The Fountain of Eden: A Myth of Birth, Death, and Beer

By Dan H Kind

It's not so bad getting yourself blown up eight times a day for the slack-jawed tourists, at least to Jack Whiskey's thinking. He's lived in Eden, Virginia, his whole life, and colonial reenactment is all he knows. Being the town "alchemist" is what he does. Well, that and drink beer at the Olde Eden Taphouse...

But Jack's dreamy life is upended when he discovers that fictional characters and beings straight out of world mythology roam the streets of Eden. Plus, there's a gang of American Indian Tricksters running around distributing a beer brewed with the Water of Life to every bar and corner store within city limits. The gods are never happy when people start attaining Eternal Life like it's every nobody's business (it always ends badly, usually for the people). Soon enough, the Cosmic Dancer will take notice and two-step existence right on out of existence to pave the way for a new, er, existence.

But the residents of Eden aren't going down without a brawl. And with the (oftentimes questionable) help of mind-wielding Buddhist monks, mythological beings, and characters straight out of the classics, Jack embarks on a romp across mythical worlds—and must descend to the ancient Greek Underworld—to prevent the stomping out of the universe.

And along the way discovers that he may have more in common with those Tricksters than he ever imagined possible.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dan H Kind
• Release date: Nov 13, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466125551

Dan H Kind

Dan H. Kind writes irreverent fantasy fiction and the occasional horror. He lives in the colonial capital of America with his lovely wife, beautiful daughters, a beagle with allergy issues, and a crazy dachshund puppy. He appreciates well-cooked tofu, but don't send him any.

Book preview

Chapter 1

The Tale of the Sacred Pipe

Sitting Lotus lit up a joint outside the back door of the New Shaolin Monastery kitchens. He took a long, relaxing drag and exhaled, marijuana smoke wreathing his shaved head like an ethereal crown of thorns. It was his night to take out the recycling, and because of the nightly cleanup taking place inside the dining hall and kitchens, he figured no one would notice him taking a little more time than necessary to do the job.

Every night Master Mirbodi made sure this ritualistic after dinner scrub-down was completed. If the kitchens and dining hall were not cleansed up to his lofty standards, or if the novices were not putting their full minds into the scrubbing of tables and washing of dishes, the evening's slackers would wake up the next morning with nasty welts on various parts of their persons. Sometimes, even if you didn’t slack off, and swept and mopped the floor mindfully, you would still wake up with a splitting headache and a bone-bruise on your skull.

Such was the life of a Zen novice, however. You never knew when a master’s staff would connect with your unprotected shoulders or head, so it was in all novices' best interests to stay aware of where the masters were at all times.

Especially old Master Mirbodi, who seemed to grow fonder and fonder of smacking poor young novices upside the head with each passing year. When Sitting Lotus had first arrived at New Shaolin a decade ago, Master Mirbodi would only thwack! him when he drifted off during zazen sessions, but nowadays the tyrannical overlord of novices and undisputed master of New Shao—

Thwack!

The joint went flying from his mouth and landed in front of the recycling bin, smoking and smoldering a fiery red in the darkness.

Uh-oh. He was busted for sure.

He turned around to face the music, a lame excuse of a story already inventing itself within his mind, but there was no one there. He turned back to the recycling bin to pick up his jay—and there was Master Mirbodi, marijuana cigarette clenched between two palsied fingers!

The Zen master stared down at the burning joint, dreaded staff gripped tight in his other gnarled fist. He was brown-skinned and looked like an antiquated Gandhi clone. His head, in the longstanding fashion of Buddhist monks, was shaved down to the skin. The origin of Master Mirbodi was a question in constant whispered debate among the novices. Underneath all the wrinkles, skin-folds, skin-flaps, and wiry old-man hair, it was impossible to determine where he might be from—and, as went with the territory, the Zen Master never talked of the past.

You smoke, yes, but you no smoke mindfully, said the relic of a monk, holding the smoking jay to an inquisitive right eye. Will you never break the skin born of mother, novice? Will you never become unborn?

