Tales from the Boer’s Head

(A Lore of the Boer’s Head Tale)

Written by P.H. Boer

There are evenings here where the wind curls beneath the eaves just so, whispering like a nosey drunk with secrets too old to forget. Nights like that, the fireplace hisses in protest and the stew doesn’t quite taste right, like it’s remembering something. That was the kind of night he came through the door, the trader.

But before we get to him, you need to understand something about this place. The Boer’s Head settles into its mood long before its patrons do. That night, it was pensive. Dust hung too long in the air. The tick of the old clock missed every third beat. Something under the floorboards, a knot of wood or something else, was thumping in a slow rhythm, like a second heart trying to decide if it should beat at all. The regulars were quiet, each hunched over their cups with the posture of men who’d made the mistake of thinking themselves safe.

It was during this hush that the door opened, not loudly, not ominously, just… opened. Like the pub expected him.

He looked like a man who had dressed for dinner in a place that never served it. His coat was rich but unlabeled, his beard perfectly unkempt. A dusty traveler’s bag hung at his side, thudding as he walked like it was filled with something heavier than it should be. Coins, perhaps, or something more nefarious.

His eyes, twin pits of the darkest ink, were wrong. Not frightening in the usual way. No slitted pupils or glowing irises, no twitch or gleam. Just black. Pitch. An infinite, pulling dark that you know in your marrow does not reflect light because it has never known light.

He never announces himself. He doesn’t need to. He simply sits at a table and waits. Waits for someone to take notice.

And there’s always someone.

Wanderers, drunks, romantics. People who have lost things. People who want. The man is patient. He never hawks his wares. He lays them out slowly, like a ritual.

The items are things you’d find in a drawer you don’t remember opening: a brooch that hums when you lie, a matchbox that never runs out but only lights when you’re in danger, a comb with a single strand of hair wrapped tightly in its teeth that never tangles. A key that fits any lock. A flask that never empties, a candle that never goes out, a spoon that seems, on all accounts, to be perfect.

That last one, unfortunately, is my burden..

And the spoon. Gods, the spoon.

It was almost plain in comparison to the rest. Heavy. Silver, maybe. With a long, squared handle and a perfectly ovular scoop. No embellishments, save for a tiny vertical slot at the end of the handle, like something was meant to slide inside and complete it. Or awaken it. I have yet to find out which.

I asked the price, expecting some coin or maybe a favor, but he merely tilted his head and nodded once.

I’ve regretted that nod ever since.

The spoon does everything a spoon should do. That’s the problem. It does it too well. It stirs with precision. Holds the perfect amount. It never spills, never burns your lips, never dirties. It makes every bite sing on your tongue. But it sings in a pitch you shouldn’t hear.

After a few days of use, I noticed my tongue was sore. A week later, swollen. Then I felt the tiny cuts, barely noticeable but persistent. I tried switching to other spoons, but everything tasted like a rat had bathed in it, warm, musty, with a sweet rot underneath. I could taste the fur. It was like joy laced with mildew. Like soup stirred with guilt.

Now, it’s the only spoon I can use. I keep it wrapped in cloth when not in use, and I do not let the trader see me with it.

I never made another deal.

Others do. They always do. You can see it in their eyes afterward. Sometimes it’s guilt. Sometimes it’s wonder. Sometimes it’s the hollow look of someone who realizes too late what they’ve lost. Their reflection no longer follows them. Their laughter echoes on a delay. Their name slips from their mother’s memory.

I do not know what the trader takes. I only know that he never asks for coin. His currency is stranger, subtler. Pieces of you that you didn’t know were collateral.

When the trader returns, he never takes a room. Never drinks or even tries the stew. Just sits. Waits. Watches.

Patrons still approach him, dazzled by his collection. I say nothing. They’ll learn their own price in time.

If you see him here, dear reader, my advice is simple:

Do not look upon his wares.

For the costs is forever paid and you may well regret your exchange.

~

The Innkeeper

Tongue-Torn. Witness of Poor Bargains. Keeper of Warnings That Go Ignored.