Second Round: A Return to the Ur-Bar

by Garth Nix

  I had arrived at exactly no ideas or decisions when Gil returned. He set a pewter mug of frothy beer on the table and, beside it, a tiny glass no bigger than a thimble. He sat, pushing out my chair with his foot. A bottle joined the other two items on the tabletop. When I looked at it full on, its graceful curves seemed clear, but for the pink liquid inside. When I turned, it played at the corners of my sight—an aura of blue enclosing it, with a pulsing heart of warm, yellow light.

  “What is that?”

  “Sit. I will explain.”

  Since I’m naturally nosy, I decided to do as requested.

  He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the scarred tabletop. He tapped the rim of the beer. “This is ale. The recipe goes back thousands of years.” His eyes flicked to a clay tablet hanging on the wall behind the bartop, then back to me. “It’s only ale. This—” He tapped the stopper of the bottle. “This will give you what you need.” He eyed me, waiting, his cryptic words hanging in the air between us.

  “What do you mean—give me what I need?”

  He smiled, a not entirely friendly expression, and steepled his fingers together like I imagined Darth Vader would, if he ever did anything as mundane as sit at a table in a bar.

  “I can only tell you what it does. You may drink or not. The risk is yours to take.”

  “Risk? Is it poisonous?” I didn’t think that’s what he meant, but I didn’t want to say what I’d begun to think, since it probably meant I needed to send for the men in white coats to haul me off to a rubber room.

  He shook his head, then shrugged. “It will give you what you need. If that is poison, then it is poisonous.”

  Hell of a recommendation. I felt like Alice in Wonderland. Drink this. What had happened when she did? Shrinking into an ant or growing into a giant? I had a bad feeling those two things weren’t out of the realm of possibility. Any more than a bar arriving out of the blue in a place it had never been before, or a girl accidentally killing and zombifying a groping scuzzball.

  I looked at Gil again. He’d sat back to watch me.

  “What do you get out of this?”

  “Entertainment. I have been bored of late.”

  “Fuck-de-doodle. Glad I can help you out of a jam.”

  A smile. “I am as well.”

  I sat down, eyeing the two drinks. Either or. Maybe both, who knew? The question returned: what was I going to do about the Findlays? I still didn’t know. Maybe drinking was the best answer. Just because it hadn’t worked before, didn’t mean it couldn’t work this time.

  “Fine. I’ll try the mystery drink.” Mostly because I desperately wanted to find out what it tasted like. I imagined it was out of this world.

  Gil leaned forward and unstoppered the bottle. A scent like nothing I’d ever smelled before wafted out and seemed to fill the bar. Prickles ran uncomfortable down my body. I shifted uneasily. Was I really going to do this? The tiny little glass wasn’t much, but a hit of acid was much smaller and packed an enormous punch. I’d heard.

  I bit my lip, then reached for the glass. What did I have to lose?

  I tipped the glass into my mouth and the liquid flowed over my tongue. Instead of nectar of the gods, I got sugary vomit, like supersweet cough syrup mixed with burned cabbage and fish. My stomach heaved and I put my hand over my lips. I was not going to lose it in public, especially not in front of Gil, who grinned at me and reached for the ale. I slapped his hand away. His brows rose, but he withdrew. Good, because I’d start with the ale to kill the taste in my mouth and then start licking the garbage can. It had to taste better.

  “What the hell?” I demanded when I no longer feared puking. “That tasted like ass. You could have warned me.”

  He shrugged. “I have not drunk the elixir. The flavor changes for everyone.”

  I wonder if anybody else had ever tasted something worse. “What happens now?” I was waiting for something big—some kind of sign, like maybe a genie popping in to grant me three wishes, or a stampede of cows right down mainstreet.

  “You have what you need.”

  “And what’s that?” I drank some of the ale, swishing it around in my mouth before swallowing. It didn’t help.

  “I cannot know.”

  I glared at him. “That’s not even a little bit helpful.”

  “I have given you what you need. I can do no more.”