Say what, now? Master, I—

Thwack!

You ever hear story of Sioux and sacred pipe? said Master Mirbodi.

Sitting Lotus rubbed his throbbing skull. No. What does that have to do with Zen?

Thwack!

All things arise from Mind, and Mind is Zen, Zen is Mind! Master Mirbodi peered at his wayward charge with a single eyebrow raised. At rate you going, you be novice for rest of this life, at least. And then maybe you reincarnate as tree so you have long time—at least few hundred years—to think about it. Maybe you need more time, and after that you come back as mountain. At least then you have few hundred million years to think about it. After that . . . comet. Roam galaxies until cosmos explode.

I’m sorry, Master, but I—

Thwack!

You no talk now. I tell you story of sacred pipe.

Master Mirbodi crooked his staff in his elbow and leaned on it. Wobbling a bit, Sitting Lotus plopped down on an overturned recycling bin. Was it bad when he saw three blurry Master Mirbodis standing there, punishing staffs in hands, instead of the usual one?

Long ago, began the Zen master, Lakota tribe roam free among plains hunting buffalo. One day two hunters come across unearthly beautiful woman dressed in white buckskin. One hunter move in and reach out to grab woman, and angry cloud with crackling lightning descend from sky. When cloud lift and awed hunter look at brother tribesman who enslaved to senses, nothing left but bones, swarming with snakes. White Buffalo Woman tell remaining tribesman she carry gift and important message from Great Spirit. She follow him to camp and enter sacred tipi with mysterious bundle in hand, raise it for all tribe to see, and within mysterious bundle none other than—

Sacred pipe? interrupted Sitting Lotus.

Thwack!

Within mysterious bundle sacred pipe, continued Master Mirbodi. Long story squat, White Buffalo Woman teach Lakota that when smoking sacred pipe, they smoking all elements of life—inhaling universe, exhaling universe. All things interdependent, novice. All elements interconnected.

Master Mirbodi looked down at the burning joint in his hand. As though performing a sacred ritual, he offered it to the west, north, east, south, earthwards, and heavenwards, then brought the smoking cylinder to his lips and inhaled until it had blazed away to nothingness.

Master Mirbodi wiped his ashy fingers on his patchwork robe and peered slyly at the novice. When you next smoke, novice, remember this story of sacred pipe, and smoke mindfully.

B-but Master M-mirbodi, how d-did you know what I was d-doing out here?

Master Mirbodi's blue eyes opened so wide that his eyelids seemed to disappear, as if he was watching all of Creation flash by in an instant and did not want to miss an iota of action. Mind always present. You just no see it. He chuckled, his eyelids seeped back onto his face from whatever weird cranial dimension they had visited, and Sitting Lotus wondered whether he had really seen that or was concussed. Now get back inside and mop kitchen floor. Mindfully.

Chapter 2

The Alchemist

As the descending sun met the treetops of nearby Tranquil Forest Park, Jack Whiskey pumped regular unleaded into his dilapidated Honda hatchback. The year was 2011, but nobody passing by looked twice at a man dressed in stockings, doublet, and powdered wig pumping gas into a busted old Accord. The population of Eden was eight-thousand-something, but would swell to city-like proportions during the summer months, when the annual onslaught of tourists descended on the town in the manner of plundering, pillaging marauders.

And all this to take in a bit of history.

Just what this phrase meant—and exactly why people chose to visit the sweltering, mosquito-infested hell that was summertime anywhere within sixty miles of Virginia’s Great Dismal Swamp—was quite beyond Jack, Eden's one and only reenactor alchemist. He had been told that it had something to do with enjoying living history, and stimulating the mind outside the classroom, and having an engaging, hands-on learning experience, but he still didn’t get it.

