Night at the Black Emerald Pub
Fiction - by Brent Peters
Crystal had noticed the pub many times. The warm glow of two lamps danced off the blue granite walls. Though the pub lay tucked down a side street, those lights beckoned people to move closer.
As Crystal and her friends approached, the Black Emerald Pub’s face grew defined. Light shone through the frosted glass windows on each side of the door. Both windows were embossed with a large green gemstone, the pub’s eyes. When the door opened, laughter and conversation drifted out. It was as if the pub itself laughed.
“You’re gonna love this,” said Dave, one of the locals who’d recommended the pub to her.
Crystal must have heard that every week since she’d arrived. Her host family, her fellow international students, and even her acquaintances from other pubs all said: “You must try the Emerald at least once.”
So, on a cold February night, Crystal joined her classmates when the locals invited them out.
The building was not only one of the oldest ones in the village, but also one of the best maintained. As they entered, the walls shimmered without signs of age or decay.
Inside, Crystal gaped in wonder.
“I told you!” Dave said, pointing at her dumbstruck expression. “It’s something else, right?”
She didn’t reply. Her eyes devoured the scene. The red granite walls were speckled with thin sections of false stone, which give the bumpy and uneven texture of a cave interior. In these sections of “cave wall”, she saw precious stones. Brilliant colours dotted the walls of the pub, sometimes in full crystals and other times in the poking heads of marble-sized jewels. Despite the hodgepodge of colours, it didn’t look messy. Nothing clashed with the lime green booths or the black tables. Each shade and hue of the kaleidoscope worked in concert.
The proprietor stood behind the black bar. A broad-shouldered man, he wore a long-outdated tweed suit. A thick black moustache covered his mouth, though his chin was clean-shaven. As he poured a drink, Crystal noticed that he had several gemstones tattooed on the backs of his hands.
The bartender looked to the crowd of students. “Welcome back to the Black Emerald,” he said with the gravitas of a prophet.
Crystal said, “It’s my first time here.”
The bartender nodded. Although his mouth was hidden, she could tell he was smiling. His face glowed with joyful energy. “Anyone who comes here to warm their heart or their hands may consider this place home. Thus, I welcome you back home.”
Dave chuckled and walked to the bar. “He always says that. Good to see you, Forge.”
“Forge?” Crystal asked.
The bartender said, “Kenneth Forge, at your service.”
One of the other students gestured down a short hall. Forge nodded, “The backroom is free.”
Dave said to Crystal. “First-timers never pay at the Emerald, town tradition. Once everyone else here’s got their drinks, I’ll show you the best part of this pub.” Dave spoke with a toothy grin. The mess of black stubble contrasted his white teeth.
The two of them sat at the polished countertop, and Crystal ran her hand over the gemstones scattered throughout the woodwork.
When Forge finished pouring drinks for the others, he pointed out the taps to her. She didn’t recognize most of the beer names. “I keep a rotating stock of beers. You’ll find some of the more experimental and independent breweries represented here.”
Dave shook his head. “The beer’s great, don’t get me wrong, but the custom drinks are the best. Watch this.” Dave leaned onto the bar, pulled out his phone, and typed for a while. Soon, he said, “Alright, Forge man, I’ll take a smaragdine musgravite.”
He mangled the pronunciation. Crystal guessed that he understood the words as little as she did.
“Certainly,” Forge nodded and turned as if he’d received a simple order. The bartender grabbed a glass and began mixing a drink. Several people nearby turned to watch.
Dave leaned toward Crystal and said, “There’s no menu for the custom drinks. It’s sort of a game. You say a colour and a gemstone. He’ll make you a drink from that. We’ve tried just about every combination possible, and far as we can tell, each one’s unique. I don’t know how he does it. We haven’t even found a pattern.”
“Really?” Crystal asked, trying to imagine how many combinations existed. Then again, with the amount of liquor bottles on the back wall, maybe it was possible. The bottles, ranging in every colour and size, made the shape of some strange, alcoholic castle. The mirror behind the display made it look larger. Light filtered through the bottles and glinted off the pub’s many gemstone accessories.