  “Aren’t bartenders supposed to give helpful advice?”

  He tapped blunt fingers on the table and eyed me speculatively. “I don’t know your problems.”

  He had a point. “I guess.”

  “Do you want to tell me your problems?”

  Yes. Why, I didn’t have a clue. Maybe it’s just because bartenders were cheap therapists. “Not really.”

  The glint of interest faded from his eyes. He stood. “Good luck.”

  “I kind of maybe killed someone and brought him back to life except he was more like a zombie and the rest of the Findlays—his family—are out to get me.” The words tumbled out in a mad froth. I didn’t want him to walk away. I didn’t want to leave. “I used magic. I cursed him.”

  I braced myself for derision. But then, why would he? His bar had appeared out of nowhere. More magic.

  “They were chasing you.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you let them?”

  What the hell? I was the victim here. “What was I going to do? They were going to beat the snot out of me and probably throw me off a cliff after.”

  “You didn’t fight.”

  I couldn’t tell if that was an observation or an accusation.

  I decided it was the second choice. My chin jutted. “I couldn’t win.”

  His head tipped. “Couldn’t you?”

  I knew what he was suggesting. Use the magic in my voice. “I don’t know how to make it happen or how to control it,” I said, folding my arms over my stomach.

  “Learn.”

  “By practicing on who? And what would they suffer if I did?”

  “If your enemies suffer, why do you care? It is the way of war.”

  “I’m not a soldier.” I couldn’t explain that I didn’t want to use this power. I didn’t want to hurt anyone. Not seriously, anyhow. I just wanted all the Findlays to forget about me and leave me alone. So why didn’t I tell them to do that, let the magic in my voice make it happen?

  Because every time I thought of doing that, I imagined all the ways it could go wrong. Like they forgot about me and how to breathe, too. Or maybe they’d forget to eat or drink or sleep. I’d read enough fairy tales in my life to know that making the wrong wish—wording something the wrong way—always happened with magic. I couldn’t bear the thought of killing another person.

  I bit the inside of my lip until I tasted blood. Maybe I was just a coward.

  “No, you’re not a soldier,” Gil agreed, considering me. I was small, but wiry. Fast. “That doesn’t mean you can’t fight.”

  I just shook my head. I’d stupidly hoped that drink would actually give me the answer. No such luck. But then, the fairy tales said that, too—magic was a curse, not a gift, and you couldn’t trust it.

  Right then’s when I ran out of time.

  The two front doors thrust open, letting in the thin, gray sunlight, along with three menacing silhouettes. I bit back the words that popped into my mouth before I accidentally killed them. Or worse.

  The doors clacked shut and in the light of the bar the three silhouettes resolved into people.

  Lee was the oldest. He stood a head taller than the other two, with a lean frame and the muscles that come from bucking hay and building fence. Standing next to Lee was Earl. He was stocky with curly brown hair and shoulders that stretched his shirts so hard I was surprised the seams held. Last was Josie. Towheaded blond and built like a brick outhouse, as most of the guys in town said when she walked by. A lot of male drool tended to drip in her wake. Of the three, Josie was the smartest and meanest.

  “Time to face the music, Littl
e Miss Muffet,” she said, her lip curling. It always did, even when she smiled.

  That was my nickname. Had been since kindergarten when Jack Findlay had pinned it on me. Jack and Josie were twins. He’d joined the army, or I’d be facing four instead of three right now. The rest of the Findlay clan—and there was an endless supply of brothers and sisters, cousins, aunts and uncles, great whatevers—did their part to torture me from more of a distance. Which is why I could barely find work and my car had a tank full of sugared gas and why most of the town shunned me. Half the time I couldn’t decide if they wanted to run me off or just make me miserable.

  Mostly I kept body and soul together by working odd jobs for people—under the table. That and working in the cornfields. Even the Findlays couldn’t afford to pass up a pair of hands during detasseling season.

  I glanced over my shoulder, only to discover that Gil had vanished. Great. I guess I was on my own.