He paid for his gas with the last of his cash, walked to his ramshackle rust-bucket, and drove to his one-bedroom townhome in the Village of Eden Apartments. On the way, he decided to forgo changing out of his archaic work uniform and walk the few blocks over to his favorite watering hole to beg (he was far from too proud) for a drink. Sir Arthur would be there, sipping Scotch like the gentleman he was and smoking like the burning building he was not, and was always good to buy a poor old friend a beer.

Jack parked the car, jumped out, and sauntered out into the moonlight now hovering in a nimbus over Eden.

The first thing Jack noticed when he emerged into the smoke-wreathed Olde Eden Taphouse was the new bartender. She was a pure, unblemished goddess with raven hair, alabaster skin, ice-blue eyes, and, as many a wise man of Eden had noted, an ass that just won't quit. This Saturday evening she wore a black Olde Eden Brewery-logo emblazoned tank-top and white khaki shorts. She cast a glorious light throughout the Land of the Dead that was the Taphouse, lighting the shadowy recesses behind the bar with a luminosity far too brilliant for this dive.

The Taphouse was a wooden shack attached to the hip of the much larger Olde Eden Brewery. A line of retired tapheads of Olde Eden beers no longer in production lined the olden walls; there were hundreds of them, and the display was consistently added to as each seasonal brew was retired. Worn mahogany tables and chairs clustered about the homely pub, leaving an uneven aisle through which it was sometimes possible to navigate over to the bar.

How goes the alchemy, Jack? came a familiar chipper voice. A lost art, in my opinion. It’s a wonder more don’t practice it these days. Arthur Boyle, beekeeper, had resided in Eden, Virginia, U.S. of A., for decades now, but his robust British accent had not receded in the slightest. Everybody called him Sir Arthur because he was English and a faultless gentleman. He could not be seen through a haze of curling blue pipe smoke.

"Art, you’ll be the first to know when I discover the Philosopher’s Stone. And when the accolades come raining down on me and I become the richest man in the world, why, I'll let you stand next to me—nay, kneel before me—and bask in the radiance of my presence. Perhaps I'll allow you the privilege of feeding me grapes and anointing my feet with expensive oil. Yes. Perhaps. But until then—Jack deposited himself on the barstool next to the beekeeper—can you spot me a beer or six?"

The London-esque fog parted like an ephemeral sea, and Sir Arthur's smiling face appeared, his hawkish nose leading the charge through the miasma. He had dark hair flecked with gray and an intense gaze that penetrated your soul and read your innermost thoughts and fears.

But of course, my good man! But instead of that beer, you should broaden your Bacchic horizons with a finger of this Scotch whisky. 'Tis a far superior product to beer, and I assure you that it complies fully with the standards set forth in the Scotch whisky order of 1990 (UK).

No, thanks. Beer me.

Sir Arthur gave Jack a critical eye, then shrugged. You don’t know what you’re missing, my morose friend. But it's your decision, of course.

"No, you don't know what you're missing. Olde Eden beer is the best beer on the eastern seaboard, maybe in the entire country. Jack ordered a pint of Olde Eden Sticky-Icky Stout from the hot new bartender, who smiled at him a little bit, he thought. Or was he delusional? After all, what interest could a goddess like that have in an alchemist" with a dead-end job and a wreck of an automobile? Why, none whatsoever, of course. If she had smiled, she was just being polite, like she was polite to all customers, working those tips.

Wishing he hadn’t thought about it so hard, Jack drained half the pint of Sticky-Icky in a single quaff and—

Hey, wait a second.

He turned to the beekeeper, whose eyes seemed to be delving into the workings of his mind like two tiny psychological X-ray machines. How did you know I was down, Art?

Sir Arthur took a deep breath and began to speak in a plodding tone, as might a professor giving a lecture to a dimwitted class. Why, it's really quite simple, if you think about it. The bags under your eyes have grown increasingly darker over the last few days, and you have said little on those evenings we have partaken of one another's respective delightful presences. You haven't washed your eighteenth-century work uniform there in—let's see here—five days, and you have worn said uniform up to the Taphouse every night this week, whereas in times past you would often freshen up at least a touch before a 'night on the town.' Oh, and the scraggly, unkempt growth that has sprouted like some gruesome weed upon your face has not been trimmed in ten days.

