“What in the hell,” I dumbfoundedly muttered under my breath as I reluctantly shut the door behind me.
Making my way toward the bar amidst countless wooden tables filled with people happily clanking mugs and sucking down food, I was astonished at how such a place existed nonetheless tethered to the heart of Boston. Uneven pieces of multicolored slate lined the floor and the walls were constructed of aged rough cut wooden beams tacked together in various angles, melding into a mild arched ceiling. From which hung all manner of jugs, pots, and bottles of assorted color, material, and condition, forming a functional yet hobbit-like motif. The walls were completely covered with pictures, portraits, and random antique memorabilia dating back hundreds of years if not older. The uneven glow of oil lamps and torches randomly dispersed throughout the spacious room produced a mesmerizing effect of dancing light and shadows.
The dark wooden bar, built atop evenly spaced whiskey barrels, was shoulder to shoulder with yet more people in deep conversation. An impressive loft — proudly displaying a collection of ten or more colossal bronze vats complete with assorted pipes, hoses, and gauges — was built directly above it. Lining the wall to the rear of the bar, for as long as the eye could see, was a rack of tapped wooden barrels labeled of various brews. Probably the strangest thing in the whole damn place was the endless row of TV sets, fastened to the wall above the kegs, wrapping clear around the entire room. They actually looked more like mirrors set in antique wooden frames than TVs, but were clearly displaying scenes of random people performing various actions in a compilation of settings. Some in black and white and others in color. Something about the screens gave me pause. They shimmered like pools of water set vertically into the wall. I couldn’t take my eyes off them.
My momentary fixation was broken by a figure briskly climbing down from the brew loft with a healthy keg barrel hoisted over his shoulder. Taking a closer look, I realized that I knew him. It was the Chickenman — ah, Rooster.
And damn, he was pretty spry for a lanky bastard.
Expertly maneuvering down the rickety ladder connecting the loft to the bar, he effortlessly tossed the wooden keg onto the rack with the others, and jammed an old fashioned looking tap into the side. Red hair flying all about his head in reckless abandon, he was sporting a purple ‘Red Hot Chili Peppers’ concert tee shirt, khaki shorts, and flip-flops. Pulling a white chef’s apron with a pronounced red rooster logo over his head, he quickly fastened it around his waist and commenced to slinging a pair of formidable spatulas amidst the various assortment of sizzling delight he had scattered about his mighty stone hearth.
It was like watching a master craftsman at work wielding the spatulas of destiny — the forks of fury — the stuff of legend. Impressive. As my stomach made a groan loud enough to drown out all the surrounding noise, I decided to belly up to the bar. Hopefully he wasn’t cooking chicken. That would just be awkward.
As I started to fight my way through the sea of patrons, I felt a distinct, almost uncomfortable hush start to pass through the crowd as people turned and looked at me only to immediately look away and make plenty of room for me to pass. It was almost like they knew who I was — and it frightened them. Figuring it was probably my imagination or the fact that I really needed a shower, I freely strolled to the bar to find one open stool.
“Perfect,” I happily muttered while plopping my sorry ass down for a well needed respite. Without so much as turning around from his display of culinary combat, Rooster said, “Sorry. That’s M’s seat.”
Not really giving much of a shit after the day I’d had, I shot back, “Yeah well, M can kiss ass. I’m sure he won’t mind if I sit here for a couple minutes.”
Upon hearing the sound of my voice he instantly turned in a state of pure astonishment. “Dean? You’re awake … I don’t believe it!”
Tossing his cooking instruments to the side he leapt over the bar, proceeded to wrap both arms around me, and squeezed with all his Chickenman might. To say it was awkward does not begin to give it justice.
Not stopping there, he bellowed, “You’re awake! You look … you look great! I can’t believe it! You’re back!”
If it was remotely possible for the situation to become more awkward — it just happened. In fact, I’m pretty sure that all the cool points I’d accumulated during my entire mortal lifetime were just zero’d out. I may have actually gone negative.
“People are staring,” I grumbled while trying to pry free from his stringy arms. “People — Are — Staring.”
Finally letting go and resuming his post by the hearth, he said, “Oh, right, sorry. Might have got a bit carried away there.”