Forge presented Dave with a light green drink in a tall, cylindrical glass. “Ah, come on,” Dave said. “Still no fancy cups?”
“No, David.” Forge turned to Crystal. “Would you care for anything?”
“Yeah. There anything you recommend that’s sweet with a rum base?”
Forge’s jade green eyes shimmered. “I suggest a white beryl.”
Forge took a key from his buttoned-up breast pocket, unlocked the cabinet to the right of the towering liquor bottles, and took a large mug from within.
Crystal stared at the mug. White ceramic, with a bronze-colored lip. Six gemstones, with colours matching the rainbow, circled the cup’s centre. Each lay within a thin gold outline. A seventh, black gemstone lay embedded in the handle.
Dave laughed. “That your game, Forge? Give cheap cups to the lads and save the good stuff for the gals?”
Forge didn’t respond. Nobody could tell if he were ignoring Dave or if he hadn’t heard him. He set to work.
Crystal sat transfixed by the mixing process. As she watched his hands, she looked between the cup’s gemstones and his tattoos.
Her focus remained on his large hands as he turned to her, placed a black-and-red coaster on the bar in front of her, and said, “One white beryl, for…”
Crystal accepted the cup and stared at the jewels for several seconds. Then she realized that Forge wanted her name. “Oh, it’s Crystal.”
“Really?”
“Yep,” she chuckled as she reached for her wallet. “How much do—”
“I got it,” Dave said as he leaned onto the bar.
“You don’t have to,” Crystal replied.
“No, no. Like I said, it’s a tradition that nobody pays for their first round at the Emerald. Isn’t that right, Forge?”
“Yes. Ever since my first customer, no one has paid for their first drink in this establishment.”
Crystal turned her attention back to the cup. “Alright. Thanks, Dave.” The gems allured her. She wanted to ignore the conversation and focus on the cup. It was in perfect condition, with no marks or scuffs. No matter how she turned the cup, each jewel glittered. “These can’t be real,” she said. They were too defined. Their surface was too smooth, too flawless. The black gem in the handle felt warm and comfortable against her skin.
“You want to join the others, Crys?” Dave asked, gesturing to the backroom.
She nodded, and walking with him, took a sip of the raspberry red liquid, immediately enjoying the grenadine sweetness.
Like the backroom at many pubs, a dart board hung in the far corner and a billiards table lay in the centre. Her friends were gathered around each, some playing, others commenting, all drinking.
Despite the activity, it was a massive painting on the wall above the sofas that drew Crystal’s attention. It showed a copper red dragon lying asleep on a horde of treasure. She approached it, astounded at the level of detail. The artist had defined each of the dragon’s scales and each of the trove’s treasures. Crystal thought of the many fantasy illustrations she’d collected. She didn’t recognize the image or the style. She also couldn’t find an artist’s signature.
Someone called her to the dartboard. She joined the crowd and played a few rounds. Everyone talked about the bar. A dozen variants of “the gems have to be fake. Where’d he get them?” flowed through the conversation. Some thought the theme was tacky, some thought it was quaint, and a few argued that it was fantastic. All agreed that it was unique.
“They’re part of the wall,” Dave said. “I’ve heard of people trying to pry a jewel off to take as a souvenir. Nobody’s ever done it. I don’t know how Forge did it, but he’s made those things a part of the building.”
The conversation turned to Forge. The students laughed as the locals argued and joked with each other. They all loved the pub, and each was proud to have it in their village. They also disagreed on when it opened. The disagreements intensified when they spoke of the proprietor. The lack of certainty had become part of the Black Emerald’s mystique. Some argued that ‘Kenneth Forge’ was the stage name of a failed actor who’d found a bizarre way to live out his theatrical dreams. Others stated that he was a businessman who’d successfully gambled on a theme. Still others, Dave included, argued that Forge was a genuine eccentric. Or perhaps even an immortal, someone suggested, and they all laughed.
