The gluttonous feasting appeared to have abated, and Rimbaud happily delegated the running of the Inn to itself. Quite often the Inn seemed better able to cope with things than he did. He hummed under his breath carelessly as he moved to the rear of the kitchens. A small painting of a girl standing amongst willow trees hung, incongruously, alongside a rack of pots and pans. Rimbaud gazed at the painting expressionlessly.
The staff in the kitchen knew better than to trouble him when the quietness descended upon him and moved about their business in an even more efficient manner than normal, which meant an eerie silence in the kitchens, despite the activity.
When the Innkeeper was sure that all eyes were averted from him, he pressed a corner of the painting as if brushing dust from it. A thin section of the wall behind the painting slid soundlessly away and he stepped through into the darkness beyond. Behind him, as the wall slid back into place as inobtrusoively as it had departed, the common noises of the kitchen resumed. No comment was made, these staff were loyal.
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Not loyal enough for whoever designed the Inn in times past, however, mused Rimbaud. Despite the pitch blackness, he walked unerringly forward, here turning right and then right again, the stone flags beneath his feet cold and smooth. He walked for a short time before reaching out with his right hand. It met rough, crumbling, moss covered stone. The short passageway met an abrupt halt here. At this point, the ignorant would falter, for some of the staff knew of the secret door from the kitchens, but none had come beyond this point.
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The conversation in the Inn flowed naturally and few missed the unprepossessing Innkeeper with the curious eyes. Those that did, knew little of where he was. Only one suspected the truth, and she was as tight-lipped as ever.
[ December 04, 2002: Message edited by: Rimbaud ]
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And all the rest is literature
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