martinsmithstories

Photo by Krasimir Savchev on Unsplash

Craven Cremer, a man of pale complexion and spindly frame, had two great loves: intrepid, off-the-beaten-track travel and his morning coffee, so having trekked for an hour by torchlight, it was with much excitement and in eager anticipation that he arrived at the head of a narrow bridge as dawn’s first light greyed the forest below.

The previous night, whilst sitting at a café in a quaint French village and nibbling an assortment of cheese and fruit from a platter and sipping a glass of Bordeaux, he had fallen into conversation with a crusty local who had tipped him off.

‘It’s the world’s greatest coffee,’ the old man whispered behind his raised wrinkled hand. ‘Only the locals know about it and its location. We don’t want any tourists, any of those foreigners, knowing about our village’s little secret.’

‘I’m not a tourist,’ Craven said. ‘I’m a traveller.’

‘Hmm, you don’t say,’ the old man said with a hint of a wry smile. He emitted a dry, raspy cough and rubbed his sun-wrinkled throat as he eyed the platter and the wine bottle on the table.

‘Where’re my manners? May I offer you a glass of wine?’ Craven said, pouring a glass and passing it to the old man.

‘Oui, oui, mon ami. Most generous of you, traveller.’ The old man emptied the glass in two gulps, and Craven obliged when the glass was held out for a second filling.

‘And would you like to share my platter?’

‘Merci beaucoup, mon ami.’ And the old man helped himself to a slice of Camembert and an olive.

Satisfied the old man had satiated himself, Craven said, ‘Now, about this coffee. Look, I may be a foreigner, but my mother’s second cousin owns a French patisserie in Melbourne, Australia. Does that count?’

The old man slapped Craven on the shoulder. ‘Mon ami, you are almost family.’ He leant towards Craven, and looking left and right to ensure only the two of them would hear him, he whispered directions to the place where Craven now stood.

The cobblestoned bridge joined two steep hills, and a dirt road ran between the feet of the bridge before bending and disappearing into the black forest. Craven stood and looked out along the bridge to its other side. Parapets flanked the narrow path of the bridge, and clumps of dark weeds broke the monotony of the path’s grey dust. At the other end of the bridge, a huge, black rock stood sentinel, and, beyond, a caravan sat white against the greyness of the sun-shy trees. Above the caravan a neon sign flickered: World’s Greatest Coffee.

Craven set off towards the caravan. As he neared the middle of the bridge, its path narrowed, and he felt a touch of vertigo as he looked down to the road below. Craven quickened his step and—passing the huge rock—arrived at the servery window of the caravan. Within, a young man, sun-kissed and pony-tailed, busied himself with cups and cartons and a whirling coffee grinder.

‘Bonjour,’ Craven said.

‘Bonjour, mon ami,’ the young man said, returning a smile.

‘I’ve heard all about your famed coffee. I promise I’ll keep it a secret.’ Craven winked and tapped his nose with his index finger. ‘World’s greatest coffee, huh? Right then, could I please have a skinny flat white, to go. No, no, could you make that with an extra shot.’

‘Certainly, mon ami, but you will need to wait. It is not yet six.’ The man pointed to a sign that read: Opening hours 6.00 am to 6.15 am.

Pfft! Craven thought, nice work if you can get it.

‘Oh, OK,’ he said, a little disappointed.

‘But, mon ami, while I set up and make your coffee, let me tell you a story—one true, mind you—to pass the time.’

***

‘Many moons ago, in a town not that far from here, there lived three brothers: one tall, one dark and one baptised Albashie but called Hessian, for he wore a hessian bag over his head as he was as ugly as a boil on a bum. Their father, a widower and merchant, possessed not only a great fortune but also the three laziest sons to ever burden a father. While he spent his days immersed in the vagaries of commerce, his sons spent their days idling about the family manor, drinking expensive wine, devouring sumptuous feasts and chasing the skirts of winsome handmaidens.

‘In his sixtieth year, the father gathered his sons together at the front door to the great manor and announced he was ill and would be dead within a year. The sons wept and lamented their impending loss, but, within, rejoiced and fist-pumped about gaining their great inheritance so soon, thus allowing them to continue their lives of idleness until the end of their days, but free from their father berating their laziness.

‘“But,” the father said, “I have decided not to split my fortune into equal shares but, rather, to bequeath the lot to whomever of you returns within a year with the greatest wealth and the most beautiful of brides. A ship and a faithful crew of forty seasoned sailors await each of you at harbour’s edge. Good luck and Godspeed.” And the father slammed the great door of the great manor in the shocked faces of his indolent sons.

