Chapter 17

Beast

I was slowly going through the monk’s ale. There was still quite a bit left and I preferred to share it with Thrush than drink it on my own. So I waited to pour myself another while Thrush slept.

I had just returned from visions of summer fields, yellow flowers, and Dellia’s enchanting personality. Each sip had only given me a brief moment with her. There was no time to talk. Not even to convey emotions with our eyes.

It was strange to me that both the Sons of Ara and Thrush didn’t have the same experience I did when it came to drinking the ale. I couldn’t talk to Dellia about. Thrush knew nothing about it. There was no one I could come to with questions. It really mattered to me because I would love to be able to give someone else the same experience. I hoped I could one day brew a beer where the drinker could be transported to wonderful places.

Imagine that. Imagine if I could physically transport myself by drinking an ale.

I checked on the mash and stirred the contents. The next step required hops so I laid out three piles I had. They were old and dried. They were flattened and greenish-brown. Either each pile were each the same variety of hops, or it was my imagination that they smelled almost imperceptibly different.

Thrush was now lightly snoring and I didn’t have the heart to wake him up, just to feed him hops to identify.

As soon as I added the hops, the cabin became humid and sticky with the aroma of old cut grass and oxidizing leaves.

Thrush kicked a leg and curled a paw. He growled and clicked his teeth. His enormous eyelids fluttered. He rolled onto his side and began panting as though he were chasing prey in a dream.

As far as I knew from my level 1 brewer skill book, hopping the wort often took less time than mashing the grains. After about half an hour of steeping everything, I needed to strain the hops and grain from the wort.

Oops, I should have thought about making a strainer beforehand.

I resolved to strain out the wort the same way I strained out tea. I gently tipped the pot over one of the gourds I’d made. I had to go slowly so that I wouldn’t get any bits of hops or grains. I was quite pleased to see that the liquid came all the way to the neck of the gourd. Nearly a gallon of wort ready to be chilled. I plopped the cork in and made my way to the door.

Thrush ripped a massive sawing snore and turned suddenly. His head rammed into my foot, just as I was stepping over him. I couldn’t recover from the misstep and pitched forward right onto him.

“*%#*@&,” I uttered as I fell right atop him. I watched on in third person and in horror. I tried to both save my fall with one hand and save the gourd in my other. I watched helplessly as my shoulder smashed straight into one of Thrush’s closed eyes. My knee came up and jabbed straight into the soft of his belly.

His eyelid slipped over his eye. I felt his eye bend inward. I felt my knee shove into his stomach and organs. The moment I collided with him, I bounced off toward the table, hitting my head on a table leg.

“Thrush! Thrush!” I yelled and scrambled up, letting the gourd wobble on its bottom. I gently shook Thrush and searched with my hands for any damage I caused him.

He didn’t respond. For a few moments adrenaline forced me to pant in panic. I froze, watching and listening for the beast’s vital signs.

Thrush’s belly rose and fell with deep even breathing. He growled and clicked his teeth, once again as though hunting prey in a deep and wild dream.

I sat back in amazement, hands on my knees, recovering from the horror of my fall.

I can’t believe he slept through that. I winced in pain. My knee feels like I smashed it into the stove, just like that one time a few years back. My elbow smarts.

I sucked teeth as I shook my arm out and stretched my fingers. Pins and needles were lost in that arm and I groaned from that ultimate discomfort.

I groaned as I scooped up the hot gourd filled with wort. I stood and paused, regarding Thrush for a moment longer.

You’re something, you know that? You sure are something.

Astounded by the fact that I had really hurt myself, yet had not disturbed Thrush, I left the cabin. I had to cool down the wort so I plopped it in the snow just outside and piled snow around it.

Shouldn’t take long to cool down.

I thought to chop some wood until then, so I went to grab my axe. I checked on the smoking fish before leaving and tsked when I realized the fish was going to get dry if they weren’t taken out immediately.

After debating with myself, I decided to let them get too dry. They were Thrush’s responsibility and this would be a good way for him to learn what it meant to neglect smoking the fish for too long.

Then I set out to chop some more oak. I rolled up the long sleeves of my wool pullover and tramped through the snow.

The oak split apart like butter. I took my time, enjoying the bite of cold snowflakes on my face. Snow transformed to small crystals on my short beard. My eyelashes were white with snow. My cheeks and nose stung red.

As I worked, I couldn’t free my mind of my fall earlier. I don’t think it had really sunken in how unaffected Thrush was. It made me see him in a different light. I began to question how powerful that short bear-beast really was.

Without question, Thrush and I have a connection. I don’t know what it is or if that connection is equal. I could just be a mouse to his cat. He could be just playing with me until he wants to kill—to eat me. What would happen the day that I no longer have smoked fish for him? Perhaps it’s a good idea to chop more wood than I ever have before. What happens when the sea freezes over in winter, and neither of us can break through the ice? How do we get fish then?

I had been able to make twelve trips for wood by the time it started to get dark out. The cabin door was wide open, so I knew that Thrush was up. I dumped the rest of the logs in the pile and made my way in. Thrush was just eating his smoked fish. He licked a paw clean. Then his great eyes rolled my way, throbbing and pulsing in their sockets.

“How’d your fish turn out?” I said.

“They’re not juicy,” he said, puzzled.

“You left them to smoke for too long. You’ve got to get the timing just right.”

“I like how smokey they are. I want them to be just this smokey, and I want them to be juicy too.”

“You’ll have a tough time with that. It’s sort of one way or the other.”

“Maybe,” Thrush said.

Thrush offered me a filet of smoked deep sea coral fish. I thanked him for it and sat upon the barrel opposite the table.

“Uh—how’d you sleep?” I said.

“Like usual,” Thrush said. “I saw your gourd outside in the snow. Did you finish brewing your beer?”

“I’ve got to pitch in some yeast. Then we’ve got to let it ferment until it’s ready.”

“How long will that take?”

“Few days to a week, I reckon.”

“I’ve been thinking,” Thrush said after a few minutes of me eating in silence. “I think I’m going to go look for some metal. I want a bigger smoker.”