Дэвид Нордли - How Beer Saved the World

“It doesn’t want to cross the beer,” Alice Mary said.

Coyote dumped the remaining contents of his mug over the excrescence. Foul black smoke nasty enough to provoke both of them into choking coughs rose momentarily, then snuffed out.

The pustulant monstrosity was gone. Her lily stopped vibrating. Alice Mary drank deeply, staring where the thing had been.

Nothing.

“It’s gone,” Coyote breathed. He shook his head. “My Lady of Justice, I do believe I owe you a favor. And more.” He looked sorrowfully at his mug and shook his head. “But to my regret, it meant wasting some good beer. But—beer as a weapon? Hmm. It’d be worth a try.”

Alice Mary reached for his mug. “I can take care of the wasted brew. There’s a small keg to share for tonight, more than enough for all. I’d say you’ve earned another mug.”

Coyote’s lips pulled back in a feral grin. “Oh my dearest lady, the War Council will most definitely want to hear about this! You may have given us the weapon we need for victory!”

“Perhaps,” Alice Mary said. “Most likely it will prove only to be a cure.”

“Even a cure would be most welcome, my dear Lady of Justice.” Coyote drained his mug. “But if we can find a way to drench those hobs in the beer, then maybe we could stop this battle. After all, if it kills their weapons, what would it do to them?”

“I don’t know. Even with divine help, there’s no possibility that I could brew enough by myself to drown a whole army.”

“Hm.” Coyote frowned thoughtfully. “I might have some ideas about that. Let me think further. Meanwhile. Current business. May I help you carry the keg?”

Alice Mary frowned at him. “And how much of the beer will actually make it to the War Council?”

“My lady!” Coyote protested.

Alice Mary relented. “You may help.”

The tail protruding from Coyote’s jeans began to wag slightly.

“But—” Alice Mary scolded, wagging a finger at him. “I’m watching you.”

“As if I would do anything wrong!” Coyote protested.

“I know you far too well,” Alice Mary said.

“So.” Michael the Archangel, Defender of Earth, peered deep into the tankard Alice Mary had poured for him. “Coyote. Were you aware of this growth after you drank the beer?”

“The most I felt was annoyance at an itch on my shoulder, until I’d drunk a couple of mugs and Alice Mary knocked it off of me.” Coyote’s voice was quiet. Alice Mary noticed a faint haziness around his right hand as its shape wavered between firmly a hand one moment, shading into gray/black/white paw the next.

On Coyote’s other side, Ullr, the taciturn Norse god of hunting and skiing who was Coyote’s fighting partner, stirred. The icicles that clung to the fringes of his shirt faintly jingled as he moved, glistening more than usual in the summer heat but still intact, not melting. “I saw nothing out of the ordinary while we fought,” he said.

“I had to drink quite a bit to see anything,” Alice Mary admitted.

“And yet—” Michael sniffed the mug. He looked over at one of the masked Holy People and handed her the mug. She sniffed the beer and took a sip. The mask hid her expression but her deep, slow, contented sigh suggested her enjoyment.

“There is power in this brew,” she pronounced. “A subtle power, but power nonetheless.” She drank again. Another deep, long, satisfied exhale, followed by a discreet wiping of foam off her lips by one gloved hand. “Ah. Delicate and tasty. Alice Mary, the fruit nicely conceals the depths in this one. Coyote, you said pouring this beer over the globule killed it?”

“Utterly.”

“Then we need to cover the hobgoblins completely with beer.”

“Alice Mary, have you the ability to brew enough beer both to fortify our army and drown the hobgoblins?” Michael asked.

“Not alone,” Alice Mary admitted.

“And this beer’s power might come from Alice Mary’s skill only, not what she put into it,” Coyote added. “At best, it would take a god’s help for her to brew enough.”

“If we can get a deity to create an everlasting flow of Alice Mary’s beer… There are certainly enough deities of beer out there to be able to do this,” Michael snapped. “Deities, saints, demigods—”

“But only Alice Mary created this particular brew,” Coyote said.

“True, true. Perhaps the aid of Arnold of Soissons—”

“Or Metz,” an anonymous friar down the table from Michael interjected.

“The Saints Arnold,” Michael said heavily, “might well provide us with the ever-flowing brew if they bless it, Alice Mary.”

“And what if your Christian blessing eliminates the positive properties of Alice Mary’s magic?” Bear growled, rolling her heavy, fur-mantled shoulders and huffing slightly as more ursine characteristics slowly transformed her already part-bear human form into full Bear shape. “Dare we take that risk?”

“I would think we run into that risk with any deity not directly tied to beer,” Michael said. “Whoever helps Alice Mary has to be dedicated to the beer.”

“That we can do, and help is on the way,” Coyote said. “I spoke to my Mesopotamian friend and she will be here shortly to help Alice Mary. I doubt her assistance will cancel out Alice Mary’s own power. In any case, quantity is the issue if we want to immerse the hobs.”

“Even if we could get enough beer, how would we drown them?” Bear asked.

“Drown them—there’s a thought. We just need a container. An ever-renewing container.” Coyote grinned wickedly. “A cauldron. Ever-renewing. Friends, I need to speak to one who does not ally either with us or the Kraken.”

“It depends upon who it is,” Michael said.

“Our lady Ceridwen.”

“Ceridwen—hmm. Yes. I approve,” said the masked Holy Person who’d tasted the beer. “I have had dealings with her of late. She will be friendly.”

“I agree. But even if we decide to drown them in Ceridwen’s ever-renewing cauldron, how are we going to get the hobgoblins in it?” Michael asked.

“Leave it to me,” Coyote said. “That I can handle.”

A falcon flitted across the room, dropping a tiny clay tablet into Michael’s hand. He glanced at it and smiled. “Alice Mary, good news. Your brewing help has arrived.”

“Then I’d best go brew.” Alice Mary hurried out of the chambers.

As she entered the garden courtyard, Alice Mary noticed that her little corrugated aluminum brew shack had surprisingly—or not so surprisingly, given the typical state of affairs at Monalba—transformed from metal to clay and tripled in size. Light poured out from every window, and the walls glowed as if the sun shone directly on the golden-brown adobe.

Alice Mary stepped inside, eyes wide as she took in the huge fermenting vat, easily four times the size of the biggest one she possessed. The combined scent of yeast and fruit almost overpowered her with its heady, rich aroma. And presiding over the vat was a dark-eyed, dark-haired woman with elaborately braided hair and kohl-lined eyes. When she looked up and smiled, the warmth projected from her smile rolled up and down Alice Mary’s lanky frame. The Lady gestured and a smaller version of Herself stepped up to oversee the vat.

Without thinking about it, Alice Mary dropped to her knees as the Lady glided toward her. Her sheer authority compelled it.

“Come, come,” the Lady said, taking Alice Mary’s hands and lifting her back up to her feet. “You should not be kneeling in my presence. If anything, I should be the one kneeling to such a talented brewster.”

“I—I—Lady—” Alice Mary stuttered, beginning to realize just who this Lady was. “I—I am but a lowly practitioner of the craft of brewing.”