Beers and Beards: A Cozy Dwarf Tale

Chapter 15: Eh

I sighed as I finished plinking my pickaxe against the wall. Balin came over and took the ore I had mined and placed it into a pair of sacks.

“How’s the charcoal goin, Pete?” He asked.

“Oh, right! I gave some silver to Tim.” I paused, confused for a moment before I remembered. “I think it wasn’t quite enough, so we’ll need to wait until our next pay.”

“Ah, that’s too bad.”

“Aye, I was lookin forward to it.”

“Is it that thing ya were talkin about? Tha minin tool?” A rosy cheeked dwarf with an enormously bushy and curly red beard asked. His beard was almost as big as he was, and I think all the dwarves in the mine were jealous of it. His curly red hair could barely be contained in his mining helmet.

“Yep. I tell you Sam, it’ll be a real banger when it’s done!”

“If ya say so Pete. Be careful though! I’ve got 5 silver on you two not dyin before its done.”

“Oh, we’ll be fine – wait.” I paused, slowly turning an arrested gaze in Sam’s direction. He continued picking obliviously at the wall. “Is there a betting pool on us dyin?” Those ingrates! Here I was working towards making mining a better job for dwarves everywhere!

“In ma defense, I put money on you livin.” Sam chuckled and I turned back to my work while Balin lugged the sacks up the dive tunnel. Sam had arrived in the camp about 4 months ago. He was put in prison for “repeatedly breaking noise ordinances”. He’s been in and out for that reason for centuries. All the mining personnel already knew him, and he’s good friends with Speaker John. I love him for another reason though.

“So how are ya doin today, Sam?” I put my pick down and wiped some sweat from my brow. Mining was hot and hard work!

“Eh, I’m doin alright.” Hee! Sam says ‘Eh’ more than a Manitoba farmboy! When I’d first heard it, I’d had a sudden intense pang of homesickness, but now it’s more a warm dose of nostalgia. His giant red beard and slight prairie accent meant I got spend all day with a squat, friendly, lumberjack.

“Glad to hear it, let’s keep it that way. Blast incomin!” I readied a [Power Pick] by focusing my thoughts into the pick. The pick began to glow with a grey light before I brought it down on the wall. With an ear-splitting *CRACK* an enormous portion of ore was blasted off the wall. I was pelted with a few stones, but nothing bigger than a pebble. The glow on my pick petered out, and I wouldn’t be able to use it again for around another 5 minutes. [Power Pick] is a fairly common milestone, and using it enough could net things like [Fast Power Pick] or [Infinite Power Pick]. It’s not a skill I’d choose to build on though, not if I have the power to pick!

“I still can’t believe you and Balin got yer Blessins in less than a year here.” Sam griped, as he helped me shovel rock powder into bags. “Ya know it took me nearly fifty years in the Mine ta get my Blessin.”

“That long?”

“Aye, turned ‘er down though! Hah!” Sam had a deep belly laugh. He was the only other dwarf I knew that had turned down a blessing. Apparently, it wasn’t too common.

“Why didja turn it down?” My shovel got stuck in a mound of stone dust and I struggled to lift it out. Tiara’s teats, you’d think dust would be light, but it’s still rock!

“Eh. I didn’t want anythin’ from Tiara. All her Titles and Milestones are about bein greedy fer stuff or fightin’. I’m a lover! Not a fighter! An I don’t want to spend all me days in the mines. This is just a sacrifice fer my art!” He struck a pose. Sam is a titled Maestro; that’s someone who is blessed by Solen of Freedom and Midna of Communication. As for how he’s an artist?

Bagpipes. He plays the bagpipes. That’s also why he’s in prison.

To be honest, I LOVE the bagpipes. I’ll take a lovingly rendered Auld Lang Syne any day of the week, and I’m an afficionado of the band Dropkick Murphys. Dwarvish bagpipes take it to the next level though. I think it’s the giant gouts of fire and the fact that you can hear it in your bones. I’d actually taught Sam some of ‘Scotland the Brave’ and that was partly how we’d hit it off so well. Apparently, bagpipes are seen more as an ‘instrument of war’, like a bugle, and there aren’t too many dwarves that treat it as an art form.

“I can see Midna, but how did you catch Solen’s attention?”

“Oh, I broke outta the prison about a dozen times. They always brought me back, but it was enough!” The two of us laughed, and then continued working. After a few shovels Sam began to hum and I soon joined him. The sound of Scotland the Brave soon echoed down the tunnel.

Hark when the pipes are bawlin

Hear hear yer buds a callin,

Loud and proudly callin,

Down through the dive.

There where tha caves are sleepin,

Now feel yer heart a-leapin,

Strong as the soul,

Of every Dwarf alive.

The proud words of Robert Wilson, adapted by yours truly for dwarven society. We continued like that for a while until the sound of footsteps broke up our duet.

