Chapter 91

The Memory of an Orange White-beer

A city built upon piers.

Holldam architecture creaked from the foot traffic. The docks were firm and wide. The buildings were bleached from summer suns until everything was a bone-ish color. It reminded me of the skeletal remains upon the delta.

Ladders were aplenty and banged against the docks, showing the history of water levels with stains. Docks were roped to stop children from walking off, and pilings were tall to hold raised buildings.

The ports were slammed with traffic. So was the Bull Head Lily tavern, even early in the morning. I squeezed in between men at the bar and ordered a stout and clam chowder.

The chowder was delivered in a bowl of bread. Fantastic! The beer; delivered in a sea shell reformed by magic into a tankard. One of the best breakfasts I’ve ever had, hands down. I even thought of relocating just to have the chowder everyday.

“You seem surprised with your meal,” the bartender said. “Our chef is silver ranked. Of course the food’s good.”

“Not surprised,” I corrected. “Delighted. Impressed. I almost feel like a changed person.”

“Makes you want to move here, doesn’t it? That’s what all travelers say about it.”

“It does, but I won’t. City life isn’t for me.”

“Yet you’re here.”

“Business. I’m looking for a man.”

“I’m available.”

“A specific man.”

“I’m a defined man. Raised with convictions.”

“A man named Hawkin,” I said, trying not to roll my eyes.

“Jorge,” the bartender said with a grin. “Pleased to meet you…”

“Abigail. Hawkin’s a bronze ranked brewer. Heard of him? Ever purchase any of his beers?”

“What’s in it for me?”

Slightly taken aback, I said, “I thought you were a man of conviction.”

“Well I firmly believe my time is worth something.”

“What do you want? Coin?”

“A kiss.”

“Thank you for your time,” I said flatly, slamming down one silver coin and turning to leave.

The bartender shouted after me. “Kidding! I’m kidding! Hey, come back, I’m sorry! No, I haven’t heard the name!”

Jerk.

I ran into better men at other taverns, but they all had the same answer.

“No” at the Barnacle Bill inn. “No” at the Black Tide Tavern. “No” at the Phil & Tucker brewery. “Sorry, wish I did” at the Dead Undertow Tavern.

I was hoping for a clue. Something, anything, but I was again empty handed after speaking to the owner of The Albatross inn.

“Are you going around asking all the breweries and taverns?” Wendell said. “Sorry the Albatross Inn is a dead end for you.”

“Not a dead end,” I said. “I’ll be getting a room. And, yes, I’ve been asking everyone, including alchemists and merchants.”

Wendell smiled like he was preparing a joke. “Have you tried asking the mortsands?”

“Mortsands?”

Wendell couldn’t hold his laughter. “They’re giant crocodile monsters in the delta. You’l hear a lot of tales about them during your time here. Everyone and their sister will say that they’ve fought a dozen at one time and survived. In reality, even silver rankers avoid them. Certain death, they are.”

“I fought a few,” I said. “On the way here.”

Wendell laughed and made finger-guns at me, like I was in on the joke with him. I sighed and dropped the matter.

Let it go, Abigail. You don’t need to prove yourself. Not to anyone.

“You’re going to be in Holldam for quite some time if you’re planning on asking around,” Wendell said. “People love their ale here. There’s a lot to cover”

“I’m thinking about a week.”

“You’d have to have boots with wings to do it all in one week.”

“Then two weeks. Whatever it takes.”

“Wow. Well, I hope it’s worth it for you.”

“It’s just a favor, really.”

There wasn’t much else I wanted to say so I often digressed from the topic until we finally stuck to talking about beer. That’s where I got along quite well with the bartender. Between tasks, we talked about the different breweries in the city. One of the brewers was silver ranked.

I found the silver ranked brewer in the Sand Dollar brewery on the second level of a cluster of docks. I introduced myself by name and class.

“Guy,” the brewer said. “Guy Fellman. Pleased to meet you. Abigail hunh? And a brewer. That’s uncanny. Have you heard of Abigail Yak? She’s one of my favorite brewers.”

I blushed. “That’s-that’s me.”

Guy was enamored with me. He was suddenly a kid at a candy kiosk. After clearing his schedule for the week, I agreed to his company while I explored Holldam. He was beyond thrilled to join me in my quest and we talked almost the whole time together. We met at his brewery in the mornings and he accompanied me to all the taverns, merchants, alchemists, and inns. At night, we shared stories over pints of salted wheat ales.

On one particular weekend night, pressed to the bar in an overpacked tavern, we shared a silver ranked Orange White-beer.

“Wheat, barley, coriander and orange peel,” Guy said. “Tell me what you think. It’s a…” he blushed. “...memory attribute beer.”

I felt a moment of hesitation. I glanced at the busy bartender.

“Don’t worry about him,” Guy said. “Henry and I are buds, he won’t mind that I’m sharing my beer. He buys a lot of it.”

We clinked our wheat beer vases. Sipped.

The flavor was out of this world. The coriander and orange peel were so well balanced that they merged to become one co-dependent flavor that sparkled over the hazy wheat. The color of the beer was sunlight yellow. The foam was white and cloud-like.

I closed my eyes and found myself immersed in the memory, on a wagon between a young boy and his grandfather. I observed them as though I were a transparent eyeball.

The wagon bounced along the road. Grandpa eyed the boy and said, “Guy. Mom and Pop ever let you drink beer?”

“Nope,” the boy said.

“Hold,” grandpa said and held out the reins to the boy who clutched them tight.

Grandpa ruffled through a sac beside him and pulled out a bottle of—and the memory ended.

“Awww,” I said.

“I know-I know,” Guy said. “I’m working on it. It’s difficult.”

“You need to brew more slowly as you relive the memory,” I said.

“I cannot brew this beer any slower. It turns out inferior.”

“Then you need to pick only the details of your memory that are important in the time you have. We don’t need to hear your grandpa ask if you’ve had beer before. Just go straight to him passing you the beer. Then jump to yourself enjoying it, then jump to wherever else you’re going with it. Be precise with your memories. Your time is limited so be picky with what you want to reveal in this memory.”

Guy cocked his head. “How do you know if something’s important enough to include in your memory?”

“There’s no question about it. What’s most important to you in that memory? Spending time with your grandpa, or him sharing your first beer with you? Then pick one, until you rank up and can extend the memory attribute.”

Guy became thoughtful for some time and I gave him his time to reflect. In the meantime, I enjoyed the rest of his ale and returned to my Tavern Ale. Something rustic and sweaty.

On his last sip of his own beer, Guy said, “I guess I have a lot of thinking to do. Thanks so much by the way. I’m sorry to trouble you with my own brewing issues.”

“Nonsense,” I said. “I love to talk shop. In fact, I’d like to return the favor and share one of my beers with you. Do you like lagers?”

“Hell yea.”

“This one’s a pale lager brewed with coffee. I went through a period recently where I was experimenting with coffee. Might not be the greatest thing you've ever had.”

“Are you kidding? I’m sure it’s going to be awesome!”

I laughed. “We’ll see. There’s no attribute, so it’s just something to enjoy.”

“Go on. Let’s have some,” Guy said with eagerness.