Chapter 36

SlimeTooth’s Black Barrel

Hawkin

There was still plenty of oak left after I cut and carved twelve tall beams from the massive tree I’d felled weeks ago. After dragging the last one back to my cabin, I had to take a break. It was frigid and ice crystals formed on my slowly growing beard. Despite the bone chilling cold, I was sweating from the effort of transporting such heavy wood.

The beams were beautifully cut and had required little effort on my part. My axe melted through the wood like butter. I panted for a few minutes, sitting on the fruits of my labor, drinking freezing water. The door to my cabin swung open and Thrush emerged.

He crossed the clearing and dumped out an enormously long stream of dirt, rocks, insects, and roots from his inventory. Earth gushed into a growing pile. Thrush then licked dirt from his fangs, his paws, and his fur.

“As soon as you feel clean enough, would you mind helping me bring these beams to the cellar?” I said.

I lifted one to carry it myself, but Thrush ran over, touched it, and it vanished into his inventory. The other beams followed suit.

“Having an inventory is the best,” Thrush said.

I followed Thrush into the cabin. Barrels were stacked against the wall beside the stove. My bed had been tipped up on end to clear the path for Thrush to excavate a ramp that descended into the now expanded cellar. I spent all morning repairing the back wall since he broke it down to make room for the ramp. With all the in-and-out we were doing, it was taking hours for the cabin to warm up again.

“I want to show you something before we install the beams,” Thrush said as we descended. I lit a candle and followed.

The ramp was long with a gentle slope that would allow me to roll barrels up and down without losing control. The cellar was deep underground and darker than a starless night. We arrived at the bottom and I was impressed. Thrush had expertly dug an area five times the square footage of my cabin.

“I think this’ll be enough storage space for a while,” I said. “I do want to put the beams up as soon as possible so nothing collapses. What did you want to show me?”

“There’s some fur and items over where a small tunnel had been,” Thrush said. “There were a lot of tunnels. You can see some holes in the walls where the tunnels go.”

Thrush’s ears switched in several different directions. His eyes pulsed and throbbed as he looked from a dark corner, to a dark wall, to the ground at our feet. I crouched down to inspect three nests of blue fur. Among the items were a set of crudely carved dice made of bone, a couple of glass bottles, shreds of cabbage, an apple core, a nail file, and a picture book. The items were separated into piles with the dice in the center.

“The Blue Besties you mentioned,” I said.

“That’s right,” Thrush said. “They’re fast. Obviously they got into your apples.”

“I’d love to share my food with them, but I can’t give them everything.”

“I can still hear them,” Thrush said. “They’re digging new tunnels away from here. I can point out the old tunnels in the walls I made.”

“Let’s put up the beams,” I said. “We’re going to need a few more than the twelve that I milled.”

I gathered the Blue Bestie’s items into a sack and brought them to the cabin. Afterward, we installed the beams along the walls. Then Thrush and I went out to mill more beams and by late afternoon, Thrush smoked more fish in the igloo we’d built. That got me thinking.

I couldn’t help but worry about my food reserves for winter. The amount of labor that went into producing food for the winter had vanished overnight. It was hard to be upset about it because if the Blue Besties were hungry and needed to eat as well, then who’s to blame them for grabbing what they can.

What I’d assumed were mice turned out to be intelligent creatures. The items were clearly set into piles for gambling. The dice was particularly interesting.

How long have these creatures been rolling dice beneath my cabin?

I forgot all about the Blue Besties as I checked on my fermenting beers. I had a ton of gourds and a ton of 5 gallon barrels of Greater Poor Man’s beers. Several 15.5 gallon barrels were fermenting along. The white, dry hopped beer was finished and I shared it over dinner with Thrush.

“Smoked fish in soup!” Thrush said. “Cardoon soup. It’s delicious. Thank you Hawkin.”

“Pleasure,” I said. “Thank you for the fish.”

“How about that beer?”

I popped out the cork and poured a single drop onto my collectors journal.

[Hawkin’s Ale.]

[Rare.]

[Bronze rank. Greater Poor Man’s Ale.]

[Special attribute: Anti-gravity. One full bottle imbues the user with two seconds of 50% weightlessness.]

“What will happen if we share it?” Thrush said.

I poured each of us a mug full and we clinked our mugs together.

“Let’s find out,” I said.

The beer had a bit of sediment in it from being imperfectly filtered. It tasted like my other Greater Poor Man beers, except there was an additional tang of buttermilk and parsley. While Thrush didn’t mind the flavor, I cringed a bit. The foam was short and light. It’s off-white color blended with the rest of the ale.

As soon as I finished my first sip, I felt a weight lift off my shoulders. I downed the rest and I felt substantially lighter. Thrush pushed himself off his chair and rose a few feet in the air. He came back down a second later, flailing his arms.

After our meal, Thrush went to fetch SlimeTooth. The small goblin wore a yellowed leather poncho and yellowed leather boots. Poor choice for winter, but the goblin did not shiver. Thrush led SlimeTooth into the cabin.

“You’re the Hawkman?” SlimeTooth said.

“Hawkin, yes. That’s me.”

“What do you know about spit beer?”

“Not a lot, which is why you’re here.”

“Yes, I know why I’m here. Thrush said you’ve been cloning one of my beers. Let me see it.”

I hefted the last fermented batch of my cloned goblin spit beer. I tipped the barrel onto its side, opened the bunghole, and tipped the barrel enough to fill half a mug for SlimeTooth. He sniffed it. He sipped it. Then he lapped at it, slurped at it, and smacked his lips on his final sip.

“Just as I expected,” he said. “You’re missing the most important part. Your ingredients, however, are well selected. For my beers, I cut the grains with grass, roots, and hay when I can get my hands on some. Makes the barley last longer. Means I can brew more beer. All the goblins are happier, and there’s less infighting and mutiny.”

“Makes sense,” I said. “What’s missing? This is my third batch and I can’t figure it out.”

“Will you give him the barrel?” SlimeTooth said, waving a hand between Thrush and I.

Thrush smiled, displaying a fearsome row of teeth. He held a paw out, and withdrew a black barrel with brass hoops from his inventory.

“This is what you’re missing,” SlimeTooth said. “I don’t like having to give that away, but orders are orders.”

“What’s in it?” I said.

“Spit. Goblin spit. I have all the goblins on my ship ‘ptooey’ into a barrel once a month. Then I check for quality to make sure it isn’t a sick batch.”

“A sick batch?”

“If one of the goblins is sick and ‘ptooeys’ with the rest of em, it taints the whole batch. If you don’t trust me, you can do a quality check yourself. Dip a finger in and taste it. It’s easy to tell if the ‘ptooey’ is good or not.”

Thrush took the quality check upon himself. He popped off the cork from the bunghole and dipped the tip of his paw inside like it was a jar of honey. He brought a long strip of slime that slowly oozed down from his paw and out of the bunghole. He then plunged his paw into his mouth. His tongue worked the slime for a few moments.

“My composition tells me it’s goblin spit,” Thrush said. “It doesn’t tell me anything about it being a sick batch or not.”

“This is crazy,” I said.

“Well,” SlimeTooth said. “You have all you need from me. GloomGlower gave Thrush a ton of barrels for you to fill. If you need any help, just come fetch me. Good luck.”