Green Eyes in the Green Dragon

            An Important Notice to Readers...

     Although this fiction blog is illustrated with photos of dolls, and dollhouse miniatures, the language and content of the storyline is intended for an adult audience.  Please be advised.

Thank You,

The Author

                       

Ian Sawyer at the Green Dragon

     As a child living in the heart of Boston, her education had included an abundance of knowledge on the role the city had played in the heart of the American Revolution.  She had studied, at one grade level or another, all the key players and all the important places. But standing in front of the Green Dragon Tavern, in the flesh and in its heyday, was a whole different matter.

      The re-built pub and museum on Marshall Street, in whose embrace she had hoisted more than a few, looked nothing like the rambling barn of a building that was Beckett's destination.  She knew from history that the building itself was currently owned by the Free Masons who used the first floor as their meeting place, while the basement was home to the infamous Green Dragon, though at this time of the day, the pub was clearly without much patronage.

        Its bar keep was a portly man, whose belly hung so low over his breeches, it looked as if he could hide a wealth of Patriot secrets beneath it.  He wiped the same spot over and over again with a tattered rag, all the while keeping a wary eye on his newest clientele.  There were but three other customers in the dark, dingy place, who from all obvious clues, had been there from the night before.  One was slumped in his chair, snoring away, while a stream of drool ran a course down his chin.  The other two were awake in the barest sense of the word, staring out from red-rimmed, half-closed eyes.

        Their plan of action had been laid out on the walk to the pub.  Beckett was to be a cousin of Rachel Revere, one Theodore Walker, out of Philadelphia, and she was to be his youngest brother, Robert, a half-deaf mute of limited mental capacity.  She had been most annoyed at being characterized as such, but the Sheriff had been adamant, and the look she received in return for her complaints was enough to end them.  In thinking about it, he was probably right.  She was too tall to pass herself off as a youngster, and her voice too high pitched to be believable as an older male teen. In addition, it was their goal to show themselves as harmless family visitors, and as a gentleman farmer and his half wit brother it was felt they could do just that.

         Beckett pointed to a chair at an empty table, and Roxanne sat herself down in it, hands in lap, and did her best at looking "simple".  As was his instructions, she looked straight ahead, careful not to stare at anyone in particular, though she could feel the eyes of the drunken gentlemen resting on her back.  She strained to listen as Ted spoke to the man at the bar.  It was a shock to hear the words coming out of his mouth, as they sounded nothing like the man she knew.  How and when he had learned to speak in such a manner she wasn't sure, but the tone and inflections were different than the ones he used everyday.  There was a British accent of sorts, with an undertone she couldn't place.  Whatever he was saying appeared to be funny, as the bar keep laughed and pumped his hand in response.

        She sat in silence, taking in as much of the place as she dared.  The drunks behind her were now fully awake, raucous in their behavior and calling for additional libation.  The bar man seemed much enthralled with the conversation he was attending to with Beckett, and waved the patrons off.  This did nothing but encourage them further, and they hooted and hollered their displeasure, once calling out that the "boy" could bring them their pints.  Beckett caught her eye, and waved her over.  Once there, he gestured to her to bring the tin cups over to the gentlemen at the table behind her so he could continue his conversation.

       As an exotic dancer, she had dealt with her share of obnoxious drunks. Plenty of them.  Knew what to do, knew how to handle them.  But as "Robert", she walked slowly and carefully, staring straight ahead, a benign smile plastered on her face.  Maybe she was working too hard at being simple, as she did not notice the big guy with the messy hair stick his leg out in front of her.  Down she went, catching her head on the corner of the table, the ale spilling over her, face meeting the floor.
For several seconds she lay there in a puddle, the world fuzzy and disjointed, her head pounding, until she could feel two strong hands pull her up by the fore arms.  She expected it to be Beckett coming to her rescue, but when her vision cleared, and she wiped the ale off her face with her sleeve, she was staring into a pair of the greenest eyes she had ever seen.  Not the pale spring leaf green of Kevin's eyes.  No.  These were darker.  Much darker.  Like the soft moss on trees, almost velvet in their nature.

        "Are you alright, boy?  Can you speak?"

        Roxanne opened her mouth, then remembering who she was, where she was, closed it, instead choosing to stare back at the hottest man she had ever seen with a stupid grin that would have made the village idiot proud.  Beckett was now at her side, taking hold of her arms, and pulling her towards him.

         "My brother is a deaf-mute. Simple-minded.  I'm sure he doesn't understand what you're saying.
But I myself am very grateful for your assistance, Mr...?"

         "Ian Sawyer, Sir, at your service."

         The two men exchanged general pleasantries, while Roxanne swayed on her feet, embarrassed, aroused, and confused.  The drunks were quickly dispatched with threats to not return, and the bar keep offered a fresh round for hero and visitors alike.  The conversation turned to the hows and whys, and it was discovered that Mr. Sawyer was a neighbor of the Reveres, and would gladly give them a lift to the house on Square Street, as the boy looked in no condition to make the walk.

