Beers and Beards

Book 3: Chapter 55: Unorthodox Fishing

Book 3: Chapter 55: Unorthodox Fishing

Three days of whirlwind brewing and extensive use of [Rapid Aging] later, and we had our final beer. It was a variation on the original favourite with a slightly lower alcohol content and a mix of two different bitter hops variations. Everyone agreed that one mug needed to be enough to knock you out, but it had to be a full mug. Richter was able to handle about a whistlemug-and-a-half of the final mix, and Aqua was just barely unable to finish one, so it seemed a happy medium.

Our ratios selected, we had just enough time to set some large scale tanks to ferment normally.

That left three weeks for us to prepare for our dual announcement with Schist.

There was lots to do, lots to do! There were bottles and branding to prepare, ad campaigns to brainstorm, and political dissidents to spy on! I also had my gluten-to-bacon spell sigil to practice, and a new set of homework on the esotera of basic dwarven biology.

Yesiree, I was a busy dwarf!

Which was why I couldn’t fully understand how I found myself down on the Redwall docks near Riverside Brewery with Master Brewers Schist and Herder.

Fishing.

New Quest: Fisherdwarf 1/10

Shouldn't you be brewing?

Catch 16 Fish

Rewards: +0.2 Dexterity, +0.2 Vitality

Do you accept?

Yes / No

I accepted and stared blankly at the white wooden bob as it pulled away in the pitch-black river. Down here at the water, Darkwater river was wide, with plenty of space for boats coming up and down stream.

The docks were made of a dark yellowish wood, and ran from the cliffside roughly halfway into the river. They stretched for at least half-a-kilometer of hustle and bustle. They ran straight into the stone of the walls, where a series of scaffolds and ramps etched into the rock led back to the top of the cliff far above. The stone in question slanted slowly inwards as it rose, which meant it felt like we were under an enormous stone roof.

This was the widest section of the Darkwater river, which meant it had the slowest flow. There was a definite current, but the eddies were best described as lazy. It was a far cry from the crashing waters below Scout’s Crossing. The smell down here was of stone and wet. My old monkey brain would’ve been sweating but my new beardy brain loved it.

We weren’t the only fisherdwarves out today, and fighting for the best fishing spots was fierce. This traditionally peaceful activity had surprising volatility when beer and dwarves were added to the mix.

I shook my head as another scream and splash came from upstream. I’d caught two sodden dwarves on my hook in just the past hour.

“Think Pete’ll be the one to catch ‘em again?” Ironbellows Herder asked. I couldn’t tell if he was serious or ribbing me.

“We sure he’s not the Lucky Herder?” Schist snickered as he played his line.

“Considerin’ where he needed to remove that last hook from, I’m pretty sure the Luck of Barck has passed him over!”

“Aye, like the fish have passed him under!”

The pair laughed at my discomfort, and I hunched my shoulders.

“Remind me why I’m doing this again?” I grumped.

Schist raised one white eyebrow. “Because it’s what you get fer trying to spy on my brewery?”

Ironbellows waggled his. “Because you love my company?”

We all returned to companionable silence as we waited for a hungry fish to bite, a passing beard to snag, or a forgotten boot to catch. Was that a nibble?

Nope, more nothing.

On the pier next to us, a trio of fisherdwarves broke into song. They were soon joined by more, their ribald hoots and hollers bouncing off the sloping overhang of the cliffside and echoing something awful.

Listen up you sailors!

I’ve got a tale to tell!

About a dwarf named Taylor

An’ what he caught as well!

One day a dwarf was fishin’

Down on the riverside,

Ya think he could imagine,

What blarney would betide?

He cast and cast and cast all day

With naught a single bite!

And in a fit picked up his mug

And tossed it out of sight!

So pour one out for the guppies!

Pour one out for the trouts!

Pour one out for your buddies!

Ya selfish oafish louts!

The tankard hit the river

And made a mighty spout!

The beer ran in the water,

T’was drank up by some trout!

