by Dan H Kind
Chapter 7
The Adventures of Jack Whiskey
When Jack walked out into the cobblestone street, the first thing he noticed was that things were not quite right. On a typical Market day, shoppers would bounce from stall to tent to stall like agitated pinballs, each hoping to find that deal-of-deals before everybody else could get their grubby hands on whatever-it-was-this-week. Most Sundays the underlying Market mood was a frenzied one, a hectic one, a bargain-hunting one.
But today the normally all-business shoppers were milling about the streets, everybody in a joyful, ambrosia-induced daze. People who on any other day would be arguing—oftentimes on the brink of blows—over the last dozen white roses at the flower tent or the last jar of the beekeeper’s clover honey walked through the Market arm in arm, the best of friends from all appearances. The aroma of Hoppy Heaven Ale pervaded the air, transforming the humidity hovering around downtown Eden into an euphoric haze that almost seemed sentient.
Jack Whiskey had consumed six bottles of the magical beverage, and his head was lost in the shimmering clouds of his own personal Great Beyond.
But, through the beery fog, he knew he wanted more.
So he hustled over to the Olde Eden Brewery tent, pushed his way through the crowds outside the entrance, and burst inside, intent on one thing: Beer! Sweet beer! Hoppy Heaven Ale—the brew of the gods!
And there it was. There were kegs of it, for the gods' sakes; he could see three of the wonder-filled canisters. He just hoped, within his heart of hearts, that they weren’t yet floated.
Jack sidled his way through the press of people to the fold-out serving table and observed two men, one pouring beer and one handing out brimming cups of the delicious potion. “Could I try one, please?” he called out.
One of the men sported ears bigger than any Jack had seen. He looked at Jack coldly, but then his nose twitched in odd, animalistic fashion. It was as if the man had recognized him, though Jack was sure he had never seen the guy in his life.
“Hey, compadre, one for my good friend here!” called Big Ears to the bird-nosed man pouring the beer from the keg into clear plastic cups.
“Caw-caw-caw-ming right up, sah!” called back Bird Nose. He pushed the beer into Big Ears's hands, his beady black eyes never leaving Jack’s.
“Here you are, sir.” Big Ears handed Jack the beer, then turned to serve the multitude of other patrons awaiting their no-charge pint.
Jack moved to the side of the table, out of the way of the hubbub, and sipped at his beer, enjoying every last drop of divine flavor. After getting bored with peering around at the various other six-packs of brews on display and for sale—disappointingly, none of them Hoppy Heaven Ale—he observed the employees of the Olde Eden Brewery tent at work.
Just how Big Ears and his buddies were keeping track of who had already had a free pint was beyond him, but those who tried to sneak back into line for seconds were scolded by Big Ears when they reached the table, then hauled out of the tent by a slender, surly-looking man who stood by the door, surveying the socializing crowd with bloodshot eyes. The bouncer's gaunt, grayish face reminded Jack of a laughing dog, if such a thing existed.
After his first pint was bubbling away in his belly, Jack figured he would just go for it and suffer the consequences. “Hey, can I have another one?” he asked Big Ears. He held out his empty cup, expecting at any moment to be removed from the premises by Crazy-eyed Dog Man.
But Big Ears just grinned. “For you, sir, of course. You can have as many as . . . [twitch, twitch] . . . you like.” He grabbed Jack’s cup and handed it to Bird Nose, who refilled it and handed it back while appearing to struggle to keep from bursting out laughing.
“Wow, gee whiz,” said Jack, as he was handed the beer. “Okay, then. Thanks.”
“Not a problem, my friend, not a problem,” said Big Ears, and chuckled.
When Big Ears turned back to his work, Jack wondered why it was that he, out of the eight-thousand residents of Eden, was the only one allowed more than a single pint. It’s not like he had ever been a real good friend of Farmer John's! Sure, they had spoken in passing on numberless occasions, but if Jack hadn't patronized the man's bar on a nightly basis, he would never see him. And the beer vendors sure were some strange guys. He was surprised he had never seen them around town. New Old Eden Brewery employees, maybe?
Jack polished off his second pint of Hoppy Heaven and was handed another by Big Ears. He drank it down, enjoying every last sip to the utmost.
