The Ale of Hradec

The widespread plague had finally receded by 1066, its devastating reach encompassing all of Moravia, with even villages in Silesia and Bohemia suffering from infection.

It was not until the early spring of 1067 that the plague truly began its final retreat.

Those who survived either possessed natural antibodies or were fortunate enough to receive timely and effective medical treatment.

Across the land, church cemeteries were routinely exhumed, fresh corpses interred, and ossuaries filled with an ever-growing accumulation of bleached bones.

Monasteries and churches, surprisingly, seemed the least affected by the epidemic.

Though the monks within the Opava domain were known to marry, indulge in drink, and host lively gatherings, they remained, in their own way, devout servants of God.

Their relatively disciplined diets and the sustenance provided by the monastery’s private lands offered them a measure of protection.

Consequently, in the wake of the plague, many common folk, heeding the teachings of Saint Benedict, renounced worldly temptations forever, becoming glorious novices and embarking on a prolonged apprenticeship within the monastery walls.

Simir was one such novice, clad in the white robes of an apprentice monk.

He had joined Hradec Monastery two years prior, a somewhat bewildered boy who had simply followed his father’s command, drifting into monastic life amidst the chanting of hymns.

Yet, monastic life proved rather different from what he had imagined, a veritable purgatory for some, like Gregor.

For Simir, however, it was neither good nor bad, largely because his own uncle was an elder of the monastery, and the chief inspector often turned a blind eye to his minor transgressions.

Beyond the monastery’s stringent daily schedule, Simir found little else to truly vex him, save for one particular place…

The Scriptorium!

Rather than painstakingly copying Latin texts, Simir much preferred to engage in idle chatter with the secular brothers or eavesdrop outside the priests’ rooms.

Alas, his last attempt at spying had been discovered the previous month, earning him a stern warning from his uncle: if he persisted, his head would be shaved clean.

‘Oh, heavens above,’ he mused, ‘to shave the head of such a handsome young man! How many maidens would be left heartbroken, I wonder…’

Lost in his lamentations, a single tear escaped the corner of the handsome youth’s eye, falling onto the parchment on his writing desk.

The Latin script he had so diligently copied now blurred and warped beneath the damp stain.

“Psst! Simir! Psst!” Lucius, who was copying texts alongside him, cast a sidelong glance and hissed a hushed warning.

Simir, still lost in the illusory torments conjured by the devil, remained utterly oblivious to the tall figure now standing directly behind him.

“Thwack!” A wooden stick landed heavily on the young man’s head.

Simir cried out in pain, clutching his head as he crouched down. “Ow!”

Another heavy blow struck him.

Finally jolted back to reality, he gritted his teeth, enduring the searing pain without uttering a single sound.

Sithis withdrew the stick, casting a look of exasperated disappointment upon his nephew.

Lowering his voice, he spoke with palpable frustration: “Simir! How many times must I tell you to study Latin diligently? It’s been two years! Gregor, who joined with you, can already translate Greek, while you—you can’t even master rhetoric!”

The handsome youth, having recovered from the blows, retorted defiantly: “What does it matter? As long as *someone* can write it, that’s enough…”

“You!”

Sithis was truly beside himself with anger, and the fact that this was his own nephew only fueled his fury further.

Yet Simir’s air of utter indifference, like a dead pig unafraid of boiling water, left Sithis utterly helpless.

What could he do? After all, this was his only… *cough!*

“Sigh… never mind. Come with me.” The middle-aged man sighed, setting the stick aside.

****

Simir, hands clasped over his chest, followed his uncle with small, reverent steps.

Unable to suppress his curiosity, he asked, “Uncle, where are we going?”

“Hush! Silence!” Sithis admonished his nephew for his lack of discipline.

The young man could only lower his head and follow quietly.

They traversed corridors, passed through gardens, and exited the monastery through a small side door.

Their journey concluded at the cemetery behind the church.

“Right, start digging!” Sithis tossed a wooden-handled shovel to the young man, then stepped back.

Simir gazed at his pristine monastic robes, holding the shovel in his hands with an air of immobility.

