The Keening Cup

The Hole. Mulled Wine and Hex Herbs. A Toast to the Town. 

Elina Hogsbreath angrily drove her spade into the earth. Heaving, she hucked the wet mud aside and stood the shovel upright to gauge depth against its neck.

“Oughta do,” she grumbled.

Reaching into her apron pocket, Elina grasped a handful of salt and scattered it in the hole.

Gripping her skirts, she turned away and trudged through the snowy twilight. “Come grass and clover,” she breathed, “it’ll be the last year if I’ve anythin’ to say ‘bout it.”

It was the dead of winter in the hamlet of Pondaroak. These were the bitterly cold days that attended the longest nights of the year, so the Halfling folk of Aevalorn referred to them as the dark days. In their tradition, the last of the dark days were to be celebrated amongst friends, accompanied by a cheerful fire, a bevy of food, and sweet mulled wine.

However, for Elina Hogsbreath, proprietor of the Swindle & Swine, Pondaroak’s only tavern and inn, the last of the dark days meant one thing: entertaining the vanity of Horwich Cobbleberry.

Throwing her shovel against the wall, she shot up the small flight of stairs of the inn’s back porch. Drying her naked feet with a towel, she entered her kitchen.

She was greeted by the tantalizing aroma of baking bread, sizzling pork, and simmering lentil soup. The kitchen was warmed by a massive fieldstone hearth hosting a spitted roasted pig and an aged black cooking cauldron. Beside the hearth, the heavy iron door of a hot clay oven depicted a pike-wielding halfling warrior slaying a hydra. Colored glass windows gave the kitchen soft hues and greens and blues, and on a crooked oak podium near the windowsill sat a thick leather cookbook, its pages stained from generations of use.

She went to a tin pail with a mop sunk inside it and dumped the remaining salt into the soapy water. Discarding the sack, she rotated the pig, swished around the contents of a bubbly saucepan with a metal spoon, and stirred the soup.

Approaching the cookbook, she fussed with her curly brown hair to secure it behind her head and confirmed her evening’s special recipe.

“Belladonna,” she mumbled. Running her finger across the page, she squinted and whispered, “Damn my eyes. Mandrake. Sumac. Poke root. Counter long-term effects with Verbena.”

Satisfied, she huffed, grabbed her mop and pail, and left the kitchen.

“Ho, Elina!” greeted Jacob Barkfoot from the counter.

The tavern was full and clamoring in conversation. The Swindle offered six oak tables scattered around a warm, modest hearth under a thick iron chandelier with drippy beeswax candles. Truffler, a taxidermied warthog, kept watch from the fireplace mantle.

“Jacob,” Elina grumbled, coming out from behind the bar. She plopped her pail on the floor, dipped the mop, and began scrubbing the floors. “What can I get for you, love?”

Jacob was taken aback. Removing his pipe from his mouth, he asked, “Oh, what’s got you so grumpy?”

Hunched over, her attention paid diligently to the floor, Elina responded, “You know, and y’needn’t ask.”

Jacob sputtered dismissively. “Elina! It’s a seventeen-year tradition-”

“Seventeen years of damned foolishness!” she spat, scrubbing the mop excessively into the floorboards. “Every year, he invites fae into my inn. He taunts powers he don’t understand t’do nothin’ else but feed his vanity!”

Jacob leaned in and smiled kindly, whispering, “Oh, nothing ever happens, Elina. It’s all done in good spirit.”

Mopping the floor around Jacob, she growled, “Sure, ‘til the spirit shows up. So, what, Jacob? Mead? Ale? Mulled wine?”

Returning the pipe to his mouth, he chuckled, tipped his chin, and said, “Ale.”

“Right up, quick-as-spit,” Elina nodded, bringing her pail and mop back around the counter. And as she was rinsing her hands in a porcelain wash basin, the big round door to the inn opened, and the crowd erupted in applause.

Elina angrily thrust her hands against the counter, closed her eyes, and upturned her face to the ceiling.

