The Lavender Tavern

The Tavern at the Edge of the World

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Episode notes

If you venture far enough to the west, the world comes to an end...

On the edge of an endless fog, a lonely bartender welcomes a weary traveler. They've each got a tale to tell the other, but who's really telling the truth?

Written by: Jonathan Cohen

Narrated by: Joe Cruz

A Faustian Nonsense production.

To read the full transcript of this episode, go to https://thelavendertavern.captivate.fm/episode/the-tavern-at-the-edge-of-the-world

Content warnings: homophobia, sexism

Transcript

[Intro: This story is called “The Tavern at the End of the World.” It does not take place in the Lavender Tavern…but somewhere where men and women come together to eat, drink and tell each other stories. You might call it a tavern…or you might call it home.]

If you venture far enough to the west, the world comes to an end.

Leave your town, forsake your village, abandon your hamlet and wander the land, always facing the sunset. After the last few settlements have faded, and the cobblestone road has become a dirt path, and then a mere hint of wheel tracks in the grass, you will come to a single, low-slung building at the end of the world.

It has no name; it needs no name. There is a sign outside that reads “LAST CHANCE FOR SUPPLIES.” The lettering of the sign has faded. Worse, the lettering has been eaten away, like everything else, by the fog.

For beyond the building, there is a line of rolling fog that never moves eastward and never recedes westward. It stands guard in a long straight line that stretches past where the eye can see. There is no further going west unless you step into the cold, unknowable fog.

And if you are standing at the Edge of that fog, trying to peer into what lies beyond, and thinking about those who have already come this way, it may occur to you to pause, for just a moment. To turn and look at the low stone building with the thatched roof and smoke coming from a chimney at one end. To walk away from the mist – even five feet away from it is a relief – and put a hand on the stone next to the building’s door, where a bronze plate has also been worn down by time and the fog.

The bronze plate, if you pass your fingers over it, will tell you that the name of the building is The Tavern. But anyone who has heard of it from travelers and explorers knows it as the Tavern at the End of the World.

Inside, there is a giant burly man tending bar. He has long blond-red hair in braids down his back, and his beard is also braided. He conceals his belly, unsuccessfully, under a large leather apron.

On this night, the man, Chaol, is polishing mugs. There are no guests at the Tavern tonight. A willowy black woman named Bellona is straightening the tables and chairs. They are both quiet, listening to the wind and the snow howl outside.

It is an hour before closing, and Chaol is contemplating closing up early.

He walks to the front door and pushes it open a crack to look out, shivering at the frosty winter air. The fog has caused the stones in the wall to settle, and Chaol is the only one who can fully close the door.

The night is a sliver of black. Before Chaol can use his meaty hands to slam the door shut, he sees the traveler.

The person is struggling through the wind, staggering from step to step but clearly moving towards the Tavern. Chaol calls back to Bellona, “A guest!” and steps out into the storm, heedless of the driving snow.

The traveler is heavily bundled up in furs and leathers, and only once Chaol has brought him inside and the traveler has peeled the outside clothes away that he is revealed: a young man of no more than twenty-and-five. Standing by the fire, he warms himself and Chaol notes the man’s lean, muscular body and piercing blue eyes.

The young man turns, and seeing Chaol’s glance, smiles. His gaze passes to a deck of cards strewn on one of the tables. “Do you play Hearts?” the young man asks in a soft tenor voice.

“No,” Chaol replies, and hears the deep rumbling in his own voice for what seems like the first time. “That deck is for customers.”

The young man pulls his arms around himself as if for warmth, but Chaol senses disappointment. “I am Akain,” he says after a time.

A silence. “You must be hungry,” Chaol offers, shyly. “Can we get you some dinner?”

“Is it good?” Akain asks, then shakes his head. “It is the only meal available within a day’s walk. Of course it is good. Please.”

Bellona, who has been watching this interplay, moves towards the kitchen but Chaol stops her with a paw. She raises an eyebrow, then goes over to Akain.

