The Meikle Black Deil - James Schaffer

Service was delivered most sleepily, probably on account of the weather, and while I’d regularly object to drinking today, and so early, I walked towards The Wrasse. It looked as if soggy driftwood torn from scuttled ships had washed ashore and was nailed together in mock effigy. A bench covered in moss leaned against the face of the building on one side of its entrance. A carved sign sporting the name swung above it from the coming winds. Faded orange and blue paint chipping from the shape of a fish began to reveal a wooden grain. To the North, vague outlines of hills were swallowed by settling clouds. 

Only a few people from the village were inside. Most who were had been so since the night before, but seemed to be accompanied by good spirits. The rest of the service had gone home to sleep or sip bitter coffee. A faint radio song played strings warmly on loup. At the far end of the bar a man was playing a game of billiards by himself, and the barman had been watching him when I entered. A rusty metal spring scratched out a horrible sound. The barman didn’t look from the man shooting. He’d gotten himself into terrible positioning, and as the door shut, he missed. He pinched his forehead and looked ashamed of his work. The barman lost interest. “Morning. What wouldja like?” 

“Whiskey. Tyreconnel if you’ve got it.” 

“‘Fraid I haven’t.”

“Scotch, then.” He hadn’t checked for the Tyreconnel, but the morning had left me pacified, and anyways, I believed him. 

“Which brand?” 

“Any is fine.” He gave me more ice than drink. It was the cheap, strong stuff. The stinging combination of aged barrels and something fiery tickled my nostrils. Two men in a window booth appeared subdued by their midnight trial. One rested his forehead in his arms and slept, while the other slowly traced shapes of card suits which were lying messily between them. Seated at the bar with me was an older gentleman who looked in poor condition from hard decades of labor. He had his own fat, nearly empty bottle with the figure of a lion on it. He was three stools away and gripped the bottle with a hand disfigured by many thin, wiry scars. They wrapped from his fingers to his forearms which disappeared into the tatters of rolled sleeves. Cool morning air swirled from the low ceiling and condensed against the glasses. A single sip was enough to clench my insides. I never could stomach the stuff at this hour. 

Clouds creeped in from the hills and pressure shifted. The bar became significantly darker. Lights were mostly turned out, apart from one which assisted the billiard player. Rain began tapping softly against the window. It slid in incomprehensible streaks from top to bottom and searched for a way in. The sky was dark, but nobody had said we were due for a storm. Whiskey tastes like sin in the morning. The barman disappeared into the back kitchen after serving me and had yet to reappear. The sleeping man in the booth turned his head and watched patterning streams form along the window. His friend leaned back. Slow rattling came from the door when the wind hit it just right.

As the rain picked up, the billiard player left money at the bar beneath a dirty lead-crystal glass. Ice in it had melted completely so that all that remained were millimeters of tasteless diluted drink. That horrible scratching announced his departure. I watched him rush down the street trying to beat the rain. He shrank as he made his way towards the church I’d arrived from in the old section of the village. The gentleman looked into the rim of his bottle like he saw someone trapped way down in it. Suddenly the rain came down harder. It crossed the road moving in sheets which made the church vanish. The gentleman shuffled and mumbled something into the bottle. The door moaned. The cards were re-ordered and tucked where the booth and wall met. The man who collected them waited outside under the awning for his friend who was still putting on his coat. The door moaned again, and the two men exchanged words as they traveled in the same direction. They vanished into the rain. 

I looked into my glass and thought for a moment that it whispered something, but it was the gentleman beside me who was muttering half to himself and half to whoever was left to hear. “What’s that?...” I asked. 

“O’ ‘ell, ‘orrible day…” He swayed. 

“A bit rainy, I’d say.” 

“‘Ellish out there.” 

“How’s that?” 

“The De’il at it again.” He spoke with an accent that betrayed him, and recalled his many years. 

“The Devil, you say? On this day? Surely not.” 

“‘Aven’t ya ‘eard?”

“Sorry?” 

“You know the De’il.” 

“Sorry mister… My name’s Richard. I think you’ve got me confused.”

“Wha has not heard o’ the meikle black De’il?” He gripped the bottle tightly and his scars reddened at their edges. He continued to look and speak into the bottle. “Wha has not heard o’ the thund’ring Chiel? Wi’ his twa lang horns and a swinging tail!” I startled at a noise from behind. A clunking rapped loudly in rhythmic repetition. The outside bench rocked against the wall and shook a high shelf adorned with empty bottles. It was really coming down. The opposite sidewalk became invisible. The door continued to rattle. 

