martinsmithstories

Photo by Krasimir Savchev on Unsplash

‘Hessian reached the head of the bridge at dusk, and popping another bean into his mouth, he set forth to cross the bridge. When he reached the other end, he paused to catch his breath and heard weeping.

‘He peered over the parapet, and there, sitting in the bridge’s shadow, wept a giant wearing a headscarf and slouched by the edge of the river.

‘“Why do you weep?” Hessian said.

‘“What the hell do you want?” the giant said. Ah, a giantess, Hessian thought. And, by the sound of it, a tad tempered.

‘“To know why you are sad?” he said.

‘“What’s it to you?” the giantess said.

‘Make that a foul mood, Hessian thought.

‘“I am a traveller,” Hessian said, “ready to aid one in need.”

‘“I don’t need help from anyone,” the giantess said, and she resumed her weeping.

‘“There, there. Why the angst?” Hessian said as he steeled himself for another raging mouthful.

‘“I … I … I’m sorry,” the giantess said with a softer tone. “I can’t help it. I’m just so tired and fratchy. I have a massive headache and am anxious and distracted. And no one is ever going to marry me.” And her tears increased and threatened to raise the level of the Great River.

‘“Here. Try a couple of these,” Hessian said, and he handed the giantess two beans. She raised her headscarf and popped them in her mouth and crunched and chewed and swallowed. She took a deep breath, exhaled and calm came to her world.

‘“What is your name?” Hessian said.

‘“Kofia,” she said. “I’m from a market town an hour’s walk from here. I’m the local troll. Half-troll, actually. On my mother’s side. My father was the local oracle. They died the day I was born, though Papa failed to predict that.”

‘“How did your parents die?” Hessian said.

‘“I’m not sure,” Kofia said. “I asked my grandparents once, and they coughed and flushed and seemed to avoid eye contact with me as they told me my parents simply keeled over the first time they saw me.”

‘“I’m sorry for your loss,” Hessian said. “And tell me, Kofia, why won’t anyone marry you?”

‘“Do you have a strong stomach?” Kofia said.

‘“As strong as any man’s,” Hessian said.

‘“Are you of a delicate constitution?” Kofia said.

‘“Only when I am at sea,” Hessian said.

‘“And you promise you won’t laugh?” Kofia said.

‘“I promise,” Hessian said.

‘“OK, but don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Kofia said. And she unravelled her headscarf, raised her head and looked into Hessian’s eyes.

‘Any normal man would have recoiled at the horror standing before Hessian. Recoiled at the thick monobrow, the bristly top lip and the dank hair; recoiled at the cocked eyes, the warty nose and the protruding ears; recoiled at the crooked black teeth, the pudgy folds of chin and the pocked cheeks.

‘Not Hessian. He gasped.

‘“Yeah,” Kofia said. “Just as I thought. You’re like all the rest. I’ll never be a bride.” And she resumed her sobbing.

‘But Hessian’s gasp was not in horror but in awe. Here, before him, stood a bride in waiting. How lucky was he? He’d found his beautiful bride. The best of the best. One with whom to share a nest. His working week and Sunday rest. He stepped forward, raised Kofia’s chin with his fingertips, removed his hessian bag and said, “Sweet Kofia, you will be a bride. My bride.” And Hessian and Kofia embraced and became one in their love and grotesqueness.

‘They married before a single witness, a short-sighted priest, and made their home under the bridge. Hessian travelled to Kofia’s home town and set in place his plan to gain his fortune. He brewed his beans—his Fortune beans, he called them—and produced an elixir he called Kofi, in affectionate homage to his bride. He established a stall at the market and peddled his brew. Word soon spread beyond the market town of his Kofi, his wonder elixir, and people travelled from far and wide to sample the brew. Every day, when he arrived at his stall at first light, a long, silent queue of fratchy customers lined up for their daily fix. Hessian filled their cups, and only after they had drained their cups and let the brew work its magic could they begin their daily tasks. And not once did Hessian charge for his wonder elixir. Not a single coin. Some called him a fool; others, an angel. All Hessian did was smile and thank them for their custom.

‘For months Hessian kept his routine: wake before dawn, carry a small bag of beans to the market, brew and sell his elixir, return home with an empty bag and an empty purse, spend the evening in the arms of his loving Kofia and sleep. But no one knew, not even Kofia, that Hessian woke in the middle of the night and crossed the bridge and climbed the island peak and replenished his supply of beans. And so he kept secret the source of his elixir.

‘Then one day, the winds changed direction, and the monsoon rains threatened. Hessian travelled to his stall and brewed his brew, but as he served his customers, he told them it would be his last day of business. Some sighed, others cursed, and still others threatened to end their lives. But he reassured them that if they met him at the head of the bridge to the great peaked island in three days’ time, he would share with them the secret to his elixir.

‘For two days, the people of the town suffered. Heads ached, hands shook, listless bodies lolled, and distracted minds mulled, anguished and depressed. Couples snapped, neighbours squabbled and civility disappeared.