Horwich Cobbleberry triumphantly entered the Swindle holding a blackthorn wood case above his head. Horwich was a middle-aged halfling with flecks of gray in his walnut-brown hair. He was dressed in a fancy dinner jacket sporting matching breeches, a sturdy burgundy waistcoat, and a silk lime-green ascot tucked into a white cotton shirt. So enamored with his own arrival, he didn’t bother to wipe his feet when he came in.

“Merry Darkest Day to you all!” he yelled, making his way through the crowd and nodding appreciatively to those he passed. Everyone stood from their chairs so they’d have a chance to see him, and some even leaped onto the tables to whistle. It wasn’t until he reached his usual chair nearest the hearth that he gingerly set the case on a table, outstretched his arms, and basked in the attention.

“Greetings, greetings!” Horwich said gregariously, and when he spoke, the room gradually hushed. “As you know, on the Darkest Day, I’ve made it my habit to toast the town and drink from the Keening Cup!”

There was another round of whistles, cheers, applause, and cries saluting his bravery, at which Horwich satisfactorily placed his pudgy hands on his rotund belly. Gripping his jacket’s lapel, he raised his hand to silence the room.

“The Keening Cup,” he continued, glancing at the case on the table, “is cursed, made from the wood of a blackthorn tree that sheltered the grave of a hag!”

As the crowd exploded again, Elina angrily snared a tall tin cup and filled it with ale. It sloshed to the polished counter when she served it to Jacob.

Putting a chubby finger into the air, Horwich sneered and said, “They say that if you drink from the Keening Cup, it’ll summon a wailing woman - a banshee - who’ll reveal how you’ll die in the year ahead! And if she don’t come, well guess what? You won’t be dyin’ this year!”

The crowd roared, laughed, clanked their cups, and pounded the tables. As Horwich approached the bar, he shouted, “So get your drinks! Muster your courage! I’ll be toastin’ presently!”

Busily filling mugs and cups, Elina glared at Horwich and scolded him under her breath, “Every year, y’promise not to, an’ every year, y’come back! So why should I even ask?”

“What’s the harm, Elina?” he smiled, then whispered into the back of his hand. “Everyone loves it. What’s the problem?”

“‘Tis dangerous an’ stupid!” Elina hissed, passing along the filled drinks. “You’re temptin’ fate, Horwich!”

Horwich waved his hands dismissively. “Don’t be silly, Elina! I’ve done this for seventeen years. It’s not like I’m likely to die on my eighteenth. And alright, I promise, last time, last year. I swear!”

Elina rolled her eyes.

“Remembers what I always tells ya,” Elina said, leering at him and tapping her fingers against the bar.

“What? A Bullaun?” he grinned at the mere thought. “That rubbish?”

“Yes!” Elina insisted, wiping down the counter with a rag. “If she shows, run. Run as fast as ye can! You find a stone with a hollow center. Be it filled with fresh, and I mean, fresh rainwater, you drink from it, Horwich! As much of it as ye can! It’ll counter a curse.”

“Nya,” Horwich shrugged.

“Hor-wich! Hor-wich!” cried the crowd as they clapped and slammed their tables. He faced his adoring audience, raised his hands, and nodded pleasantly at them.

Turning, Horwich said to Elina, “Thank you. I’ll take my usual if you please.”

Shaking her head, Elina chortled and raised her voice. “Of course. Mulled wine. Made it for you special tonight, Master Cobbleberry. Present your cup, an’ I’ll be right back.”

Stepping into her kitchen, Elina went to the cooking hearth to address a simmering saucepan with brandy, a dry red wine, sliced citrus, a stick of cinnamon, and an ample amount of honey. It was a serving for one and was lightly boiling. Lifting her stone mortar and pestle from the counter, she sprinkled a fine green, gray, and black powder over it and stirred to mix.

Using a potholder, she grabbed the hot iron skillet and brought along a strainer, then left the kitchen for the bar.

Horwich retrieved the Keening Cup and brought it to the counter. Everyone in the house pried to get a good glance at it. It was indeed made from the wood of a blackthorn tree, crudely crafted in the shape of an onion, and leaned a bit to the left. Waves of fine black grain circled and looped around the cup, and it bore an aged patina. Straining the skillet, Elina poured the mulled wine into the cursed cup to fill it halfway.

