The Lover of Lady Claire
There’s a tavern down the east side where Tony and the Sisters of St James play the old songs some Tuesdays. Tom’s: it’s an old pub, made of iron and wood, hard and dark — but the lights are soft and gold (and many). It’s a bright and cheery place, and the folks there are kind.
Now, common to this particular tavern — and many like it — is a sullen group of Secrets who whisper and stare among themselves in the corner farthest the door. There they hope to hide and stretch their narrow bones.
They’ve been cooped up all day, you see, and often for more than one day at a time. They go there to get out — though you might not think they’ve gone out much at all. It’s fresh air to them, and that’s fine for us. They’re a kind folk, those Secrets — quiet. Make less noise than a pebble at the bottom of a lake! But kind besides and quaking to be kinder. You can tell they’d like to say more. Sometimes, when they order a drink, they’ll just stand there, look at you like. Their eyes will sparkle, and the corners of their mouth will wiggle. But most times they’ll just give a wink and be off, like. Shaking their head as they go.
Now, come to think of it, one night — two weeks before last — one of them Secrets had a bit too much to drink. They were off in their corner, staring at each other: one Secret to the next and the next and the next. And then, all a sudden, one of them stepped up — a Secret with a slant grin and droopy eyes. He looked around the room, back at his friends (all mortified), and he laughed. Loud!
We knew something was going to happen then, all exciting. Everyone stopped what they were doing. Even the couple that was snogging in the back. The room called him forward, and we made way as he staggered through the crowd. He got to the center of the place, stood up on a chair — and then the table! Oh we cheered him on: “C’mon Secret!” He held out his arms, and the room went quiet — everyone looking up at him, smiling and waiting.
He composed himself, bowed his head, and then in a deep voice, smooth as polished wood, he spoke:
“I’m in love with the lovely Lady Claire!”
The room roared and cheered and laughed aloud! And Claire, bless her, raised her hands in victory, blew a kiss to the ole Secret-No-Longer. The young lad (still droopy eyed) smiled lazily, certainly more than half proud of himself. He gave a grand bow — almost toppled himself off the table — and promptly drained the rest of his brown stout.
All done with the night’s mischief, he lifted the empty glass and shrugged — guilty as charged. Then, suddenly — with a fizzzz POP! — he vanished into the air and was no more.
The pub roared another round of hollers and congratulations, before falling into its usual hum.
And back in their corner, the Secrets smiled softly, for once going completely unnoticed. In wonder and with intense admiration, they all looked to the air where once stood the lover of Lady Claire. With great grins, they raised their glasses to the new heaven and drank. And when all had had their fill, they slipped silently back to their conversation of whispers and stares — eyes happy, proud, and whole.