‘For two days, Hessian and Kofia sat under the bridge as the monsoonal rains arrived and the Great River rose. At night, while Kofia slept, Hessian prepared for the revelation of his great secret.

‘At dawn on the third morning, Hessian woke to hubbub above him on the bridge.

‘“My friends, welcome,” Hessian said as he climbed up onto the bridge and stood before a bustling throng.

‘Pushing, shoving and ill-tempered mutterings returned Hessian’s greeting.

‘“I shan’t beat about the bush,” Hessian said, and he chuckled to himself at his wit.

‘“Get on with it, you fool,” an angry voice called from mid-throng. Cries of “yeah-yeah” chorused from the mob. Some shook fists, while others brandished burning torches or pitchforks.

‘“OK, OK,” Hessian said. “On that island across that bridge there is a bush at the very top of that peak. Upon its fronds fruits an abundance of red berries. Crushing those berries yields beans. It is these beans I brew to produce the elixir I have served you these past months.”

‘The throng inched nearer. Eyes bulged. Mouths drooled.

‘Hessian held up his hand and said, “My friends, I am happy to share this plant with you. All I ask is that each of you pays me a gold coin.”

‘“And what if I don’t want to pay?” a muscled man at the front of the throng said.

‘“Yeah-yeah,” chorused the mob.

‘“There’s nothing stopping me from just walking over that bridge and helping myself to all them beans up there,” the muscled man said.

‘“Yeah-yeah,” chorused the mob.

‘“Be my guest, my friend,” Hessian said as he took a step back and extended his arm towards the bridge, “but heed my warning: if you cross that bridge without paying a gold coin, you do so at your own peril.”

‘“Ha, what peril? Stand aside, you fool!” the muscled man said.

‘And the cocky fellow broke from the crowd and rushed over the bridge. But as he neared its middle, a great roar came from below, and Kofia—having lived under the bridge for two days in a bean-deprived hell—emerged from beneath the bridge, leapt upon the cocky fellow and tore him to pieces.

‘Some of the throng gasped. Others screamed. But all scrambled and formed an orderly queue and held their gold coins aloft in trembling hands. Hessian walked along the line, and with many a “Thanks” and an “It’s a pleasure doing business with you”, he filled bag after bag with gold coins. While Kofia guarded the bridge, he carried the bags of gold under the bridge. After the last bag disappeared, Hessian returned to the head of the queue and stood beside his panting, frothing bride. With his pockets full of Fortune beans, Hessian withdrew a bean and handed it to his bride, who placed it in her mouth and crunched and calmed.

‘“Fear not, my friends,” Hessian said. “My wife will not harm you. She has had her morning fix.”

‘A collective sigh of relief came from the queue.

‘“Right,” Hessian said, raising his arm. “Ready. Steady. Go.” And he dropped his arm.

‘With a roar, the throng pushed forward and rushed over the bridge. By the time they reached the other side of the bridge, a rowing boat—stacked with so many bags of gold coins that the waters of the Great River lapped at its gunwale—emerged from under the bridge, with Hessian hard at the oars and a serene Kofia sitting atop the bags of gold coins, gazing at the flowing waters of the Great River. By the time the throng found the bush, Hessian had loaded the last bag of gold coins onto his ship. And by the time the throng realised Hessian had stripped the bush bare of its beans, the ship’s sails had billowed and Hessian—with his bride by his side, bags of gold stored on deck and bags and bags of Fortune beans stored in the hold—set sail, homeward bound to his father and what he hoped would be an inheritance.

‘Down the Great River and out of the jungled heartland of the Black Continent the ship sailed. Past the land of pharaohs and pyramids the ship sailed. And across the not-so-great Southern Sea the ship sailed. After forty days and forty nights, Hessian’s heart leapt when he spied the coast of his homeland on the horizon. But the coast disappeared behind black clouds, and a great wind and great waves rose and thrashed and tossed the ship about until it struck a great reef, and the ship and its bagged cargo sank to the sea floor.

‘But Hessian and his bride did not perish in the storm. Instead, they washed up on a beach. Recovered, they set off for Hessian’s father’s manor with only the clothes on their backs, a headscarf over Kofia’s head, the hessian bag over Hessian’s head and a pocketful of beans.

‘For three days and three nights, they walked until, one year to the day since the three brothers had set forth to seek their fortunes and their brides, Hessian and Kofia neared the merchant’s manor. Hessian gasped when he saw a large black wreath on its front door.

‘“I’m too late!” Hessian said. “Father, dearly departed. Before I could show him my fortune and beautiful bride.”

‘Hessian collapsed to his knees and wept tears of great grief. Kofia wrapped her enormous arms around her much smaller husband and comforted him. When Hessian had recovered and composed himself, he walked up to the door and knocked. The door creaked open, and the head of an unfamiliar young handmaiden appeared.

‘“May I help you?” she said.

‘“Greetings,” Hessian said. “Tell me, why the black wreath? Is the merchant dead?”

‘“No,” she said, “he is alive. Not only alive but also cured of his great ailment.”

‘“Then why the black wreath?” Hessian said.

