The Inn of Jasper Shrine

The coast was rugged and storm-swept as

I battled it in the rain,

The cliffs reared up, then fell away

To a flat, deserted plain,

The sea beat up in a thunder on

The rocks that lined the shore,

When I saw the wreck of a wayside inn

And its open, swinging door.

 

It hadn’t appeared on the map, I knew

As I’d studied the bleak terrain,

The thing that I’d come here looking for

Was a wreck from the Spanish Main,

It lay in fifteen fathoms there

With a load of gold moidores,

Chased inshore by a privateer

And sunk, so my uncle swore.

 

He’d come on some ancient manuscripts

And the log of the Brig ‘Despair’,

Washed up a hundred years ago

On the coastline near Llan Fair,

It roamed the seas three hundred years

Without a crew or a sail,

The log said most of the crew were dead

Tipped out by a great white whale.

 

The bones of the Captain, Peverell,

Lay slumped, right over the log,

It told of the Spanish galleon

And where it went down in the fog,

It told how the whale had tipped the brig

And broken the mast in two,

While the rest of the men had died of thirst

As it drifted, with the crew.

 

I came to the shelter of the Inn

And could read the swinging sign,

It carried a skull and a bottle of rum

And a name, ‘The Jasper Shrine’,

The door hung loose on its hinges and

Gave out a creak and a moan,

The wind howled in at the windows

As the timbers swayed and groaned.

 

The storm continued to rage outside

At least I was warm and dry,

I lay that night on the upper floor

And stared straight up at the sky,

The thatch had fallen in holes and rain

Came pouring down in a stream,

But I was tucked in a corner, dry,

And there I began to dream.

 

It must have been two o’clock or so

When I heard a ghostly tap,

Of someone shuffling with a crutch

Then a mighty thunderclap,

A lantern gave out a ghastly light

Threw shadows along the stair,

And then a woman, her voice rang out,

‘Oh what, and who is it there?’

 

I peered on down and could see the wench

Her bonnet trimmed with lace,

But the burly sailor standing there,

I couldn’t quite see his face,

Their dress was that of another time

When pirates sailed the sea,

The sailor brought down his cane with a crash,

‘They call me Cap’n Teague.’

 

‘Some pottage girl, and a brace of rum

To warm this sailor’s cheeks,

My ship’s aground and my fate’s undone

I’m stranded here for weeks!’

‘You’ll need to show me the King’s good coin

Before you bite or sup,

I’ve had you sailors before round here

And you’re hard on paying up.’

 

‘I have a chest of dubloons,’ he said

Moidores, and Spanish lace,

My chest will be here in the morning, girl,

So lift your pretty face,

Shift and get me the vittals that

Will warm my aching bones…’

‘No rum, not even a little,’

Said the girl, and turned to go.

 

Teague had bellowed and crashed his cane

Across the wench’s head,

She fell at the foot of the stairs, and groaned

As her bonnet turned blood red,

‘I’ll serve myself you foolish wench

Do you dare to challenge me?’

But the girl had stirred, rolled over

And cried out, ‘By God, you’ll see!’

 

She pulled from out the folds of her dress

An ancient matchlock gun,

Cocked the trigger then aimed and fired

As the Captain turned and spun,

He hit the floor with a cry of pain

And the lantern flew out wide,

The light went out, and all I could hear

Was the sound of the turning tide.

 

I hid for the rest of the night, afraid

To venture down the stair,

I was cautious still in the morning

Thinking I’d find them dead down there,

But nothing lay in the dawning light

But the sign of time’s contempt,

The floor was littered in seaweed and

Some old rat excrement.

 

My friend came up in a trawler

As we’d planned in the weeks before,

I’d quit the Inn for the final time

Took off through the swinging door,

We never came on the Spanish ship

But the Inn played on my mind,

I wondered, was it a dream or a ghost

At the Inn of Jasper Shrine?

 

David Lewis Paget

Reviews

[David Scott]

I think this story tells of the treasures and the tragedy we find on our journeys. Weather it was ghost or dream, the seeker will always find something...
Enjoyed the story my freind!
Be well.
David

[Patricia B. Hepler]

Phenomenal story, phenomenal write.
*pat

[Damien Davison]

It's honestly not even a matter if the poem is going to be good and fun to read with you, it's just, what is the poem going to be about. Every writing of yours shows great skill and understanding people should look up to. Another great poem!