The Brewer (Part II)
The second installment of a magical realism triptych
Hello! Thank you for stopping by Naptime Novelist! To learn more about what kinds of stories you’ll find here, you can visit my Guidebook.
← In Part I, Penelope took over the family brewery and beer garden, then ran into…a problem.
Dead leaves whispered across empty, moonlit tables. As her feet crunched over the gravel of the beer garden’s footpaths, Penelope reached out and swiped away the crinkling leaves, her chest tight.
Her every little resentment as her friends embarked with degrees and dreams while she settled into her role as Brewer – each interior grumble played now through her mind, an indictment. Was that what had caused the magic to wither? It was as if the brewery had sensed that she didn’t want it, and it had rejected her, destroying itself. She’d stepped up to the helm, unworthy of being Brewer, and within weeks the business was in shambles.
Braun’s Beer Garden was dying.
The first time she’d reached for Littlehorn Lager and found instead a black sludge oozing into the glass, she’d thought it must have been a bad batch, that something had gone wrong with the chemistry during the fermentation, or that there was mold in the dispenser. Or perhaps it was a prank, though she couldn’t think of anyone who’d play such a meanspirited joke. Even the local teenagers loved Braun’s and counted the days until they’d be able to order something stronger than the house-made sasparilla (combination mood tonic and creativity stimulant, another one of Aunt Greta’s creations).
Penelope had investigated every barrel and tank for contamination, but there had been nothing amiss.
But a few days later, a barrel of Ponderosa IPA had gone black. Then Gemütlichkeit Ale. And Salem Stout. One by one, whole barrels had turned foul.
She’d had no choice. There could be no beer garden without beer.
To the worried questions of the regulars, she’d been reassuring. It’s just a temporary closure, until we can get rid of the mold and brew more beer.
But there was no mold. She hadn’t found any contaminants in the tank.
The new barrels of classic, crowd-favorite family recipes she’d started fermenting wouldn’t be ready for weeks, and even then, she might find they’d turned suddenly from golden beer to inky slop.
Penelope made her way down the stairs to the deep, cool cellar. The earthy beer aroma lingered, the smell permeating the wood and stone like the tangled, reaching roots of an ancient tree.
At one of the fermentation tanks, Penelope released a tiny rush of Ponderosa IPA into a cup and let out a breath of relief. Still a rich golden brown.
Ingredients lined old wooden shelves at the far end of the cellar. Pellets of hops, bags of malt, extra yeast. All the ingredients, save water, needed for beer. In the back corner sat a few forgotten wares, from dried herbs – basil, ginger root, rosemary, lavender – to an unopened bag of brown sugar.
Penelope ran her fingertip along the shelves. She hadn’t wanted this. She’d spent her whole life not wanting it, imagining other vocations, other places. Anything other than Braun’s Beer Garden in quiet little Rhinesburg.
But that was before the first red campion, its bright colors welcoming the coming summer, had bloomed beside the old wooden tables, before the oxeye daisies had popped their faces open to the sun, filling each flowering corner of the beer garden with surprised smiles. Before she’d looked out across the full tables and the children wiggling their toes in the sandbox and realized that in her time away from Rhinesburg she’d never found any place quite like Braun’s. There was a richness to the laughter, a liveliness flowing through the conversations, a depth to the smiles, that she’d never before paused to notice. The beer and its quiet magic played a role in it, perhaps, but good beer could only nourish community, not create it.
There were so many people now asking such kind questions – Anything I can do? What about a bake sale? What do you need? – rallying around Braun’s without realizing that there was nothing they could do, that a bake sale and the best mold-removal in the world, or even a whole new set of brewing equipment, wouldn’t stop the beer from blackening if the magic was dying.
Without Braun’s there was a hole in the community. With no place to gather, people were drifting, passing each other by. The town may not need their little beer garden, but life was sweeter with it.
Penelope rubbed a dried basil leaf between her fingers and inhaled the spicy, sunny scent. Then, with slow, quiet footsteps she turned and made her way back toward the cellar stairs.
As she came around a bend toward the fermentation tanks, there was a hushed footstep, and a figure stood in the dim light, their face shadowed by the bare lightbulb behind them.
Penelope gasped and stumbled back, and the figure started with a strangled shriek, hand flying to their heart.
Letting out a breathy laugh, Penelope let go of the shelf she’d grabbed to keep from falling. “Aunt Greta, you scared me.”
“What are you doing down here?” Aunt Greta’s weathered face, usually laced with a smile, was tight and tense with the dregs of shock.
“Just taking inventory. I didn’t expect to see you here. You’re not usually here at night.”
Aunt Greta’s feet creaked on the wooden boards, and she slipped her hands into her jacket pockets. “I wanted to check with you. About the business.”
“The business? Yeah, it’s fine.” A cold sweat prickled her skin. “Once these new brews are finished, we’ll be able to open up again. And Ann Koch said she can organize a bake sale to help get us through if we need it. But we’ll be fine.”
“I think you know that’s not true, honey.”
Penelope kept her gaze on the shelves.
“I know this isn’t exactly your dream.” Her aunt’s footsteps came closer. “But if you don’t hand it off soon so somebody can fix this mess, there won’t be a business left to fix.”
Penelope turned around, hating that her eyes were hot with shame. “I can get the magic back.”
“‘Get the magic back’?” Aunt Greta’s gray eyes were sharp. “Now you want this?”
Penelope instinctively tilted her body away from her aunt and the sudden, grieved vehemence in her voice. “It’s not about me –”
“The Brauns have spent centuries perfecting these brews, working magic into grains and water, but would you let me teach you? No, not you. Penelope had better things to do.”
