Solo Of The Bonnie Dot

[Ambrosia Alar]

Of The Bonnie Dot The 13th of Winter, 517 AV Ambrosia ducked as a glass shattered above her, and little shards of glass peppered her head. “What is this shit?” the patron in front of her accused. “I asked for degtine. I’ve had water that tastes stronger than this.” Ambrosia knew better than to wipe the shards of glass off the top of her head. She’d tried wiping up a shattered wineglass with her bare hands early on in her time at the Rear and had found out in short order that that was a terrible idea. The little shards had only turned into slivers that embedded themselves deep in her skin and had stung for a week, especially when any high proof degtine managed to find the little crevices in her skin. Trying to wipe them off her head would only drive the little shards into her hands and into her scalp, and that was not what she wanted. Tonight, having learned from past mistakes, she simply tipped her head forward and shook it. She heard the little shards of glass as they hit the floor. That was odd. Usually such a small, insignificant noise would go unheard with the hubbub and conversation in the bar, but that was gone tonight. The regular patrons were loyal to a fault and refused to leave, but any newcomers had left. The man who had thrown the glass was to blame. Normally, Ambrosia wouldn’t put up with such behavior out of a customer. The Stallion’s Rear was hospitable, but it didn’t allow people to run all over it and mistreat it. Cade, its new owner, had made certain of that. He had kicked out a fair share of miscreants early in his days of ownership and had even punched a few into submission. That was in a normal situation, but tonight was not normal. This belligerent patron couldn’t be dealt with physically. He was a ghost. She couldn’t exactly punch him in the face, not that she could do that with a regular customer. Once, a couple seasons back, she had tried that and had left with black eye. But ghosts were things that oughta be dealt with by means of words, unless one was a spiritist which Ambrosia was not. Instead, she gave him her best smile, the one that could disarm most anyone. It worked, partly. The ghost looked away, refusing to blame her but refusing to let this go. “I demand to speak to Seven. Where’s Seven?” “Seven hasn’t been here in years.” The ghost brought down a hand on to the counter which shook with the force of a normal blow from a strong man. “Bullshit! I was just here last season, and he served me a real glass of degtine. What are you trying to pull?” “You’re dead. That’s what I’m telling you.” “What are you talking about?” The ghost gave her a perplexed look. “This.” Ambrosia grabbed the coin he had a paid with and tossed it at his body. As the coin made contact with his chest, it bounced off and landed on the counter. The ghost’s confusion rose. “I don’t understand.” That plan had failed, but Ambrosia was good at thinking on her feet. Often, drunk people’s logic made no sense, forcing her to change how she dealt with them on the fly. If she couldn't convince him he was dead, she could at least figure out more about him. Maybe that way, she could find a way or someone who could convince him of exactly that. She smiled again and pushed the coin toward him. “I was just messing with you. It was my way of extending our apology. I wanted to give you your money back for your previous drinks. Don’t worry though. The Rear is still the best place to get a drink. I’ve got one of our new girls on the way, and she’s gonna make you something that’ll hit the spot.” The ghost nodded. “Thanks, miss.” “Ambrosia.” “I’m Gregor.” “Gregor.” Ambrosia smiled. “That’s a strong name. Sailor’s name?” That was the first thing she had done all night that had built any sort of trust with the ghost. A cocky smile crossed his face. “What gave it away? Was it my mouth?’ He had been cursing all night long, proving his expletive vocabulary was not lacking. Ambrosia smirked. “Please. You ain’t got half the mouth my baby sister has.” “Oh, really.” Gregor took that as a challenge. Almost immediately, expletives began to roll off his tongue, showing his impressive vocabulary. The man even knew a few in foreign languages. Ambrosia recognized a few Shiber curses as they spilt off the sailor’s tongue. Finally, the man finished and looked to Ambrosia with a smug look on his face. “Still think I only have half the mouth she does?” Ambrosia shook her head in disappointment. “Not even half.” Frustration came over Gregor’s face. “Name one I missed?” Ambrosia’s face remained completely straight. “Cunt.” Shock and resignation came over the sailor’s face. “No gentleman would ever think of uttering that one.” Ambrosia’s disappointed frown deepened. “And you call yourself a sailor. Shame.” Gregor wasn’t usually a man who was at a loss for words, and his discomfort was apparent. Ambrosia let him off easy as her easy smile returned and she flashed him a quick wink. “Only kidding, love. Not about my sister, of course. But I do appreciate your constraint. Gentlemen are rare enough nowadays. I always appreciate meeting one.” Not that he had been one so far, but if she put that expectation on him, he might shape up. “I’ll let you know when our girl arrives. For now, just make yourself comfortable.” As a quick afterthought, she asked, “What ship do you call your home?” Gregor smiled as the name rolled off his tongue. “The Bonnie Dot.”