“You think?” I said shooting him an intense glare. “It’s only been a frigg’n week since I saw you guys. What the hell?”
“Wait — What?” He replied with a confused look. “A week?”
“Today’s January 5th right?” I said removing my watch cap and stuffing it in my coat pocket. “It’s been about a week since you dragged me out of the church.”
“Oh, right,” he awkwardly said. “A week. Yep.”
Quickly moving off the topic, he grabbed a frosty mug from below the bar and held it under the keg he just tapped. Filling it to the brim, he then plopped a little umbrella on the top and slid it across the bar to me.
“Here you go, man. Welcome to the Quartermaster — provisioning for the mind, the body, and the soul. Plenty more where that came from. Brewed on the premises. I call it RoosterBragh.”
I think he continued talking, but I didn’t hear another word as I stared at the oversized mug like a desperate man dying of thirst. It was a thing of beauty.
Tall. Frosty. Beer.
Feeling like the Heavens had opened wide and shone a beam of divine light on me, I grabbed it with both hands and chugged it until there was nothing left.
“Holy shit that’s good! Bar Keep, Uno mas cerveza, por favor,” I said with great enthusiasm, in a horrible Spanish accent, as I slammed the empty mug on the bar. “Oh, that’s so frigg’n good.”
“Yeppers.”
“You call it Rooster’s bra?”
“No,” he scoffed. “Rooster-Bragh. It’s an Irish thing …”
“Right,” I muttered as my vision blurred for a quick second. “Got a bit of a punch to it, eh?”
“Yes. Yes it does,” he said with a modest grin. “I was trying to explain that before you shot gunned the entire mug — in like three seconds. That’s my Orange Honey Ale. More for sipping if you know what I mean.”
“Noted,” I replied while taking off my coat and draping it over the back of the stool. “Another please. And how about some chow? I’m starving.”
Before he could answer, a hellaciously loud, prolonged chime rung out causing everyone in the joint to stop talking and take notice. It was followed by a second, then a third, and then a fourth. The source was evidently the mammoth grandfather clock sitting on the far wall next to the bearded blues-man. It was evidently four o’clock. As if they were expecting it, pretty much everyone in the joint stood up and started to make their way to the various doors. Some actually used them while others seemed to simply vanish midstride. It was a bit of a spectacle.
Pushing a tasty looking plate of sliders and another beer in front of me, Rooster said, “Four a.m. Duty calls.”
“Who the hell are all those people?” I curiously asked while watching the crowd dwindle.
“Mostly clerics and acolytes,” he answered matter of factly, “Members of the Guild. Final wave of the night. They’re heading back to their posts.” Reading the look of absolute confusion on my face, he said, “We have much to teach you of the Guild and our methods. Why don’t you eat something first. Big A should be here any moment. He’s no doubt aware of your presence by now.”
“Fair enough,” I muttered not really sure what else to say. “Thanks for the grub. I honestly couldn’t tell you when the last time was that I ate something.”
Stuffing one of the sliders into my
mouth, I was overpowered by the indescribable explosion of tasty bliss. “Whoa, this is amazing. What is it?”
“That, my friend, is a genuine Rosemary and RoosterBragh Pork Sandwich. Made, of course, with house baked sweet potato rolls and garnished with bitter greens and Rooster salad dressing,” he proudly announced.
“Incredible,” I said slamming a second and a third into my already full mouth. “Any chance you have some barbecue sauce laying around here? It would be per-“
“Absolutely not,” he scoffed as he cut me off mid-sentence. “That would ruin a perfectly balanced culinary masterpiece. Out of the question.”
“Gotcha. Sorry. Not sure what I was thinking,” I muttered popping a fourth and a fifth sammich into my waiting mouth. “Hey, speaking of pork … What’s up with the piglet sitting next to the bearded wonder over there?”
“That’s just Duncan. He’s with Caveman. We don’t ask.”
With a blank look, I muttered, “You call the pig Duncan and the guy Caveman?”
“Yep. I’ll make intros later. But, ah, Caveman’s a bit on the hairy side. Better if you don’t draw attention to it. Sensitive topic.” As a somewhat serious look returned to his face, he said, “But seriously, Dean, you’re sitting in M’s seat. You should really move. Like now.”