“It’s late,” Penelope snapped. Stepping around her aunt, she strode back toward the cement steps. “We’re both tired. I think we should talk about this in the morning.”
“And now you think you can just fix everything because you suddenly feel like it? Where did you get the notion that responsibility only matters if you feel responsible? Your father certainly didn’t raise you that way. You can’t fix the magic, or whatever you want to call it. You don’t control it. It doesn’t work that way.”
Her skin cold, Penelope stopped at the stairs. “Aunt Greta, why are you here?”
Her aunt’s face was a livid white. “What I said. I came to find you. To get this sorted out. I can’t let you run this business into the ground –”
“Then why were you surprised to see me?”
“What?”
“If you came to talk to me, then why were you so surprised to see me in the cellar?”
“I wasn’t surprised. It was just dark. But that’s not what we’re talking about –”
Penelope brushed past her aunt, back to the tank of brewing Ponderosa IPA. At the huge steel fermentation tank, she grabbed the same small glass she’d used before and pulled the tap.
But no rich, golden liquid came. Instead, thick, foul-smelling muck dropped from the tap, spattering the glass with black sludge.
Aunt Greta said nothing, her lips narrowed to a slash across her face.
Penelope’s hands tightened on the glass, and she set it down on one of the long wooden shelves. She turned to her aunt, her voice low and sharp. “What have you done?”
Aunt Greta slowly folded her arms, her face hard and unfamiliar.
Penelope’s eyes dropped to the pockets of her aunt’s jacket, where one side bulged. “What did you put in them?”
“Don’t try to act like you care.” Aunt Greta retreated up the stairs to the moonlit beer garden, but Penelope stayed on her heels. “Go join your friends. Move to the city. Make money in some office job. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
“I want this,” Penelope said, throwing her arms upward toward the darkened garden. “I want to be part of this.”
Aunt Greta’s eyes were glassy. “That’s what matters to you – what you want.”
A mechanical hiss emanated from the cellar below, and Penelope paused on the stairs, unease prickling her skin. A fleeting childhood memory flitted through her thoughts, of days when Aunt Greta’s hair was still brown, with only the barest flecks of gray. She’d always sipped a cup of tea while creating new brews. It kept her calm, she’d said, while she infused warmth and gentle cures into the fermenting liquid. It’s attuned to us, she’d said. To something in our blood.
“Look, I’m sorry. For not appreciating this place, or what you’ve done for it. ” Penelope’s voice shook, but a heat surged inside her, anger and injustice and the sudden grief that this beer garden, like all other things that mattered most to her, was being stripped from her, pulled out from under her feet. “I’m sorry. But I’m trying to help now. Let me try. Give me a chance - a fair chance, without sabotaging me.” In spite of herself, bitter resentment crept into Penelope’s tone.
The hiss turned to a thick bubbling sound, and from down the stairs came a violent pop, then the sudden splintering of wood.
“What did you put in them?” Penelope’s hands curled into fists.
Aunt Greta’s breath came in raspy gasps. “Those brews are useless now. You’ve been itching to go, making it clear how much you hate it here. Just go.”
“Was that your plan, to run me off and then swoop in to save the brewery?”
“I’m protecting our legacy.”
“What legacy?” Penelope said, her voice rising, her eyes stinging. “What happens when you’re dead? I’m all you have left. If I’m gone, then Braun’s dies with you.”
There was a rumble beneath their feet, a deep, unearthly tremble.
“You would have killed it regardless,” Aunt Greta said. There was a fanatical razor-edge to her eyes as she stood, fists clenched and feet rooted to the cellar steps. “You’ve never wanted it.”
A new sensation surged through Penelope’s chest, crying out in fear, in warning. A voice she’d never felt within her before, and yet it was old, familiar.
And afraid.
Something was wrong, the sudden electric quiet before a lightning burst. “What are you doing?” Penelope whispered. “Aunt Greta, you have to stop. Whatever you’re doing, stop. ”
The rumble grew, vibrating the cement steps with a roar. Aunt Greta lost her footing and scraped her shoulder against the wall of the stairs.
As suddenly as it had appeared, the glassiness bled from Aunt Greta’s eyes, and her skin turned gray as she grasped the quaking stair railing. She stared past Penelope, down into the dark cellar, her face shot with panic.
“Get out of the way!” Penelope rushed up the stairs and snatched Aunt Greta’s arm. With all her strength, she hauled the older woman up the last few steps and dragged her, stumbling, onto the gravel path as the roaring reached a dangerous pitch.
There was a bone-shaking burst loud as a jet engine, force and heat at her back, and Penelope’s body collided with the ground.
A furious spray of black erupted from the cellar.
→ Keep reading! Onward to Part III
Thank you so much for taking the time to read Part I of “The Brewer”! Part III will arrive next Saturday, March 15th, after which I’ll be taking a short break to prepare for psychic detective Judith Temple’s next case, Murmurs in the Walls.
While recovering from the physical and emotional toll caused by her most recent case, Judith Temple decides to switch gears and take a stab at working as a paranormal investigator. When she receives a plea for help from a family who claims their house is haunted, Judith throws herself into the case, determined to get to the bottom of both the eerie happenings in the little home and also her own hopes and feelings regarding Sheriff Tim Morrissey.
Aunt Greta! I didn't see that coming. Looking forward to reading part 3.
I'm enjoying this so much! Glad I stockpiled and can read Part III immediately!