Then he had another.
And one more, just for good measure.
And as Jack was handed one more cup of carbonated paradise, Master Mirbodi floated into the Olde Eden Brewery tent.
The H.M.i.C. of New Shaolin Monastery scanned the crowd, taking in everything. His gaze lingered for a long second on the beer vendors, and his eyes narrowed. Then the monk caught sight of Jack and hovered across the crowded tent to his location. Without seeming to realize they were doing it, the people cleared a path for Master Mirbodi through their prattling, twitterpated midst.
“Hey, alchemist. What you doing here? I thinking you working at alchemy house today selling enchanted trinkets and magic scrolls.”
Jack exhaled a beer-soaked sigh of regret. “Well, Mashter Mirbodi, I am no longer an alchemisht, fake or otherwishe, for I have thish very afternoon been fired from that eshteemed position.”
“Fired, huh?” The monk scrutinized the beer in Jack’s hand. “Hey, can I see that beer one second?”
Jack hid his beer behind his back. “They’re giving out free shamples. If you want one, why don’t you get yourshelf one?”
The Zen master smiled, ever-so slightly. “I no alter mind with earthly substances—except to teach lesson to wayward novice. I just wanna look at beer closer.”
Jack sighed again, not liking where this was going, and handed Master Mirbodi his half-full cup. The old monk looked at the beer in the sunlight beaming into the tent, sniffed it a few times, and even took a very small sip of it. Then he handed the cup back to Jack, muttering under his breath.
“Where Farmer John?” he said, his voice somehow different—more serious, perhaps, which was strange for the ever-grinning, ever-jovial Zen master. “He usually here every Sunday.”
“Dunno. Haven't sheen him reshently.”
“Come with me, Jack.”
“Okay. But can I get one more firsht? And where are we going?”
“We going to Art’s tent. Go ahead and get one more if you want to.” Back to his old self, Master Mirbodi grinned at the former alchemist. “After all, it no affect you. Plus, I wanna see guys serving beer up close and personal for minute.”
Jack downed the last swallow of his current beer, then ordered up one more from Big Ears. The vendor's hands shook as he handed over the brew, spilling foam over the edge of the cup. When Jack looked up, surprised, Big Ears was ogling Master Mirbodi, backing away from the monk, his mouth moving but nothing coming out. The patchrobed monk met Big Ears'—fearful, was it?—gaze levelly, then spun around in a swirl of patchwork. He grabbed Jack by the collar and hauled him through the gibbering crowd with a brute strength that a hundred-plus year old man should not possess.
Upon their departure, the monk cast a dead-eyed stare at the bouncer, easily a foot taller than the Zen Master. But when his eyes met Mirbodi Madhaha's, Crazy-eyed Dog Man’s arrogant expression changed to one of blind, feral terror. He wilted like a flower, curled up on the cobblestone in the fetal position, and whimpered like a wounded dog.
Then a surge of energy passed through the beer tent—seen by none, but felt by all—and the three kegs exploded from their taps like geysers, and sprayed Bird Nose and Big Ears and everything within the tent with foaming beer. The crowd gasped as one and fell, shrieking like banshees and salivating like demons craving souls, upon the beer-drenched cobbles and the vendors, ravenous for one last taste of Hoppy Heaven Ale.
Sir Arthur sat on a stool behind a card table by the hon
ey tent's entrance. He was wearing his standard tweed jacket in the blazing heat of midday (just how he didn’t seem to mind wearing this outfit in the dog-days of summer was debatable, but he was rarely if ever seen wearing anything else). He smiled widely at Jack Whiskey and Mirbodi Madhaha as they tripped and floated, respectively, into the tent. They had come at the right time, for Sir Arthur had no customers.
Inside the tent were shelves stacked high with many varieties of the self-proclaimed “best honey within a thousand miles,” such as wildflower, clover, orange blossom, lavender, sage, goldenrod, and raw. Fold-out tables were adorned with small containers of granulated bee pollen, beeswax candles, honey-based jams and jellies (including Royal Jelly, a supposed aphrodisiac, of which Sir Arthur kept a few jars under the counter for those who wanted to give their lagging love lives a shot in the penile vein), and a melange of delicious honey candies. He also stocked a varied selection of honey-infused teas and beeswax soaps, creams, and lotions.