“For real? There’s like a thousand empty seats in here. I’m sure this ‘M’ dude can use any one of them,” I said while slugging back the remnants of my second man-sized beer.
Just as I placed the empty mug on the bar, I felt a healthy gust of wind belt me in the face followed by the familiar whisper-like shriek. Getting the distinct feeling that someone was behind me, I felt a hand on my shoulder followed by a woman’s voice.
“M is most certainly not a man. Oy vez smear, Bubbala. I’m so meshuggina I could plotz,” she said in a tone of scolding sarcasm with a distinct Brooklynesque inflection.
Quickly spinning around, while knocking the mug off the bar in the process, I found an attractive, petite woman with beehive piled dirty blonde hair, a sleek elegant face with pronounced nose, and more eye shadow than should be legal. She was all dolled up in a low-cut blue dress adorned with ruffles and sequins like something out of the nineteen sixties. In fact, if I didn’t know better I’d swear it was a young Barbara Streisand. For a split second I swore that a glow of pure white light silhouetted her entire body. However, as I squinted and blinked my eyes it was gone.
“Oh man,” I heard a nervous Rooster grumble from behind the bar. “I told ya.”
“You — You’re M?” I pensively asked while staring at her intently.
“Do you see anybody else standing here? Of course I’m M. Who else would be M?” She said matter of factly as her mouth curled into a wide smile. “Roosallah, Do you know any other Ms?”
As Rooster shook his head No, she turned back to me, and said, “See. I’m M. It’s settled. Period — End of story. I’m M and you’re in my seat, Bubbala. Move, move, move.”
Feeling like I was just scolded by either my mother or my second grade teacher, I begrudgingly grabbed my coat and slid onto the next stool.
“How long have you been watching me?” I asked her thinking of all the random times I’d heard the curious shrieking sound since my arrival in the Realms.
“For longer than you know,” she replied while reaching into her purse and pulling out a makeup kit. “It’s my job,” she added while adjusting her eye shadow.
Rooster brought over a steaming cup of black coffee and a plate with two bagel halves with cream cheese topped by what appeared to be thin slices of fish. Placing it in front of her, he said, “Here you go, M. Just how you like it.”
Clapping her hands together in excitement, she happily gasped, “Ooh — Ooh. That’s wonderful! Did you give them an extra little schmear of cream cheese?”
“Ah, yeah. Of course I did,” he replied somewhat offended. “It’s a hundred percent Kosher.”
“Thank You, Roosallah darling. You are entirely too good to me!”
“What the hell is that?” I muttered giving the concoction a disgusted look. “It looks awful.”
“Dean James Robinson! Shame on you. That is bagels and lox, and it is absolutely fabulous — like buttah’,” M scoldingly replied while shooting me a look that would stop a train.
“Ok. Fair enough,” was all I could sheepishly muster in response. She even pulled out my middle name. Ouch. “Ah, So care to explain why you’ve been following me around? Are you part of the Guild?”
Amidst dainty bites of her prized breakfast, she simply said, “No.” And continued eating with a very content look about her.
“Great,” I muttered under my breath signaling the Chickenman to hit me with another tall, frosty one. “You’re about as helpful as my man Fred.”
“Oh, don’t you mind Frederick Binkowicz, Bubbala,” she said finishing a sip of coffee. “He’s a Brooklyn Jew. Always worked up over something or another. Bit of a nudnik, truth be told.”
“Oh, well that clears it up,” I said having not the faintest clue as to what she was talking about. “Why do you keep calling me Bubba?”
“Not ‘Bubba’ silly,” she said between bites, “Bubbala.” Giving me a very uncomfortable pat on the head, she said, “You’re my little Bubbala. All grown up and on your destined path. I’m so proud!”
“What does that even mean?”
“Oy vey,” she said holding a napkin to her face. “Give me a moment — I’m feeling verklempt.”
“Ok,” I muttered giving Rooster a ‘check please’ glance. Feeling more confused now than when I walked into the joint a couple minutes earlier, I happily embraced the new beer that had miraculously appeared before me. At least I had that going for me. Which was nice. Just as I grasped the handle, a burly hand appeared from over my right shoulder and covered the mug.