“Horwich,” Elina insisted in a final, desperate plea. “Some things aren’t worth knowin’!”

Smiling, Horwich took the cup and waved at Elina, then directed his wave to the crowd. He theatrically went to the table and hoisted the Keening Cup into the air.

“Friends!” he cried, placing a stately thumb into his waistcoat pocket. “I hardly know half of you, and I suspect it’s the half that ain’t worth knowin’!”

There was a cheer, and everyone raised glasses, mugs, tins, and tankards into the air. All except for Elina, who simply watched Horwich from behind the bar with folded arms and a bitter scowl.

Rosy-cheeked and adoring being the center of everyone’s attention, Horwich continued. “So I look forward to meetin’ the better half in the year ahead! To Pondaroak!”

“Pondaroak!” everyone laughed.

Smiling deviously, Horwich added, “May we love what we’ve taken for granted, walk paths we’ve forgotten, sing songs we’ve never sung, dance when we’re offered, and have the courage to say yes!”

“Yes!” boomed the crowd. Drinks sloshed down halfling arms and to the tavern floor.

“We wish goodnight to the Darkest Day!” Horwich yelled, and everyone pulled their drinks. Horwich drank all of the sweet mulled wine from the Keening Cup.

“YES!” Horwich exclaimed. Holding his cup high, he slammed its base against the table.

Everyone in the room burst into delightful laughter and applause. Some halflings hugged each other, while others reached around to shake hands and pat some on the back. A few others did a spry jig, eager to get their first dance in for the new year.

Irritated, Elina picked up a dishrag and absently scrubbed down used plates to stack them in a bin behind the bar.

Horwich feasted on their elation; he embraced some, avoided others, and promised too often and insincerely.

As he launched into retelling the story about how his great great great grandfather came to acquire the Keening Cup, Horwich Cobbleberry felt something … peculiar.

It was a burning in his chest, like heartburn.

“Hrumph,” he mumbled, striking his sternum with the thumb side of his fist. “Rather spicy, that! Everyone! A cheer for Elina: the best innkeeper there is, albeit the only innkeeper we have!”

“Huzzah!” cheered the crowd facing Elina.

She smiled sardonically and politely curtsied.

Placing a polite hand to his mouth, Horwich suddenly felt a burning in his esophagus, and he belched very loud and deep, drawing the crowd’s attention to him. He placed his palm painfully against his chest, and sweat was beading on his brow.

Elina smirked and left for the kitchen with a bin full of dishes.

Coughing heavily, Horwich could feel the rising bile burning the back of his throat. He thrust his hand out to the table’s surface to support his weight. The crowd’s concern for his well-being spread, especially when he gasped, gurgled and stared blankly at the ceiling.

Horwich saw all of the candles burning on the iron chandelier extinguish from the gust of a stiff wind leaving only the orange light of the resting fire.

Gasping, panicked, and red-faced, he looked to summon Elina, but she was gone.

“Mr. Cobbleberry!” some cried out, horrified at his sudden beet-colored complexion. Predicting the worst, someone threw open the front door and beat a hasty exit while others encouraged Horwich to sit.

“You relax here, Horwich,” said Jacob Barkfoot, helping him rest back in a chair. “Say, can we get some water?”

Horwich choked, his eyes were wide and puffy, and all he could see was the empty tavern room barely lit by the fire.

And as he leaned back into the chair, a ghostly figure crossed the tavern’s threshold. It was a Gaelwyn woman - a human woman - who carried her own decapitated head in a wash basin filled with blood.

Soaked in her own juices, her dead mouth opened and she issued a deafening, unearthly shriek.

“Gaaahhhkkkk!” Horwich gurgled.

His eyes twitched and rolled back into his head.

“Water!” Jacob cried.

Upon seeing Horwich, some of the patrons eyed their own drinks, threw their cups to the floor, and dashed out the door.