“You are quite brave to come out all this way,” Bellona says. This is what she usually says to travelers, the male, handsome ones, and often it works. When it does not, sometimes it works if Chaol says it.

Akain’s eyes, however, are looking toward the kitchen. “Yes, there are many legends about the End of the World. I’m sure you’ve heard them all.”

Bellona smiles. “I have heard legends from every town in the land. If you tell me where you are from, I can tell you their stories.”

Akain shakes his head. “‘It does not matter where we start out. We shall all arrive together at the end.’ One of our poets said that.”

Bellona does not know poetry, and so she says nothing, until Chaol brings out a wooden tray with a hearty meal and a tankard of ale.

Chaol can see the food-hunger in Akain’s eyes, and their game of watching each other comes to a quick stop. “Let us go put up the chairs in the back,” Chaol says to Bellona, and motions her away from Akain’s table, where a feast is now in progress.

“No, please,” Akain says suddenly, lifting his head from the food, beard damp with stew-juice which he mops with a cloth. “I bid you stay with me and give me some company. I have been on the road – or whatever passes for a road out there – for so long, without another soul. I need some company on this snowy night.”

And when Chaol and Bellona look at each other uncertainly, Akain adds, “I’d be happy to buy you each an ale if you join me.”

There are no other customers. The night is cold and wintry. So Chaol pours two more ales and he and Bellona sit across from an increasingly-satisfied Akain.

Once Akain has finished the meal, he asks: “Where did all this come from? Did you build the Tavern?” His eyes are very, very blue, Chaol notes.

Akain is waiting for an answer. “Ah,” Chaol says, feeling clumsy and a bit foolish in his burliness. “Adventurers have been passing this way, and going beyond the End of the World for tens of years, perhaps hundreds of years. There were no supply stops, and many froze, or starved, or perished in other ways before they reached the Edge. I decided to build a Tavern here to serve what you may call a captive market.” He shrugs. “The rest of the story is for another time.”

Akain slams down the empty tankard. “Yes, a story! A story is what I want.” He looks back and forth between Chaol and Bellona. “We travelers have little else for currency but the stories we bring. If you care to tell me a story of yours, I will tell you one of mine.”

Chaol sits back – a rejection, Akain wonders? But Bellona is smiling, and Akain can see a story unspooling in her mind. She leans forward and says, “I will tell you my story.”

------- BELLONA’S STORY -------

“I had always been a bookish type (Bellona said), and so my parents despaired that I would never marry. When a famous cartographer came to our town, they bargained with her to take me. I know not what they asked in exchange for me, but Seren the cartographer was happy to have someone to carry her scrolls and books, sharpen her quills, and haul her packs.

“I had been born in the town of Wells, and with Seren, we traveled from Wells to Antimony, from Antimony to Imo Gate, from Imo Gate to Jordan Crossing, and from Jordan Crossing – well, from there the land opened up and we had the world at our heels.”

“Seren and I traveled long and far across the land, North and South at first, and then covering all of the distance East until we arrived at the ocean. I learned how to sew, and how to mend, and how to cook for a finicky cartographer, and care for a sick cartographer, and heal a lovesick cartographer.

“I saw a town where everyone was a different shade of blue – light, medium, dark, all of the blues you can imagine. I saw a town dug into a quartz outcropping a mile long. I saw a village on stilts that the villagers picked up during storms and wars, and moved to safer grounds.

“Once we had finished traveling North and South and East, of course we went West. Seren wanted to travel beyond the known world. She wanted to go past the Edge and map the other side. I knew no other life, and no other person in my life, so we went West together.

“And finally we came to the fog and we stood at the End of the World. And I realized that I did not want to go past the boundary. 

“Seren went on ahead, and I came to this Tavern to rest for the night. In these days many explorers were trying to conquer the Edge, and Chaol was run ragged. I offered to help, and he offered me a job.”

