Beers and Beards

Chapter 1: Trouble is brewing

Grapes

I lived in grapes and I’ll die in grapes.

“Dad” A tender voice called from my bedside. “You can’t be buried in grapes, that’s just weird.”

I looked over to where Samantha, my little daughter, now a young woman freshly graduated from college held my hand. Her brown eyes peered at me with laughter in them, but I could see the tears welling up behind them. She leaned over and adjusted my pillow, her hair brushing up against my cheek. She always used to smell like the wildflowers of our home in the Okanagan, but all I could smell now was the acrid scent of the hospital.

“If people want to Wine about it, let them.” I croaked, and then coughed as the act of speaking irritated the tubes in my throat. “Where’s your Mother?”

“Mom is talking to the head Nurse. Do you want me to tell her you’re awake?” Samantha asked, turning to the door. I shook my head *no* and looked out the window beside my bed. It was a beautiful sunny day outside, and I could hear some geese making noise out on the lawn. I always hated the vicious buggers when they were crapping all over my vineyard, but their muttered honking was a nostalgic sound. A few clouds dotted the sky, and a slight breeze ruffled the reddening maple trees outside the window.

Indeed, it was a good day to die. Well, I mean it was a terrible day to DIE, but it was a good DAY to die. Terminal brain cancer in your late 40s sucks. I barely got to watch my kid graduate and now the metaphorical rug gets pulled out from under me. It happened so fast. I was out picking grapes one day under the hot sun when I had a dizzy spell and collapsed. The last few weeks were a blur of doctors, tests, tears, and making final plans. The company will be going to my vice-president for a tidy sum, Samantha gets the car and my darling redheaded wife gets everything else. Including the crushing pain of suddenly losing her husband after 20 years of marriage. Sorry dear.

We had planned to retire and go cruise shipping in our 50s.

I laid my head down and closed my eyes, reminiscing.

First was Mead. A fun thing to pass the time while studying business in college that rapidly turned into a side business. The girl I met at a frosh party, Caroline, sprawled on a blanket in a cherry sundress with a slight flush from an Earl Grey Mead, her lips pulled back in a honeyed smile.

Then came Beer. Trying different kinds of fruits and playing percentages with hops. Bitters and sours and ales. I chose a name, and Caroline drew our logo, a goofy bucktoothed moose for Beavermoose Brewery. I still have the originals stashed in the attic at home. Caroline quit art school and started working for me full time. We were married in the spring.

I wish that beeping would stop… I’m so tired…

Then came Whiskey. The shrieking sound the still made as it exploded was nothing compared to the screech of a very pregnant Caroline when she found out. I had to promise to stop; our future child would need a father. Samantha was born in November: 3 kg and a full head of hair. She was the light of our lives, and the end of our sleep.

Then came Champagne. The moment we made it big, when our Beavermoose IPA got lauded on live TV by a major leaguer. Some influencers started reviewing it, and suddenly… we were big. I bought an apiary from a retiree, and we converted the barn to a microbrewery. We continued to sell beer and a few kinds of mead. I had staff and a baby and bills, God so many bills…. Why when I’m dying am I sitting here thinking about bills? Must be the geese…. The whole company celebrated the night we shipped our first full flat to the liquor stores. Caroline and I popped some bubbly and that got me thinking…

It's getting a bit hard to breathe. Where’s Caroline with the nurse? Why is Sammy yelling?

Then came Wine. I tilled the field alongside the apiary and planted some grapes. Our little slice of paradise in the Okanagan Valley was perfect for growing them, and I had the opportunity to go visit a lot of neighborhood vineyards to get some ideas. Our first few bottles weren’t going to win any awards, but the beer and the mead kept the money flowing. Soon 15 years had passed and I had one of the biggest wineries in the valley. The Beavermoose logo still sat over the old barn, but the new storage shed filled with casks of fine wine proudly proclaimed “Veritas Vinum Vineyard”.

I wasn’t… joking about the bury me in grapes bit.. Sammy? Are you there?

It was our truth…. I hope….

Carol are….

Sammy?

…

---

“Doc!” A gruff voice called next to my ear. “E’s wakin’ up!”

My eyes peeked blearily open, and a splitting headache immediately snapped them back shut. Gawd! I know brain cancer hurts, but that felt more like my sinuses were being ripped out! The acrid scent of the hospital had… changed. It smelled quite strongly of sulfur. The sound of the geese was replaced with the sound of…. hammers? What was going on?

“Firmament damned fool, what was ‘e thinkin, stickin his head into a freschie?” another voice on the other side of the bed grumbled in a gruff … Scottish accent? That wasn’t right.

I groaned as a wide calloused hand was placed on my head and a soothing feeling spread from it.

“It was touch and go there for a while, but it looks like the aetherstone did the trick.” Said a slightly higher pitched and more cultured voice. “He should be fine after a bit of rest.”

“Thank ye Doctor,” Said the second voice. “We’ll add yer bill to his indenture, and see that yer paid from the mine’s accounts.”

“Of course Grim. Send a runner to Bastion if he gets worse. I’ve done all I can and a Healer would be the next step.”

“That bad?”

“I lost him for a moment there. If he’s awake then the worst of it should be gone. He’s either got the Blessing of Barck or the luck of fools.” The sound of a door opening and closing was followed by footsteps, before a wide hand pulled roughly at my beard.

