No Place for Rain

By Oliver Hickman

Raindrops pecked at window sills. Streaks ran down the glass— channels between clinging mist. The clouds had slumped low, visiting the ground in person rather than by gift of drizzle. They hugged the roads, the hills, the gradual moor, laying a blindfold on the town of Teatrees. The views and vistas which normally greeted my eyes were out of sight— within earshot was even less worth reporting. What reached my ears was only the trickle, the patter; water on shingle, then to gutter, then aground.

What of interest was there outside? Not much. A wet hat and a muddy boot were the best one stood to gain. But inside, so much more was there to see. Under the dripping eaves of a building hung a sign. In its centre was a painted picture of a foggy hand mirror, a name, “The Familiar Face,” underwritten. And below that sign was a welcome mat before a pair of doors. One of the townsfolk stepped inside, warmed by an inviting hearth. They had an errand to run, but the rain forbade it. It was nothing dire, though, so they could bide their time with little worry.

The inn seemed a perfect place to spend that time, a cozy shelter to wait out the downpour. They looked and saw the innkeeper, young and fair-haired, polishing a pewter cup. He was a newcomer to Teatrees, one of those bookish types who came from the cities. He’d grown what could be charitably called a moustache to fit in, but his vest was still too crisp and his shirt too white. He did not look worn or weathered enough, and he still had the sparkle and charm of a swain. The lad had never worked ‘til tired, never laboured in the fields or calloused his hands. He was soft, and so far, life was not in a hurry to harden him.

Of all his quirks, what stood out most was his ring. He wore it on his forefinger— a gaudy thing with engraved patterns of vines, wind, or suchlike. It was solid gold, or at least thickly plated. No one would wear such a thing openly for fear of appearing too posh or too easy to cheat. How he still had it was a mystery. A benevolent spirit seemed to watch over him. His luck never turned sour on him, and his transition from city to country life had been blessedly smooth.

The Familiar Face was once my inn to keep— my bar to tend, up until I felt like moving on, stretching my legs as I hadn’t before. Teatrees was a fine hamlet in which to spend one’s years, but everything had its season. It was only until recently I felt like circling back. The boy had done well managing the place. How he came upon the deed for my inn is beyond me, but the place could have hardly fallen into better hands. 

There the boy stood at the bar, surveying his kingdom of chair cushions and candlelight. He set down the cup and rubbed his ring, seeming to fix his gaze on one thing or another. Then he turned his head up at the townie tracking in the last stubborn gobs of mud on their shoes.

“Something to warm you up?” The innkeeper asked. They smiled back and gave a nod. People from Teatrees could never get tired of a good warm brew— after all, it was their trade. So, the innkeeper set a pot on the stovetop and dropped in a few leaves plucked from a hill not too far afield. Then he turned back, ushering the townsperson to a seat and ducking into a larder while they settled in.

The chair they sat on creaked in a way that spoke of many happy visits, evenings enjoyed. In the background, the water simmered on the way to boiling, and the innkeeper spent that brief lull checking over the filled tables. While he did, the innkeeper rubbed his ring between his thumb and forefinger like a good luck charm. And I watched the owner cast his gaze across all within the light of the roaring fireplace.

Facing the hearth, in a plush wingback chair, was Mr. Tutor. An old, dog-eared book kept hold of his attention. The chair beside him stayed empty, but company was always welcome, as he would say. Behind Tutor were the Woolcombs; two brothers and two sisters, all competing over a game of dice. They giggled at fortunes good and foul, taking both in stride. The cup they tossed their dice with was of a pale tan, a painted design all but faded by years of use.

And alone sat Ms. Vinther, sitting at a table for one or at best two, preferring to watch rather than mingle. Every so often, she would take a sip of wine from a bronze chalice of fine craft and hand polish. Punched softly into the metal were scenes of merrymaking, the stuff of raucous mead halls and sordid soirées, of which she had seen but never taken part. And she observed the newcomer to the inn with keen interest.

Then the new owner looked right at me. I was sat at the bar, my stool turned outwards so I could take in the sights, much as the boy was. It had been a quiet evening— quaint and undisturbed. Until the townie came in, the innkeeper only had us regulars for company. He was kind to let us stay there as we pleased, watching the townspeople and taking in their gossip. If not for that boy taking over after I left, this place would not be so inviting to the likes of us. It was good to be called back— thank heavens for that ring of his.

The kettle whistled and sputtered, calling out for attention. Before the innkeeper turned to tend to it, he caught a glimpse of another table looking at the townsperson at the bar. It was Mrs. Farrier and her wife, along with her sister, who was less lucky in matchmaking. The sister, formerly Mrs. Glover but now Farrier again, looked fondly at the new arrival, her child. She was happy to see them in good health and able to smile. Hers was a pride not over accomplishments but of happiness. She hadn’t a care what her child spent their days doing or with whom, just that their smile came easy to them and their heart was full.

A cup rang with sudden heat as the innkeeper poured. The scent of cloves crowded the air. A spoon clinked on the sides of the cup— a bit of honey for good measure. Then the cup met a saucer, and the saucer came up from the counter and onto the bar. The townsperson held their head over the steam, savouring the warmth and breathing deeply, a meditation of sorts. It was too hot to drink yet, but not to enjoy.

While they sat there, a curiosity came to the front of their mind. The townie turned around, hot cup in hand, and looked across the inn. The Familiar Face had many tables and chairs, enough to seat half the town, but no one in them. As the rain fell, nowhere near stopping, they saw the comfy chairs by the fire and the table between them, an old book resting on its storied wood. Behind that, the common tables, an old paper cup left untidied, and a bronze chalice on a table just further on. One stool was turned with its back to the bar, left there, empty, for whatever reason. And there was one table, not impressive, not worth mentioning, yet they couldn’t help but stare at it the longest.

“Slow night?” The townie asked.

The innkeeper smiled.

Oliver Hickman is an amateur author who has been trying for the better part of a decade to navigate the literary world. His struggles with anxiety and depression from an early age have long made fiction his safe haven. Through plenty of mistakes and perseverance, he hopes to someday be counted among the greats.