“Nae time for that, lad,” came from behind me in a heavy Scottish brogue. “Yer be out yer face drinking the Rooster’s ale. We have work to do.”
Spinning around to see the massive frame of Abernethy, he slapped me on the shoulder, and said, “It’s good to see ye, Dean. All healed up, Aye?”
Not sure if I was more taken back by the sheer size of his upper body, the meticulous braids throughout the burly beard hanging from his weathered face, or the fact he was bare footed and wearing a kilt. Actually, the whole package was a bit traumatic. Getting off my stool and standing face to face with the archdeacon, I found myself staring squarely into his oversized pectorals.
“Ah, all healed, sir,” I awkwardly replied looking up to meet his gaze. “Ready for duty.”
“Pure dead brilliant. Get yer wee bahooky out the chair and follow me. And call me Big A. All the lads do.” Shifting his focus to Rooster, he said, “We’ll be heading to the train’n pitch, Jackie. Join us when yer done in the scullery.” Offering a gentlemanly bow to M, he said, “Awrite, Mariel, Pleasure to see ye. Thank ye for delivering Master Robinson.” Shifting to a more serious demeanor, he asked, “Tell me, any news of the enemy?”
“Thank You, Abernethy. As always, it is simply wonderful to see you. I’m afraid I have nothing of substance to report,” she replied taking a quick bite of fish bagel. “Although I was summoned rather abruptly by Ramiel upon my arrival at the Quartermaster. I will keep you abreast of any information he shares.”
“Ramiel? A right scunner he is,” grunted Abernethy in disgust. “Never understood why Gabriel puts his faith in a skelpit arse such as Ramiel. I don’t trust him.”
“Now, Abernethy,” M said with a look of mild admonishment. “Ramiel is not our enemy. Despite what you may think of him.” Flicking her hand at the large Scotsman, and with a pronounced inflection in her voice, she said, “Ferstay?”
“Aye,” he grumbled in response lowering his head.
“Besides, to doubt him is to doubt Gabriel,” she said turning her attention back to her breakfast.
“Aye,” Abernethy replied like a scolded child unconvinced. “Very well. Be wary in yer
travels, M.” Raising his head and focusing on me, he said, “To the pitch then, Dean. Ye need to know what yer up against. This way.”
As he turned and began to walk toward the back of the Quartermaster, the frustration of having absolutely no idea what the hell was going finally became too much to restrain. I lost it.
Defiantly grabbing my beer and taking a few steps toward the center of the room, I grumbled, “I’m not going anywhere until I get some frigg’n answers.”
As everyone stopped what they were doing and stared at me, I took a man-size slug of beer. Wiping my mouth on my sleeve, I said, “First of all, I have no frigg’n idea what the two of you are talking about nor if you’re using the English language. Second of all, within the past few hours I’ve woken up in a goddamn blizzard on the side of some random mountain, had tea with Stephen — it was good tea but still weird as hell, got mind jacked by an archangel that hates my guts, showed up in Fenway Park, and had one hell of a strange conversation with a plump security guard that begged me not to ‘smite’ him.”
In a full on rant mode I downed the rest of my beer, and said, “I’m not taking one step from this very spot until somebody explains what in the frig is going on.”
As everyone continued to stare at me in bewilderment, I muttered, “I mean come on. I’ve only been out of commission for a week.”
“A week? Bloody hell,” Abernethy grumbled. “Yer off yer heid, lad. You’ve been simmering in the Water ay’ Life for fourteen years. Dinnae ye ken?”
“What the hell did he say?” I barked at Rooster.
“I’m sorry, Dean,” he reluctantly replied with a look of dreadful anticipation. “I wanted to tell you earlier but — you’ve been in the Water of Life, ah, in stasis — healing — for fourteen Earth years. We thought you knew. It’s January 5th… 2012.”
“What?”
Fourteen years.
2012.
What?
As the empty mug slid from my hand and tumbled to the floor in slow motion, I felt my vision blur and knees buckle. Well, at least the seats on top of the Green Monster now made sense. I wonder if the Red Sox had gotten any better since 1998. Crumbling to the floor in sensory overload, I heard Rooster say, “Oh great … He’s passed out again.”
Rise of the Giants: The Guild of Deacons, Book 1 Page 15