Master Mirbodi released his iron grip on Jack’s collar, and the former alchemist stood and swayed and sipped at his beer. He had not spilled a single drop of Hoppy Heaven Ale on the walk over, even though he had stumbled into at least three people while being unceremoniously dragged across the Market. “Now that'sh shkill, baby . . .” mumbled Jack.
“Hey, Art. You see Farmer John recently?” asked Master Mirbodi.
About to welcome his friends to his humble tent with an eloquent speech, Sir Arthur bit his tongue. He pondered for a moment and said, “I have seen him twice in the last week, the first time at the Taphouse last Wednesday. My friend Jack Whiskey there was present at the time. I said hello and attempted to engage the good farmer in conversation as he was making his rounds through the barroom, but he rebuffed me, saying he had pressing business out at the farm. He left quickly.”
Jack nodded in confirmation. He remembered the incident through a haze of inebriation, both then and now.
“Almost the same thing happened the next evening, although then I was sitting alone at the bar, sipping scotch. He walked into the Taphouse from the 'employees-only' door behind the bar, saw me roosting there, and dove back through the door. I found both incidents peculiar, but did not think too much of either at their respective times. Farmer John, though a good friend, is a weird one, to say the least. Why do you ask, Master Mirbodi?”
“I no see him in week or so.” The Zen Master peered intently at the beekeeper. “Art, we just come from Olde Eden Brewery tent, and strange things going on there. You see Jack’s beer?” He and Sir Arthur looked at Jack, who hesitated, then handed Art the ale-filled cup, twitching and mumbling about “his precious.”
The beekeeper pulled a magnifying glass from his coat pocket and peered at the beer. He sloshed it around in the cup, muttering to himself. He looked at it in the sunlight, then produced a pen-light and shone it into the depths of the cup. He cleared off a table, poured out a few drops of the liquid, and watched as it dribbled off the edge. He smelled the beer, his nose buried deep in the cup, snorting like a pig. He dipped his finger into the thin layer of foam on the surface and tasted it, smacking his lips and puffing out his cheeks like a chipmunk. He took a sip of beer, sloshed it around in his mouth, gargled, and spit it back into the cup. He handed the beer back to Jack, who took it and stared at it with reproach, then shrugged and took a sip.
“It’s quite obvious what’s in that beer. No need to hire a detective to solve that mystery,” said Sir Arthur, a touch of cynicism in his tone.
“Hoppy Heaven Ale some powerful stuff, all right,” said Master Mirbodi. “And those handing it out at tent of beer not what they seem.”
Sir Arthur brainstormed for a moment, then snapped his fingers. “Gentlemen, from this moment forward we must make it our duty to find out what is transpiring with this Hoppy Heaven Ale and the Olde Eden Brewery. But before we begin making unwarranted assumptions, we shall do a little investigating into the matter. I am closing down shop for the day.”
Master Mirbodi helped Sir Arthur pack away the various sale-items, and Jack stood and wobbled and slurped at his beer. Then a bevy of squeaky voices echoed into the tent. Master Mirbodi led Jack by the elbow to the half-closed entrance flap, Sir Arthur at their heels. It turned out to be a group of teenagers in folksy dress, five boys and a girl.
“ . . . got us a serious problem, then,” said one of the taller boys, wearing clothes three sizes too big and a wide-brimmed straw hat.
“Not necessarily,” answered a red-haired kid. “It’s a three-quart jug, and it was full. And sure, that’s enough to do it to someone. But who’s to say only one person’ll drink the whole thing?”
“Oh, come on, Black Avenger!” shot back Straw Hat. “You know humans can’t resist that stuff once they smell it!”
“Even so,” replied the Black Avenger, “just one person won’t matter too much.”
Straw Hat sighed, then appeared to acquiesce. “Still, it could be trouble. The bottle defnit'ly warn't where he left it, then?”
“Naw, it was right by the Dumpster, Sid says. And if that’s the case, it was gone. Somebody must 'a' picked it up.”
