Three Men at the Waterfront
Clinton Lawrence
Had it not been for the full moon, I would have stopped before reaching the village. But the air had a dampness to it, not the familiar dew of a cool night, nor the first signs of fog, but rather the imminence of a storm, though clouds had not yet covered the sky, and the moonlight penetrated the woods just enough that I could see my way along the narrow road. So I proceeded.
It was well past midnight when I finally reached the village, the moon now in the western sky not quite half way between its zenith and the horizon. I wandered the streets, trying to find the inn, as it was a village I had not traveled through before. No lanterns lit the windows of the buildings, but I heard men’s voices coming from the other end of the main street, cheerful voices that beckoned. I followed the sound.
There were three of them, on the porch of a building down by the waterfront, sitting, looking out over the water, each drinking out of a clay mug. They gazed up at me when I rounded the corner of the building, their conversation ceasing as they looked me over.
“Hello,” I said. “Sorry to disturb you.”
“That’s all right,” the middle one said. He was a short, thin man with dark, curly hair that just touched his shoulders, or at least that’s how it looked to me in the dark shadows. “Join us.”
“I’m looking for the inn.”
All three laughed at once. “Closed for the night,” the man on the right said. He appeared to be about average size, with short hair that was probably a shade lighter than the middle one.
“I can try,” I said.
“Waste of time,” the third man said. “Nothing you could do would get that innkeeper out of bed.”
“Might as well join us,” the first man said.
He had not finished his invitation when I felt the first drop of rain, so I accepted and took a seat next to the three men under the porch’s overhang. It wasn’t much shelter, but it was better than nothing, and though I was tired from the long day and night of walking, I welcomed the company.
“Got something to drink out of?” the middle man said.
I rummaged through my sack, found an old tin cup at the bottom, and handed it to him, noticing the smell of drink on them as I reached across. The middle man filled my cup and handed it back.
To your dreams,” he said, and they all raised their mugs at once.
The beverage was strong, but had a foul taste, like something had rotted in it. But it warmed my insides, so I continued to drink it. I don’t think the men noticed my grimace upon the first sip, or if they did, they ignored it. The one sitting next to me handed me a loaf of bread, and I tore off a piece. It was stale, and had some odd seasonings mixed into it that I did not recognize, but it was better than their liquor, and helped sop up the lingering flavor that the beverage left behind.
“Why don’t you go inside?” I asked.
“Here?” the middle man said.
“Yes.”
“None of us own the place.”
“Besides, we’re waiting,” the man on his left said. “For the women of our dreams.”
I thought he must mean they expected a visit from a few of the village harlots. The men were friendly to me, but they hardly seemed reputable. I sipped more of the beverage, and took another bite of bread, and neither one tasted as strange as they had at first. It unsettled me.
“They’re coming across the sea,” the middle man said. “So we watch for them.”
“What if they don’t come?”
“Then we’ll be here tomorrow night, and every night until they do. Or at least until we run out of the potion.”
“Old Noldan guaranteed it,” the man next to me said.
“That he did.”
“Is that what we’re drinking?” I asked.
“Maybe yours will come, too.”
“She’s a long time in my past.”
“Who cares?” the middle man said. “It’s a potion. You’re saying a potion can’t overcome the past?”
I had no answer, but I did not believe them. I sat with them, and drank anyway, and they told me about their dreams, each of them different, united only by their lifelong friendship and the coins they saved up, and in a few cases, stole, until they had enough to buy Old Noldan’s assistance. Sometime during the conversation, I lost track of it all, and I found myself staring out over the water, at the reflected moonlight, and realizing the rain had stopped, and the skies cleared, and I was laughing nearly uncontrollably at a bawdy joke one of them told, and I couldn’t even remember the joke. One of them, I don’t remember which, pointed at the sea.
“It’s here! Do you see it?”
I must confess that I didn’t see anything except the moonlight on the water. I would like to say I tried, but I don’t know if that was true. But the three of them were excited. They hastily rose, and turned to me when I didn’t.
“Aren’t you coming?” the middle man said. “It would be a shame if you didn’t. A waste of the potion.”
“I don’t see anything.”
“You’re crazy,” the one on the left said. “It’s right out there. The ship. You can’t miss it.”
I still saw nothing. “I’m not looking for what you are, anyway.”
The middle man laughed. “It doesn’t have to be a woman. It could be anything. You must dream of something. Everyone does.”
“There’s nothing there,” I said.
“You must not have drank enough. That’s all I can say.” The middle man said to the others. “Let’s go. He can follow if he wants, but we can’t miss the ship. We can’t let it sail without us.”
I watched them walk down the pier, and decided to follow at a distance. They must have heard my footsteps, because they stopped and turned around.
“Changed your mind?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I still don’t see a ship.”
“It’s right there, right in front of you at the end of the pier.”
“Go on,” I said. “I’m not coming.”
I could see the middle man shaking his head. But he said nothing more, nor did either of his companions. I watched them walk to the end of the pier, and then step off, and it appeared to me that they fell toward the water, as one would expect.
