
The following manuscript was discovered in the rubble of a condemned building which was demolished in Shore Terrace last month. Despite exhaustive searches both online and through local archives no magazines or journals can be found containing the article, and there appears to be no trace of the writer in any history or folklore of the period. Although there is no record of the tavern existing, its name is known to have historical significance in the area. Researchers have also found no articles relating to any of the other claimed adventures in any publications that are known to have been in print at the time.
The wind howled, and the rain lashed against my brow with such furore that I thought I might be blown over, right into the teeth of the dark waters that swelled only a few yards away. I pulled my old black coat around me a little tighter and, with considerable effort on my part, turned my face into the wind and made my way towards the lights of the tavern.
It was as I had imagined it to be, although somewhat more fearsome and intimidating in real life then the legends would have had me believe. The night was very dark, the storm having long ago blown out the fires in the iron baskets that were erected at intervals along the dockside to provide light and warmth. Only the small window, and the faint glow around the rim of the tavern door provided any illumination whatsoever.
I took the little black wallet from my pocket and unfolded the map, but I was unable to read it. This had to be the place, I decided. There had been no other building that offered any promise of welcome along the entire stretch of docks. There would be only one way to find out. A soul that sought adventure was required to take risks and I had travelled far enough already on this evening.
The door opened only the smallest amount, requiring that I exert the full force of my body to burst it inwards from its damp frame. On stepping inside, the wind slammed it closed behind me with the dullest of thuds, as a bag of sand might fall from its hook onto the deck of a ship, causing what seemed like the entire structure to tremble.
The room was darkened, although still bright to my eyes, which had been accustomed to the gloom of the docks and was filled with the rowdy noise of perhaps fifty people, packed into a space that appeared to have been designed for half that many. Some standing, some sitting, shouting and jesting and drinking, no doubt as a welcome relief from their daily routine. Scarcely a head turned as I made my way uncertainly towards the far end of the room, where a large, dark, shadow appeared to be filling something from a concealed spout behind a counter. The creature brought a brimmer down onto the rude wooden board so near to my elbow that the splashes of foam landed upon my sleeve. I looked up at him slowly, apprehensive of what I might see. From a distance he had appeared to be a most fearsome fellow. Up close, his face was a patchwork of dark and light brown shades, with tattoos in greens and blues, and any number of other colours, but it was not, I noted, an especially unpleasant sight.
Whatever sort of creature the fellow was, he was apparently observant. He had deduced my nature and circumstances even before I had approached the bar, and he knew what drink to proffer. That was not unusual, I was aware that old sailors had a demeanour of their own that belied their occupation and even I, not being especially observant, could tell one of my own fellows from quite a considerable distance.
I reached for the mug, but the fellow did not remove his hand from the handle. Instead, he looked directly at me, somewhat inquisitively I felt. Perhaps he was reading my thoughts.
“Tuppence” he said, in a straightforward voice.
I pursed my cold thin lips and allowed my gaze to fall away from the fellow and back onto the wooden board in front of me. Tuppence, I thought. The legends said a drink here would cost a man a day’s pay. It seemed the legends were true.
I reached my hand into the pocket of my coat and produced a small tarnished copper coin which I placed upon the damp board amongst the splashes of foam. The man, for on reflection I think I could rightly call him that now, picked up the coin with his other hand and held it in front of his face to examine it. After a moment he took his hand away from the mug and began to turn the coin over and over in his fingers, as if expecting some sorcery or witchcraft to begin. Although tempted to reach for the mug I resisted, wary of risking the fellow’s wrath should he determine that the payment was unsatisfactory. There was no telling what fates awaited those unfortunate enough to find themselves on the unwelcome side of these people.
After what seemed like an eternity, although in reality could have been no more than a few seconds, his hand disappeared from my sight into what I assume was an arrangement of compartments behind the counter.
