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The Quest for the Holy Ale by Gene Rowe / Andrew Schofield: First Chapter Program

The following is the prologue of Gene Rowe and Andrew Schofield’s The Quest for the Holy Ale (Or Three Sheets to the Wind). You can leave your thoughts using the form at the bottom of this page and there is also a link to follow for more information on the author and their work. The Fantasy Book Review “First Chapter” program allows authors to showcase their work in front of thousands of fantasy fans. Please read through and leave feedback as your opinions are valuable to both the author and the website. If you would like to take part in this program then please email first.chapter@fantasybookreview.co.uk.

Read and enjoy!

The Prologue

This tale begins in a temple in the land of Frembolia. Well, we say temple, but we might just as well say museum, or even brewery, for this particular building used to be a brewery until the brewers died and the recipe to their beer was lost. So now it is mainly a temple: a place to worship ideals and to pray for the return of better things and better times.

In this place, in the shadow of a pillar, there is a man. Sneaking. And he’s good at this – he’s even got a diploma for it. He’s actually quite good at many things, although you might not suspect this on first seeing him. There he goes… slinking across the lamp-lit floor from one shadow to the next. Amazing! Just like a cat in STEALTH mode!

The little, wizened, yellow-skinned man was a monk by training, and a seeker of knowledge by inclination. Unlike his brethren, however, he believed that life’s great mysteries could not be solved by such common strategies as spending years alone upon a mountain, or perching silently atop a tall pole, or bruising your cheeks upon a hard floor as, for hours on end, you twisted your legs into improbable positions and chanted the word ‘om’. He was instead a believer in the principle of direct action, in whatever form – or indeed, state of legality – this might take.

The monk (for that was how he thought of himself) skittered along a wall covered with horse brasses and headed for an annexe. There, he knew, he would find a fragment of parchment on which was drawn a particularly interesting map…

The scene swirls and changes, as it is wont to do in stories like this.

Two weeks have passed since a particular individual half-inched a bit of parchment from a druidical temple-cum-museum. Frembolia is but a memory; the present is a clearing in the wilderness beside a crossroads…

At this crossroads, four figures huddle around a small fire. A cauldron hangs from an improvised wooden support above crackling twigs and orange-red flames; a small barrel of ale lays empty and discarded beside it. Two of the figures smoke contentedly, and all stare into the mesmerically dancing fire.

These four chance acquaintances had been talking for some time about the great mysteries of the universe, and had just reached an important conclusion about one of its very greatest conundrums. There was a moment’s silence as they pondered their decision. And then the ranger, called Angred, cleared his throat. “So, we are agreed then,” he said, with great solemnity. “The answer to the question is: big breasts are best.”

The others nodded slowly with great satisfaction. As if to toast their success, the four men simultaneously took up their mugs and tilted the ale within to their lips. Four arms were then lowered in unison. Each of the men stared into the bottom of his mug and thought about big ones.

Tugon the barbarian sighed and drained his mug. As the last dregs of ale slipped down his throat the bearskin-clad adventurer coughed. “This Monegrin brew is foul!” he complained, eyeing the bottom of his tankard with suspicion.

“Monegrin ale is truly piss!” concurred Gerontas, a merchant.

Angred and the fourth member of their impromptu party – whose face was hidden by the hood of his cowl – both nodded their assent.

From this position, it took little effort for the conversation to be turned to the next of mankind’s great debates.

“Here,” said the ranger, after a second’s thought, “what about ale? Now that is a big question. What is the best ale in the world?”

“I know this,” declared the barbarian. “Listen to me, and I will tell all.”

When a barbarian declares himself ready to speak, others tear up their queue tickets and accept the inevitable. The men prepared themselves for the tale, adjusting their postures for greater comfort. Angred shifted his weight to allow blood to flow back into his other buttock; Gerontas re-lit his gnarled pipe and puffed it to life; and the hooded man kicked his boots aside, crossed his legs, and folded his arms, burying them in sleeves so voluminous they could have hidden a hundred decks of cards.

As the barbarian began his tale, the hooded man showed particular interest. He had heard many such tales before – and indeed, he had tracked down many of those ales that had been declared by half-cut fireside companions (with slurred voices) to be The One. Some of the nominees had been good and others very good, but none had been as exquisite as the one he now sought. And so now the hooded man watched and listened as his companions took it in turns to voice their own opinions.

He heard the barbarian boast of the Blood Ale, and the ranger counter with Impo’s Bitter. The sneering merchant had then dismissed both claims, going on to relate his own tale about how the angel Cirrhosis had brought the Celestial Light Ale to the priests of the temple of Worth-in-Ton. According to Gerontas, Cirrhosis had paid dearly for this charity, for the gods had chained him to a rock, where a voracious beagle feasted upon his continuously regenerating liver.

