Empires Rise and Fall

The tiny couple by the brandy cask at the end of the bar dance like there is no tomorrow. A neck-bearded fiddler on a low stool and a man banging a veneered wooden box with his palms perform an old ditty. I remove my cap and scratch my head. It has been a long day. I ask the burly barkeep for two fingers of spirits. “Preference?” he says, studying me with the tops of his eyes. “Surprise me.” He glances at me and nods. It goes like that sometimes. You let the universe or one of its agents handle the decisions, at least the ones that don’t matter. The left side of the barkeep’s face bears the very detailed tattoo of a woman’s face. How many hours did that take? I want to ask him about it, but I have not lost my mind yet, not completely. “What are you doing here?” the barkeep asks me. “I’m taking a break from the war.” He looks at my uniform, his eyes pausing at each brass button. “Why is it green?” he asks. I don’t have an answer for him. Perhaps it is green for reasons of camouflage. Or for reasons of a strategic or morale rationale to which I am not privy. “Are we winning the war?” the barkeep inquires. “Depends who you ask.”

“I know the horse of darkness is riding fast to the east.”

The barkeep frowns, flips a rag off his shoulder and wipes the bar.

The music stops and the tiny couple bow to each other and return to a miniature table positioned by a jar of pickled eggs. Hard to tell how old they are. Could be any age, really. I sip my drink. Rum on ice. Naught soothes the soul as religion and rum. I eyeball the barkeep. He smiles. I smile. I glance at the couple, now seated and sipping beer from tiny steins. They turn their wee faces to me and also smile.