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On a refuse barrel lay a torn black mask ..
Love and ale
Nick O'Donohoe
"An inn," Otik puffed, "is blessed or cursed by its
ale." He set the barrow-handles down, noting with approval
that the cloth-covered wheel had not marred the lovingly polished
Inn floor. "The ale is blessed or cursed by its water and hops."
Tika, staggering in from the kitchen, poured one of her two
buckets into the immense brewing tun as Otik pried the top free. "I
know, I know. That's why I have to haul fresh spring water up, a
bucket at a time, instead of using rainwater from the cistern-
which I wouldn't need to pull up." She showed him the rope-marks
in her palms. At fifteen, she lacked the patience for brewing.
"Better a bucket than a barrel." Otik slapped the tun. "The
innkeeper before me thought cleaning a brewing tun each time was
too much work. He just mixed the hops, malt, and sugar into an
alewort inside each keg, prying the lids up and recoopering
without ever cleaning." He washed the spring water around the
sides, checking for the tiniest dirt or stain.
"Well, if we couldn't do that, couldn't we at least not haul the
water up?"
"I've tried other ways myself. My very first batch with this tun
I made down below, at the foot of the tree."
"Couldn't we do that?" Tika said wistfully. "We could just roll
the empty kegs out the garbage-drop with ropes tied to them so
they wouldn't smash on the ground
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