This is part 17 of my sword and sorcery series... This is also a true story..
Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay
Trouble was brewing in the village, like a storm gathering. The air was charged wherever the ones from Zen’s went, so much so, that they stayed in Zen’s and went out only when absolutely necessary. Miss De’ath stopped coming around.
Gradually there grew a feeling that things were about to change, and not for the better. Nobody could put their finger on it, but it was there, an indefinable feeling.
The door was no longer left open, but bolted, and visitors had to knock and remarked on the change in the air. One by one they stopped coming around, except the Harley rider, he came around more often, not afraid of trouble. When he was there, it seemed to be pushed back, the fear dispelled by his presence, but when he left, back it came, like a bad penny.
A hushed expectancy of dread descended over the days and weeks, which could not be dispelled with laughter. It was there, in the background, like a bad smell that could not be removed.
The end of Zen’s place came swiftly. As Zen was chopping wood one early evening, two vigilantes came disguised as peace-loving villagers. They came in, all smiles and excuses. No-one suspected them, welcomed then even, gave them a meal, fussed around them and treated them like princes.
Later, when night was full of darkness, they left, taking with them everyone’s heart. But the perfidious pair crept back as the moon was in Jupiter, and spilled petrol in a ring around Zen’s place. A match flared, was thrown. Running away from the whoosh of flame they disappeared to wherever they had planned beforehand.
Zen’s place, one time ministry of labour, the Rebilous Exchange, home for an exceptional few, erupted into flames.
The whole village gathered around to watch as the fire engines came too late to save anything. Quietly they stared at the exploding windows, the collapsing roof, and the flame that reached to the sky.
Somewhere inside the collapsing building, a tape recorder played a haunting melody from a saxophone, from one who came but rarely to Zen’s, one who would never come again.
Everyone at Zen’s went their own way, but Kelek, Zen and George stayed together and moved to the city and took over an old abandoned warehouse.
One of the parts before this part: https://www.dclick.io/posts/@wales/snowing-in-the-orient
And another part: https://partiko.app/@wales/shelf-life-of-an-onion-slipping-deep-in-the-darkness
Images from Pixabay
