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.
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.”
“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.”