Chapter 97

Filthy Hands.

I pinched my hood over my eyes and chugged another beer. Horace chugged another beer. Our tankards were promptly refilled.

The crowd was animated. They were cheering, spitting, and shouting. I could smell the excitement. The adrenaline. The thrill that ran through the hearts of the inn’s evening patrons.

“Round ten!” The bartender shouted. The crowd placed another round of bets. “Drink!”

Phillip came up to my face, peering, watching my bottom lip as it held the rim of the tankard. He pointed at a dribble of beer that ran down my human chin. My other hand firmly held my hood down around my eyes.

“No cheating,” Phillip slurred. His eyes repeatedly wandered. He blinked to make them focus.

Horace and I chugged beer at the same time.

“Round eleven!” The bartender hollered.

Our tankards were refilled, and new bets were placed.

Then it was round 12. Round 15. Then round 21.

“Holy mackerel,” Horace slurred. He wobbled and tried to fit the rest of his words on his tongue. “Hell of a competitor. Good thing my record is thirty!”

I got to round 30 without problem. Horace, on the other hand, leaned against the bar and looked right through me with watery eyes. He drank more slowly now and fortified himself before raising the next tankard to his lips.

“Mn-gonna beat him-n,” Horace mumbled and tossed back beer number 30. Then 31.

At that point, the crowd was speechless. Others had come in to watch the challenge. The inn stank of beer and body sweat. It had gotten warmer with all the people crammed in. The air felt sticky.

“You’re not going to black out, are you?” I said.

“Pshhh-mmmn-nooo,” Horace said, searching the room for me with a dead look. “I’m-n always wins this game-mn.”

“Four more tankards for me,” I told the bartender. “I’ll drink them one after the other.”

Horace swayed as I drank all four, one after the other without pause.

“Thaz it,” he said, raising his hands. A boyish smile lit his face. “I’m failed. You’ve wins. Gives me the message. I’ll delivery man it permsonally.”

I withdrew a waterskin with Hawkin’s name branded on the side.

“This is a plane’s cutter beer,” I said aloud. “Brewed by my friend Hawkin. After Horace’s first sip, he’ll be completely sober.”

The crowd balked. They let their doubt be known. Called me a fool. Lunatic.

“Here,” I said, passing the beer to Horace.

Horace uncorked the waterskin, sniffed at the neck, and breathed heavily as though preparing for a marathon.

“What am I doing? Waz the message?” He said.

“Drinking. Tell him I say hello. See if you can bring back some mana beer.”

“Hello. Mana beer. Gots it. Ok.” Horace sighed deeply, closed his eyes for 15 seconds, fortified himself, and sipped.

∞

Horace

I felt the heat of the sun before opening my eyes again. It was brighter than a boy born and raised in Omes Arbor was used to. I expected to feel the floor of the tavern beneath my feet. Instead—uneven ground. I fell. Hard. The wind was knocked from my lungs. I turned over with herculean effort and puked.

“Ewwww,” someone said in an impish voice. “Hawkin! Hawkin, he’s turning inside out! Hawkin! Hawkin, come look! A human!”

I grabbed a fistful of grass. Then another. Digging my hands into dirt.

“Oh god,” I mumbled.

A shadow fell over me. Then a man’s calm voice.

“Well I’ll be,” the man said. “You alright there?”

I did my best to talk. To open my eyes. To fight off the spins.

“What did he just say?” the man said.

“I don’t know,” the imp said. “He doesn’t look so good.”

“Let’s get him some water from the river. Do you mind helping me, BarnacleEyes?”

“If you say so,” the imp said.

“Listen,” the man said. “We’re going to fetch you some water. We’ll be right back.”

The next thing I knew, I woke in the shade of a honeysuckle tree. My head pounded and I had to squint to see straight.

“Hawkin!” the imp said.

Not an imp. A goblin. I screamed and scooted away. I rose to my feet and threw up my dukes in defense. My face felt puffy. My eyes felt raw. Blood throbbed in my temples. I managed my headache by clenching my jaw and heaved my breaths through my nose.

“Easy,” said the man, jogging up to the goblin and I. “Easy! Put your hands down, stranger. She’s a goblin, but she means no harm. She’s my friend.”

The goblin gasped and turned to gawk at the man. Her eyes were big glossy orbs.

“F-friend?” the goblin said.

“I’m Hawkin,” the man said stepping between the goblin and I. “I take it you met Thrush?”

I held my hands at the ready, eyeing both Hawkin and the blushing goblin. Her feet were crossed, her hands clasped beneath her chin, and she stared adoringly at Hawkin.

I wiped something wet from my mouth. The smell of my hands hit me like a brick and snapped me out of my fight or flight mode.

“Hell,” I groaned, lowering my hands and plopping back down. I suddenly felt weak so I lay back, resigned to whatever fate I’d found myself in. I just wanted the bright light and the headache to go away.

