Aaron Moore, Tobacconist to the Dead (Among Others)

In the walled city of Hettenhatt,

just above the rolling plains of Harrowhisper and Downham, and close on the shores of the river Mundford (affectionately known as “the Slosh”) there was a long, narrow shop with two nicotine-stained windows facing on to an even narrower cobblestone alley, where a sign in brass hung over the door. The sign was covered in verdigris and tarnish, but to those who inspected it closely, it read, “Aaron Moore, Tobacconist.”

It had been said for a while (and had even been said, decades ago, when the proprietor unlocked the doors of his shop for the first time) that the trading of tobacco was a dying business.

As it turned out, this worked out just fine for Mr. Moore. Several of his best customers were ghosts.

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The plain of Harrowhisper, and even moreso the plain of Downham, which crowded closely upon the northern walls of the city, had the rather inconvenient property of flooding, more-or-less frequently and more-or-more unpredictably, so that it turned the whole of Hettenhatt into an island, surrounding the walls for days, and sometimes months, at a time.

Many have wondered about the city’s founders and builders. *Just what had they been thinking when they laid the first stones? But the curious multitudes have have wondered in vain! These founders and builders perished centuries ago, and as their bodies were buried in the plains of Harrowhiper and Downham, they have long since washed out to sea.

In any case, their ghosts were not among those who came to darken the door of Aaron Moore, Tobacconist, and exchange spiritual currency for an ounce or two of their favorite leaf, or a packet of cigars.

When Mr. Moore's living customers got into a discussion of the city’s idiotic founding - which happened often during those periods of isolation and inconvenience brought on by the floods - he would posit that the founders’ thinking probably went along the lines of, “We've had enough of wandering around. This is as good a place as any, and all our stuff is here.”

If the conversation went beyond that, he’d let it blow on without him, and sit down at the lathe in the window where he turned new pipes and repaired old ones. His regulars were happy to man the cash-register for him while he was carving, and were, for the most part, honest.

It's been a while since I've written any fiction. I've been carrying Aaron Moore around in my head for a couple decades - since I took up the pipe, in fact. I thought it might be time to bring him to life.

Go ahead and vote on the story, why don't you? If you do, you might just meet a few of his spectral customers...

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