Chapter 56

More Folk.

Hiccup

“Sit, sit,” said the old woman. She limped to the leather chair while her gaze roved the bookshelves of my study. With almost a yell, like her lungs were an accordion, she bent over and plopped herself into the chair.

“I don’t tolerate people that go around whacking my butlers with canes,” I said. “Even if the whacker so happens to be a lady.”

“I don’t tolerate being led by the arm without my consent! Tell that to your butlers next time an old lady comes a-knocking.”

“Ah. I understand. I hope that you’re all right? I apologize, then, for the lack of consideration on behalf of my staff.”

“Young man, I’d like to see my daughter. Brien at Dellia Lucerne’s Temple in Sweet Gale sent me to the Rose Quartz tavern in Lavenfauvish. You are the proprietor, and I should like a mausoleum beer, please. I know how this works; I’ve brought her remains.”

“You’ve traveled all the way from Sweet Gale?”

The old woman lifted her feet up and wiggled them at me. “With my own two feet! She shook her cane. “And a little help.”

“I don’t have mausoleum beers.”

“I’ll wait. I’ll wait right here. I’ve lived eighty-eight long years. I can keep waiting. I’ve seen old people hang on enough just to lay eyes on a loved one. I can hang on until I see my daughter.”

“It will be worth it,” I murmured.

The old woman sat up. “So you’ve experienced it? It isn’t a god-trick? It’s a real thing? I can see my daughter again?”

“The phenomenon is real.”

The old woman closed her eyes. A moment passed before she closed them tighter. She whispered to herself for a few moments. Age rattled in her throat when she cleared it. “I’m here now. I’ve only to continue waiting. How long will it be?”

“I don’t know.”

“You young’uns never do know. Lazy, lazy, lazy. Your prime isn’t the time to be lazy—take my advice. …Always taking too long on the important things.”

“Would you like to reserve a beer?”

The old woman stiffened and seemed to become sheepish. She slid out of the chair and groaned on her way to her knees. She bowed. I felt embarrassed for her and shot up and around my desk.

“My lady,” I said. She battled me back with blind swipes of her cane.

“I don’t have money. I’ll do anything. I’ll serve you.”

“My lady, please! Get up.” I gestured sharply at my butlers to come in and help her up. The old woman battled them too, but they still managed to lift her to her feet and return her to the chair. She tangled her cane with their arms and beat their chests the whole while.

Once she was settled and had regained her breath, she said, “I will do anything to see my daughter again.”

“Have you traveled penniless?”

“For most of the journey.”

“At your age…”

“I slept in the weeds like any young adventurer. I fed myself like any young adventurer. …And I defended myself as only an old lady can.”

“What is your plan?”

“To see my daughter. I’m healthier than you if you’ve got trouble hearing or remembering what’s been said.”

“After.”

The old woman went silent. Her chin bobbed like she was chewing her thoughts.

“I’ll be hanging on until I’m done hanging on,” she said.

“Please accept my offer of room and board until you’ve seen your daughter—I can’t make promises about the mausoleum beer.”

“Of course I’ll take you up on the offer. One becomes less of a fool with age. Can you do something for me?”

“Perhaps.”

“If for whatever reason, I can’t get my hands on this mausoleum beer, tell me straight away. I’ll go north and find the Brewer myself.”

I sighed and rubbed my face. She was only the first of the day’s seeking grievers.

But what would Ashlee do? And I’ve since learned a few lessons. It was in my means to help the old woman, so why not?. My dear Ashlee…we could bring some solace to this woman. Along the way our tavern could perhaps become known throughout the world.

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

∞

Erik Skullander and I peered through the windows of the garden chamber. Evon was by the sprawling pink geraniums.

“He looks a bit lost, doesn’t he,” said Erik.

“What in the world is he doing with half a shear?”

Corylus appeared from between blighted sunflowers opposite the geraniums. The short groundskeeper, beaming, startled Evon. Evon seemed bashful for a moment, and gestured as though he needed help with the half shear. Corylus took the tool and they conversed in the shade. Erik and I left the sight, deciding to visit the silos and to walk where the osage orange grew.

Along the way, Erik shared his latest creations.

“I’m calling the lineup ‘weird beers’,” said Erik.

“Weird? From you? No…”

Erik laughed with his eyes. “Pickle juice peat spontaneity beer. Made with Lakespar green barley, northern quartz hops, pickle juice, smoked peat, and it’s coolship fermented to boot.”

“Bleh. Give me a moment to take in some fresh air.”

“Doesn’t sound good, does it? But what if it is? Hot pepper beer is good. I think this should be too.”

“Haven’t you learned your lesson? Weren’t you banned from the Oude Brewer’s Competitive for that gravy beer?”

“Are ye insane? They can’t ban me for entering a beer, no matter how much they might hate it. They deserve it too. It’s only ever the classics that win, never the good stuff.”

“What about Hawkin’s ale?”

“That’s what I’m talking about. So what if it’s magic? What about flavor and all that?”

“Hawkin’s ethereal beers have flavors that don’t work like flavors. They’re more abstract, like they trigger fond memories.”

