by James C. Clar
The bell above the door jingled once, almost tentatively, as the man entered. “Can I help you, sir?” The shopkeeper asked as he looked up from his ledger. Dust drifted lazily in the wane afternoon light. The space was filled with shelves, the shelves laden with hooks, nets, lanterns; all the oddments required by the inhabitants of a small, lakefront village.
The visitor paused just inside, as though adjusting to something heavier than the relative dimness of the interior. His eyes, dark and brooding, moved across the shop until they settled on a coil of rope resting serpent-like among others in a corner.
“Is that good quality?” he asked as he pointed. His voice was low, controlled. At the same time, it carried a certain gravity that belied the mundane nature of the question.
The shopkeeper smiled, slipping easily into a practiced cheerfulness. “Of course. All the local fishermen shop here. They’d know, wouldn’t they?”
The man didn’t return the smile. He walked over and hefted the rope. His calloused fingers pressed into the fibers, testing them. They lingered as though searching for a certain quality or characteristic only he could fathom.
“Strong,” he eventually declared.
“The strongest I carry,” the shopkeeper replied with professional pride. “Won’t fray, won’t snap. It’s the kind of rope a man can trust.”
A flicker passed across the stranger’s face, something akin to doubt or, perhaps, regret. It vanished as quickly as it appeared.
“I’ll take it,” he said. His tone suggested resignation mixed with weariness.
“Excellent, choice,” the shopkeeper replied now with a satisfied smile that eclipsed his previous, more artificial one. It had been a slow day. He wasted no time gathering the rope and setting it on the counter. “That will be …”
Before the merchant could finish, the customer dropped a heavy leather pouch onto the scarred wooden counter-top with a thud. The sound echoed resoundingly, filling the small shop. A few coins spilled out in a bright cascade. Silver flared in the dim light as one rolled along the counter and stopped just as it reached the edge.
The bewildered shopkeeper looked into the man’s eyes. When he spoke, his voice was hesitant, uncertain. “Sir, this is far too much.”
“No matter,” the man said as he looked up. “Keep the change. I won’t be needing it.”
With that, the man placed the coiled rope over his arm and around his shoulder. He never gave the owner another glance as he turned to leave. The bell above the door jingled once again, more sharply this time, as he stepped out onto the dusty street. It seemed to the shopkeeper that the sound lingered far longer than it ought to have.
The retailer, amazed at his good fortune, looked down again at the pouch. Grasping it with what almost amounted to physical hunger, he loosened the cord all the way. The gleam from within reflected in his eyes.
“You won’t believe it, honey,” he called to the back of the shop as he scooped up a handful of the contents and let them spill lazily through his fingers as he counted. “Some damn fool just bought a length of rope for ….” he paused momentarily to finish. “Thirty pieces of silver!”
James C. Clar is a writer and retired teacher. In addition to his contributions to Sudden Flash, his work has most recently been published in Flash Digest, Bright Flash Literary Review, Freedom Fiction Journal, The Magazine of Literary Fantasy, After/Thought Literary Journal, 365-Tomorrows, Antipodean SF and Metastellar Magazine.
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