‘“Lovely,” the tall brother said.

‘“Charming,” the dark brother said.

‘“Does this mean we are not getting dinner, tonight?” Hessian said.

‘“Shut up, you fool,” the tall brother said to Hessian, and he clipped his brother over his ear. “You are as stupid as you are ugly. You might as well forget Father’s inheritance and crawl into a hole. As if any woman, let alone the world’s most beautiful bride, would marry a fool as ugly and stupid as you.” And he pushed Hessian to the ground, and he and his dark brother set off towards the harbour.

‘Westward the tall brother sailed his ship, crossing the great Western Ocean until he reached the Red Continent. And within a month, he’d filled his ship with Aztec gold and won the heart and hand in marriage of an emperor’s daughter. He set sail for a triumphal homecoming—and to what he knew would be an easily won inheritance—but, alas, his ship struck a reef and foundered, and the tall brother perished with his beautiful bride and gold.

‘Eastward the dark brother sailed his ship, crossing the great Eastern Ocean until he reached the Gold Continent. And within two months, he’d filled his ship with priceless exotic silks and spices, and his heart with the love of a princess. He set sail for his triumphal homecoming, but, alas, a raging ocean storm wrecked his ship, and he and his beautiful bride and his dreams of an easily won inheritance sank to the bottom of the sable sea.

‘Hessian decided to sail to the warmer climes of the south to seek his fortune and bride. He boarded his ship at night and hid from the prying eyes of his crew while his ship traversed the not-so-great Southern Sea and reached the land of pharaohs and pyramids. Having re-provisioned, Hessian and his crew sailed for forty days and forty nights up the Great River and into the jungled heartland of the Black Continent. All night, while his crew slept, Hessian manned the helm and, under the stars, fantasised about his future fortune and bride. All day, he kept to his cabin, avoiding the taunts and stares of his crew.

‘At noon each day, the crew drew straws to determine which of them would serve the captain his daily meal. Following a cry of despair at having drawn the shortest straw, the losing crewman wept salty tears and gnashed his blackened teeth and tore his sun-bleached hair and rent his sea-starched rig, only to surrender to duty and dawdle to the captain’s quarters. Having tiptoed in and placed the serving tray on the cabin table, he would turn towards the door to make his escape, only to hear a voice from the darkened corner whisper, “Thank you.” The losing crewmate would lay eyes upon the shadowed monstrosity of his master’s uncovered face and scream and rush from the cabin and either hang himself by the neck from the mainmast or shoot himself in the head or dash out upon the plank and fling himself into the crocodile-infested waters of the Great River, thinking it better to perish than let his master’s grotesqueness haunt his memory.

‘At dawn on the forty-first day, with the Great River depleted of its monsoonal rains, Hessian, provisionless and crewless, woke to scraping upon the hull and a sudden stop as the ship stuck fast to the bed of the Great River. He cursed his luck and weighed anchor in the shallows. Arming himself with his sword, he jumped from the ship onto the soft sand of the river shore. He paused and looked up at a great peak before him, then with a slash of his sword, he entered the jungle.

‘Up, up he climbed, slashing at the rampant growth. At noon, he reached the summit and collapsed. His parched throat burned, his empty stomach churned and his body, exhausted, seared with crushing pain.

‘“No more,” he said. “Let me die now than face a slow, excruciating death from dehydration and starvation.” And Hessian crossed himself and raised his sword and willed himself to end his days.

‘But a sunbeam broke through the jungle canopy and kissed his raised blade, and the reflected light fell upon the verdure. A flash of red amidst the interminable green caught Hessian’s eye, and he turned and beheld a bush in full flush with a bountiful red fruit. “I am saved,” he said, and he crawled over to the bush. With a trembling hand, he picked a berry and squeezed it. A bean burst through the shiny surface of red flesh. He placed the bean in his mouth and swallowed. He waited to see if the bean would poison him, but, instead, a great calm came over him. His hunger disappeared, as did his thirst and despair. I feel good, he thought, really good.

‘Reinvigorated, Hessian filled his pockets with beans. He then climbed a tree and surveyed his surroundings and saw the peak was an island surrounded by a forking and rejoining of the Great River. As his eyes followed the island’s shore away from his moored ship, he spied a bridge joining the island to the mainland. “Civilisation,” he said, and he set off to descend the peak and cross the bridge.