already on the road, guarded by various family members, who agreed that city was no longer safe. The barkeep sent them off at the northern gate, but returned for a second cart, to pack out what little stores were left in the bar after the blockade.

The contents of the cabinet were already safely packed, and nestled within cushioning straw. And the journal with them.

After some thought, he searched for the most weather-worn piece of wood in the bar. The old barkeep’s stool had one leg older than the others, and it was ripped off to take along. If another soldier found a way to a new establishment, somewhere, he wanted them to have a trace to follow.

The assistant helped pack up the rest of the bottles, and what little stores could be found in the kitchen. He agreed to come with, but- “Why do we not leave now, Master? We can be on the road and safely out well before sundown.”

“I want to give my customers a chance as well, Johannes. They have sought refuge here, from the press gangs, from the worries. Finding a locked door and no explanation would not be neighborly. I have it on good authority, that we have a bit of time. We will get out, no fear of that, but let’s see how many will come with us. We will give them one last chance.”

Johannes grumbled, but grudgingly agreed.

And all night, as patrons came, they were met with only young ale, and a tale of leaving before things got even more dire. Some went and collected families and precious things; some sneered and guzzled in the corners. But all were told the same:

We will leave at dawn, and we hope you will come with us. We go north. Come, drink a round or two with us, because this is the last night we will all be together, ever.

Try to be merry, friends and customers, for this is the final call.