I don’t have a beard. Sammy made me shave it when she was four because she hated the scratching. How long had I been unconscious?

“Wake up sleepy ‘ead! You won’t want me to call Healer Bastion. It’ll add years to your indenture. Doc Opal was bad enough! Oy, Pete!”

Well, Pete was my name, so rise and shine. I slowly opened my eyes to peek at the two men sitting beside me. What struck me first was the beards. Each of them had a MASSIVE beard; real lumberjack and then some. They each had a wide nose peeking out above equally big moustaches. The one named Grim had a bristly straight edge moustache, but the other guy had a handlebar that practically reached his eyebrows.

Seriously, this was some epic facial hair, and I don’t use the word epic lightly. Then it struck me: both of them were wearing what looked like padded leather armour. What the hell?

I sat bolt upright and looked around, the motion giving me a new stab of pain in the sinuses. We were in what looked like a carved stone room. The walls were slate and the floor looked like it was made of worked blue stone with patterns carved into it. The ceiling overhead was the same slate as the wall and had a metal lantern hanging over my bed with a glowing light in it. Where was the window? Where was Sammy?

“You OK Pete?” Asked handlebar, leaning closer. “You should know better than ta stick your head in a freschie. There’s a bonus for findin’ a vein, but ya really shoulda let tha Whisperer check the air first! Yer lucky the sulfur didn’t kill ya! The whole cave was full of it!”

Wow, those were certainly words. At least my head was starting to hurt a bit less. There was something about these guys that was stirring something in the back of my mind. Something about my name… Peter… Peter.. Jackson! The director of Lord of the Rings! Oh my God! These guys looked JUST like dwarves! They were short and squat, and one even had a helmet on! Was this a cosplay convention or something!

That was when I saw the mirror and the short, squat, brown bearded dwarf that peered back at me from the bed with bleary black eyes.

I may have passed out again.

---

Grim sighed as Balin helped Pete spoon some porridge into his mouth. He had almost run to fetch the Healer before Balin stopped him. Pete had been breathing fine and just seemed to have fainted from exhaustion. He eventually woke up again, but seemed listless and confused, muttering about “Samee” and “Karul”. Nobody in the chain gang had those names. Perhaps some people from his past?

As the foreman for the “Dwarven City of Minnova Prison Mine” Grim's job was not the most glamorous but it paid well, and he had even gotten his first Blessing! Most of the indentured prisoners were paying off bills from fights in the city, or were vagrants who had arrived from out of town without a copper to their name. A few months to years in the prison mine would see them leave with a small purse, some skills, and if they were lucky a Blessing of their own. Some were back the next day, but most found work in the local mines.

He could certainly understand Pete’s desire to stick his head into the freshly made tunnel. When Pete’s pickaxe had caused a small crack to widen into a fresh cavern, Pete had joyously called the whole crew over. An indentured prisoner who found a new vein or Firmament forbid, a gem cache, could become rich overnight. The laws were quite strict about ensuring prisoners were paid fairly for their labour.

Which meant there was no reason for the damn fool to stick his head in to the tunnel to check! Grim had sent a runner for the Whisperer to check the local aether for toxins, and returned to find a commotion as the small crew clamoured around the unconscious form of Pete. He had called for Doc Opal who proclaimed it as Sulfur poisoning, and the rest of the day was a nightmare of paperwork. Pete was a simple vagrant, and Grim didn’t really know him well, but his death would have meant a review by the board.

Grim went to the cupboards. They had propped Pete up in Grim's own chambers, and he wanted a stiff drink after today’s debacle. Both the Whisperer and the Speaker had checked the tunnel, and found nothing but a large sulfur deposit. Sulfur had some uses, but it wasn’t as though the populace of Minnova were falling all over themselves for soap! Daily baths were an elvish perversion, like that grape juice they called “wine”.

Grim poured himself a fine amber ale. It was a fresh batch from that new brewery, and it had quite a kick! Must be why they called it Thunderhoof Ale! After a moment’s thought he poured some for Pete and Balin too. They had all had a rough day, and Pete would be all the worse after Doc Opal’s bill got added to his indenture. He passed large iron tankards studded with fine oak wood and filled with soft foam to Pete and Balin before giving a toast.

“To Minnova, the Firmament, and the luck of fools!” He and Balin bellowed, as Pete simply clinked glasses with them. Grim downed it and reveled in the fresh nutty flavour. Balin’s eyes twinkled beneath his bushy brows as the alcohol hit him.

Pete spat out the beer in a spray across the both of them, soaking their beards, and yelled in a deep baritone, “WHAT THE HELL!?”.

---

I could barely follow what was happening. I was a dwarf? I was an indentured prisoner? In Minnova? Where the hell is that, eastern Europe?

At least my name was still Pete. I could barely process it as handlebar, I mean Balin, fed me some basic gruel. Don’t fantasy dwarves eat rats? Is this rat porridge? Am I being racist right now, or is that speciest?

The dwarf named Grim passed us each a massive tankard of what looked like an amber. He and Balin made some kind of toast to dirt and then pulled. That’s right, dwarves are supposed to be big drinkers, and master crafters of beers and ales, aren’t they? At least I could drown my sorrows in fine alcohol.

I shot the drink back myself, before spitting it out in an atomized spray.

“WHAT THE HELL!?”

Dwarves drink WATERY BEER!?

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