Erik grunted. The stink of osage fruit hung wet in the air. The barley and wheat in the field were past their prime and tinged with gray.

“I brewed a mustard seed brett ale last week,” said Erik.

“Must have sent you back to bronze rank.”

“Brought me into the Grand Honorable quality tier.”

I regarded Erik for a moment. Did he really brew something so wild that pushed him into the last quality tier of silver rank? He didn’t seem to be joking.

“You look like you don’t believe me,” he said.

“I do. I’m simply astonished.”

“Remember the ethereal dungeon beer Hawkin had made? Inside the crazy colored pumpkin gourd?”

We reached the silos. One of them slowly emptied of their grain. It belonged to Shejan, gold rank Brewer of the East Aldines. …Another pine smoked beer?

“I commissioned a glass blower,” said Erik, “to replicate the gourd. I’m releasing these to the public come fall.” He withdrew a glass pumpkin bottle from his inventory.

The glass was gas-green colored. Instead of a vine atop the pumpkin, A larger cork had been fitted in. Beer sloshed within. I withdrew a pair of tulip shaped pint glasses from my inventory and handed one to Erik.

He grinned. “An honor, brother.”

Because the container was so unwieldy, I had Erik hold the glasses. Beer foamed all down the sides of the glass pumpkin as I poured. The beer poured a sunshine yellow. The foam was speckled with flecks of rust, like bits of brown mustard seed hulls.

“This is the brett ale?” I said.

“Why else would I have put it in something so dumb and so lavish?”

True to brett ales, aromas of horse blanket, barnyard, and the remnants of touched brass on fingertips wafted up from the foam. Classic brett fragrances! We clinked glasses and drank. I knew then why the beer brought Erik into the highest quality of silver. Brett ales were tricky. Those brett flavors could easily be unfavorable; however, Erik mastered them. They were slight. The graham flavors of the roasted malt shined through. The hops were earthy like yellow clay. The mustard was less than slight and brought out the honeyed sweetness of the malt. It was an odd beer, but a fantastic odd beer.

A cold wind raked the barley field. A torrent of orange leaves flew off of the trees from across the field. A field mouse skittered across the trail. We continued our stroll.

“Speaking of the Oude Brewer’s,” said Erik, “I’ve already decided on the recipe I’ll be brewing for next year.”

“I’ve asked to pour the medalist’s beers next year at my tavern. They’re open to the idea.”

“Well you might be serving my okra oatmeal stout.”

“Okra?”

“Adds a nice bit of slime; it thickens the liquid. If you use enough of it, the liquid will float like a jellyfish in water.”

“Could you even get it out of the bottle?”

“With a couple smacks on the bottom.”

“I don’t think you’ll be placing with something like that. I doubt I’ll be pouring your beer in my tavern.”

Erik’s smile turned into something mischievous. “Yes you will. We’re good friends and good friends will pour beer like Erik Skullander’s licorice sassafras black lager.”

I threw an arm around his shoulder and turned us around. “Of course we’ll pour your beer at my tavern. No matter what the concoction is. And since we’re good friends, I’ll let you be the first to taste your weird beers.”

“Some are hard to swallow.”

“Exactly. I don’t know how you’ve amassed a following of beer collectors. People love strange things I suppose. By all the gods, I’d love for my tavern to be known for pouring everything—everything!”

∞

Late in the afternoon when the light was amber, and a chilly breeze sauntered through the open windows of my mansion, Riggvelte notified me that Abigail Yak was present. Erik and I followed Riggvelte out onto the 2nd floor balcony where wicker chairs had been set up around a low table. Abigail was looking out across Lavenfauvish.

After greetings, Erik and I sat across from her. Her gaze was on the floor, she chewed her lip as though it was a hardy thought, she hardly smiled, and she was quiet.

“You’re deeply preoccupied,” I said.

She told us all about a little goblin named Slime-tooth.

“And the ptooey is for the spit beer?” Erik clarified.

“It’s killing the goblin,” said Abigail. “He’s hardly allowed to sleep, or eat, or step outside. I’m absolutely heartbroken about it. He refused to come with us.”

“Do you have one on hand?” said Erik.

“A barrel of ptooey?”

“A bottle of spit beer.”

Abigail took a sip of beer from a chimeric colored bottle, disappeared, and then reappeared a few moments later with a similar bottle in hand. She gave it to Erik.

“What will you do with it?” I said.

Erik shrugged.

For minutes, a profound silence sat in Abigail’s lap and she stared at it. I could only surmise that she felt responsible for the conditions put upon Slime-tooth. From what I knew about Hawkin, he too must feel that same agony.

At last, Abigail slapped her knees, shook her head, and looked me straight in the eyes. “I’ve brought a dreambon ale,” she said. “We’ll summon Thrush, but would you mind if we ate first? Brewer’s Portals always exhaust me and leave me famished.”

“I’ll have Riggvelte muster something. You’re welcome to nap in the guest wing if you need to.”

“Thrush, the big ball of fur with teeth in the middle?” said Erik. “Count me in!”

Abigail smiled small.