After a silent moment, Jack said, Damn, Art. You got it all right on.

Sir Arthur's eyes went guarded. He took a long pull of his pipe, exhaled, and said through the cloud once again fortifying itself about his person: Lucky guess, perhaps. But might I ask what ails you?

Jack sighed. Recently I just don't feel myself, is all. Like I don't belong. Like something vital's missing in my life, but I couldn't tell you what it might be.

Sir Arthur smiled, but not at Jack's reply. He had just observed his good friend Mirbodi Madhaha enter the Taphouse—a rare occurrence, indeed.

Master! Master Mirbodi! called the beekeeper over the growing conversational din.

The Head Monk in Charge of New Shaolin Monastery caught sight of the Englishman and an ear-splitting smile spread across his face. The venerable monk glided over to the bar, effortlessly dodging tables and wobbly patrons, his staff tap-tap-tapping on the hardwood floor, his legs not appearing to move underneath his person, hidden somewhere beneath his voluminous patchwork robes.

My friend! said Master Mirbodi. "I no see you long time. Where you be, huh? Separating queen bee only—ha ha—so much work, you know."

The monk clasped his hands together and bowed to Sir Arthur—who stood up and did likewise—then sat down on the barstool next to Jack. The hot new bartender walked up and smiled a dazzling smile, all luscious lips and perfect white teeth, and Master Mirbodi ordered a hot green tea.

This oddball Taphouse order perplexed the hot new bartender for a moment, but she soon recovered with: No problem, sir. Hot green tea, coming right up.

When the tea arrived, Master Mirbodi rested his staff on the bar and took a satisfied sip. Then he peered at Jack. Hey, you alchemist. Any luck with Elixir of Life thing yet?

Jack Whiskey smiled at the question (which he got all the damned time). "No, no luck yet, Master. But you must understand, it's all about the effect of the thing. I get dressed up in colonial garb and smear a little paint on my uniform while the tourists pile into the laboratory for the hourly spectacle. I do a little intro bit about alchemists in colonial America, blah blah blah. I add ingredients to the cauldron, it bubbles and gurgles and spews green smoke. I cackle and limp around the room, pulling at my hair and dragging my 'bum' leg and acting like a crazy asshole, muttering things like 'Finally, the Elixir of Life is mine!' and 'Now I shall live forever, like the gods!' The show ends in a grandiose fake explosion, and I sidle out the hidden back door in the hubbub, blasted to oblivion for my Eternal Life-seeking ways. Your one and only Eden alchemist dies a horrible death by chemical fire eight times during a single shift of work. That's forty deaths a week. For the last ten years. More, when I work Saturdays. I'm not even gonna try and add it all up. He took a sip of beer and grinned at the Zen master. But when I do discover the Elixir of Life, you’ll be the first to know."

Master Mirbodi laughed. Excellent! You let Art here know first, though. I over one hundred years old, and you see me? In perfect shape. Never feel better. You wanna be like this and you got eighty-five dollars each month, you can enroll in kung-fu class. Happen every Monday evening at New Shaolin Dojo. But I no go easy on you because you drinking buddy!

Under much pressure from the Zen master and the beekeeper, Jack agreed to terms—sixty bucks on Monday (payday!) and green tea for the remainder of the evening (with the tea on Sir Arthur’s tab)—and swore up, down, and around to attend the next meeting of the Future Kung-fu Masters of America. Maybe learning some kung-fu would help him drop the feeling of dissociation recently plaguing him. He wondered whether Master Mirbodi instructed the class or was just some kind of overseer. A one hundred year old man, no matter what kind of shape he was in, couldn’t really teach a weekly kung-fu class, could he?

He brushed away this last thought and ordered up a pint of Olde Eden Helter Swelter Summer Ale. As he did so, his eyes met the entrancing eyes of the hot new bartender, and because of this brief but encouraging glance and the beer now easily flowing down his throat, he forgot about kung-fu for the rest of the evening.

