Old Tavern Tales Part II

 

     “Fritz, tell them yours,” encouraged the old man.  He leaned towards the traveler, “This is a good one.  Go on, Fritzy, tell them!”

     A little bent man stood up.  He made a feeble effort to straighten his spine, which added little to his overall stature.   “You had it easy,” he wheezed to the toothless woman.  “My Master, he was absolutely pathetic, let me tell you.”  His little bulgy eyes turned towards the cobwebs that adorned the dim corners of the ceiling as if in search of his memories.  “Yes, my Master, he was a good doctor, ‘cept he preferred to use his healing talents on the dead.”  The little bent man hissed out something of a laugh. 

     “He hired me to assist him at his laboratory, which he had installed in a ruined tower at the top of the mountain.  Insane!  The little man’s narrative picked up enthusiasm and speed.  “It was such a distance from the graveyard.  We could have set up much closer; we could have made it work anywhere, but No.  He insisted on the mountain!”  The little bent man gasped like a fish between each sentence.

     “There was another doctor there for a while.  A vile man.  He beat me for any little thing that he considered a mistake.  I tried to work with him, even help him, but he only got worse.  He even began to attack the Good Doctor anytime an experiment failed.  So he had to go.  It was easy.”  He began laughing again, which broke into a coughing fit.  A tall, gaunt woman urged him to take a sip of her brew, but he held up both hands to decline the offer. 

     “It was just the Good Doctor and me.  I hoped that he would grow weary of his failures, but he became all the more obsessed.  I could only get him to eat when his hands trembled and became too unreliable with the scalpel and needle.  And then there was sleep.  I kept a couple blankets and a cushion close by to pack around him on the floor where he would pass out.

     "His father and fiancé tried to visit him, but he rejected their pleas and barred them from the tower.”  The bent man sighed wistfully.  “He was going to die for sure.  He just wouldn’t see reason.” 

     “I finally decided I had to make his experiments work to save his life -- and to save his marriage.  I conjured a colossal electric storm.  Biggest one that I ever managed.  And then I had to bring his creation of parts and stitches to life.”

     The mob exploded with enthusiasm.  “You used the Night Wraith Spell, didn’t you?” shouted one man.  “No the Zombie Incantation,” said another.  “No, the Taxim Conjure is better,” declared another.  The old, old man raised his hands for order.  “Just tell them which one you used.” 

     The Mob paused in anticipation.  The little bent man, enjoying his moment like a magician revealing his trick announced, “The Zombie Incantation.”

     The crowd erupted again.  “Dumb!  The Taxim Conjure is better,” shouted a heckler.

     “No, too dangerous," returned another.  "Have you ever tried to control a taxim once its loose?”

     “I could have handled it.”

     “Enough!” the old man proclaimed.  “Let him finish.  Go on Fritz.”

     The little bent man, somewhat deflated from the Mob’s criticism of his method folded his long arms and sulked.

     “Come on Fritz,” cajoled the old man.  “Tell us.  I bet you haven’t come to the best part.”

     The little man brightened at the thought.  “Yes,” he announced in that nasally voice.  “Brilliant – me, not the Good Doctor.  Animating his creature was easy, but that would only encourage him.  His life was already a mess.  I orchestrated the whole thing.  After what he saw as his own triumph in raising the monster, he was pacified enough to go through with his wedding, but I knew he would, sooner or later, go back to his experiments and neglect that fine new wife.  ‘Face the problem now,’ I always say.  I had the creature ‘attack’ her on the wedding night.  She wasn’t really hurt.  I just got her with a fainting spell.”

     “Kid stuff,” shouted the heckler.

     “Yes,” returned the little man.  “And if I had used the Taxim Conjure, it would have killed her.”  There was a general murmur of agreement from the Mob.

     “I could have controlled it,” muttered the heckler.

     “And then what? “prompted the old man.  “He saw what he would lose and so he quit his dumb experiments?  Brilliant, Fritzy, Bloody brilliant!”

     The little bent man casually inspected his fingernails and then took a triumphant bow, with boisterous “Hussahs” of approval from all but one of the Mob.