The Meade of Song - A Story

The Meade of Song
by Riverwolf

Hearbear lived long ago in an old town, where the water was foul and rank. But the folk who lived there did not lack gladness, for they had Meade. It was said of this town by travellers that there was no finer Meade in all the lands but here. Hearbear, however, did not like this Meade. He would stand in the road and shout his dislike, “There is no sweetness in the drought! The tongue is not stung, and the throat not burned! What a disgrace this Meade of ours be!” What few would heed this cry would forget in a few steps.

Hearbear woke one day, and spit in the Meade he had. It happened that on that day, it was his turn in the town to gather wood for the Fires. He went into the Greenwood to build fagots for the town, when an Elf espied him. She heard his grumblings over the town's Meade, and she thought of knowledge he ought to have. “Oh, handsome twig-gatherer!” cried the Elf to the man.

“I hear thy voice, fair one,” said Hearbear. “But alas I cannot see thy face! Might thou reveal thyself to me?” And the Elf did so, and no fairer form had the man ever seen. “Oh, beauteous spirit! There is not a woman in my village with radiance to match with thee!”

“Oh, such kind words,” said the blushing Elf. “But rest thy seeding sword, good sir, for this blossom's nectar runs red this day. It is honey of a different sort that I come to tell thee of!” And the Elf danced behind Hearbear, swinging her hips and bouncing her bosom. “Look to the Earth, and from there see its North! Beyond a great cold gap crossed only by a bridge of many hues, lie many lands of Wolks. One of these is Woodeland, where rests with the Folk of Throneless King, the Meade of Song. Great bees of red and large as crows, in combs of a thousand holes, and who deeply sing instead of buzz, weaved the honey of this drink from the nectar of a pink and blue-necked blossom, a thousand petals long. In the Well of Wyrd itself was woode breathed into the honey, where naught but Crowulf may enter. I have heard it said from the mother of my father, that this is the finest Meade that was ever had by Wight and Man!”

“Oh, sensuous Elf!” cried Hearbear. “Please, tell me how I might obtain this drought! That I may take but a small piece of it to share with my Townsfolk, that they may know true wonders!”

And the Elf tiptoed up to him, and placed her hand upon his chest. “I shall take thee there, myself.” And grasping at his tunic, she pulled him to the ground, on top of her. But instead of laying on her, Hearbear found himself flying through the sky, the Elf-maid nowhere to be seen. He tumbled though the air, the twinkling stars upon the blue. Until upon a cliff he stood, across from him a Wolken Fort. The Many Hued Bridge spanned the twinkling gap, just as the Elf had said.

He took a step upon the bridge, and his foot did not pass through. He hastened his pace, and soon the cliff was beyond his sight. The Wolken Fort drew ever nearer, slower than the cliff had passed. But soon Hearbear was at the gate, and the golden door opened wide at his feet.

A golden land of swords and shields lay before him, warriors here and there feasting, drinking, and fighting. Hearbear walked among them, and many turned their heads. Until at last he came upon a great golden hall, its shield-clad doors open wide to any who would enter. Inside the grandest feast there ever was could be seen. A table long as a thousand leagues stretched to a great black throne, and a thousand boars and harts lay upon it. The fire here was green and blue and red, stretching to the heaven-high roof. But the cups of golden wood caught Hearbear's eyes the most, for the splendid gold he had thus far seen in this land was yellow filth next to the glowing drink that spilled from them. He shyly asked a slain swordsman, twice his height and length, if he might have a sip.

When his lips touched that drink, a great fire burst from within, as if waiting until this moment to be released. As it passed over his tongue, the stinging sweetness spilled Hearbear's seed. Burning down his throat and sending a sweet, sweet warmth into his gut all but put him to the floor, and he did not care that everyone around him was laughing at his meekness to its strength. Oh, this was indeed the Meade of Song, for soon Hearbear found himself singing nonsense verse. There was truly no drink like it known among Wights and Men!

Hearbear rushed across the table, forgetting to give back the cup. He knocked over many a Heavenly Bard into Viking Soup, and dodged the blows of many slain mens' fists, before he stood before the Black Throne. Two winged Wolves with Raven heads stood next to the arms, where sat the Ragged King, who seemed barely awake to the merriment around him.

“Oh, great Lord of this Golden Land!” bowed Hearbear to the King. “I have come to beg thee relinquish just a small portion of this wondrous Meade, that I may share its beauty with my Townsfolk!”

“Take it,” was all the King said, not moving any more of his body.

Suddenly, Hearbear found himself back in the Greenwood where he had been, the cup still in hand. He opened his own Meade flask, and poured its drink into the ground. He then carefully poured this Heavenly Drink into his flask, lest it spill before he reach the town. He ran back, and excitedly shouted in the road, “I have with me the Meade of Song, that has no like in all the Worlds!”

One or two came up to him, and drank from his offered flask. And with wonder in their eyes did they sing its praise, for it was, indeed, the finest Meade there ever was. Soon Hearbear had a small following of five or six companions.

But the next person to take this Starry Drink, upon it touching his lips, spat it to the ground. “What swill is this!” he yelled at Hearbear in anger. “Does thou offer me Meade or thine own piss!” Hearbear and his companions were stunned by this blasphemous display. And another and another had the same reaction. Soon there was more Meade spat on the ground than was left in the flask.

Hearbear's burning anger took him atop the Town Hall, and cried as loud as his breath would bid. “You have all forsaken this Heavenly Meade, and with your spitting, spat upon the King of Woode! His generosity gave me this drink, and my generosity shared it with you! Yet you all spit it back on me! I curse you all! Me and my companions will now take leave of this Villanous Village, and live in the Greenwood with the Elvenfolk!”

And so it was, that Hearbear and his companions were driven from their homes, and forced to live among the bugs and birds. It was only in a day that the Heavenly Meade was gone, and there was none left to be had.

Then, gathering fagots for the lonely, Meadeless night, Hearbear met again the Elf. “Hail, fair Elf!” was all he could weakly greet her with, for the heart had all but left him.

“Oh, whence comes this frown?” she teased. “It's been many winters since a man has not smiled at me. Shall I dance for thee? This blossom's nectar runs clear, again.”

But Hearbear's heart was not filled with woode. “The Heavenly Meade thou directed me to is dry, and most of the Townsfolk spat it back at me.”

“Oh, but of course they did!” said the Elf. “There was too much dream in that Meade. It was never meant for wakened folk.”

“What does thou mean?” Hearbear asked.

“Thy tongue, and those of thy friends, are always in a dream. The pure woode of the Meade of Song is sweet to thee. But most people only dream when they sleep. For them, sweetness lies in smallness.”

“But, fair Elf,” wept Hearbear, “The Meade they drink is swill! It has no woode to call its own!”

And the Elf laughed long and clear. “Oh, you silly twig-gatherer. There is no Meade lacking in woode! In truth, by the will of the One-Eyed King, the Meade of Song is there in all Meades everywhere, its sweetness known by all. It is in small bits, that their tongues are not overwhelmed. But the Heavenly Song sings through, the Poet Kings' voices heard therein. They don't always know it, but it moves them all.”