Well, that gonna do it for me, Art, said Master Mirbodi, and finished off green tea number nineteen. I see you at Market tomorrow.

Will do. As always, Master, it has been a pleasure.

The Zen master floated from his barstool and bowed to the beekeeper. He then grabbed his staff, thanked the hot new bartender, tipped her generously, and reminded Jack to attend kung-fu class on Monday evening. And then Master Mirbodi disappeared into the mist, on his way back to New Shaolin Monastery to wreak mindful havoc among the many cringing novices therein.

Whoa, I zoned out for a minute there, said Jack, smiling at the hot new bartender. Aura of the Zen master, I guess. So what's your name?

My name is Stephone.

Stephanie, huh? A true classic. Oldie but a goodie, I'd say. I'm Jack Whiskey.

Actually, my name is Stephone.

Er, okay. Stephanie, right?

"Sorry, wrong again. It's Stephone."

Uh . . . am I not hearing you right? Stephanie?

The bartender sighed, but then rallied with a pretty smile. It’s spelled with an o - n - e instead of an a - n - i - e. The difference in pronunciation is subtle, but it is noticeable if you’re listening for it.

Okay, I’ve got it now. Stephone. It’s quite a unique name.

Sure is. But my friends call me Steph. You can call me Steph, if you like.

Well, nice to meet you, Stephone. Er, Steph, that is.

"Nice to meet you, Jack Whiskey. A customer a few barstools down waved in their direction. And now I’ve got to get back to work. But I’ll talk to you later, all right?"

Sure, sure. I’ll be here for a while, so maybe—

But Stephone had turned away to pour a pint of Olde Eden Bacchic Brown Ale and was no longer listening to the blabbering alchemist.

Jack decided he was going to get Steph's number tonight, wait two or three days, then give her a call. He turned to Sir Arthur, who was yet again surveying him up and down.

What is it, man? You know, you've got some real penetrating eyes there, Art. Bore straight into a man's brain like a cerebral corkscrew, they do.

Sir Arthur smiled in a fatherly manner. Why don’t you just ask her out now? There’s no sense in getting her number and calling her after a couple of days. After all, you’ll just see her up here at the Taphouse tomorrow night, or the night after that, or the night after that, or the night after that.

You know, I hadn't thought about that.

Yes, and from what I have deduced from but a few seconds of clear-headed observation . . . let's just say that if you did ask her out, she would say ‘yes.' So why not just go for it?

Yeah, all right. I’ll catch her before we leave.

"Oh. Right. When you’re drunk as a skunk and can’t speak straight, managed Sir Arthur between uncharacteristic giggles. Good thinking, that."

Fine, then. I’ll do it now. That specific sort of courage brought on only by inebriation arose within Jack's heart and spread, following the path laid out beforehand by the alcohol, through his being. He took a deep breath, beckoned as if in need of a refill, and asked Stephone—not Stephanie, mind you—out to dinner on Tuesday night.

And just as Sir Arthur had predicted, she said yes.

Chapter 3

A Scurrying, a Scampering, a Flapping of Wings

Deep in the reaches of Tranquil Forest Park there was a scurrying, a scampering, a flapping of wings—and a group of shadowy figures converged by a bubbling spring nestled within a picturesque glade. They huddled together like some monstrous football team, whispering and glancing over at the spring. Each of them carried at least two empty water jugs in their paws, hands, claws, extremities, protrusions. Smoke coiled into the sky.

"Would you please take off those magical fire-leggings, you decrepit old man? Not only are you going to set the forest ablaze, you’re leaving charred footprints everywhere!"

A low-lying collection of wiry hair and wrinkled skin mottled with burn scars reached down and removed from its person a pair of rainbow-colored leggings, the brilliant hues shifting and swirling underneath the fabric. "I always forget to take 'em off. As you said, I am Old Man. Finally, after all these years, the senility must be kicking in. I got those leggings from Sun himself, you know."

