Encounter at the Window

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The man at the window resembled an expressive, vapid Dickens characterization and he smelled real bad.

"Hello there. What can I do for you?" I asked.

He said, with measured thought, "Best not ye be asking me that lessen you wuz a stranger in dese parts." He seemed distracted and his shoulder twitched nervously.

"Why is that?" I said curiously.

"Waal," he said after a slight hesitation, and apologetically, "Waal, there's them hereabouts what figured I be jinxed, aye and more, say, some of um, I slake hog blood fer breakfast, that do they say."

"Would you be a seafaring man?" I asked.

"Yes matey, I would, matter o’ fact in me younger days I sailed with Henry Morgan, gave good service and rightly proudly so." I was a bit taken aback with his reply, so he said, "Wal, so be it if dats yer way then, aye so fur be it, and ye don be to believe it I suppose?" This query he made while twisting his whiskered mouth in a crooked fashion for emphasis.

Off in the distance, a dog began to whine as if for a rat or some other morsel to eat. The old man stopped speaking abruptly and whistled through his teeth. Before he finished, two rather large dogs looking to be part shepherd ran up to where he stood by the window. One, the female, he patted fondly, but the male, he cursed and made straight way to kick in the side. The abused animal prepared to lunge at the vagrant caller, but the old man then spoke some soft soothing words and the animal lay there panting and whining. The distracted fellow did not seem to pose any particular threat to Sara or me, so I briskly shifted the bulk of our conversation to less controversial matters; I asked him his business on such a soft night as this.

"Aye mate mine it is and yers to," he said rather vaguely, "And y'll be findin that out as ye keeps to readin o’ de old man."

"What old man?" I parried, wishing to expose more of the vagrant's purpose.

"Why, old man Sameuels," he said. Continuing, he asked, "I suppose ye done some tarkin to Rinaldo, eh?"

"Who? Yes, I have." Ricardo was a descendant of the original family.

"Wal" he went on, "Wal, he'll be a makin speak o' me great grandpap, too."

"And who is your grandpap?" I asked.

"Blimey, y'll soon be a known' bout dem matters. My great grandpap was de steed what felled a Greek bloke name o' Phaeturos."

"Who?" I asked.

"Aye don reckon ye be a knowin dat, as yer's here a stranger to me county," he continued. He began to back up. During the conversation I had pried the bottom window loose with a strip of iron I found in the corner. "Aye, Tom, -- (At that reference to Tom, I mistakenly thought he was addressing me)-- dey strung him on the Bristol gallows but he were a farthing before John Bull, dat he was as good as walked, yes he was, cap'n of his ship he was. Aye, I'm now a goin' for a fat hen. Gonna slit her throat and sip her screechin blood, I am," he said grinning sardonically, and then he projected an extremely dour facial expression through the sill and said, "I'll be a seein ya." He spoke in a throaty whisper that was buoyed by the acrid odor of whiskey. "Yes, Tom was a good mate straight through, that he was." As he careened his lantern and took a step up into the graveyard, I saw him unsheathe a hunting knife and test its edge with his thumb. Muttering beneath his breath, he turned and touched his Adam's apple with the blade, and as it shone in the moon's light he succinctly cried, "Yes, you read ‘bout old Tom, he was a good one that one... aye, cap'n of his ship, he was." I lost sight of him as he shuffled into the barn, but heard him hurling insults at someone or something inside and muttering other obscenities while singing and mumbling under his breath.

 

...Turning around towards the door and the comforts of the fire whose flames rocked Sara as she slept, I heard once more a tap on the window, and I returned to converse with the self-professed pirate.