[Ambrosia Alar]

One thing was certain. Ghosts were bad for business. The Stallion’s Rear had been close to capacity when the ghost arrived, but with his outbursts of belligerence, most had left early. Only the Rear’s most loyal patrons, the ones who were drunks desperate for alcohol, stayed behind, but even they were beginning to look uncomfortable now. She caught Eli shooting a glance toward the door. As quickly as she could, she filled a drink for him and each of his five drinking buddies who shared the table with him. She remembered what each of them had ordered; that was something she had never had any difficulty with. Her memory suffered on other things but not when it came to alcohol. With three mugs held by their handles in each hand, she weaved her way between the tables and made it theirs just as Eli was standing to leave. “You can’t leave now, Eli.” She smiled and set his favorite, the lager, in front of him. Setting the rest of the drinks on the table and sliding them to their respective drinkers, she smiled. “I just brought your next round.” “I’m sorry, Ambrosia. I can’t enjoy my night with some ghost wreaking havoc in the bar. He’s getting violent, and I want to leave before that violence gets directed at me.” Placing a gentle hand on his arm, she pushed him back into his seat. She was amazed at how little pressure a woman needed to control a man. It seemed the less she used, the more they responded. Feather-light touches could get Eli to do just about anything. “I’m getting it handled.” “You have a spiritist on the way?” Ambrosia smiled her best cocky smile. “Of course I do.” “A Craven?” “No. Bethany.” Eli stood up again. “Oh, come on, Ambrosia. Bethany’s sweet and all, but she’s an amateur.” “I know she is, but she’s just here for assistance. I’ll keep him calm and keep the night pleasant.” She winked as she pushed him back down into his seat. “I’ve got a silver tongue.” Eli glared. “Prove it.” Spreading her hands, Ambrosia’s victorious smile returned. “Drinks are half off. Our apology for a less than ideal night.” Eli smiled, grabbed his drink, and immediately relaxed. “Damn, you’re good. I’d almost forgotten why I love you so much, but you always manage to remind me with something like that.” “Stop falling in love, Eli. I’m outta your league.” That brought a wave of laughter and a steady stream of heckling from the dockworker’s drinking companions. Ambrosia waited for the good-natured joshing to slow down before finally interrupted them. “Maybe you boys can help me get him outta here a little more quickly. I need some information on him and where he came from, and since he was a sailor and you all work at the dock, I figured you’d be the best to ask. What can you tell me about The Bonnie Dot?” Immediately, all six men reacted with common superstitions to prevent ill luck and omens. Eli and one other held out their mugs and dumped the contents on the ground. One man pulled a charm on a necklace out of his shirt and kissed it. Another sent a quick, whispered prayer out, to which god or goddess Ambrosia didn’t catch. Another man wiped both thumbs across the edge of the table three times, then once each across the opposite palm. The last man filled Eli’s empty mug with the contents of his own, forcing Eli to dump the mug a second time. Ambrosia stared at them all, knowing she had said something bad and not knowing what it was. A prayer to Zintila darted past her lips. She began to open her mouth to ask what she’d said, but Eli cut her off angrily. “Shut the petch up, Ambrosia.” “Sorry. I-” “Shut the petch up. Are you trying to get us all killed? That name’s bad luck.” Ambrosia held up her hands, partly in apology and partly to calm them down. “Alright. Alright. I get it. I won’t say it again. What’s so bad about it?” All of them clamped their mouths shut and refused to meet her eyes. Sighing, Ambrosia collected the three empty mugs. “I’ll fill these up. When I get back, tell me what you can. Alright?” She didn’t wait for any confirmation. Instead, she made her way directly back to the bar, filled the drinks, and brought them back. “So tell me the story of his ship.” When everyone still refused to answer her, Ambrosia glared. “Fine. I’ll start saying the name until I someone talks. Believe me, I’ve got enough good luck to last a lifetime. I know at least half of you have already run out of any you might have had to begin with.” “Fine.” Eli didn’t want to hear the name of The Bonnie Dot again. “She was a ship, a good ship with one of the finest captains to ever sail the Suvan. Fast ship too. If you ever needed something delivered faster than anyone thought it could be done, that ship and that captain made it happen. Some say it made the Syliras run in less than twelve days. But they were the heroes of the sea as well. A half dozen sinking ships. That’s how many crews they saved in their short time at sea. I guess being around all that bad luck wears off though. The thirteenth month after her maiden voyage, she struck something off the shore of Taldera, some say a Djed event, and every single sailor died. They found her half submerged off the shore, some sailors still caught in her sails and lines, but they say she was twisted in on herself, as if everything collapsed inward and then got wrung out like a rag. Most of the rest of the sailors were washed to shore.” “Damn. It ain’t any wonder why the man stuck around. How come the name is considered bad luck?” Eli shrugged. “No one could explain it, but mishaps started happening to anyone who said her name. I witness one man get crushed to death after talking about her wreck.” “He didn’t die, Eli.” One of the other workers shook his head at Eli’s exaggeration. “And he was hardly even crushed. His leg got broke by some failing equipment. That’ll happen when you’re working on The Red Albatross. The captain’s too much of a drunk to have anything taken care of properly on that vessel. But you’re right. It did happen right after he said the name of that ship.” Another one piped up. “I heard Madara, that broad in charge of the Cravens, lost a bout with ghost after saying the name. Ended up possessed for fortnight.” The stories kept coming, multiple examples of bad luck following any mention of The Bonnie Dot, only about half of them believable and only about half of those actually true. Ambrosia took the point to heart though and vowed not the say the name again. As Eli was about to try to top the last story, Ambrosia saw a beautiful woman with honey-colored hair step through the front door of the Rear led by a young boy. Quickly, she excused herself. “Bethany’s here. I gotta go see her about helping get this ghost outta here. Enjoy your drinks, boys.”