Caw, caw, caw, we’re all old, you idiot, cackled a winged, feathered figure perched on a branch above. "I, Raven, stole the light from that hoarding old man at the beginning of Time, and with it I created the sun, the moon, and the stars. So I guess you ran into Sun sometime after I created him."

Not so impressive, bird-brain, rumbled a hulking figure with long floppy ears and a twitching pink nose. "Back in the Dawn-time I tried to capture my own shadow, who kept following me around all the time, in a snare . . . [twitch, twitch] . . . and caught your buddy Sun instead!"

Who gives a bloody carcass, Rabbit, growled a lanky silhouette with mangy gray fur and bloodshot eyes. When it was I, Coyote, who first gave fire to mankind? Coyote snarled. But nowadays that jackass Prometheus gets all the credit for it!

Nothing but cheap parlor tricks, the whole lot of it! hissed a bulbous figure hanging upside-down from a glistening strand of webbing. I, Iktome, once tricked a giant, man-eating monster that was going to devour me into revealing its weaknesses, and because of me this beast dropped dead of terror and I saved humanity!

Well, I created the Earth, human beings, and all the animals, too!

You did not! I did that!

Neither of you morons did that, because I did that!

Liar!

You’re the liar!

You’re all liars, every one of you!

The party broke into bickering and arguing, and everybody started yelling and gesticulating with various bits of themselves. But before the fists and magic spells started flying around the woods, Rabbit reached down into a pink fanny-pack around his waist and threw a small gray pebble into the midst of the madness. There followed an explosion that singed every last one of the arguers, who had been pushing, name-calling, and screaming obscenities at the top of their lungs.

The bickering slowed to a crawl, and then to a stop.

"We could argue about these things for all of . . . [twitch, twitch] . . . eternity, but this is not the place. You never know who, or what, might pop up around here."

Sobered, the figures peered about the glade, which remained empty of beings. Nearby, the spring bubbled away with fervor, as if fueled by some underground well of fizz.

He's right, said Coyote. Let’s just fill up these jugs and get out of here. Thank the Great Spirit this is the last night we have to do this grunt work.

The meeting of the minds adjourned, and each member walked to the edge of the effervescent pool. In turn, they filled their empty jugs to the brim with the water of the spring. Then there was a scurrying, a scampering, a flapping of wings—and the only sounds were the flutters and flitters of nocturnal nature, and the liquid whisper of the gurgling spring.

Chapter 4

The Adventures of a Patchrobed Novice

Bright and early Sunday morning, Sitting Lotus dug through garbage. His skinny white legs dangled out of the Dumpster behind the local Italian restaurant, Vittorio's Pizza and Pasta Palazzo. While delving through globs of rotten tomato sauce and piles of rock-hard garlic bread, he dozed off and tumbled into the Dumpster. The metal lid clanged shut above his head.

He awoke thirty minutes later, covered head to sandals in kitchen grease, gelatinous pasta clogging his mouth and up his nostrils. After recollecting his senses, he opened the Dumpster's lid and crawled out into the crisp morning sunlight.

Brushing soggy rigatoni from his robe, he pondered why it was that he, out of hundreds of novice monks at New Shaolin Monastery, always got stuck with the Dumpsters along Restaurant Row. He figured that Master Mirbodi, who assigned the novices their Dumpster diving districts, had it in for him. All you found in the restaurant Dumpsters were rotten foodstuffs and rats that stared at you as if they were rodent royalty and you a huge bandit hunting in their stinking royal forest.

The haul was always better on the east side of town, over by the College of Bill & Gary, the only university in Eden. You name it, the novices had found it in the B&G Dumpsters: furniture, electronics, designer clothing, books and magazines, kitchen appliances, sex toys (hopefully unused, but probably not). The pickings were also pretty nice on the south-side, especially at Eden Crossing, which acted as a commercialized bumper between the historic downtown area and