Дэвид Нордли - How Beer Saved the World

The cauldron belched again, even louder this time, sending Coyote flying to land at Michael’s feet. Coyote shook himself, grinning.

“I outdrank them!” he boasted, burping loudly. “Outdrank—every—single—one.” He swayed and fell over.

“This? THIS bested my army?” the Kraken raged.

Coyote emitted a series of farts, followed by a long, drawn-out belch that was a smaller echo of the cauldron’s last one. “Well, me ‘n Alice Mary’s fine beer.” He punctuated the sentence with another set of farts, capped by an even deeper burp. “An—an—I’m betting I can out-drink YOU!” he drawled, rolling back to his feet, reeling slightly.

“You? YOU? Insignificant wretch—”

“Beat you to it,” Coyote slurred, wavering in a circle. “Betcha I can dive in before you do!”

“You’ll lose that bet!” The Kraken rose even higher on his tentacles. “Drunken fool!”

Coyote yipped, switching to canine form, and darted off, the Kraken in pursuit. Alice Mary squinted as he galloped toward the cauldron, yipping loudly. Was it her imagination or did the cauldron tip slightly to make it easier for him to leap inside? Nonetheless, he dove in, the Kraken sliding in after.

Both disappeared under the surface of the beer. Giant waves roiled across the top and threatened to spill over the edge. Two tentacles waved above the surface, and then fumbled for purchase on the cauldron’s rim. Coyote’s sharp, pointy canine muzzle broke the surface and he bit down hard on one tentacle. Coyote and tentacle disappeared into the beer again, followed by the other tentacle.

Steam rose from the surface. The waves slowly decreased. The beer stilled. Quiet fell over the battlefield.

And then, with another gigantic belch, the cauldron expelled two figures. The dark, roiling clouds exploded open with a bright crash of simultaneous lightning and thunder, wide enough to admit a limp-tentacled Kraken through a narrow slit. Brightness flashed around them. Then, slowly, the dark clouds softened to pale gray with streaks of white. In the distance, a single warbler burbled a soft call. Silence followed for a few moments, and then a meadowlark answered.

Coyote landed at Michael’s feet, half-canine, half-human. He looked up, grinned, and emitted a series of long, drawn-out belches followed by a very loud fart.

“An’ that should take care of the Kraken and his minions. This time.” He hiccupped. “Mighty fine brew our Alice Mary makes, ‘specially with Ninkasi there to help.” He shook himself and rose to his feet, now steady. “And even more thanks are due to our lady Ceridwen for the use of her splendid cauldron, and the cauldron itself!”

He bowed to the cauldron, and, marvelously, it tipped to him. Then it disappeared.

“Coyote, Coyote, Coyote,” Michael said, shaking his head. “If a drinking contest was enough to banish the Kraken and his hobgoblins sooner, why hadn’t you figured it out a few days ago and saved us all this trouble?”

“Because Alice Mary had not yet brewed this fine elixir,” Coyote said. He snapped his fingers and a fine, gray felted cowboy hat appeared. He brushed an infinitesimal wisp of dust off of the brim, then bowed his head slightly to put it on, nestling the crown down steadily on his head and snapping his fingers when it was settled. “All a matter of circumstances, oh honorable Archangel, all a matter of circumstances coming together.” He strode over to Alice Mary and Ninkasi, offering an arm to each of them. “And now, ladies, shall we go celebrate? Or did we use all the beer in the cauldron?”

“I think we used it all—” Alice Mary began.

Ninkasi laughed. “Ah, my dearest lady of Justice, one never pours all the brew! I held one small crock back for just this circumstance!”

“A lady after my own heart,” Coyote laughed. “And now, let us go celebrate!”

Alice Mary let herself be swept along. “But how did you keep from getting too drunk?” she leaned over to ask Coyote.

Coyote laughed. “Oh Alice Mary. Is there ever too much drink for the Trickster?”

She had to ponder that one for quite some time afterward.

An icy chill shot through Eleanor, clear down to her bones. She paused at the open doorway to Master Harte’s library. Still as a statue, the Master stood, wearing his smoking jacket and Sunday trousers. The play of light and shadows on his sand-colored hair and mutton chops revealed no vitality, like he was one of them mechanical blokes with fake whiskers and skin. Not only that, the gas-lamp flickering above his portly hulk—barely a good spit away from a bookcase—refused to reveal his right arm. Well, most of it. Did she need spectacles? The steady tick of the mantel clock grew louder than it should. Things was wrong here. Eleanor could feel that in her bones, too.

Regardless, she ought to serve Master Jeremy Harte his late-night libation although he’d mostly ignore it. ‘Twas one of her duties, one she’d best perform right and proper. Eleanor stepped forward. The beer she carried sloshed a bit. Wouldn’t do to spill spirits on the plush Persian carpet. She gripped her silver serving tray tighter. Blimey. If the Master didn’t fancy brew, why request such a brimming-full tankard? Another shiver crossed her shoulders, it did. What a strange place, Brighton House.

Master Harte remained half-turned toward his largest bookcase and only partially faced her. How unusual for him not to notice her presence. He was an inventor. Noticed all manner of things. Something must have put him off. Maybe she’d done a mistake.

“Yer stout, sir,” Eleanor said. She should have said “your,” but certain words from her childhood vernacular kept slipping out. “Shall I leave the stout on yer desk, sir?”

Why didn’t he answer? Eleanor glanced down at her starched white apron and the ankle-length skirt of her gray dress. She hadn’t reached her twenty-third year without learning basic facts of class and life. Men of Master Harte’s station didn’t need to justify their eccentric behavior. Servants like her bloody well did.

“Did ye hear me, sir?” Eleanor asked.

“The tankard,” Master Harte said, his voice flat. He still didn’t turn. “Hand me. Now.”

“Yes, sir.”

He’d just spoken with all the polish of a ten-year-old stable boy talking to a hound. Did the Master play a little game she didn’t understand? Eleanor set the tray upon the desk. She moved nearer to him, gripping the tankard’s cool sides with both hands. The handle remained free for him to grasp. Nary a muscle, he moved.

“Closer,” Master Harte said, his voice firm. Silvery threads in the collar of his smoking jacket shimmered. “To me.”

A warm tingle raced across the backs of Eleanor’s hands. This strange speaking had to be a bit of sport he made with her. In a minute she hoped he’d give her an affectionate pat on her shoulder and send her on her way for the night.

“Handle,” Master Harte said, still not looking at her. “In my left hand.”

In his left hand? He was right handed. An odor, like dried-out bogwood and sulfur heaped onto a smoldering fire, wafted out of nowhere. By Our Lady! Even flatulence couldn’t generate such a disagreeable stink.

“Step,” Master Harte said. His hand—chilly as an eel packed in snow—brushed her own and grasped the vessel by its handle. “Back. Now.”

Eleanor edged backward. A long stream of warm breath purged its way out her mouth. She must have been holding her air all in, afraid to exhale. Her eyelids raised as far as they could. Master Harte tilted his tankard and poured the stout down the top of his right arm near the shoulder. Had he gone balmy?