The Alewife: The Alewife, #1

By CERRITH BRANWEN

The Alewife brews libations for men,
Fate cometh soon, though know she not when,
Guide, foe, and friend, though know she not who,
All from the depths of her bubbling brew.

• Language: English
• Publisher: CERRITH BRANWEN
• Release date: Jun 30, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201134655

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Let’s sing of a maiden, her da called her ‘K’,

When the lass came of age, she was bundled away,

Betrothed to a groom too many years older,

Spring’s blossom was sentenced to climes all the colder.

The man was not tender, nor patient, nor good,

His mind was pure stone, his heart—made of wood,

Yet, K was compliant, and gentle, and soft,

With her candles—misguided—held blindly aloft.

The man gave her little, but scolding and bruising,

And made her do things simply not of her choosing,

A lone thing imparted—his family’s fine craft:

The skillful creation of an agreeable draught.

She came to brew ale with practiced finesse,

With the allure of damsels on the verge of undress,

The tang of wild honey and the vigor of dew,

Possessed the libations forged beneath the great yew.

With the luring of patrons, young K did excel,

And business soon flourished exceedingly well,

Yet, performing one’s duty can make for a stale life,

And there was more meant for K, than just the role of an alewife.

CHAPTER ONE

She would be dead soon ; the world in that moment told her so. It was in the distant cry of ravens, the buzzing of midsummer insects, and the rustle of the great yew tree’s leaves. The warmth of the day had surrendered to the cool of the afternoon under lengthening shadows and the portents came with it. As the North Forest’s floor grew darker, hungry things began to stir; the growing activity only just perceptible from the broad yard of the house. She loved living with her back to the village and the woods barely a furlong away. A place to find mushrooms, wildflowers, and, sometimes, solace. There was mystery there also: undisclosed knowledge and old wisdom that permeated every bough, every leaf, twig, and acorn. And she longed for it more than anything else.

Yet, on this day, there was a fell scent on the air—the stink of ruin and blight—and Kellett the alewife pondered it as she arranged her dried herbs and inspected the malted grain mash in her cauldron. Her ma would have read the signs with far more acuity, were she still above-ground. ‘You can’t listen for the words of the world, Mo Leanbh,’ she would have said. ‘You must let them creep up on you.’

Kellett’s hands ached and the flesh was rubbed raw in places; it was the friction of the scrubbing brush she used to clean down the yard’s tables and benches, as well as the salt needed to banish the filth of her regulars. Yet, she felt satisfied that she was a good, hardworking woman, a decent person, and a deferential bride. She obeyed and respected her husband and, on that point, none could fault her—try as they might. She lived in a talkative village with myriad eyes undeterred by illusions of privacy, and ears that seemed to hear through walls. It was her ma’s village; it would never be her own.

With no regard for Kellett’s reverie, a black shape sprang out of thin air, landing on the wooden table to her side, and she chided the beast for the scare. The creature mewled and wound itself into a tight bundle of pitch-black fur.

You’re a wee bastard, Dagda! cried Kellett, crossing her arms over her chest. It’s a good thing I like bastards, she said before looking around conspiratorially. But just the furry ones. The cat’s eyes closed and it's purring soon vibrated through the small glass bottles now pushed to the edge of the table. I’m very grateful you didn’t smash my ingredients. I’m in no mood for mischief. Kellett scratched the cat under his pulsating chin. Shall we run off into the forest? Disappear and become ghosts? She stared out into the wilderness, her voice trailing off until barely audible. Disappear forever.

She picked up the animal and draped him around her neck like a scarf; he liked being close to her and promptly fell asleep. Dagda’s body heat was comforting, and Kellett stroked his tail, wrapping her fingers around it loosely and letting them run its length. But it wasn’t to last. The cat sprang to life, pushing off of his mistress’s shoulders with aid of his powerful hind legs and flopping to the ground.

An ungainly human figure loomed into Kellett’s periphery. Fate’s agent, it seemed, was a broad yet pudgy man, in a dark coat, whose thick, blackened fingers could scarcely release the catch on the front gate quickly enough. He looked at least a head and shoulders taller than Kellett, with a neck nearly as thick as his giant skull, and arms like wooden beams. His beady eyes sat beneath a sloping brow and he scanned the grounds as he approached, like a dog about to steal food.

Kellett dipped a hand into the front pocket of her apron, feeling the silkiness of the jet-black feather she had picked up earlier in the morning. She thought it might bring her good fortune; she almost smiled at Lady Luck’s ill humor as she continued her work, trying to focus on nothing but the sloshing brew. She briefly considered running for the cottage, but abandoned the idea when her feet proved unwilling. Chickens clucked, the old sow grunted, and Dagda, the traitorous black cat, fled for the safety of the granary, leaving only tufts of fur on the breeze.

Kellett Brewer? That’s your name, isn’t it? said the man, standing uncomfortably close.

Mr. Brewer is off in search of good kindling. He’ll be back directly, answered Kellett.

Not here for him.

You’re too early for ale. This lot here’s for two days hence and the barrels over yonder won’t be tapped until evening.

The man exhaled sourness into Kellett’s nose and mouth as he leaned in and sniffed at a stray lock of red hair peeking out from her wimple. Not here for ale neither.

Kellett nearly dropped the paddle. Then what, pray, are you here for?

My purse is full.

That’s a fine thing. You can empty it later... along with every other thirsty gent.

You don’t even recognize me? Many’s the time when I’ve tasted your ale. Sat just over there at that old wooden table... drinking quietly. Paying you good coin for it too. Composing poetry that you will never know. Yet nary a kind word escapes your lips for old Godwin. Not a stray glance or an enquiry after my health. Godwin stared at Kellett unblinkingly, running a hand down over his ample belly to the crotch of his shit-brown breeches. "I’m just a dirty Blacksmith’s Striker—no one of note. Oh, but when I get home, I think on you. After I’ve spent an eve drinking you in, I lie in bed and I imagine things. Do you want to know what I see?

No, I do not.

In the vast stronghold of my mind, I strip you naked. Explore the hills and ravines of you with my hands and mouth. My fingers and prick invading you. And you yield to me like the finest forged steel. I imagine you under me, sweating and heaving and... screaming.

Kellett steadied herself. You’re quite the verbal craftsman. That’s very vivid. She locked eyes with the man. Look, I’m busy serving each and every patron who comes to visit after evenfall, Godwin. I apologize if you find me less than indulgent whilst I’m run off my feet. She swallowed with some difficulty. As for your nocturnal entertainments, I’ll thank you to keep those private.

Godwin chuckled. I hear you’re a conjurer. A wyrd-woman. A witch.

I conjure only good ale, cheese, and bread. Nothing more than that.

That’s what they all say to avoid the scaffold. Saw your black cat on my way in.

Kellett paused and locked eyes with her accuser. You mean to tell me you’re basing your wicked assumption on my possession of a mouse catcher? You’re drawing a very long bow indeed.

Also, you look like one. Red hair. Green eyes. I’ll bet you bear the mark of the Beast somewhere on that supple little body.

And you look like a bloody lunatic! Kellett’s pulse quickened. Should we lock you away in the Fool’s Tower?

Godwin grinned, displaying a paltry collection of poorly kept teeth. He wiped greasy hair from his eyes and looked the alewife up and down, lingering on the areas of peak interest.

"I can tell by the smell of