I never heard a splash.
It was well past midnight when I finally reached the village, the moon now in the western sky not quite half way between its zenith and the horizon. I wandered the streets, trying to find the inn, as it was a village I had not traveled through before. No lanterns lit the windows of the buildings, but I heard men’s voices coming from the other end of the main street, cheerful voices that beckoned. I followed the sound.
There were three of them, on the porch of a building down by the waterfront, sitting, looking out over the water, each drinking out of a clay mug. They gazed up at me when I rounded the corner of the building, their conversation ceasing as they looked me over.
“Hello,” I said. “Sorry to disturb you.”
“That’s all right,” the middle one said. He was a short, thin man with dark, curly hair that just touched his shoulders, or at least that’s how it looked to me in the dark shadows. “Join us.”
“I’m looking for the inn.”
All three laughed at once. “Closed for the night,” the man on the right said. He appeared to be about average size, with short hair that was probably a shade lighter than the middle one.
“I can try,” I said.
“Waste of time,” the third man said. “Nothing you could do would get that innkeeper out of bed.”
“Might as well join us,” the first man said.
He had not finished his invitation when I felt the first drop of rain, so I accepted and took a seat next to the three men under the porch’s overhang. It wasn’t much shelter, but it was better than nothing, and though I was tired from the long day and night of walking, I welcomed the company.
“Got something to drink out of?” the middle man said.
I rummaged through my sack, found an old tin cup at the bottom, and handed it to him, noticing the smell of drink on them as I reached across. The middle man filled my cup and handed it back.
To your dreams,” he said, and they all raised their mugs at once.
The beverage was strong, but had a foul taste, like something had rotted in it. But it warmed my insides, so I continued to drink it. I don’t think the men noticed my grimace upon the first sip, or if they did, they ignored it. The one sitting next to me handed me a loaf of bread, and I tore off a piece. It was stale, and had some odd seasonings mixed into it that I did not recognize, but it was better than their liquor, and helped sop up the lingering flavor that the beverage left behind.
“Why don’t you go inside?” I asked.
“Here?” the middle man said.
“Yes.”
“None of us own the place.”
“Besides, we’re waiting,” the man on his left said. “For the women of our dreams.”
I thought he must mean they expected a visit from a few of the village harlots. The men were friendly to me, but they hardly seemed reputable. I sipped more of the beverage, and took another bite of bread, and neither one tasted as strange as they had at first. It unsettled me.
“They’re coming across the sea,” the middle man said. “So we watch for them.”
“What if they don’t come?”
“Then we’ll be here tomorrow night, and every night until they do. Or at least until we run out of the potion.”
“Old Noldan guaranteed it,” the man next to me said.
“That he did.”
“Is that what we’re drinking?” I asked.
“Maybe yours will come, too.”
“She’s a long time in my past.”
“Who cares?” the middle man said. “It’s a potion. You’re saying a potion can’t overcome the past?”
I had no answer, but I did not believe them. I sat with them, and drank anyway, and they told me about their dreams, each of them different, united only by their lifelong friendship and the coins they saved up, and in a few cases, stole, until they had enough to buy Old Noldan’s assistance. Sometime during the conversation, I lost track of it all, and I found myself staring out over the water, at the reflected moonlight, and realizing the rain had stopped, and the skies cleared, and I was laughing nearly uncontrollably at a bawdy joke one of them told, and I couldn’t even remember the joke. One of them, I don’t remember which, pointed at the sea.
“It’s here! Do you see it?”
I must confess that I didn’t see anything except the moonlight on the water. I would like to say I tried, but I don’t know if that was true. But the three of them were excited. They hastily rose, and turned to me when I didn’t.
“Aren’t you coming?” the middle man said. “It would be a shame if you didn’t. A waste of the potion.”
“I don’t see anything.”
“You’re crazy,” the one on the left said. “It’s right out there. The ship. You can’t miss it.”
I still saw nothing. “I’m not looking for what you are, anyway.”
The middle man laughed. “It doesn’t have to be a woman. It could be anything. You must dream of something. Everyone does.”
“There’s nothing there,” I said.
“You must not have drank enough. That’s all I can say.” The middle man said to the others. “Let’s go. He can follow if he wants, but we can’t miss the ship. We can’t let it sail without us.”
I watched them walk down the pier, and decided to follow at a distance. They must have heard my footsteps, because they stopped and turned around.
“Changed your mind?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I still don’t see a ship.”
“It’s right there, right in front of you at the end of the pier.”
“Go on,” I said. “I’m not coming.”
I could see the middle man shaking his head. But he said nothing more, nor did either of his companions. I watched them walk to the end of the pier, and then step off, and it appeared to me that they fell toward the water, as one would expect.
I never heard a splash.
Clinton Lawrence is a retired electrical engineer and science teacher. His fiction has appeared in Realms of Fantasy, Compelling Science Fiction, Lore, Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet, and a number of other publications. He lives in Davis, California.