       With promises to return to the Green Dragon, the trio left the tavern, Mr. Sawyer insisting that the boy take the spot on the driver's bench next to him so he could see the sights of Boston, a suggestion to which Mr. Walker agreed, though the look he gave the boy was a clue that a discussion on this whole event was sure to follow when privacy permitted.  None of that mattered though, as it was hoped that what they sought would be waiting at the Revere house, and that they would return safely home before the sun set on another day.

__________________________________

       The fact that his brother was standing at his front door at the most inopportune of times was proof enough that the Almighty had a unique sense of humor.  Either that, or he was genuinely annoyed over Fr. Kevin's failed attempt to sacrifice part of his eternal soul to rescue his sister.  For whatever reason, Patrick's presence in Dollyville was a huge pain in the ass.

         "Nice to see you too, Kevin.  Your enthusiasm over my visit is overwhelming."  He pushed his way past the priest, and into the rectory parlor, throwing his brief case and suit coat over the sofa's arm.  He sniffed the air and made a face.  "Your place smells weird, Kev.  Like flowers.  Roses, I think.  You got a woman you're hiding in here, Father?"  He laughed over his own joke, and fell into one of the side chairs with a plop.

         It would be most interesting, Fr. Kevin thought, if I told him the truth.  That what he smelled was the remnants of a visit with a Maeve, the Queen of the Fey, and that the room he was sitting in was recently used for dark magic.  Pat grew up on the same stories about the Fey as we all did.  Would any shred of him be open to belief?  Kevin chuckled to himself in his head.  Pat?  No way.  Pat was a black and white kinda guy.  It either was, or wasn't.  There was no in-between.  No gray area.  Even though he professed to be a practicing Catholic, and even worked for the church in his capacity as lawyer, Kevin had his doubts about what his brother actually believed.  Telling him the truth about Maureen...where she was...what had happened...was out of the question.  Besides, he probably end up blaming him for it all anyway.

         "I'm sorry to sound so abrupt, Pat.  It's been crazy around here.  Too much to do.  Parish business, you know."

        "Well, that's the life of a Pastor, Kev.  Ya gotta suck it up, and get to it.  Actually, I've been hearing good things about your parish around the diocese.  Mass participation and your weekly offerings are up.  The Bishop seems pleased.  Good thing after that whole fiasco with your gardener's murder a year ago.  I for one thought you had screwed up this position royally.  But now things have quieted down, and you seem like you're holding it all together.  Pleasant surprise."

         Gee...thanks for your vote of confidence, Pat.  So nice to have the support of your loving family. You are such a jerk.   "Hmmm...thanks...I guess.  So...you still haven't explained why you're here."

         "What?  A guy can't visit his brother and sister without the third degree?  Actually,  I need to have Red sign some tax papers on the Cape Cod house.  Has she even been there yet?"

        "No.  I don't think so.  She has some...issues about that crazy woman living there in secret.  Ted told her he'd sell it and get her another place, but she doesn't even want to talk about it."

        "Well I hope to hell she doesn't sell it.  It's prime real estate.  Some of the nicest beach front on the Cape.  Have you been up there yet?    Eileen and I spent a week there about a month ago.  Brendan and Sean and their broods were there last week. It's like a slice of heaven, I tell ya.  Red's just gotta her head in the right place.  She'll see it for the wise business deal it is."

         Yeah, Pat.  'Cause everything's about a deal.  "I guess it's up to her.  After all, it was a gift to her.  I suppose she has the right to do as she pleases."

         "Red will do what's best for the family.  That's how we were raised.  How's she and Ted doing?"

        " Alright, I guess.  I don't pry."

        "Why the hell not?  You're a priest.  That's your job.  Tell people how to live the right way.  You and I both know that guy is the best thing that ever happened to Red.  He's good for her.  Keeps her on the straight and narrow.  Red needs boundaries.  She's no good without them."

          Right, Pat.  And his millions have nothing to do with anything.  You don't know the first thing about Ted Beckett.  If you did, I wonder what you'd think then?  "They'll work it out on their own.  I have no intention of butting in.  They seem happy enough to me."  Happier for sure when his wife is returned to her rightful body.  Father Almighty...please help them be successful!

         Patrick O'Kenney pushed himself out of the chair.  "No use sitting around here shootin' the shit.  I only have a few hours before my train back to Boston.  I need to see Red, visit a bit, and get this paperwork done.  She at the deli?"

         Damn!  What a mess!  If he talks to Rachel, he's gonna know for sure something's not right.  Pat's no dummy.  I gotta run interference somehow.  "As a matter of fact, Mo sprained her ankle a few days ago.  Badly. Doc wants her to rest it for a few days.  She's at home. In the flat. In bed."

         "Good.  It will give us a few uninterrupted hours to visit."

          God no!  What a disaster! "Say...what if I take a few hours off and visit with you guys?"

         "What the hell for?  You just said you're swamped.  Besides, you see Red all the time.  Let me have this one on one time, Kev.   Just me and Red."


Copyright  Victoria T. Rocus 2015
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