Many a night has been spent pondering the truth behind Barnabas Hatchfeller’s tale. All who were alive when it happened are long dead, and no one is left to hold a candle to the tale’s facts.
T’was the Winter of 88 when a dark figure appeared in the village of Nod. Dress in a ragged cloak of darkest red; the man sought lodging at the Copper Kettle.
“Good evening, sir. How might I assist you this winter night? ” Barnabas Hatchfeller, the innkeeper, asks.
In a voice that seemed to growl, the figure asked for a room and a bowl of raw mutton. Barnabas was about to object to the meat, fearing the other patrons would be upset by the sight of it being served, when the man placed two gold florins on the bar.
“Will that cover the cost?” asked the figure.
“Oh, Yes, most certainly. You’ll find the room on the left at the top of the stairs. I’ll have the cook prepare the mutton. Please sit anywhere you like,” replied the innkeeper.
Barnabas placed the bowl before the man and set a mug of his best ale next to the bowl. “I did not ask for poison,” cried the man as he sent the mug crashing across the floor.
“I am sorry. I thought you would enjoy a drink with your meal,” said Barnabas, rushing to pick up the mug.
The inn became silent as all eyes focused on the stranger. When later questioned about the incident, many assumed the man was a pilgrim and alcohol was forbidden by his particular sect.
Barnabas retreated behind the bar, fixing his eyes on the mysterious figure. Barnabas noticed he drank from a wineskin as the man ate his mutton. “The ale upset him; he must be from the mainland. They hate our brews,” remarked the innkeeper.
After finishing his meal, the stranger rose and went straight to his room without speaking. “Time to clean up,” said Barnabas.
Gathering the bowl, Barnabas noticed an acrid smell coming from the bench where the man had sat. Finding a pool of reddish liquid where the wineskin had been, the innkeeper dipped his finger into it.
“My lord, what a vial smell. This is not wine,” said Barnabas. Then he fetched a rag, cleaned the area, and threw the cloth on the fire.
“Something is not right about him. I’d better watch him, or I’m likely to have a dagger sticking out my back in the morning,” remarked Barnabas.
After all the patrons had left the inn, Barnabas shuttered the windows and bolted the door, but he did not head up to his room as usual. Instead, he pulled a chair near the fire and listened carefully for a sound from the stranger’s room.
After several hours of silence, the innkeeper felt he had overreacted to the man’s odd behavior and decided to get some rest. “Best stop listening to old Bill’s tales of the Shylock. Everyone knows their old wife’s tales,” said Barnabas as he headed up the stairs.
As he reached the top of the stairs, the innkeeper’s curiosity got the best of him, and he decided to listen at the stranger’s door.
“Best check and see if he is asleep,” murmured Barnabas.
The innkeeper moved like a cat to the door and stood perfectly still. “If you wish to know if I am awake, please come in,” a deep growling voice said.
Barnabas nearly fainted, but fearing he might upset a customer, he opened the door and stepped in. “I like to check on my guest to see…” Barnabas’s voice stuck in his throat.
There before him stood a huge, hulking figure covered with bats, which were sucking blood from the man’s body. “My friends find your accommodations very pleasant, and I do apologize for the stench; bat guano is hard to wash out one’s clothes,” offered the stranger.
“I see. Is there anything I can do for you before I turn in?” Barnabas offered in a mechanical voice.
“No, I have things in hand. I shall be leaving early, so please have a parcel of raw mutton ready for me. I assume a florin will cover the costs,” said the man.
“More than enough,” replied Barnabas, then bid the man farewell and head back down the stairs to prepare the mutton since the cook would not arrive before eight bells.
“I shall recommend your accommodations to my associates,” said the stranger, placing the gold coin on the countertop and retrieving the parcel as he exited the inn.
“Don’t mention it, please don’t,” said Barnabas in a whispered voice.
They investigated the room when the innkeeper told the cook what had happened. Surprisingly, it was tidy, and the bed had not been slept in.
It wasn’t until the roof was being repaired that a workman inquired about tremendous talon marks embedded in the roof beams that Barnabas understood about the bed.
When word of the encounter spread through the village, many said Barnabas had encountered a Shylock and was extremely fortunate to be alive.
Others claimed Barnabas made the whole tale up to get folks to view the talon marks and enjoy a pint as they discussed the incident.
To this day, no one is sure if the Shylocks are real or if the Copper Kettle’s marks are nothing more than a workman’s axe mark left after he repaired the roof.
Still, the stain on the bench where the liquid spilled still smells as acrid as when Barnabas found it years ago.
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