The Fountain of Eden: A Myth of Birth, Death, and Beer
Page 43
Chapter 43
Apocalypse . . . Now?
The droning sound of an engine issued from the Eden sky. Everybody looked up as a small plane passed directly over the grounds of New Shaolin Monastery, flying way too low.
The cloudless sky opened up, and it began to rain Hoppy Heaven Ale.
Sir Arthur pulled the purple lotus from a coat pocket, and the flower crumbled to ashes in his hands. Dust drifted between his fingers and floated off with the breeze.
Unrestrained chaos broke out across the monastery grounds. At first people screamed, thinking they were under some sort of chemical or biological attack, and ran in all directions, seeking the haven of somewhere—anywhere!—as long as it was indoors. (The monks were the only ones not affected thus; they simply stared up into the sky and the falling liquid with curious expressions on their faces.) But when the sweet-smelling amber rain splashed on people's heads, the rooftops, the ground, all that changed.
It's beer! they proclaimed in wonder. A gift from the gods! The foamy ambrosia falling from the sky could be nothing else!
People opened their mouths and let the beer drizzle down their throats, more enterprising folks standing underneath roof runoffs. People caught the beer in paper cups and hats and shoes, and drank deeply of the Water of Life. People dropped to their knees and sucked at the puddles on the ground where the beer had pooled. They jumped up and down, singing and dancing in the deluge of alcoholic beverage, hugging everyone with whom they came into contact, laughing with abandon at anything and everything, loving their neighbors and loving themselves, loving the world and all of Creation.
Many a garment was shed—sometimes to wring out and lick off the excess beer—and soon a horde of half-naked madmen and madwomen were frolicking about the New Shaolin grounds, slurping beer off one another. As the Edenites danced among the forgotten wares, old scars bubbled and congealed over with unblemished skin. Gray hair turned back to the original brunette, blond, or red. Wrinkles vanished and faces grew younger, losing crow's feet and creases to grow smooth and taut. Veteran seniors dropped their canes and walkers, and grooved. Wheelchair-bound elders rose to their full height for the first time in decades and joined their younger neighbors in the frenetic communal jig.
Jack tried to get Farmer John's help in calming down the populace, but the old farmer was not responding to anyone or anything. His eyes were rolled back in his head, his arms extended heavenwards, and his whole body shook.
“He's in a trance,” shouted Stephone over the hooting and hollering. “Bacchic frenzies increase his ken. He won't be able to move until this drunken orgy ends.”
Jack stared at Farmer John, stunned. Then he noticed something strange over the man's shoulder, up in the cloudless blue sky.
“Look up there!” Jack said, pointing. “What's that—”
The plane crashed into the novices' dormitories and exploded. At the same time, the sun disappeared from the sky, and the day turned into starry night.