The Fountain of Eden: A Myth of Birth, Death, and Beer

by Dan H Kind

  Chapter 36

  Startage

  There was a tinkling sound . . . Ta-ta-ta-tink! . . . and the watch broke in Jack's pocket. The mechanical innards of the busted clock dug into his leg, and he could feel the pain in increasing intervals, as if waking up from a pleasant dream to torturous reality.

  Time got up off its lazy river-ass and got back to flowing with an unexpected jolt that left everybody standing or sitting where they were, rooted to the Throne Room floor, wondering what the hell had just happened.

  Except for Jack, who popped up like a Jack-in-the-box and delivered a kung-fu fist of fury to Hades's unprotected face. The Lord of the Underworld recoiled at the blow and released Stephone, who scampered behind Jack and Becky.

  When Hades looked up, his eye already swelling up, Jack was standing in Horse stance (Master Mirbodi would have been proud), fists at the ready. As Tom Sawyer crept up on all fours behind Hades, Jack clocked the King of the Dead again, an uppercut shot that smashed Hades's nose into splinters.

  Hades stumbled backwards, his nose spewing blood, tripped over Tom, and tumbled to the floor.

  Then Farmer John pounced on Hades, his knee digging into his crotch, his elbow digging into his sternum, his hands clawing at the King of the Dead's face. The old farmer pried open Hades's jaws, inch by inch, until his black-hole mouth was open wide. Farmer John leaned in close and puckered his lips as if to plant a goodnight kiss on Hades's devilish cheek. Instead, he hawked up a good one—and spat the blob of snot down the Unseen One's throat!

  Hades ceased thrashing, and his face went slack. His eyes glazed over, and his pupils dilated. The laid-back smile of a stoner who has just smoked some killer hash spread across his face.

  Farmer John stood up, freeing the King of the Dead, and dusted off his hands in a move almost identical to Hades's of earlier. “Now that,” he said, “should do the trick.”

  Hades stood up. The companions jumped back with a communal gasp—except for Farmer John, who grinned.

  The King of the Dead's eyes were crossed, and his mouth opened and closed, opened and closed, yet no words escaped his jaws. He gave a queer little whistle between his teeth and proceeded to wander drunkenly about the Throne Room, mumbling under his breath in some unknown language. His head lolled to the side as if he was struggling to carry it on his shoulders, and he bumped into people and bounced off cases of beer in the manner of a lush at a keg party.

  Farmer John watched the inebriated Hades flounder about, then laughed from the belly. “He'll be shit-faced for hours. And when he comes to, he shouldn't remember a thing about what happened.”

  Chirping birds and buzzing bees popped into existence out of nowhere and began twittering and frolicking and making merry in the air around Farmer John's head. Annoyed, he swatted at a bluebird, which hit the wall of Hoppy Heaven Ale hard and slid to the floor, unconscious. Squawking and tweeting, the other creatures and critters beat a hasty retreat into the darkness above.

  “Godsdamned birds and bees! Ever since that cartoon Disney movie came out in the '50s. . .” Mumbling but once again grinning, Farmer John turned to Becky Thatcher. “I thankya for releasin' me from that Chair, young lady.”

  Becky blushed. “T'weren't nothing, Mister John. I knew the code.”

  Farmer John pirouetted to each of the companions in turn and expressed gratitude for the rescue. Lastly, he spun to Jack. “How ya doin'?” He extended his hand for a shake, as if they had never met. “Johnny Appleseed, at yer service! I know we already know each other, but it's nice to finally meet ya for real, Wesakaychak, or Wisagatcak, or Wisakedjak, or Weesack-kachack, or Whiskey Jack, or Jack Whiskey, with all true identities revealed, and all that jazz.”

  “Johnny . . . Johnny Appleseed!”

  “What, ya ha'n't heard of me?”

  “Of course I've heard of you! Who hasn't?”

  “Oh, many. And of those who do know me, most do not know the true me.”

  Jack thought for a moment. “So what are you doing running a brewery and hole-in-the-wall bar in Eden? I mean, I get the whole organic farming thing, seeing as how you're basically the patron saint of agriculture in the United States, but not the beer.”

  Farmer John's eyes grew startlingly intense, and he raised a quivering finger to the sky. “Ah-ha! This means that ye, like most people, have a layman's knowledge of the true Johnny Appleseed, who was far different from what most Americans are taught in kindergarten!”