An especially loud noise caused me to turn my head towards a table at the far-right corner of the room. Sat around it were four bearded figures. Men I assumed, although after many years of travelling my mind was prepared to consider other alternatives. They had leathery faces and the coarse, rough hair typical of dock workers. The type of hair that is steeped with salty brine and burned by the relentless sun. They spoke with a tone which was almost a growl, undoubtedly a result of their work, which was by its nature dirty and noisy and required them to shout to each other frequently in order that they not strike their mates with a beam or a load. Men therefore, I decided, passing the time until their work resumed with the arrival of the next ships on the incoming tide, which would normally be at any time of the day or night. But not tonight I noted, listening to the rumbles of the wind as it rattled the structure of the tavern.
A grunt made me turn back towards the counter. The man held his hand out, and in his palm were two smaller coins. Although I did not know the currency well in this part of the world, if my reckoning was correct the coin I had offered him was worth three, perhaps three and a half pennies. I reached to take them, but I could not do it. I found the notion of deliberately touching this hand to take the coins momentarily repulsive, but then were we not all human, in some form or another? Who knew what thoughts these people had? Few travellers understood them, and I did not like to contemplate what they did in their beds under cover of darkness, but it was likely that they felt the same about me. There were worse things in the world I decided, and you could not blame a man for wanting to make whatever friends he could, especially in such a strange place as this. I reached out again and closed his fingers slowly around the coins. To my surprise his flesh was soft and warm, not callused and rough as I had imagined it might be. He looked at me with an expression that appeared disdainful. His eyes narrowed, and the corners of his mouth began to turn upwards. Then he drew his hand away from me, still clenched, and I feared that he would knock me to the ground. With that expectation in my mind I closed my eyes and flinched, awaiting the strike which I supposed was to be inevitable, but nothing struck me, save for a strange sound. It began with a rumble, akin to the noise made by a barrel when rolled down a plank and continued to develop into something which could only be described as a pulsating, wheezing noise. On opening one eye, I was greeted by a mass of shining white teeth and, seeing my terrified but inquisitive expression, the creature began to roar with laughter, his face split from ear to ear by an enormous grin, before turning his back to me and disappearing into the shadows.
The unexpected encounter now behind me, I took a large draught from the mug to calm my senses. It was indeed pleasurable, and worth the journey. Although I did not know his name, I felt certain the bar man, or creature, would swiftly provide me with another when the inevitable time came. Perhaps I had made a new friend on this night. I did not know, it was too soon to say, but at least I had not made a new enemy.
My attention turned once more to the group of dock men at the table to my right. They were all paying great attention to an object which one of them was holding somewhat surreptitiously, and they were talking more quietly now, almost in hushed tones. This intrigued me, and I desired to see the object more clearly, so I moved myself somewhat nonchalantly along the counter a few steps towards the table, trying not to attract undue attention.
One of the men was slimmer than the others, and wore a brown knitted jumper, or ganzie as it was sometimes known. A fisherman then, I decided, not a dock worker like the others. That was quite possible. He had curly black hair, somewhat tidier than his compatriots, and spoke in a more eloquent manner. As I watched from the corner of my eye, he took the object and put it on the wooden table top in front of him, cupping his hands around it as though guarding it from some peril.
It was a circular object made of brass, equipped with what appeared to be a glass window. Although obviously made using the finest of materials by a skilled craftsman, I could not understand why a group of sea folk would be so interested in a simple compass, the likes of which could be found everywhere. It is however known that such objects are not always what they seem to be. Most of course point in a specific direction relative to the earth, notably to the magnetic North, and are therefore essential for determining one’s direction and finding a known destination. Devices such are these behave in a predictable manner and in accordance with the accepted laws of nature, however there are well documented instances of devices which appear to be mere compasses, but which do not obey such laws. It is said that a pirate who once sailed the Caribbean seas once possessed a device resembling a compass which pointed not to the North, but rather in the direction of the thing which the holder most desired. Such devices are said to operate using the laws of magic, if indeed magic is subject to any laws as we know them, and some declare that these devices are abominable and evil, being the work of the devil. Whether this be true I know not, however such things are believable to my mind. Indeed, the inner workings of my map are not understood, at least not to me. It simply takes me where I ask to go, and the mechanism by which it operates is utterly beyond my comprehension. Suffice to say that I unfold it and the details thereon show me the route I must travel, and such route is ephemeral. It frequently directs me through dark places, corridors, forests, and alleyways between buildings, which emerge in new places. Even though I may know and remember the route it does not appear to exist, and the directions which I memorise do not lead me to the desired place unless I am able to look at the map. Indeed, it has taken me through the very same alleyway on more than one occasion, only to emerge in a different place to that which I found myself the previous time. If such things are the work of the devil then I welcome them, for life is nought without adventure.