The conversation died, and the group stood and scowled unseeing at the Farmers’ Market.
“Excuse me, my friends,” said Sir Arthur. He emerged from the tent and smiled cordially at the group of adolescents. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of one another’s acquaintance, but if you are who I believe you are, then I know all about you.”
The lone girl of the group shrieked. “Hey! You’re—”
“Yes, yes, indeed I am,” said Sir Arthur with a flutter of hands. “And I must inquire as to what you are doing here in Eden.”
The girl, blond-haired and pretty, smiled at the beekeeper and whispered something to the red-haired, freckle-faced boy—the so-called Black Avenger—who held her hand. His eyes widened with each word spoken, and he stared at Sir Arthur with undisguised awe. He beckoned his friends close and proceeded to whisper and gesture with vehemence. The meeting of preteen minds soon dispersed, all of its attendees grinning, and Straw Hat stepped forward.
“We visit the Eden Farmers' Market when we get low on slingshot ammo. They got it for sale at the tent afore the Magazine.”
“Is that so?” said Sir Arthur, staring into the tent-filled distance. “And did you happen to come into town by way of . . . Tranquil Forest?”
“We sure did.”
“And did you notice anything . . . odd happening there?”
“Well, there was some weird markings on the forest floor, but we di'n’t think too much of it, becuz you know how that goes around there.”
Sir Arthur's brow furrowed, and his eyes went distant. “Something very strange has been going on in Eden in recent days, and I have turned a blind eye to it . . .” He trailed off and appeared to leave this world, muttering and stroking his chin. Several moments later, he awoke from his trance and clapped his hands. “Would you six youngsters”—he winked—“care to accompany me on a walk through the park? After all, it is such a lovely day.”
The kids looked around at each other, then shrugged as one.
“Sure,” said Straw Hat. “We got nothing else going on now.”
“Excellent!” proclaimed Sir Arthur. “We will take a nature walk through beatific Tranquil Forest! And don’t worry about that water bottle. If you left it by the Dumpster, I believe I know where it ended up, seeing as how it did not grow legs and wander away. Or at least most likely not.” He pirouetted to the Zen master. “Master Mirbodi, would you be so kind as to escort Jack Whiskey to his abode while I finish packing up the tent, for I believe he is far too drunk to accompany us. Perhaps then you could return to New Shaolin Monastery and see if you can locate that bottle.”
Master Mirbodi agreed to drive Jack’s car back to the Village of Eden. From there, he would walk to New Shaolin Monastery to find out what had become of the missing water bottle. And he already had a pretty good idea of just which novice had picke
d it up.
After much cross-questioning, Jack remembered where he had parked his car. He and his patchrobed escort walked across the Farmers’ Market to the rusted wreck, dodging euphoric shoppers foxtrotting for joy in the streets. They hopped—or, in the case of Jack, fell—into the vehicle and drove off, traveling down the wrong side of Colonial Towne Road.
Five minutes later the pair had reached the Village of Eden without accident or incident, other than perhaps setting the world's record for having the most middle fingers pulled on them in five minutes' time. Master Mirbodi helped Jack out of the car and lent him a shoulder to lean on during the zigzag to the apartment doorstep.
Jack searched his pockets for his keys.
Master Mirbodi handed Jack the keys, which dangled from his hand.
Jack fumbled with the keys, then opened the door when he recalled that he never locked it. “Tanksh, Mashter. Dashun'shtillup, butshmetinkshI'mshagonnahitshdahayferafew. Byeshnowsh.”
Jack shut the door in the monk's smiling face, stumbled to bed, and fell into a deep, delightful, drunken sleep.
Jack dreamed that he had died and gone to a sparkling city in the clouds, where there were angels with golden-glowing halos quaffing even golder mead, and pink-cheeked cherubs strumming silver harps and guzzling ambrosia between numbers, and a bunch of folks milling around wearing fashions that stretched across millenniums, all of them drinking divine beer. Exquisite fountains crafted of starlight decorated every block of this celestial metropolis built on drunken dreams, and flowed foaming and frothing with the amber-colored beer of the gods, Hoppy Heaven Ale, instead of the standard water.
And the cheap plastic cups were always just to your left.