Such a task, he felt, was certainly not befitting a monk’s apprentice.

“What are you standing there for? Dig!”

Under his uncle’s repeated urging, Simir reluctantly pressed the shovel’s blade into the soil, beginning to excavate the grave beneath the wooden cross.

He then suppressed his discomfort, opened the coffin, and deposited the skeletal remains into the ossuary.

Simir toiled away the entire afternoon, finally clearing all the graves.

When his uncle Sithis returned, he found Simir’s white robes stained with so much mud and grime that he looked as though he had automatically been promoted to priest.

Sithis surveyed Simir’s handiwork, a deep satisfaction settling in his heart.

Perhaps, he mused, his nephew was not entirely incorrigible; perhaps he simply lacked an aptitude for Latin.

His uncle clapped him on the shoulder. “It’s done. Come, let’s go for a drink. Someone else will take care of the rest.”

Simir, surprised, asked, “Go out? Are we allowed to leave?”

His uncle waved a dismissive hand. “Just for a little while; we’ll still be back tonight. If you truly don’t want to, then you can always go back to copying Latin!”

“Willingly! Most willingly!” Simir exclaimed, eager to escape.

He had no desire to return to Latin lessons, nor to behold his own squirming, worm-like characters.

The monastery and church, enclosed by low stone walls, nestled in a corner of Hradec’s city fortifications.

After departing, they had to traverse an entire street before the tavern came into view.

The melting winter snow had left the roads riddled with muddy potholes, and even with spring’s arrival, the chill lingered in the air, making it the perfect weather for a mug of ale.

As for why they didn’t drink the monastery’s own brew, it was simply because the monastic ale was utterly dreadful.

The uncle and nephew entered a tavern frequently patronized by priests.

Inside, the establishment was notably quiet, a stark contrast to its usual bustling vibrancy, indicating that the plague had dealt a significant blow to its trade.

The innkeeper, a burly Christian man, greeted them warmly. “God be praised! Two esteemed guests grace my humble establishment today. Savante, quickly, bring ale for Elder Sithis and his apprentice!”

Sithis clasped his hands together. “And also with you!”

“And also with you!”

After Simir and his uncle responded in unison, they settled at a small table by the window.

The young barkeep presented two wooden tankards, their surfaces topped with a pristine layer of white foam.

Upon seeing the barkeep deliver the ale, Simir gently swirled his mug, then blew away the surface foam.

The liquid beneath was crystal clear, shimmering like amber.

“A fine brew, it seems,” his uncle Sithis declared, raising his mug. “To God!”

Simir raised his own mug. “To God!”

He watched the foam in his cup, then took a tentative sip.

A bitter tang exploded on his tongue, swiftly followed by a peculiar, refreshing aroma that permeated his nasal passages from his nasopharynx.

In that instant, he was utterly captivated by the subtly bitter ale.

He felt as if he had transformed into Alexander the Great, gazing upon the boundless ocean he had so long sought.

Beneath its surging waves lay a supreme elixir, imbued with a hint of bitterness yet radiating a delicate fragrance.

Surely, only a second coming of Jesus could usher such a divine beverage into existence!

Simir clearly saw the astonishment mirrored in his uncle’s eyes; both were utterly dumbfounded by the extraordinary ale.

The brawny man spread his lips, revealing a flash of white teeth. “This ale is truly special. By the looks of you two, it has certainly cast its spell.”

His uncle, too stunned to speak for a long moment, then tipped his head back and drained the mug, slamming the empty vessel onto the table with a resounding thud.

“Burp~~~” He let out a hearty burp, clearly overcome with delight.

Then, he sprang to his feet in excitement, raising his hands towards the heavens and exclaiming, “Jesus walks among us! This is truly Jesus come again!”

His gaze, now blazing with fervor, fixed on the brawny innkeeper. “Quick! Bring us all you have!”

To his dismay, the brawny man merely pursed his lips and spread his hands helplessly. “None left.”

“None left?!” The uncle and nephew exclaimed in unison, their voices laced with incredulity.