Hawkin crouched beside me.

“Hey,” he said. “How’s it going?”

I mumbled.

“By the looks of it,” he continued, “you had way too much to drink. How much beer did Thrush give you? Here, have some more water. You were awake earlier and we forced you to drink. Hope that’s alright.”

“My hands,” I said.

“Your hands are filthy. Here, I’ve got a wet cloth, I’ll wipe them off for you.”

I couldn’t say no. I just didn’t have it in me.

As soon as I felt the wet cloth begin to wash one hand, the goblin attacked Hawkin.

“NO,” she wailed and bit his arm.

“BarnacleEyes!” Hawkin said. “What’s the matter with you!”

“He can wash his own hands!” BarnacleEyes said.

“You can’t bite people like that!”

The goblin growled.

“I’m serious,” Hawkin said.

“It’s-it’s ok,” I finally managed after pushing myself up. “I’ll do it.”

Hawkin tossed me the wet cloth and I wiped the puke, grass, and dirt from my hands. Hawkin and the goblin argued.

“That’s something special between you and I,” BarnacleEyes said, snarling at Hawkin.

“BarnacleEyes, stop. Listen. It’s ok if I’m trying to help someone. Tell you what—if you’re nice to our guest, then I'll show you how to wash your own hands later—again. How does that sound?”

The goblin turned her back to him and growled. Hawkin slumped his shoulders with resignation.

“I’ll wash your hands myself,” he said. “How about that?”

The goblin’s violent mood lifted like a false thunderstorm. She turned and skipped in place, giggling with glee.

“I’m sorry about all that,” Hawkin said.

“I think I’m the one that should apologize,” I managed after a cough. “I don’t mean to trespass. To be honest, I’m not sure how I got here.”

“You drank one of my beers. A planes cutter beer.”

It all came back to me in the blink of an eye.

“Oh shit,” I said.

“Can you walk?” Hawkin said. “Let’s all go down to the river. Soak our feet. You’ve got about fifteen hours left on this plane. I’ll help you sort everything out.”

The walk to the river was difficult, but dipping my feet into the water was just what I needed. Hawkin filled me in on how I got there. I explained the drinking challenge and my surprise at losing.

“Well Thrush isn’t exactly normal,” Hawkin said. “Surely you can tell.”

“He’s maybe a little bit dark,” I said. “Keeping himself hidden in his cloak. I guess there’s gotta be something special about him if he can out drink me. Speaking of. I’m supposed to say “Hi” to you and ask for mana beer.”

“Follow me,” Hawkin said.

He led me to a crude structure. A small shed. He opened it to reveal a ramp of earth that descended into darkness. His cellar.

Led by a gross-looking candle, carried by the goblin, we descended and fetched a few barrels of beer and about fifty waterskins of mana beer.

“This one’s for you,” Hawkin said. “It’s a nut brown ale. Super Tavern quality. My way of saying thanks.”

He handed me a waterskin.

“So what do I do?” I said.

“Just touch the barrels when your time is up. You’ll be exactly where you were when you were defeated by Thrush. Tell him I say 'Hello old friend'.”

I drank my fill of water for the rest of my time on the plane. I spent hours talking with Hawkin about his life in the woods. About my life in Omes Arbor. About my aspirations. About-

I blinked. Blinked again and sort of woke up—or came to, in a sense—exactly where I had been at the Weeping Wisp inn.

The crowd was silent. My father was plastered. The patrons were all a mess and stank of spilled beer. The aroma of the summer fields had been nefariously robbed and replaced with the worst smells on earth. Smells so pungent that I dry heaved.

“He’s gonna blow!” the bartender said.

The crowd cheered me on and beat a march on the tables with their fists, hollering nonsense.

I was able to quell the noxious feeling in my stomach from the putrid stench. I shook my head and regarded the hooded figure across from me. An eerily wide smile crossed his entire face. A smile that was maybe a bit too wide and gave me instant goosebumps.

“How are you feeling?” Thrush said.

The inn quieted down. The crowd listened.

“Refreshed,” I admitted with as much surprise as everyone else. “Sober.”

“Look at his eyes,” someone said.

I scanned the room, danced a jig, bowed, and then congratulated Thrush on his victory. The patrons erupted in outrage.

“The contest isn’t over,” they said.

But it was, and after paying for a room and hauling my father to bed, I sat with Thrush at the bar while he continued to drink.

“Beer?” He offered.

“Water for now,” I said. “I spent enough time on the plane to sober up. I’d like to stay that way for a few days after having had that much to drink at once. You beat me fair and square.”

“I’d still like to pay you for helping me,” Thrush said.

I fought him on the payment. We’d made a deal at the beginning of things, and I stuck to my deals. He was as insistent as I was stubborn, and by his request, we settled things with a high-five.

“So tell me,” Thrush said. “How was your adventure?”