She stretches out her hands to encompass Chaol, the roaring fire in the hearth, and the rest of the Tavern. “And here I am today.”

------- BELLONA’S STORY END -------

Akain smiles. “Do you not want to find out what is beyond the Edge?” he asks.

“No,” Bellona answers. “I have seen and experienced and learned all that our land holds; there is no more mystery to it. If I were to go beyond the Edge, that mystery would be snuffed out as well. As long as I stay on this side of the fog, I have one last mystery to keep in my heart. I can peer out at the Edge whenever I want to.” She pointed to a window at the back that looked out onto the fog, criss-crossed by snowfall.

“Did Seren ever come back?” Akain asks quietly.

Chaol leans forward at this point, eager to add something to the conversation that seems to have slipped away from him. “More than half of those who pass beyond the Edge never return.” He frowns thoughtfully. “Or at least, they have not returned SO FAR.”

“Some of those who come back bring treasure,” Bellona explains. “And some are locked within their minds and never wake. None has ever remembered what happened to them on the other side.”

There is a moment of shared silence as the wind batters the shutters of the fog-laden window. Then Akain asks Chaol, blue eyes burning, “What do you think is on the other side?”

“I have not been on the other side,” Chaol says simply, and rises to secure the shutters.

“He is a man of few words,” Bellona whispers to Akain.

“And I like that,” Akain says. Ah, Bellona thinks. “Another round for us?” he asks.

Chaol returns with the ales and he and Akain share a silent look. He feels a longing, something he has not reckoned with for many years. From Akain’s sharp eyes, it seems that the young man feels it too. Bellona’s exasperated expression suggests that she too feels it.

“And now it is your turn,” Chaol tells Akain, smiling. “You wanted to trade in the currency of explorers. Bellona and I have been tending the Tavern for months with no new tales. What stories do you have for us?”

The smile Akain gives Chaol is perhaps too close, too intimate, but he collects himself and nods. “Yes, a story.”

Then, pulling his chair a bit closer to the rough-hewn table, Akain says, “This is the story of someone who could have anything they wanted, except for their heart’s desire.”

------- AKAIN’S STORY -------

“There was a town (Akain said) called Galatium. This was a fancy name for a town, and yet it was little more than a hamlet, with a church and perhaps ten houses, and some common buildings.”

“I know Galatium,” Bellona says, wrinkling up her nose. “They did not like that Seren was a cartographer and a woman. Nor did they like that I was assisting her and a woman, or that we were unaccompanied by men.”

“Yes (Akain continued), Galatium was a village of traditional men. The men led the village, and the women were told from birth that their role was to serve the men.

“One year, a baby girl was born into the largest family. They named her Havila. Ordinarily, Havila would have served and listened, and married and had children.

“But Havila liked to fight. She liked to play with toy swords. And she liked to play in the dirt and mud, and come home with soiled and torn clothes, having sparred with some of the local boys and having taught them that women too can fight.

“Her parents scolded her, and told her time and time again, this was not a proper pastime for girls. Havila was to learn music, and to write perfumed letters, and stitch happy messages.

“Havila had a friend, Orlow, a boy one year younger than she. While he had been happy to fight and wrestle and make mud pies with her, once she followed more ladylike pursuits, it seemed that Orlow was even happier.

“When Havila was sixteen, she escaped from the music and perfumed letters and happy messages. She ran into the forest, telling not even Orlow she was leaving, and she laughed and ran and jumped in the mud as much as she desired.

“And then she stole some clothing from the men of her own family, and bound her chest tight, and put dirt on her face and cut her hair short with a sharp rock. And she presented herself to a group of men who were fighting on behalf of Galatium and other nearby villages.

“Havila was naturally gifted at fighting, and at swordplay. She would have succeeded at her aims, only one day she gashed her leg and the healer had to remove her leathers to treat her. She begged the healer not to say anything, but the healer believed that men should rule and women should serve. He sent a messenger to her father.