Ol’ Taylor rubbed and rubbed his eyes

His ass, it met the ground

When drunken fish hopped on the bank

Askin’ another round!

So pour one out for the guppies!

Pour one out for the trouts!

Pour one out for your buddies!

Ya selfish oafish louts!

So as you cast yer line out

With nothin’ for to show

Mayhaps ya pour yer beer in

This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

And then the fish will flow!

Won’t hook a lass with water

Won’t please a lad with milk

Even fish know better

Than beerless, beardless ilk!

So pour one out for the guppies!

Pour one out for the trouts!

Pour one out for your buddies!

Ya selfish oafish louts!

The singing broke into laughter and jeers. At the next quay, a fisherdwarf began swearing up a storm as he caught a sodden dwarf on his hook.

I shook my head and pulled at my line. What was I doing here?

After four days of being cooped up inside studying and brewing, I’d reached my limit. While I’m a lover of all things brewing, I’m also a lover of touching grass. Or stone, in this case.

All work and no play drives a Pete barking mad.

With all the fermentation tanks full, the tavern smoothly run by the Diggers, and everyone busy living their lives, my only company was Annie, and on any given day she was ready to kill me by noon.

So I’d naturally gone to find the only dwarf in the city I knew for sure had nothing to do – the brewer I’d just neatly removed from the competition.

Lucky Jean’s was much as I’d remembered it; rickety and filled with peanuts. Master Brewer Ironbellows Herder had received me into his study as before, and we’d shared a mug of his gem-finder beer. I had no plans to find gems, but I couldn’t turn down the opportunity to drink a new beer straight from the tap.

It… tasted like Sacred Brew. Unfortunately. It also granted me a condition called [Lesser Gem Luck] which boosted my chance of finding gems.

Thankfully, there were no hard feelings. We’d won fair and square, and I was the Chosen of a God wasn’t I, so what shame was there in losing?

He was bitter that the gem miners had turned on him so thoroughly when the price of gems fell. How was it his fault? Hadn’t they all found so many gems thanks to him in the first place?

Our talks had then migrated to the current round, and our bet with Master Brewer Schist. Ironbellows had been aghast to learn that I’d never had any Riverside beer, and promptly brought me straight to the source to try.

Riverside Brewery actually was on the riverside, built into the rock wall at the far end of the docks. It reminded me quite a bit of the Digger’s old hole in the wall – it had a single entrance right on the dock with a fancy wooden door. The inside was very mine-deco, with stone alcoves and picnic tables scattered around sunken drinking spaces.

The atmosphere was akin to an English pub; the people were there to do more than drink, they were there to have a good time and be merry.

Unfortunately, Schist had spotted us as we’d entered. He’d immediately grabbed us, a case of Riverside Light Brews, and a trio of rods, then marched us up the dock. He’d kicked a pair of fisherdwarves out of his favourite spot, and here we were.

I took a hand off my rod and picked up a bottle sitting on the piling next to me. It was a standard clear beer bottle, with an orange picture of a fish jumping in front of the sun emblazoned on it. The label proudly proclaimed “Riverside Brewery Light Brew.”

I took a sip and swished it around my mouth. It was… not great, but not awful. It had a clean mouthfeel, without any of the grime I associated with traditional Light Brew, and had an aftertaste that reminded me of summer in the Okanagan.

The feeling of standing on the river, a fishing pole and brew in hand, was the harshest reminder of Earth that I’d had in a while. I’d gone fishing every summer with Sammy on the banks of the Shuswap. She’d hated it the first few years; It was too hot, it was too cold, the fish weren’t biting, the mosquitos were biting.

Over the years the complaints had turned into chats about horses, then books, then boys, then university. We’d last gone fishing the summer before I’d… died. We’d talked about Sammy’s new job, and our plans for the empty nest.

All pointless now.

Caroline hated fishing. But of course she always loved the fish we caught. Especially if it was salmon; she made the meanest salmon casserole… I wonder if they’re doing okay without me? Has Caroline remarried? I told her not to get stuck on me. Is Sammy still at her first job, or has she already moved on? Have they forgotten me? What about my friends? Are they visiting my grave? Do I have a grave? I… I…

Schist’s voice broke into my thoughts. “Are you alright, Pete?”