“Can you two keep that racket down! I swear all o’ Pete’s singing was bad enough, Sam! Now yer doin it too!” Sam and I laughed and soon Balin joined in. He didn’t actually hate our singing. We were pretty good, if I do say so myself!

“You should learn the words and join us Balin!” I said.

“Ay, come on, don’t be a stick in the mud, Balin!” Sam smacked him on the back and Balin shook a fist at him.

“If ya keep askin, I’ll do it, and then you’ll both regret it!” According to Wreck, Balin had serenaded Annie at one point. Neither of them ever spoke of it, and Wreck’s only explanation was a haunted look in her eyes. Maybe we’d stop asking Balin to sing….

“By tha way, our shifts about done! Grim said come on up.” Balin said as he grabbed the bags we’d filled.

Sam arched his back with a *crick* as I collected all our tools. “Ach, sweet freedom, thank Solen! I’m getting too old ta be down these tunnels!”

“Maybe if you stopped playin yer pipes at midnight, they’d stop throwin ya in prison!” I joked.

“Nah, they’re just jealous o’ my panache. Everyone knows city hall is full of crotchety bureaucrats and stuffed up nobles.”

“Shush! You don’t want to add insultin a noble to yer charges Sam!” Balin said with panic in his eyes.

“Ach, who cares Balin? Those fops are gonna get what’s comin to them one day. You mark my words!”

The three of us marched up the dive tunnel while Balin and Sam bickered about royalty. It was good natured, if a bit pointed. Balin’s a bit of a royalist and Sam thinks they’re unnecessary with the city council and administration. He believes that your average dwarf deserve better representation. I really want to teach him the wonders of a parliamentary democracy, but I only really have the strength in me for one revolution right now. Viva Beerevolution!

We arrived up at the surface and met up with a few other miners. We all said our ‘hello’s, did a headcount to ensure everyone was still kicking, and then the whole grumble made their way over to the mess hall. It was bacon and egg sandwiches for lunch today, and I was ravenous. I don’t know how Bran manages to make so many different kinds of delicious sandwich, but I tip my hat to the master!

As we walked, Wreck fell in alongside Sam, Balin, and myself.

“How was yer day? Did Sam break you all with his singin’ yet?” She asked.

“Oy!” Sam cried in a tone of faux hurt. The rest of us laughed.

“Actually, Pete’s been teachin’ him some songs. Both of them won’t shaddup!” Said Balin. There were some general notes of commiseration from the other miners as we made out way into the mess hall. There were two kegs of beer, one of which had a little picture of a lemon affixed to it. I noticed that nearly a quarter of the dwarves chose to drink from the Radler barrel. There was also a marked reduction in angry remarks or mutterings. I think the mining crew has grown a bit more used to the idea.

Over the past half a year I had put a lot of thought into why there was such a big reaction to the Radler. The first problem is that beer is a major part of dwarven tradition. Dwarves are very clan and ancestor oriented, which means they consider heirlooms sacred. Add some fairly complex racial tensions to the mix and it means that beer is something of a racial institution, like maple syrup or hockey. Altering beer was like altering the constitution, or conflating football with football.

The second problem was that I wasn’t actually a brewer! Becoming a registered Brewer was as close as a dwarf could get to a Title without actually receiving one. They are as respected as an Engineer or Doctor would be back on earth without the God mumbo jumbo added to the mix. Some families have been Brewers for literally thousands of years! Amateurs just DON’T mess with beer here, like you wouldn’t even dream of trying to play at real Doctor. That’s why there’s no craft brewers.

Of course, on the other end of the spectrum you have dwarves like Wreck. I noticed she had poured herself a tankard of the regular beer. As we sat down at the table together, I caught her attention.

“You don’t like the Radler, Wreck?”

“I told ya Pete. I don’t really like lemons.”

“Ya like regular beer, eh?” Sam asked. He had a tankard full of Radler and had sworn by it since the first time he drank it. Leave it to a dwarf like Sam to go all in on something new.

“Nah, it’s just beer. It tastes better than water but it’s only a drink. I don’t see why everyone is so worked up.” Wreck replied. At the other end of the table a couple of dwarves stared at her incredulously and shifted slightly down the bench.

Right, there was a third camp of dwarves that simply didn’t care. They were a minority, but some of the Dwarves didn’t have any real attachment to beer in the first place. Weirdos. We ate the rest of our food interspersed with chats about the daily dive and the ‘trough incident’. Then Balin caught everyone’s attention and pulled us all in conspiratorially.

“’Ave you noticed that Bran seems off?” He asked in a hushed tone. We all turned to look over at the kitchen window. Bran was handing out sandwiches, but he did indeed look a bit…. Off. His regular good-natured smile was gone and he barely acknowledged the ‘hello’s and ‘thankee’s he was getting.

“I’ll go check. I want to talk to him anyway.” I picked up my now empty plate and made my way over. “Hey Bran? Why the raisin face?”

“Oh Pete.” Bran turned to look at me. “I’m just a bit worried. Opal’s sick.”

Eh?