  “Oh yeah? All I ever heard of you was that you would travel the American wilderness and plant apple orchards to feed the hungry colonists that came behind you because you were some kind of benevolent nature-spirit come down to Earth in the shape of a human being, or something like that.”

  “Oh, aye, I planted apple orchards. Lots of 'em. But the apples that grew on the trees I planted were by no means edible. To grow edible apples such as the Red Delicious and Granny Smith, 'tis necessary to graft the tree, thus ensuring its fruit will taste as sweet as its 'parent's.' Apple trees grown directly from the seeds of its parent are as variegated as human beings born from the wombs of their mothers, and almost always inedible. Nay, the apples that grew on my seedling trees were good for one thing, and one thing only: to drink!”

  Comprehension dawned on Jack's face. “No way! They were making cider!”

  Farmer John's eyes twinkled. “Indeed. Hard cider, as it's called nowadays. Back then, however, hard was the only kind.”

  “Those wily colonists! I should've realized!” Jack chuckled and peered at Farmer John with a sly, knowing look. “I get the name of the brew now. And the label.” He raised his eyebrows at Farmer John, who looked just as he did on the label of the Olde Eden Appleseed Applejack: barefoot, wearing a tin cooking pot on his cranium, dressed in nothing but a burlap sack. The only thing missing was the apple seeds pouring from his open palms.

  Jack laughed and shook his head. Farmer John looked at him with a strange expression.

  “Everything all right, Jack?”

  “Yeah. It's just funny how history and myth get twisted around to something prettier and more politically correct over time. It just proves how the past often becomes a fairy tale in its own right.”

  Johnny Appleseed, bringer of not food but alcohol to probably hungry but definitely thirsty colonists, grinned at this observation. “Indeed it can. After all, look at me.”

  Jack did not reply, because something tickled his brain. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed something strange wedged between some twelve-packs.

  Farmer John looked around at each face in turn. “Now, tell me what's been happening on Earth.”

  They filled him in, and Stephone asked, “So how did Hades get you, John?”

  “I'm kicking meself for that one. It was a week after I hired you. You were off that night, and I noticed him sitting alone at a corner table in the Taphouse. Surprised to see him out of the Underworld, I walked over and said hello, and he said he had come to Earth to speak to me personally. Curious, I ordered up a couple beers and sat down.” He peered at Stephone. “He told me he wanted to grant you the divorce. That it was time to move on. Said he wanted me to get in touch with my contacts at the MythCourt to get the ball rolling a little quicker than it usually would. Of course I agreed. After that, we had a few cold ones and reminisced on the old days.

  “Later, Hades said he had a bottle of rare ambrosia and asked if I wanted to walk him back to the sipapuni. Always a sucker for a good drink, I agreed. I don't remember much of the walk. Stumbling, giggling, drinking straight ambrosia. I got way giddy, then way groggy. I don't remember reaching the sipapuni or descending to the Underworld. I remember nothing until I woke up here.”

  Farmer John's eyes ignited and locked onto the bumbling Hades. “He drugged me, for sure. Probably one of Morpheus's little concoctions. He's one of the few who can create something that'll knock me on my ass like that.” He shook his head. “I just wasn't expecting anything like that from him. Sure, Hades is stubborn, unwilling to l
et go of a grudge or a wife—Sorry, Steph—but it's completely out of character for him to wish to destroy all of existence, including and most especially himself.” He paused and looked around at the mountains of Hoppy Heaven Ale. “But here we are.”

  Nobody said a word in reply.

  Farmer John clapped his hands. “And now, let us be on our way. We must return to Eden and—” He raised his hand and angled his head to one side. “D'you hear that?”

  “Hear what?” asked Jack. He let out a gasp and rubbed the top of his skull. For a moment it had felt like part of his brain was missing, as if he had recently been lobotomized without his knowledge or consent. He peered accusingly at the strange object jutting from the wall of beer.

  “That humming sound,” said Farmer John, staring wide-eyed at the nearest rectangle of window, into which a growing shadow hove into view. “It sounds like it's—”

  His voice was drowned out as the windows exploded inward and a billion shards of glass tornadoed towards Team Myth from both ends of the beer-lined corridor.