“I understand what you wish,” her father said. Her father did not understand, for as a man, he had been granted everything he desired. “That is simply how people are – men and women. We are different for a reason.”

“A reason!” Havila told Orlow bitterly. “There is no reason that one must lead and one must follow. I will not follow.”

They were in the town library, where Havila had dragged Orlow to look up tomes on a particular obscure subject. They were surrounded by dusty books and scrolls, and Orlow thought Havila had never looked prettier. 

“There is a reference here,” Havila pointed to one scroll, “and a recollection here, and it is all very difficult to follow. But I have ascertained the truth.”

Orlow said, “There is no truth here. There is only fantasy.”

Havila rolled up the scroll with quick, jerky movements. “There are two wizards. One in the North, and one in the South. They can do what I ask.”

“You cannot become a man, as much as you would like,” Orlow said. “It is beyond magic.”

Havila tossed her head. “I can do whatever I wish. If I must become a man to live the life of a man, then I shall ask one of the wizards to cast a magic on me.”

Orlow placed his hand on hers. “Would you stay if I offered you all the benefits of being a man? You could have the run of our household. You could make all of the decisions.”

She pulled away slowly. “I have told you that I do not love you, Orlow,” Havila said. Then, seeing his forlorn face: “There is no fault in you. But you are a man, and I love only women.”

“You only love women because in truth, you wish to be a man,” he said, very quietly.

“All right, Orlow. I will never go through with it,” Havila promised. “I tell you, I will never go through with it, on my grandmother’s grave.” She was lying. Her grandmother was yet alive.

That was the last they spoke on the subject, or on any subject. Once Havila had saved enough of her allowance, she scrounged an explorer’s pack, walking clothes and staff, and she left Galatium for the South.

The Northern wizard seemed just as skilled as the Southern wizard, but Havila did not like the cold, and so she traveled south. She met monsters and foul weather and pirates and liars and knaves, and she reached the South, where the wizard had a simple hut.

“How much?” she demanded of the wizened fellow in the rune-inscribed robes. “How much to transform me into a man?”

He wrinkled up his nose. “You have been traveling long, and your manner has the roughness of the explorer.” He shrugged. “I can transform you, if you stay for a month. But you must know what you will be.”

“I will be able to lead, and rule, and decide,” Havila said. She did not want to hear any more, but the wizard went on.

“You will grow hair here and there, and your body will become hard instead of soft. You will be clumsy at times, and headstrong, and have sudden anger. You will know courage and fear together, and you will not love those you love now.”

Havila smiled. “I already have hair here and there, and I am hard and clumsy and angry and –“ She looked at him carefully. “What do you mean, ‘those you love now’?”

“Do you love men, women, both, or neither?” the wizard asked solemnly.

“Women,” she said.

“Then once the transformation is complete, you shall love only men.”

For a woman to love women was not spoken of in Galatium, but it was known to happen. For a man to love another man in Galatium? This was impossible. It was unmanly, and it left no possibility of family heirs.

But Havila was determined, and she nodded at the wizard and brashly said, “Let us begin.”

Thirty days later, Havil set off from the South wizard’s hut back towards Galatium. The trip was easier and faster because of his new strength and size, and because monsters fled before his sword.

Also, Havil admitted privately to himself one night as he camped by a fire, because he longed to see Orlow. What had been friendship and affection for Orlow as Havila the woman, now was attraction and something close to love as Havil the man.

It was unthinkable, it was impossible, but Havil knew he and Orlow could manage it.

Until he arrived at Galatium, and found Orla.

Havila had told Orlow she would never change her body, or her mind. For Orlow, the only way he could have Havila was to become the woman she wanted. And so he went to the wizard of the North, through the marshes and swamps and ice floes and glaciers. Thirty days later, Orla returned to Galatium and discovered that Havila was missing…

The Northern wizard was less...