  I turned to face my three persecutors. I decided not to play defense, but to rush right into offense. Mostly because I didn’t have much of a choice. I knotted my hands into fists.

  “You know, if you really thought I killed and resurrected George, then why aren’t you worried about what I’ll do to you?”

  Lee and Earl glanced at each other and then at Josie-the-ringleader.

  “If you could, you would have,” she declared with absolutely no logic at all. Because I could’ve and I didn’t.

  I was still hoping the drink would work as advertised and miraculously give me what I needed, whatever the hell that was. I’d settle for a shotgun at this point.

  Inwardly I snorted at myself. That was dumb cubed. What good would a shotgun do when I wouldn’t use the weapon I did have?

  “What do you want from me?” I asked finally.

  “I want to put my fist through your face,” Josie said. “Lee and Earl, here, they want to see how many pretty colors of purple they can turn you before they use you for target practice.”

  I opened my mouth to make a cutting reply, but I couldn’t. Fear had me by the throat. I knew damned well she wasn’t joking or exaggerating. The Findlays dealt out their own kind of justice and it was always bad.

  That doesn’t mean you can’t fight. Gil’s words galloped through my mind. I could tell them to go to hell. Did I really want to send them to endless burning torture? I could tell them to leave me alone, but they might just twist that into dumping me into a deep hole and leaving me to die.

  So what could I do? I’d lose in a fist fight. They’d drag me out by my hair and I didn’t think Gil or the two greasemonkeys in the corner booth were going to help me. Think, Missy! Think!

  I looked down at the little glass. What did I need? Dozens of answers ran through my brain, not the least of which was help. Please God, let somebody help me.

  Nobody answered, as usual, but I had been kinda hoping Gil might come out of wherever he disappeared to and have my back.

  The drink hadn’t done shit for me. I was all I’d ever had and all I was going to have. So now I had to decide—what was I willing to risk to be safe? No, the real question was—what did I have to lose if I didn’t? And the answer was my life, which was worth something, at least to me.

  I stared at my three foes, trying to sort out the best words, the best curse. I needed something that wouldn’t bring all the other Findlays down on me and bring on a repeat of this situation.

  I took a breath, feeling for the power that was always there, always waiting. It surged, spiraling through me like hot stardust. I could do this. I was ready. Still, I had to force my mouth to shape the words.

  “Lee—”

  His named flowed out of my mouth on silver glitter. I felt my eyes bug and I slapped my hand over my mouth. What the hell was that? Earl and Josie stepped back, mouths hanging open. Lee had gone stiff, the silver sparkles swirling around him and fixing him in place.

  The power pushed inside me, demanding to be used. But now that I’d seen it manifest, I was no longer so sure I should use it. On the other hand, if I didn’t, Lee might be left standing there for a hundred years.

  “You bitch! You did kill George!” Josie exclaimed.

  I didn’t mean to. I didn’t say it. I didn’t dare.

  I chose my words carefully. “Lee, go home and study for college and get your degree, make a lot of money, and have a great life.”

  Without a word, he turned and walked away, a man on a mission. One down.

  “Earl, you’ve always wanted to travel and see the world. Go become a photographer. Travel wherever your heart desires and take pictures. You’ll win awards and have a wife and kids and be very rich and happy.”

  Like Lee, the sparks of my words whirled around him, winding him in my spell. Then he, too, turned around and walked out of the bar. That left Josie.

  “Keep your damned magic to yourself!” she shouted, backing up against the wall, one finger stabbing the air at me. “Don’t you dare tell me what to do!”

  I debated. She’d never stop coming after me. She’d come worse now that she’d seen what I could do. I gave her a little shrug of apology. “Go to Hollywood. Be a famous movie star. Get rich, be happy, and enjoy your life.”

  The magic wrapped her and in a moment she left, too, doors clacketing closed behind her. I let out a sigh, letting the magic swirling through me settle like snow in a snowglobe.

  “Interesting choice of curses,” Gil said from behind the bar, where he was wiping a cloth over the already-gleaming wood.