Her scream was penetrating and intolerable; Horwich barely remained conscious. She wore a bride’s dress, torn, rotted, and ripped, and the thorny stems of rotted flowers grew out of her forearms. Black rose petals fell where she walked, and an ooze boiled over her neck stump like a foul puss. Her tongue slowly curled outwards , and she began to speak.

“Horwich Cobbleberry,” she rasped in the voice of the grave; she gurgled her own blood. “Born of Bloom and Dansworth!”

Hyperventilating, Horwich’s hand clawed at the table and raked the surface with his nails, peeling away tracks of the veneer.

Uncertain of what Horwich was experiencing, most of the crowd ran for the door. They shouted, slammed into each other, tripped, shoved, and pushed - whatever they could do to escape.

To Horwich, the darkness was blasted away by a burst of hot flame that roared into a bonfire emanating from the fireplace.

The head of the banshee grimaced. “So tempted to drink from the Keening Cup, I gift you your reward!”

Sweat poured down Horwich’s face. His body spasmed and convulsed.

“Drink, Horwich!” Jacob pleaded. Some water entered his mouth while most of it spilled over his lips to the floor.

“Your body will take to fire in the fall on the sixth night of a waning moon!” the banshee cried. “Prideful, vain, and conceited, your ashes will take high into the air. Yet, without burial or ceremony, never shall you find peace in the Green Fields. Your eternal soul will wander the mortal realm alone forever!”

“Urk!” Horwich tried to scream, but his throat had sealed. He extended a hand to the banshee to beg for forgiveness.

“Help me!” Jacob called, trying to hold Horwich still. The last of the stragglers bolted for the door.

Opening her mouth once more, the banshee unleashed a wail of intense despair, sorrow, and gloom. Her dead eyes stared intensely at Horwich, and he felt the weight of her loss on his shoulders. He felt all her hope, all which was promised and then stolen; within, he came to know her head was removed out of spite by a jealous lover.

Turning, the banshee slowly paced out the front door. When she stepped foot outside, her scream faded. Horwich gasped, threw his hands to his throat, and inhaled to suck down the air. His chest heaved as if it rode a storm-battered sea. Horwich grasped onto Jacob’s arm.

“Did … you see?!” Horwich asked.

“Everybody leaving? Yeah, I caught that! Great Green, I thought we were gonna lose you!” Jacob said. Jacob removed his cap and looked around Horwich’s shoulder, eying him weirdly. “Horry, what happened?”

Coming to his senses, Horwich now saw the tavern how it actually was. The candles along the iron chandelier were still lit; the fire was barely more than embers; the room was emptied save him and Jacob; Truffler regarded him judgementally. Discarded tankards and tin cups, resting in a morass of spilled liquid, were scattered across the floor.

Matted with sweat, Horwich ripped away his ascot and sat straight up. “A Bullaun,” he muttered. Sheer fright overcame him. “I must find a Bullaun!”

Leaping to his feet, Horwich raced out of the Swindle & Swine and frantically made for the edge of the forest, and disappeared into the night.

Elina Hogsbreath emerged from the kitchen with her shovel and a fresh sunflower tucked into her hair. Walking like she was on a mission, she stomped across the tavern to the table closest to the fire.

“Elina,” Jacob whispered, stunned, appealing to her as she marched by. “Did you see? Poor Horwich: he choked. Something in his drink closed his airway. Say, er, what’s the shovel for?”

Elina scooped the Keening Cup off the floor and dumped it into its blackthorn wood case. She used the shoulder of the spade to close the lid and smacked the latch to lock it solid.

Jacob rose uncomfortably. “Well, I, er-”

“Thanks for visitin’, Jacob,” Elina said dryly, driving the shovel under the case and lifting it. “Come back early on the ‘morrow, an’ I’ll have a delicious batch of rhubarb muffins waitin’ here, just for you.”

“For me?” Jacob asked fearfully. He nervously patted down his jacket and eyed the door. Pointing outside, he headed in that direction and said, “G’night, Elina.”

“Hmm,” she grunted.

After Jacob left, she followed him out with the cup’s case extended well away from her, balanced at the end of the shovel. Traipsing through the snow, she circled the tavern, unwaveringly bound for the salted hole.