“Look,” Dave pointed at the dragon painting. “There’s his first customer!” That line earned more tipsy chuckles.
Crystal found the conversation as interesting as the building itself. She glanced around the room as she listened. Soon, she noticed the tie beam on the ceiling. Immediately, Crystal needed to ask Forge for details about the pub.
Once she finished her drink, she returned to the bar. “Another white beryl, please. Also, I’ve got some questions about the pub.”
“Certainly,” Forge answered as he took her cup.
“First, who made that painting in the back?”
Forge slowed for a moment. His brow softened as he nodded. “Not many people comment on the painting. An old friend made it many years ago. I’m afraid she never had much success in art. There are no other prints, unfortunately.”
Crystal nodded, wondering who the artist might have been. “It’s an amazing painting.”
“Thank you for saying so. I rarely have the chance to discuss it.”
“Another question, how old is the building?”
Forge looked up in consideration. “The building itself? I believe it was completed in the 1820s. Why do—”
Dave slumped into the seat next to Crystal. His cheeks glowed like the lamps outside. The man drank fast enough to make up for Crystal’s slower pace. “You look like you’re having fun. You dumping us for the barman?”
Dave chuckled, his body leaning close to Crystal. She nudged him away. It didn’t surprise her. The locals had warned her about Dave: “a good guy, when he’s sober”. So, she ignored him and turned back to Forge. “I ask because of the tie beam in the backroom. I’ve never seen that sort of architecture in person.”
“Damn,” Dave said. “You’ve got a good eye. Yeah, you won’t see that sort of thing this side of the first world war. Fire code changed, if memory serves. Forge, a pink onyx. With a fancy cup, if you please.”
“One pink onyx,” Forge replied. “This will be your final drink of the night, David.”
Dave shook his head. “Come on, now. Don’t you think you’re cutting me off a little early?”
“You started early.” Forge’s tone lightened as he replied to Crystal, “I am impressed that you recognized the tie beam. Do you study architecture?”
“Yeah. Just an undergrad in history right now, but I want to get into architectural history.”
Dave’s eyes widened.
Forge nodded, “Impressive. Your ambition is admirable. What led you to be interested in old buildings?”
The floodgate opened. Crystal launched into an impassioned story about the first time she’d entered a cathedral. Her eyes sparkled like the jewels around her as she described false hammerbeam roofs, the relationship between structures and their designers, and the way buildings affect the people inside them.
After a while, Crystal caught herself. Someone else at the bar called for Forge. She apologized and chuckled in an obvious attempt to cover her embarrassment. “Don’t apologize,” Forge said as he stepped away. “Passion is a virtue.”
Crystal took a sip and forced out another chuckle.
“Your cheeks are red,” Dave said with a grin.
“It’s the drink,” she said.
“Sure it is. Now, I’ve got a question: what the hell is a false hammerbeam?” Crystal paused. She let her eyes wander across the gemstones. Were they plastic? No, the texture was wrong. Were they painted, somehow? Movie props? Where could a person even get this many?
“You sure you want to hear a lecture?”
Dave waved off her concern. “Crys, if my lecturers cared about their lessons half as much as you care about buildings, I would’ve stayed in uni. Now, tell me about the fake hammers.”
“False hammerbeam roofs,” she said. The description grew passionate before the end of her first sentence. Crystal took out a pen and began drawing diagrams on a napkin. When one of her fellow students came by for another round, they heard part of the impromptu dissertation and sighed. Most of the students had heard and seen some passionate outburst about cathedrals, castles, and conservatories. They knew enough to let her be.
The evening stretched on. Dave tried his hand at drawing some basic designs, which soon had Crystal laughing at his lack of artistry. Before long, they moved to a table separate from the bar. They ordered chips and used them for scale to compare to the sketches. Enjoying the mood, she ordered a third white beryl.