  Sure, now that the fireworks were over, he came back out of the woodwork. I wandered over to sit on a stool. “You think I should have done something different?”

  “Not for me to say. Like I said, interesting.” He paused, giving me a steady look. “I appreciate interesting people.”

  I flushed, but didn’t look away. “I still don’t know what that potion gave me that I needed. Or was it a Wizard of Oz thing? It gave me courage or a heart or something like that?” I couldn’t keep the disappointment out of my voice. I’d hoped—I’d wanted—something more, something better than that. Something … magical. Life-changing.

  Gil reached for a tankard, drew another ale, and slid it across the bar top to me. “What do you think?”

  “I think that shit is about as useful as a sugar pill,” I grumbled.

  “Perhaps you need something else.”

  “I need lots of stuff.”

  “Like what?”

  “I could use some new underwear. Maybe a new bra.”

  Gil laughed at that. “You do surprise me,” he said, drawing himself a tankard of ale and sucking down half in one long drink. “What else do you need?”

  I pushed off the stool. “I’d better go.”

  Disappointment flickered across his expression, then smoothed away. “Farewell, then.”

  I gave a little nod. “Thanks for picking me up out there.” I turned and went to the doors. The two men in the corner booth watched me. I guess me using magic had caught their attention.

  I reached the door and put my hand on one of the pushbars. I stopped. There was one thing I really needed, more than anything. But did I ask? God, I hated asking for anything. I supposed I could use my power and take what I needed, but just the thought made me nauseous. That was like slavery or rape or something. Evil.

  I looked up at the ceiling, breathing in deeply. My hand fell to my side and I turned.

  “There is one thing you could help me with.”

  Gil looked up from a newspaper he’d opened on the bar. “What’s that?”

  “I need a job.”

  I waited for him to answer, a hot flush rising up from my toes. I bit my lower lip and wrapped my arms around my stomach, watching him all the while.

  “Are you sure? This place is … strange. And you might find yourself elsewhere with no warning. You would find the clientele unusual.”

  “I’m unusual. I’d fit right in”

  Gil just kept looking at me.

  I nodded. “I’m
sure.”

  The corner of his mouth quirked. “I could use an extra pair of hands.” He considered another moment, then tipped his chin toward a staircase I hadn’t noticed before. “Pick any room you want.”

  A room? As in live here? But then, of course I’d have to live here. What if the place took off in the middle of the night when I was at home asleep?

  “I’ll be back. I have to get my things.”

  “You should hurry. The place has a mind of its own.”

  I nodded understanding, then fled through the door, feeling lighter than I’d been in a long time. The elixir hadn’t helped me with the Findlays because I didn’t need help. I needed something else, something I hadn’t had my whole life.

  A home.

  Of course, it might not have been the elixir’s fault at all. Maybe Gil just had a soft spot hidden deep, deep, deep—way deep—down. Then again, the giant jerk had left me alone to deal with the Findlays, so any soft spot was probably just a sign of rot.

  No—I was going to give the elixir all the credit. Something good had to come from that horrendous flavor. It had given me the courage to recognize what I needed and ask for it. Maybe it had even looked into the future and brought the bar here in the first place, before I ever tasted it.

  Not that it mattered. Whoever was responsible—the elixir, Gil, or just plain old me—I was finally home.

  The Whispering Voice

  David Keener

  What she needed more than anything was a drink.

  Anna Brodie knew it was wrong, knew that alcohol was the furthest thing from what she really needed, but old habits died hard. A drink, just one drink, and then she’d leave and do what needed to be done.

  Liquid courage.

  Driving down Frankford Avenue in her Toyota Camry, it was easy to convince herself that—she glanced over at the radio/clock to see the time—at 11:17 AM on a fine, sunny Monday morning, the best thing she could do in her situation was to walk into a bar. Yeah, right. And then reality obliged her; there was a new tavern up ahead where Linda’s Cafe had been before it went out of business. The only thing that was odd was that it didn’t have a neon sign like most of the other businesses around it, just a wooden sign with a design that seemed vaguely foreign.