Chapter 113

Onion

I ducked into the cabin when a drizzle turned to rain.

Thunderclouds had been clashing all morning and the deluge was inevitable. I suggested that BarnacleEyes made sure her boat was properly moored before it rained, and she returned, drenched, hours later, caught in the worst of it. Now she lay by the stove wearing one of my sweaters. Her tattered dress and boots lay on the table to dry.

She had a lot to say and I didn’t mind patiently listening. I made us sassafras tea and sat to watch the rain pulverize the earth.

Steam rose from our mugs. Lightning flashed. The sky rumbled overhead.

“Still thinking about leveling up?” BarnacleEyes said.

I nodded.

“Like I said, if you need help, let me know.”

“Thanks again,” I said. “You’re already a tremendous help.”

Unfortunately, I didn’t even know where to begin, let alone ask for someone’s help.

The higher the rank of a beer, the more I could taste the terrain. But It also seemed to me that I tasted things beyond the terrain. That’s what boggled me.

Instead of tasting malt, yeast, and hops, there was more to ranked ales. Each ale had a life of its own that contained visions of the world. Visions of the land. Of people. Small parts of civilization.

What is it that draws me to this fantastic beverage? What is it that elevates silver ranked beers above bronze? I’ve used every technique I’ve learned! What am I missing?

While BarnacleEyes chatted away, I began brewing beers. One after the other, pulling ingredients from my inventory and filling blue bestie waterskins with all kinds of different ales. Souts. Oatmeal Stouts. Barley wines. Strong Ales. Dubbels. Tripels. Crisp Ales. Hoppy Ales. Billy Goat. Double Billy Goat. Lagers. Light Lagers. Even a bottle conditioned Brett ale.

I used all my skills. Though I earned a level up in Brewer’s Bubble, I still couldn't break into silver. After an hour of brewing, I took a break to think. To watch the rain plummet with chaotic volume. To tune back in to BarnacleEyes.

“...a buckle, and a nail, and a hammer head; but I still like my pliers because they’ve been with me all this time; I couldn’t imagine having something better; I can do so much with them; I almost made my first boat with them; but that was before I came up with the genius idea to use barrels; thanks for helping me by the way; I paddled all around the sea; do you know how big it is; it’s big; the goblins tried to bully me; I avoided their ships and just sailed around; nothing sank; I had a spoon with me for bailing; it’s just a hollowed stick—no big deal; but I brought it just in case; I’m glad it’s raining because the sun…”

She only paused to sip at her tea.

She went on, and I started flipping through my collector’s journal for the hundredth time. I studied the amazing beers I’d had. Looked back on the worst ones. Compared them all with the ones that I’d brewed.

One of the first beer’s logged into my journal was the Ale of the Vale of Ara. It brought back fond memories. The reason I wanted to become a brewer. To brew beers just like that.

Why? Why were you such a special ale? Why were all these ranked beers so awesome? What’s the difference? Why can’t I get there?

I poured a drop of each of the new beers I’d just brewed. One by one, I filled more pages and studied what was written. Compared them with silver ranked ales in my journal. The descriptions from mine were simple. Boring compared to the higher ranked ales.

But how do I get there? How do I get these descriptions?

I racked my brain for another hour until I felt hopeless and set the matter aside for the meantime. I brewed another batch of tea, and tuned back in to BarnacleEyes’ thoughts.

She had so much to say. Her thoughts were endless, and though she repeated herself on occasion, she was always excited about something.

When she got hungry, she fetched herself a couple of onions from the cellar. I heard her voice descend the cellar and echo into the cabin. When she returned, she spoke with her mouth full and several bites had already been chomped out of an onion.

“You sure do like onions,” I said.

“Love onions,” she said. “Let me tell you about onions…”

This was a good way to spend the day. Sitting with a goblin friend. Listening to her tell me how much she loved onions just because they were onions.

“Some are different from others,” she continued. “Big ones taste different. Little ones taste different. If you leave the skin on, they taste different. If you take the skin off, they taste different. If you put it in water, they taste different. An onion is an onion, sure, but if you know how to eat it, then you’ve got yourself a good onion. I had to pick through thirty onions before finding these two.”

“What makes those two so special?” I said.

“I don’t know. They’re crisper. They’re bigger. The bigger ones have the best flavor. If you eat as many onions as I do, you start to learn more about them. When they’re ready to eat. When they’re stinky enough.”

“You like the bigger onions? I like the smaller ones.”

“I bet that if I picked out a big onion for you, you might like it better than the smaller ones. Trust me. I know what I’m doing.”

“I don’t doubt that you know what you’re doing,” I said. “I think it’s interesting.”

“Of course it’s interesting. You have to pick your own onions to know that. Eat them the way you like to eat them—You like to cook 'em; I like ‘em raw.”

“You don’t like them cooked?”

“I liked the soup you made me the first time we met. It was my first onion soup. Remember it clearly. But why would I make onion soup when I prefer it raw?”

“Don’t goblins cook their food?”

“Sure. Goblins cook onions. Put ‘em right on the fire till they're black. You can’t just cook onions because everyone else does it. Especially when they’re better raw.”

“Some people would say they’re better cooked,” I said.

“Tell ‘em to cook ‘em and enjoy. I won’t cook mine, and again, I bet you’d love the onions I pick out. Might even make you never cook ‘em again. And you know what, Hawkin? Maybe that’s your problem. Maybe you’re brewing all these different kinds of beers but you’re not making them stinky enough. Maybe you ought to think about what you like to brew—not what everyone else brews. You’ve been studying your journal a lot lately. Comparing your beers to others. Just need to brew whatever you want to brew. Maybe then you’ll reach your silver place.”