The clock approached midnight. The other students and locals made their way to the exit. They told Crystal and Dave that the party would continue at one of their houses. “No thanks,” Crystal shook her head. “I’m gonna call it after this.”
Dave said, “I’ll be there soon.” As they left, Dave pointed to the bar. “You want anything before last call? My treat.”
She turned the empty mug over in her hands, relishing the feeling of the gemstones on her skin. They were warm. The smooth ridges felt pleasant under her fingers. “No, I’m done, thanks.”
“Come on,” Dave leaned close. “Tell you what, just a sample size of one of my personal favourites. You gotta try a blue carnelian.”
She tapped her finger against the napkin and leaned on the bar. As Crystal relaxed, the shimmering light surrounded her. The red walls emanated warmth. No matter where she looked, the sight intrigued her. Crystal chuckled as she thought that the gemstones gave the place a good energy.
Through the door, as the others left, Crystal saw a bleak winter evening waiting for her. She couldn’t leave the Black Emerald for that.
“Alright,” she nodded, “sample sized blue carnelian. With a club soda.”
“You got it!” Dave raised his hand and walked up to the bar. Crystal leaned back and closed her eyes.
The next morning, Crystal woke with a thunderous pounding in her temples. Her stomach roiled. She groaned. The mix of migraine and stomachache informed her of a hangover. She pulled the wool blanket over her head, as if hiding from the world would make the pain disappear. As she did so, she realized something: it wasn’t her blanket.
Panicked, she threw back the black wool and looked around. Morning light drifted through a curtained window. She lay in a small bedroom with a wooden floor and a slanted roof. She looked back. She’d slept on a single bed, beneath the most luxurious blanket she’d ever felt.
Pulse fast and thudding in her temples, Crystal looked down. She’d slept in her clothes. A quick check of the jacket beside the bed showed that neither her phone nor wallet had been touched. There was a new message on her phone, from her host family: “Okay, Crystal. I hope you had a lovely night. Make sure you drink plenty of water and tell Kenny I said hello. If you stop for coffee on the way back tomorrow, get me one also, please.”
The message confused her. She unlocked her phone to find the context. Her host, Mrs. De Boer, had replied to a message Crystal didn’t remember sending: “I think I overdid it. I’m gonna get a room at the Emerald and sleep it off here.”
Looking at the blue light of the screen strained her eyes. She rubbed them and tried to remember the previous night.
Dave had returned with a full-sized drink. Crystal had rolled her eyes, taken a few sips, and refused to drink any more. Dave had begun saying some lines about how cold it was, and how she shouldn’t try to walk across the icy streets when she was drunk. She remembered pushing him away when he tried to slide his hand around her waist.
From there, he’d said that she should go to the after-party. They’d have a good time. He promised.
She’d refused, finished her club soda, and gone to the bathroom.
Everything after that was blank.
She looked at the wall above the bed. The worry ebbed, giving way to awe. Most of the wall was filled by a painting like the one in the backroom. The same dragon flew under an open sky. The perspective came from a valley. Trees and mountaintops littered the periphery of the image, but the dragon made it all seem inconsequential. Its colossal wings stretched out, their edges cut off at the frame, unable to be contained by the painting itself. The dragon faced Crystal. Its bright green eyes contrasted the copper scales.
She sat transfixed for a while. The eyes stared at her. Nothing in its design suggested hostility.
Soon, Crystal looked away from the painting and pulled out her phone again. It was almost 8:30.
Here, she noticed that she had a voice message from Mrs. De Boer. The time stamp was from after the text. Crystal listened to the message: “Hello, Crystal. I presume you won’t get this until morning. In case you’re worried, don’t be. In case you forget anything, I promise that you’re okay. Kenny is the most trustworthy man I know. He wouldn’t let anything happen. But I’m sure you’re exhausted. Take care of yourself. No rush to come back if you want to get breakfast or coffee on the way. Just message me whatever you decide to do.”
No less confused, Crystal grunted, got out of bed, and walked to the door. Staying in the room wouldn’t answer any of her questions.