“Uh…” I raised a hand to my beard and it came away wet. Snot was dribbling down my moustache. I pulled out a hanky and blew into it. “I’m… just remembering the past. I always used to go fishing with my daughter.”

Schist nodded, a sad look on his face. He was an old dwarf, and he knew better than to ask someone what they meant by ‘used to’.

“I lost ‘em a couple years ago,” I continued. “My whole family. Me wife and daughter. I’ve been pourin’ meself into me work, trying not to remember. Trying not to think about it. It’s worked well. Gods above, it’s worked well! I’m nearly the greatest brewer in Crack! But… sittin’ here, in the quiet, it reminds me so much of them.”

I broke into sobs then. Muffled and quiet. The two master brewers let me cry, my tears dripping down to be swept away by the river. I hadn’t had a cry like this in ages, not since before coming to Kinshasa, and it felt good.

Eventually, Master Schist spoke, “I never wanted to be a brewer. My older brother was meant to take over the Brewery from father. I wanted to be an adventurer. To stalk the beaches of Whitehall and gain fame and infamy as a great fighter and greater lover. Then, my brother got hit in the head by a boom on the docks. He was probably dead before he hit the river, though we never found his body. My father died soon after of a broken heart, and Mum… Well, she was tough as the rock she was named after, but even she went to join the ancestors a couple decades later.”

He toasted his bottle to the sky.

“I started brewing in their memory, but I love it now. The feel of the grist. The smell of the malt. Watchin’ the bubbling Ancestral Seed. Ordering' my apprentices around and watching them jump when I catch them slackin’. Hah! And I was bad at the start! My first brew was so awful that when we poured it into the river, the fish all died! They popped up like gnomes at the smell of coffee in the morning! Pop! Pop! Pop!”

We roared with laughter at the image, and I took another swig of beer.

“It’s a lot better now,” I chuckled.

“Aye, that it is. That it is. Best in the city I’m told.” He smirked at me, and I gave an edged smile back. He pulled some strips of jerky from his pocket and offered them out. I gave a thankful nod and took a bite. I immediately retched and swore; it was nose puckeringly spicy, and my weepy eyes didn’t help. Meanwhile, Schist chewed on his share like it was nothing.

“I kind of fell into brewing,” I choked as I swigged from my bottle. “I was good at it, and then it ballooned from there. My wife, Caroline, helped me build our first brewery. My family was part of my brewing every step of the way. I’m so incredibly thankful to Balin, and Annie, and the rest at the Goat. I don’t know if I would’ve had the strength to do this all on my own. Check that, I’m positive I wouldn’t ‘ave.”

We both turned to look at Ironbellows, who was gagging into the river. He caught his breath and frowned. “I don’t have any stories. Me family’s alive and well back East running the original Lucky Jean’s. I was born a brewer and I’ll die a brewer.”

“Booooring.” I intoned.

“Lucky Herder bastard.” Schist grumbled.

“Oy!”

We laughed again, and I felt a weight lifting from my shoulders. This. This was why I was here. This quiet moment of nothing but reminiscence, beer, and laughter.

And background swearing as another fisherdwarf was dredged from the river.

It was perfect.

“Schist, that jerky’s vile. I can still taste it. Do you really serve that in your pub?” Ironbellows eventually complained.

“What’s wrong with it?? Aaron’s Flamin’ Jerky is one of our most popular snacks!”

“Ugh, give me peanuts any day.”

“What about you, Pete, do you have your beer made yet?” Schist asked, nonchalantly.

“Wouldn’t you like to know!” I sniped.

“Aye, I would, but I’m not the one spying!”

“It was a friendly visit!”

“A friendly visit my arse! You're lucky I didn’t set my customers on you!”

We bickered as the day went on and the river flowed, and some of my worries flowed away with it.