“It’s a nasty storm out there. I didn’t expect one so vicious.” Low rolling thunder churned. Amber-coloured bottles flashed purple from lightning. A bolt burned like a blue candle in the sky. He looked at me and pointed to a vacant corner of the bar.

“‘Tis said that the De’il lang dwelt i’ the North…” 

“I don’t believe in the Devil. He has no power over me.” 

He went on, “...Directing the storms of wind and hail, but southward now he’s sallying forth.” 

“Old man, I think you’ve had enough to drink.” 

“Ya don’t believe me? Do ya?” 

“I think you’ve had enough to drink.” 

“Now,” he said, ”why would God ‘ave it be so violent out there? Yer lucky t’ be in ‘ere. Yer cross can’t help you.”

“You know, I think it’s kind of pretty. Sure, it’s a tad gloomy, but look at how magnificent the lightning is.” 

“O’... pretty…” He nodded. The rim of his bottle turned color with every flash, and the prisms of light dissipated through its remaining liquid into blues and reds. “Surely… pretty.” His mouth was dry from the endless spills of alcohol. He smacked his lips. “Ya think yer free from his disorder? Well, Richard, bang him weel, wi’ yer gospel flail why dontcha…” 

“Here, hand me the bottle. You should go home. I’ll walk you.” 

“I seen him. Ya know. I got proof. I got proof!” I looked back, and waited. He put down the bottle and stood. He nearly fell as he did, then inched closer to me. “I’s fishin’ up off the coast in the Land O’ Cakes. I’s told as a boy always… things… about the muires, see? Nothin’ I ever believed. That, that’s where the storms come from.” He turned away and lifted up his shirt. Down his back ran a deep, winding scar. It braided over the bony protrusions at the middle of his spine to his tailbone. At its end was the branded shape of a small triangle which looked faintly like a candle tip. It was a hell of a scar. “I’s fishin’ see? And lookin’ about the coast. A storm was to set in later in the eve. I was watchin’ for it, but I misjudged. She rolled in quicker than I expected, and I had myself caught between nasty weather.” He leaned against the bar and grabbed the underside of his stool, shaking it. The door rattled. “As I’s rocked around in the water, I’s sure I was gonna capsize. Even the lighthouses weren’t bright ‘nuff t’ dispel the darkness… but lightnin’ was weavin’ itself all through the sky, and by it I made out the outline o’ the land. I’d been rowin’ a long time and the water never let up a bit. As I got closer, I saw on the crest of a hill his figure. Dancin’ ‘round him were his little minions, and I swear it, he stretched higher than a steeple with his scepter.” He let go of the stool. “I stopped rowin’ to look, thinkin’, like you, that my eyes deceived me… but there was no question ‘bout it. I knew it was the De’il. The longest lightnin’ strike I ever saw lit the sky and lingered in it, and as it did he and I locked eyes. His glowed, and above them I saw twa lang horns crownin’ his brow. An’ he musta been proud! An’ I saw tail swingin’ to and fro’, but all of his figure was blacked out. I could hear nothin’ but the wind, not even the rock of the boat. When I think of his power, each limb o’ me shakes!” The bench was still slamming against the wall. He rolled his shirt down, turning and staring at me. “As we locked eyes I was sure he was lookin’ back, right at me. From the spills of sea splashin’ into the boat I heard a voice. It weren’t no English though, and so, I couldn’t make nothin’ from it. I’s petrified, and calling to God from within’ to protect my soul. I grabbed at my neck for me own cross. As I long made out the forms of his wicked dancing I was sooner struck by lightnin’.” 

“And you lived through all that?” 

“Well, ya see me, dontcha?” 

“That’s how you got the scar? 

“I never seen it for some time. Fisherman found me the morning after when they’d seen I’d not made it back to the wharf. I’s in the hospital for days, said I’s lucky.”

“I’d say so.” 

“When finally I was walkin’ again an’ I saw it on my back, the mark of his whipped tail all etched into me… I recalled evr’ything, an’ I knew it weren’t God what saved me.”

“You think the Devil would spare you?” 

“What makes ya so sure I’ve been spared?”

A break in the rain slowed the infernal knocking. I stood outside The Wrasse and saw a coach-horse beetle on the bench. I crushed it. I left my Scotch mostly full at the bar. The ice was almost melted. As I walked the street, I looked out to the Northern hills and saw a second formation of black clouds coming. Beneath them, in brief purpled flashes, moving shapes danced in circles.