Yawning and rubbing her temples, Crystal made her way down the steps and into the main bar. To her surprise, Forge was there, standing behind the bar. He wore brown slacks and a thick red cardigan.
“Good morning, Crystal,” he said, holding a large, plain white mug of coffee. The boom was gone from his voice.
“Morning,” she leaned against the edge of a booth. “What happened last night?”
“You don’t remember?”
Crystal rubbed her temples. “No.”
Forge took a sip of black coffee. As he lifted the cup, he tilted his head back to prevent his moustache from entering the drink. Once he finished the complicated gesture, Forge nodded and said, “I think David put something in your last drink. You seemed lethargic. David began to ignore your personal space. I confronted him. His responses were… not comforting. I banned him from the pub and took you to one of the rooms upstairs.”
“You what?” Crystal took a step toward the exit. The idea that this strange, middle-aged man had carried her to a bedroom only worsened her dread. She tried to think it over. As she did, she thought of what he’d just said. Crystal blinked several times. Shock added to her discomfort. “Dave did what?”
Disbelief was plain in her voice. She hadn’t known the man long, and she’d known of his attraction to her, but she found it hard to believe that he’d drug her. It would explain the headache, at least. Three drinks plus a few sips shouldn’t have done this to her. She’d never lost memory because of alcohol.
“I can’t believe it,” she said, her tone undermining her words.
Forge focused on his coffee. “I messaged Mrs. De Boer last night to tell her you were here. I spared her the details.”
Crystal patted the phone in her pocket. “I messaged her too, apparently. She seemed pretty calm about it. She said to say hi to you.”
At hearing this, his expression changed. The muscles of his face relaxed. The morning light made his wrinkles more defined. Crystal saw the callouses on his hands. She saw a rare sight: Kenneth. This wasn’t Forge, the larger-than-life bartender. This was a tired, soft-spoken, middle-aged man who found joy in what he did. From his words, Mrs. De Boer’s message, and what Crystal could deduce, she concluded that Forge was telling the truth. Crystal didn’t know what to say in the sombre mood, so she decided to focus on a practical concern. “How much do I owe you for the room?”
“No charge. Consider it an apology for your experience in my pub.”
Crystal yawned. Such heavy subjects were difficult enough with a clear mind, let alone how she felt in that moment. She let her eyes wander around the room. The gemstones glittered in the morning sunlight. Each surface cast dozens of colourful rays across the walls and ceiling. The spectacle took her mind off the events. Lights stretched across the walls and ceiling like a million fingers. They reached out to her. Colours filled her eyes and her mind.
The headache lightened. The tension in her stomach eased. The lights surrounded her. They massaged away the doubts and fears. Despite the chill, sordid morning, she began to feel warm and comfortable.
Soon, her only thought was that the gemstones were much brighter than they’d been the previous night.
Meanwhile, Forge stared into his coffee. He did not say a word, nor did he look at the gemstones.
After some time, he placed his mug on the counter. The thud brought Crystal back. Forge said, “I understand if you wish to be going. If you stop by the farmer’s market, ask for the K.F. special. They may reduce the price of coffee and a light breakfast for you.”
“Alright,” Crystal said. She tore her gaze from the pub to its owner. Only now did she notice the mystery novel beside the coffee. What would it be like to have this private lightshow as part of the daily routine? She wondered. To wake up, enjoy a quiet morning with a book, surrounded by such beauty: it was a dream life.
Crystal shook her head. This wasn’t the time for such thoughts. She had serious things to consider. Some fresh air and caffeine would do her well. A trip to the farmer’s market sounded perfect. “I should get going,” she said. “The painting upstairs is beautiful, by the way.”
“I’m glad you like it. The gate is unlocked.”
Crystal left. The cold air smacked her face and filled her lungs.
As she departed, Crystal looked back. With its gate closed, its lamps off, and no light coming from within, the pub looked different. No warmth came from the Black Emerald’s face. The frosted glass eyes stared in a lidless slumber.