After the merchant had finished his tale, the party sat around the fire in silence thinking about the stories that they had heard. But the hooded man simply shook his head, for he had learnt nothing new.

At last, the barbarian broke the silence and turned to the hooded man – who had until then kept his own counsel. “You have been silent throughout, but I see from your garb that you are a monk… and monks are renown throughout the world as great brewers of ale, aye, and great consumers too. With all your experience of ale and your access to the gods, surely you must be able to shed some light on the question: what is the best ale in the world?”

The monk wriggled upright and slowly lowered his hood, revealing a heavily weathered oriental face assembled beneath a bald pate. The lines and creases around his mouth, and by his eyes, and across his brow, exaggerated every facial expression so that he appeared to be perpetually gurning. The monk cleared his throat and gave a frown that made him look like a frog with indigestion.

“Your tales… maybe true, maybe not.” In the monk’s native tongue, pronouns and articles were largely superfluous. As such, he didn’t believe in them, and only used them under duress. “Maybe explain how certain ales reached certain parts of world. Maybe.” The monk slowly raised one clawed hand and made a curious gesture in front of his mouth, as though trying to pinch an invisible fly using just thumb and forefinger. “But what none can say is which ale is best, for none have tried others.” Suddenly, the monk’s hand darted out and his fist clenched. There was a faint crunch, and the monk brought his hand back to himself. Opening his fist, he revealed the crushed remains of an insect. “Ah, grasshopper!” He flicked the bug away, then continued. “So… barbarian – have tried Impo’s Ale?” He gave Tugon no chance to reply. “No! And merchant, have tried Blood Ale? Have not! Why then say it not best?” The monk sneered and made a dismissive gesture.

Gerontas frowned. “And I suppose you have tried all of these ales?”

“Yes!” cried the monk, suddenly animated. “Have tried all! Have made this mission in life: to find perfect ale. Have talked to master brewers; have scoured ancient parchments; have humbled self before gods. And now… now know answer!” The monk began to tremble with excitement. His eyes widened. The others in the band leant forward to catch the words of this man who claimed to know the best ale in the world and, more importantly, was about to tell them for free.

“What is it?” asked the barbarian.

“Tell us!” demanded the ranger.

“Go on,” cried the merchant.

“Yes, will tell,” said the monk, “but first must tell story.” He sniggered to himself as though at some private joke. “It said that alcohol discovered by wood spirits when noting strange effects caused by rotting fruit on creatures of forests, like, ah, bees and wasps that fly around and crash into trees,” the monk had a spasm of laughter as his hands imitated an inebriated bee swooping this way and that, “ha, and wild boars that stagger about and fall into bushes, and – ha-ha-ha – like squirrels that fall out of trees…”

“I think we get the picture,” grumbled Gerontas. “Get on with the story.”

The monk’s face adopted the exaggerated expression of an affronted gargoyle. “Ai-la, you rude bugger!” He stood up suddenly as if to leave. He was torn between punishing the foolish one and relating his story – a story that had to be told. After a moment’s hesitation he nodded to himself and squatted back down again. “Will tell, but you shut face, okay!”

“Yeah yeah,” muttered the merchant, aware of the intent looks being directed at him by the other men around the fire. “Sure. Go on.”

“Humph. So, wood spirits tried rotten fruit too and liked very much. Then was great party with singing and games and dancing. But pretty soon some bugger offered cup of new drink to gods as gift – and this number one mistake!” A serious expression crossed the monk’s rubber face. “La, for gods liked drink and demanded wood spirits make more and more for them, until all rotting fruit in forest gone. But still gods wanted more, so spirits forced to experiment. They collected fresh fruit and put in vats to moulder, and so invented brewing.” The monk paused to collect his thoughts. “At first, spirits used apples and pears, but soon ran out and forced to try other fruits and flavours. Then one day spirit called Boozer used small fruit of climbing plant called hop, and made first true ale.”

The monk smiled ecstatically now and a tear formed in the corner of one eye. “La, Boozer invented ale, and all tasting drink agreed it divine. Then other spirits tried to make miracle ale, and many types were made, for Boozer would not reveal mix of ingredients added to hops. Tcha! Then other spirits tried to trick recipe from Boozer, who fled, and after much wandering hid recipe where no god or spirit would think of looking… in secret place in realm of man! And this place guarded by great warrior priests and protected by traps, and location… ah, that been mystery. Until now.” The monk scrunched his face into a mischievous expression and stared into the flames of the fire. The other men held their breath, waiting for the story to continue…

But it did not.

