Mr Wolf + the Pigeon King ch1

make sure you read the prologue first C:


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I had been wandering the world, settling down wherever I could temporarily for a year now – I left home to find work so that I could send money back to my dad; he wasn't in the best of shapes anymore and really needed as much help as he could get. I felt bad about leaving him on his own, but the work around where I lived never paid very well, and I would have much rather made sure he had enough money to live off, and trust that the rest of the people in my village would look out for him (like they said they would).
So I was eighteen, looking for work and gratefully taking any I could find with eagerly grasping fingers. I had hitched a ride on the back of a rickety sway of an old hay cart, trundling along the many dirt roads at an agreeably apathetic pace; pulled along by a similarly apathetic old horse, with fur dappled by ever-increasing old grey hair. I could feel every lump and bump in the road as we crawled over it, letting the rough surface rock me backwards and forwards comfortingly. It was nice. I was letting the thick haze of the warm twilight settle into my mind, glad that I knew I'd be at my destination soon.
By this point in my life all thoughts of my pledge to Mr Wolf had almost completely vacated my mind and I was more concerned with the job I had somehow managed to land in a small pub – finally some indoor work. For several months now I'd been doing the brunt work on a farm (you know, mucking out stables, tending to fields, that sort of thing), and I had decided that now winter was crawling in that it would be a good time to move on.
The village I was heading to was called Ashen-Wharf, a small gathering of chubby thatched cottages snuggled up densely on the steep slope down towards an equally small set of docks. The idyllic little settlement was hugged tightly by a thick surrounding forest, healthy with life that thinned slightly as it neared the shore eventually slipping into a slither of beach that nicely framed the coastline. Upon arriving at the storybook village I was quickly ejected off the back of the cart and left to my own devices as it trundled off to one of the farms slightly beyond the township. The cobbles pushed warm and gently on the bottoms of my feet through my worn shoes as I pottered towards my new placement hoping earnestly that I would like it, and fit in. I had been sent along by the previous occupier of the position I had applied for. He had written ahead to the owner, informing them that I was coming, and even drawn me a little map of the village so that I could find the pub when I got there; it was called 'The Scallywag' and it was pointed out on my scrappy map by a thick imposing cross – everything had been set up ready for me.
It all almost felt a little too good to be true.
I would say I was self-conscious walking up to the bar through the throng of local people as a stranger, but I'd done it so many times now it was nothing new. I was used to the innumerate pairs of moony eyes looking you up and down, absorbing all they could about you through suspicious veils; I was used to the snide looks, the below breath whispers. But you mind your own business, make no song and dance about being there, and head straight for the person you're supposed to be talking to and tell them why you're there.
I was quickly shown around the (slightly ageing) premises that were to be my home for the debateable future by Lucinda, the thirty-something owner; she seemed the motherly type, with her hair tied up in a bun, and a slightly brown apron mottled with little tears and burns. She surveyed me scathingly, even checking my arms by squeezing them to make sure I'd be able to lift heavy stuff for her; tutted at my slightly scabby clothes; and told me I needed to wash my face.
Upon her inspection of me she concluded "you'll do" and left me to put my things in my room.
I had my own little room upstairs; but there was the kitchen, pantry and her room too (that I wasn't to go in).
Though having a room was a step up from sleeping next to cows, which was where I was before.
I had two seconds to settle in before I was called away downstairs again to begin my shift.

As far as first days go, this sits next to the good ones. I had many introductions and new faces; Mr Clegg, the tailor, a slim short man with a thick mane of hair that probably wasn't his own, with his rather chubby wife next to him kitted out in one of the prettiest dresses I'd ever seen ('mutton dressed as lamb' issued curtly and quietly from Lucinda's mouth as the two of them went to sit down); and Mr Sto, one of the numerous fishermen that lived in the village, with his hardened face and tobacco stained teeth; his pipe seemed to have its own little nook in his mouth due to it never seeming to be removed from the same spot throughout the course of the entire evening – I couldn't tell if he was even smoking it or if he just had it there because he felt odd without it. I also got many 'tips' on who to talk to and who to avoid in the village (most of them conflicting); and I got to watch as the alcohol slowly saturated everyone's bodies and they couldn't quite discern or enunciate who they were anymore.
The bar itself was nice enough – clean and tidy but perhaps with one too many seats and tables crammed in. The windows were small and nicely furnished with thick red curtains that would do a good job of keeping the cold out – and Lucinda had placed the odd vase of dried flowers about the place to try to pretty it up (though whether this was appreciated by the majority of the regulars I couldn't tell). It was one of those places where you could tell it was well loved by the villagers and owner alike, but was still in need of a little tidy up and a revamp.
"What you here for then?"
I'd been having an intermittent conversation with a rough looking man sat at the end of the bar (who seemed intent on drying up our whiskey supply). His hair was grey, but not unhealthy looking, he had that funny smell of old tabs, and his face was mostly obscured by a heavily black hood that cast a thick shadow over his features – I couldn't even see his eyes.
"Dunno really." I replied. "I'm just looking for somewhere to be I suppose."
My conversational partner gave a little grin and said, "aren't we all?" before downing the rest of his whiskey.
I dawdled over with the bottle. "Another?"
"Nah kid." He stood up gruffly (and slightly wobbly), clumsily pushing his stool back to the bar. "I think I better call it a night."
As I was clearing away his glass he turned to me and said. "If you're new you should go down and check out the docks in the morning if you have time – the mist sits nicely around the boats that time around this time of year." I couldn't help laughing to myself over his slightly addled and repetitive sentence as he staggered out of the pub.
I turned to Lucinda, who was batting off the drunken advances of one of the customers, and said. "He one of the regulars then?"
She eyed up the barstool he'd been occupying with a certain amount of contempt before saying with a little snort, "I've never seen him before in my life."