As I watched, the man with the curly hair, who I had assumed to be a fisherman, put the object into his pocket, as if some deal had been made. Although I did not see it especially clearly, it appeared to contain within it a red disc, perhaps with markings or engravings upon it, I could not tell.
Turning back to drink again from my mug I noted that it was now once again filled, my supposition being that the bar man, while I had been otherwise distracted, had taken the opportunity to reward my kindness by replenishing my drink.
I have to say that standing at the counter in the tavern was a welcome break from my travels, and a perfect place to while away some precious time as the storm raged outside. I am never comfortable with the notion some people express involving the ‘killing of time’. For me, time is a valuable commodity and I endeavour to use it well. Having too much of it is not something with which I am blessed, however the opportunity to observe the occupants of the room was a worthwhile distraction on an evening when I had little else planned to do.
In the space of the next hour or perhaps more, only one other figure entered the premises, another rugged sea fellow I determined from his appearance.
After treating himself to a large mug of pale brown beer, for I was certain after observing the patrons for this length of time that various types of beer was all this establishment served, he seated himself at a table along the far wall where several women were huddled in conversation. After a short and somewhat animated discussion, he took the hand of a rather attractive young girl with curly blonde hair and together they disappeared through a gap at the end of the counter into the shadows at the back of the building. At least this was one commodity that appeared to be freely available, as I have observed it to be in every other civilisation I have ever visited.
Although the men at the table beside me continued to talk, I never again caught a glimpse of the brass device, their dealings with that particular business presumably being finished.
After some time and discovering that the tavern apparently had no fixed hour to close on this evening, I decided that, despite the continuing atrocious weather it would be prudent to venture outside and return home.
The jolly bar fellow being nowhere to be seen, I turned and made my way to the door, leaving my empty mug on the counter with a small coin for his trouble, to be discovered at his convenience. Upon reaching the door I turned again briefly towards the room to take a last look at the noise and bustle and take in the atmosphere for a final time. Being an old man with a limitless choice of places to visit, it was unlikely I would find an opportunity to return to Gardyne’s Tavern.
I heaved the door open and set my face once again to the wind and rain. After a few moments and having found what I believed to be the place I had been standing when I last consulted my map, I reached into my coat pocket for the wallet, but my hand came out empty. In a state of momentary panic, I fumbled in my other pocket, and the two shallower ones in my trousers, but alas, it appeared I was no longer in possession of it.
Whether lost or misplaced in the tavern, or surreptitiously stolen from me by one of the inhabitants I do not know. I thought I had replaced it in my coat pocket while struggling through the foul weather however it may be that it was in fact lost even before I entered the premises.
Shortly after discovering my plight, and with little knowledge of the local surroundings, I returned to the tavern and succeeded in obtaining a bed there for the night. The next day I made enquiries at the local telegraph office and was able to secure a garret near the river for a reasonable rent.
While there are many places to visit on this earth, that is no comfort to one who has become accustomed to enjoying a limitless supply of unknown worlds to explore. It is my quest therefore to recover my map or to discover some other means of travel so that I may one day escape the limitations of this world and continue my explorations.
In the meantime I will continue to make a modest living by working at the docks, and by writing about my journeys and experiences, which the editors of the small number of adventure magazines in this world are more than happy to publish, in the hope that a reader of my tales might one day be able to provide me with information leading to the recovery of my map, or to the discovery of some other means of travel between worlds.
Specifically, I am interested in a square black leather wallet, approximately the size of a man’s hand, containing a sheet that folds into four sections, and which closes my means of a brass clip. Alternatively, any further sightings of the fisherman I have described, or the mysterious brass compass-like object enclosing the red disc, whose purpose remains unknown to me.
A reward is offered for information which enables me to continue my travels.
Readers may contact me through the offices of the publisher of this article.
Phineas Abraham, Dundee – 1874