“Go on,” urged the ranger. “Where is this ‘secret place’?”

“Aye,” snarled the barbarian, “you’ve whetted our appetites. Tell us more!”

The monk cackled dementedly. “Want to know more, eh? Good!” He rocked back and forth on his haunches. “Learnt of secret place from dying man, who told where to start search for place of recipe.” Again he paused.

After several moments more, the merchant threw up his hands in frustration. “This is like pulling teeth!” He glowered at the monk. “How do you know this ale is the best anyway… from the lips of a dying man with a tall tale? You haven’t even tasted it!”

“Ai-la,” cried the monk, triumphantly, making a perverse shaking gesture with one hand. “Have drunk ale! Man had some in water bottle and for small service gave sip. Is best! Even now, thought of ale makes me shake with lust!”

“A little service?” wondered Gerontas, with a smirk. “I don’t suppose that involved a quantity of ointment, your tongue, a large wooden truncheon and…”

“Shhhh!” hushed Angred. “Enough! Monk – this hidden place: do you know its location? Its name?”

The monk gave a wry smile. “No, do not… but there instructions… this what man had learnt. Boozer made map of route took when wandering realms of man, and when returning to forest in Frembolia tore up map and left parts here and there on way back. Each part shows way to next, but all must be viewed before full path can be known.”

“And the first step… the first part of the map… do you have it?”

Again the grin. “This is so, but not second. But know where is.”

“Where?” exploded the barbarian. “By Grom, you must tell us!”

The monk cackled and rocked backwards and forwards with even greater vigour. “Tell you, eh? Barbarian is enthusiastic? This good! Need men of vision, strength and cunning to help find secret place. And maybe you will do!” The monk giggled like the demented owner of a Chinese restaurant who had seen one order for sweet and sour pork too many. Around the fire, the other men looked at each other with uncertainty in their eyes. Surreptitiously, the merchant made a rotating gesture with one finger at the side of his head.

The monk at last regained a degree of self-control. “So… are interested? Barbarian, think of slaughter and glory… and ranger, think of challenge to skills… and merchant, think of profits to be had!”

“Let me get this straight,” said Tugon, suspiciously. “You know the location of the recipe to the greatest ale in the world, and you want us to go with you to get it? Why us? You’d never met us before tonight.”

“Fate!” cackled the monk. “Fate brought together. This major crossroads… in lives. You are Men of Action – cannot resist challenge any more than dog can resist sniffing bum of other dog. And now moon losing height in sky and new day soon be here. Suggest sleep.”

“Yes, good idea,” responded the ranger, carefully. “After all, we’ll need all our strength for the long quest ahead, won’t we?”

A grunt of assent emanated from the barbarian, and the men settled down to sleep. As they prepared their sleeping mats they thought about the potential bloodshed, the challenge, the riches that they might gain, and the inevitable death that they would suffer. And anyway, who was to say that the monk spoke the truth? What a loon! Yes, surely his tale was the result of delirium…

When the morning broke, the monk awoke to find himself alone: the other men had gone. Next to the ranger’s empty sleeping hollow, scratched into the earth, was the message: Grandmother lost in woods – gone home. By the barbarian’s pitch was scratched the excuse: Grandmutha kild in battle – gon home. And by the merchant’s, written on a piece of parchment: Had a good offer for my grandmother – gone home. The monk shrugged his shoulders in resignation. This had happened to him before during his journey. No matter what crafty lures or ruses he used he was unable to persuade the travellers he met on the road to join him on his mission.

“Men of Action – pah!” he muttered to himself. “What really need is men who desperate for a good drink!”

© Rowe and Schofield 2008

For more information, visit http://www.thequestfortheholyale.co.uk.

Gene Rowe was born in the exotic town of Bedford. He rapidly escaped – though only as far as Suffolk, where he was condemned to attend a rural comprehensive school. In spite of this, he managed to get into Bristol University, where he was sectioned into the psychology department. There he gained the only first of his year after the lecturers got confused and mistook him for a student rather than a case study. He has remained in academia ever since, and now lives with his partner and daughter somewhere in The Mysterious East.

Andrew Schofield came into this world fully formed; a bit like Venus except for the beautiful bits. He too survived the state school system, shining in the subjects of skiving games, acne and chemistry. His ability at science sent him to Bristol University to study the dark arts of the test tube, crucible and distillation apparatus (particularly the distillation apparatus). He still lives in the British university system where he survives in The Cold North as a plaything of physicists.

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Posted: June 28th, 2009
Author: Lee
Categories: First Chapter Program