Chapter 3
Two Weeks Later, in Stump River...
Ryne sat quietly, nursing his drink in the local pub called The Broken Antler. Its name came from the old and weathered set of moose antlers that dangled precariously over the entrance on a rusty chain. At one time, there’d been an actual moose head adorning the front of the building and the pub had naturally acquired the name 'The Moose Head.' But when decay finally set in, and the trophy tumbled to the ground during an exceptionally windy storm, only the antlers remained in one piece. Armand St. John, the owner of the dubious establishment, was an eminently practical man and salvaged the almost intact, yellowing rack, hanging it over the door and renaming the pub to suit.
A dry chuckle escaped Ryne’s lips as he watched Armand working behind the bar, simultaneously serving beer, laughing at a customer’s off-coloured jokes and keeping a watchful eye over the activity on the floor. The bartender’s name really didn’t suit him at all. Armand St. John sounded like some effete interior designer and the bartender was anything but. Closer to seven foot than six, his body structure was like that of a bear and his appearance was not far off either; curly black hair peeked out of the collar of his shirt and covered the top of his head and the lower half of his face, his acquaintance with a barber or scissors obviously but a distant memory. A genial sort, he ruled the pub with an iron fist, acting as bouncer when the locals got too rowdy and providing a listening and sympathetic ear when needed.
The establishment, like its owner, was rough around the edges but basically a decent place. It was clean but not fancy, the wooden floors scarred from years of use and the walls decorated with plaques, a few dartboards and some questionable artwork ranging from movie posters, dogs playing poker, to a few poorly done oil paintings that some whispered had been painted by Armand himself, though no one dared to ask.
It was Friday night and the usual crowd had swelled due to the hockey game playing on the big screen TV that Armand had proudly installed a few months earlier. The favourite team was in danger of being out of the running for the playoffs and everyone had gathered to lend moral support. By some miracle, they were up three points and shouts of excitement rang out from all corners of the packed room. Waitresses scurried through the crowds, trays of beer, hotdogs, and pretzels skilfully balanced over their heads. Miraculously, they avoided the erratic movements of the patrons and managed to complete their jobs without mishap.
Ryne was thankful that smoking was banned in public places in Ontario; otherwise the room would likely have been a sea of haze and have smelled like an ashtray. As it was, those who craved nicotine kept entering and exiting the bar regularly, getting their fix and then coming back in while shouting questions about what had happened in the game during their absence. The constant opening and shutting of the door meant that gusts of cold night air kept swirling inside, ensuring that the smell of sweat, beer and fried onions was thoroughly distributed around the large room.
The heat from dozens of bodies, the flickering lights from the TV screen and the sounds from a myriad of conversations bombarded Ryne’s senses. He let it all wash over him as he sat in the far corner, content to hide in the relative peace and darkness it offered. His eyes were half closed as he watched the activity around him, his breathing deep, and even, his body appearing relaxed. He was in his own isolated bubble, detached from his surroundings, yet still aware on some instinctual level, in case something occurred that required a quick reaction.
Hockey was a fine game, the company was good, but tonight he had no interest in either the sport or in socializing. It was only at the insistence of his friends, Daniel and Bryan, that he’d conceded to leave the house. Lately, he’d been feeling out of sorts and he was sure they were trying to cheer him up, not only as part of their duty as friends, but because they were tired of dealing with his moods.
Maybe the problem was the fact that it was his birthday, and he was another year older. He didn’t feel older, despite what the calendar said. Tired, yes. Older, no. The renovations on his house were extensive and almost every waking hour was spent trying to repair the place. It was hard work, but he didn’t mind it. Sitting and doing nothing all winter would have driven him insane. The work gave him a purpose, even if it wore him out. So yes, he was tired, but that wasn’t the problem.
Taking another sip of his beer, he thought about the package he’d received in the mail this morning. His sister-in-law, Elise, had sent him a sweater for his birthday and a collection of cards from other members of the pack. It had been nice to read their well-wishes, but now he was feeling melancholy, missing the family he’d left behind when he’d moved here. It wasn’t as easy as he’d thought it would be, striking out on his own. The hard work and lack of money weren’t that difficult to deal with; it was the absence of an extended family. He was used to being part of a large group and now there was only himself and his two friends. They got along fine, but sometimes the large house he’d purchased seemed empty and cold. Lately, he’d find himself looking around and imagining what it would be like to have happy voices and friendly faces filling the place.