Both men stared, wide-eyed and utterly dumbfounded.

“Indeed. The two mugs you just enjoyed were the last of it. But don’t worry, those two are on the house.”

Sithis slammed both hands onto the tavern counter, his eyes burning with an intense passion as he looked at the innkeeper. “Money is no object! Just tell me where I can acquire more of this ale!”

The innkeeper merely shrugged. “I don’t know. A young lady left it here, saying it was a complimentary sample for guests.

Perhaps next time she visits, I might inquire about purchasing a barrel or two.”

“A lady? Who?” Sithis found it utterly inconceivable that such a magnificent brew could be the work of a woman.

The brawny man merely pursed his lips towards the center of Hradec. “Oh, the mayor’s daughter.

In fact, just a few days ago, they were giving it away for free in the market square.

Anyone who queued could get a drink; some even waited an entire day, and the roadsides were littered with drunken men.”

Sithis slammed his fist onto the counter in exasperation. “How could I not have known!”

The brawny man was sorely tempted to retort, ‘Who do you think you are, Jesus? Do you expect to know everything?’

Instead, he simply shrugged once more. “Perhaps you were busy listening to the Lord’s teachings.

But didn’t God, in the end, still deliver this fine ale right to your lips?”

With a flash of his white teeth, the brawny innkeeper then offered, “Or perhaps you’d care to try my own homebrew? Its flavor is certainly not inferior to this Hradec Ale.”

Simir suddenly interjected, “You called that ale ‘Hradec Ale’?”

“Mhm,” the innkeeper hummed. “I believe naming it after the city is most fitting.

Perhaps in a few months, merchants drawn by its fame will stop at my establishment, and who knows, the tavern’s business might just flourish.”

The brawny innkeeper pushed forward two mugs of his own brew and then set down two plates of smoked fish. “That will be half a silver coin.”

Having toiled all afternoon, Simir was famished.

He snatched up a piece of smoked fish and began to devour it, encountering a pungent saltiness that assailed his nostrils.

The ale, too, proved quite bland.

However, Simir’s mind was not on the drink; his thoughts were already drifting towards flirtatious conversations with pretty maidens.

While Simir might not have cared, his uncle Sithis was not so easily appeased.

“This ale of yours is absolutely dreadful,” Sithis declared. “It doesn’t hold a candle to that other brew, not even a single hair.”

His uncle clearly disapproved of the crude, poorly crafted drink.

Its foam was sparse, the liquid murky and unclear, with even some impurities floating within.

A shallow sip revealed only the sourness of fermented wine, a world apart from the bitter ale they had just tasted.

After experiencing the Hradec Ale, no other drink could satisfy his palate; even his treasured spiced wine paled in comparison.

“No! I must get more of this ale, or I’ll go mad!”

His uncle sprang to his feet, crashing through the tavern door and exiting the establishment.

“Simir, come with me! We’re going to see the mayor!”

“Huh? But I haven’t finished eating…”

Simir looked up, but his uncle was nowhere to be seen within the tavern.

He could only drop the smoked fish he held and prepare to follow his uncle, but the brawny innkeeper suddenly seized him by the collar, lifting him up and pressing his head onto the bar counter.

“Trying to dine and dash, lad?” The brawny man glared menacingly at him.

Caught off guard and pinned to the table, Simir’s legs trembled from the sudden turn of events. “N-no… no!”

“Then why aren’t you paying!”

A knife plunged into the bar top, barely an inch from Simir’s nose.

He shrieked, “I’ll pay! I’ll pay! Just let me go first!”

Upon hearing this, the brawny man released him.

“Don’t rush, I’m just looking.”

Simir’s pockets were as empty as his face was clean.

After feigning a search through his clothes for a moment, he bolted, disappearing in the blink of an eye and leaving behind only a still-swinging wooden door.

“Damn it all!”

The brawny innkeeper made a move to pursue him, but then remembered that the one who owed him was a monastery elder, and that he had only intended to extort the timid apprentice.

He immediately gave up the chase.

“Never mind, it won’t be too late to ask them next time they visit…”