‘“He mourns the loss of his three sons,” she said. “For a full year he awaited his sons’ return. But last month he received news of his two eldest sons perishing at sea and his youngest son lost to the Black Continent. Truly, it is a house of woe.”

‘My brothers? Drowned? Hessian thought. And he choked back a sob as tears welled in his eyes.

‘“May I talk to this merchant?” Hessian said. “I have news of his youngest son.”

‘“Albashie? He lives?” the handmaiden said.

‘“Please, let me talk to the merchant,” Hessian said.

‘The handmaiden beckoned Hessian and Kofia to enter. She led them to a study shrouded in darkness, where the merchant sat slumped in a chair, staring into a great fire.

‘“Master,” the handmaiden said. “You have guests.”

‘The old man turned, looked up and said, “Guests?”

‘“Greetings, merchant,” Hessian said from beyond the ring of firelight. “I bring news of your youngest son.”

‘“Albashie?” the old man said, rising from his chair.

‘“Yes. He lives,” Hessian said.

‘“He does?” the old man said. “Where?”

‘Hessian stepped forward into the flickering light of the fire, removed his hessian bag and said, “Here, Father.”

‘“My son!” the old man said, and father embraced son, and both wept tears of great joy.

‘The merchant said, “Your brothers …” And he covered his face and wept again.

‘“I know. I know,” Hessian said, and son embraced father, and both wept tears of great sorrow.

‘“My son,” the merchant said, “forgive me for banishing you and your brothers to search for fortune and bride.”

‘“There is nothing to forgive, Father,” Hessian said, “for I have found my fortune and my bride.”

‘“And forgive me, my only surviving son,” the merchant said, “when I tell you I cannot bequeath you my fortune, my surviving son. A month ago, when I learned of your brothers’ demises, I gave up all hope of your return, so I, with my health restored, agreed to marry again. A promise I cannot break. And your soon-to-be stepmother will, upon our exchanging vows this very hour, inherit all I own. Forgive me, Albashie, and allow an old man to enjoy his last years.”

‘“And may those years be long and prosperous, Father,” Hessian said.

‘A polite cough came from behind Hessian.

‘“Ah, you are not alone,” the merchant said. “Who is your companion?”

‘“Oh, forgive me, Father,” Hessian said. “May I introduce my bride, Kofia? Kofia, my father.”

‘“Bride?” the old man said. “A great beauty, no doubt.”

‘The merchant turned and faced his son’s bride, and Kofia stepped forward and said, “I am honoured, sir.” And she removed her headdress.

‘The merchant extended his hand and said, “Enchant—” But one look at his new daughter-in-law in the light of the fire and he dropped dead on the spot.

‘And Hessian—with one last Fortune bean in his pocket and his not-so-beautiful bride at his side—claimed his inheritance.’

***

‘There you are, mon ami,’ the barista said. ‘One skinny flat white with an extra shot. Bon appétit.’

‘Merci beaucoup,’ Craven said as he accepted the coffee cup, ‘and thank you for the wonderful story.’

‘My pleasure, mon ami.’

Craven inhaled the coffee’s heady, nutty aroma. He took a sip and savoured the rich, mellow and deep aftertaste. ‘Great coffee,’ he said. ‘Indeed, it is the greatest coffee I’ve ever tasted.’

‘Merci beaucoup.’

‘How much do I owe you?’

‘The coffee is on the house, mon ami.’

‘That’s very generous of you. Merci beaucoup.’ Craven turned and headed towards the bridge.

‘But, mon ami, I must charge you for the story and your return crossing of that bridge.’

Craven turned and said, ‘Really? How much?’

‘A gold coin or your life.’

‘What? I … I … I only have notes.’

‘A gold coin or your life.’

‘Do … do … do you take American Express?’

‘A gold coin or your life, my friend.’

The huge, now grey rock at the end of the bridge rose and unravelled its enormous frame, eclipsing the sun on the horizon. Good God! Craven thought, a giant! And the giant’s arm rose from its shadow and brandished a gun.

‘Holy shit!’ Craven said.

The giant fired a shot into the air.

Craven screamed, flung his wallet at the giant and ran.

He reached the middle of the bridge when a second shot hit his wrist. His cup whipped from his grasp, and its spilled contents burnt his hand. He went to blaspheme, but a third shot struck him between his shoulder blades and winded him. Craven faltered and staggered towards the parapet, before tumbling over the cobblestones and falling to the road below. Bone-broken and blood-covered, his final thought passed through his head: Was any coffee worth this much trouble?

The barista and the giant rushed to the middle of the bridge and leant over the parapet and saw the bloody body below. And then, as if Craven’s morning couldn’t get any worse, a lorry rounded a corner near the foot of the bridge and ran over him.

The barista turned to the giant and said, ‘Granny Kofia, I know I haven’t served you your morning fix, but how many times do I have to tell you? Wave the gun about as much as you like, but don’t fire. We just need to scare them, not shoot them. Look down there at that lean, pale, bullet-ridden fellow who’s been mown down by that truck. What a way for a skinny, flat white with two shots to go!’