Happy Birthday, Daw! Beer, alchemy, the Kalevala...May the year be succesful and inspired.

Sing My Worth Immortal.                        

“I do not think that comes from the cellars?”  

“Not from the cellars, but from that empty storeroom that opens to the herbs garden…It is over the cellars, and cool enough…”  

“How convenient. Let us join them!”   

The three ladies flew lightly across the dark corridor, their skirts billowing behind them, towards the mighty racket that  filtered through the dark oaken door.  

A pretty girl and an honest one.

A cold beer and another one!  

A roar of laughter –and the clattering of tableware against wood- followed the clear, silvery voice that had sung the offending verses. The ladies stopped before the door and exchanged outraged, conspiring glances.  

“Drinking songs!”  

“And that was my tableware!”  

“Was that Glorfindel?” the youngest asked in curiosity, trying unsuccessfully to hold back an amused laughter.  

“We will see,” the one who led the attack decided. With a regal gesture of her hand she opened  the massive door and stood on the threshold, flanked by her daughter and her granddaughter, the three wearing their most intimidating faces.  

It took the merrymakers a  short moment to take notice of the newcomers, and the eager, cheerful voices died down slowly, until only Glorfindel remained, his back to the door, banging his goblet on the table enthusiastically and encouraging his friends to follow him.  

“A pretty girl and an honest one… Come, it is not that difficult!”  

“Are you teaching tavern songs to my grandsons, Glorfindel?”  

The cold voice finally sipped into the singer, who stopped in mid-song and turned slowly to meet the deathly threat that loomed from the door. 

“Ah..oh… I…”  

“Oh, look, you are back!” Celeborn came bravely into his succour, trying to deflect the first blow and give his friend time to react.  

“Of course, my lord! After all we went for a short ride, not to storm an enemy’s stronghold! It is good to see that you have not missed us much in the meantime,” Galadriel answered with deceptive smoothness, entering the room in her firm stride, which was at the same time graceful and imposing, as the step of doom. “You did not answer my simple question, Glorfindel…”  

“And hitting my tableware?”  

The balrog-slayer seemed speechless, casting guilty glances from one lady to the other.  

“We are actually using wooden pitchers, my lady,”  Elrond jumped bravely into the fray, expecting to appease his wife. Their sons picked up the hint quickly.  

“Master Grór says that wood is best for appreciating the deepest tangs and flavours of the beer, Naneth,” Elladan informed her conversationally, wielding a double handled, hogshead-looking pitcher.  

“Master Grór?” The diversionary tactic seemed to work for a brief moment, as the ladies’ attention was diverted from the main suspect. 

“He brought them from his visit to Erebor,” Elrohir added, waving another pitcher while successfully managing  to increase the confusion.   

“Let me see one!” Not wholly sure where her loyalties lay, Arwen seemed ready to join the reveller’s side, hurrying to her brother’s side and examining his pitcher with curious eyes. “They are wonderful!”  

“Who is Master Grór?” Celebrían seemed at the end of her legendary patience as she cast an inquisitive glance around, a menacing frown adorning her beautiful face. 

“Master Grór son of Bór, my lady, at your service and that of your distinguished family….Umpff..”  No one dared let escape the briefest of chuckles at the hoarse voice that seemed to come from under the table in the gap between Celeborn and Erestor. 

“Better now!” The stout figure had managed to stand precariously on his chair and bowed courteously again, inadvertently placing his long beard inside his pitcher. “Master Grór son of Bor at…” 

“I see, I see,” Celebrían waved her hand dismissively. Relieved from bowing a second time, the dwarf raised his head quickly and splattered the table –and Celeborn’s tunic- in foam. “I was not aware that you were back, Master Grór…It has been what, half a sun-round? since you came here on your way to Erebor…did your business go as you expected?” she continued with a charming smile. 

“And even better, one would say,” Galadriel frowned as well, entering the room and inspecting the marks on the cask resting on the wooden rack. “Why, this is no common hopped beer, but gruit ale, if I am not mistaken…straight from the Dwarf king’s cellars, I suspect?”  

The dwarf blushed in pleasure at her praise and bowed in awe before the Lady, again dipping the tip of his beard in his tankard. 

“It is from his very private brew indeed, sent with his kind regards to the House of Lord Elrond in return for the hospitality shown to his distant cousin from Belegost,” the dwarf proclaimed proudly, pointing at himself to dispel the blank looks that showed fleetingly on the eyes of his audience. “Business went well, my lady, thank you for asking” he added, then, turning his head quickly towards Celebrían and this time spattering beer across Erestor’s imperturbable face.  

“So you can understand now, Lady Galadriel, our urgency in opening the cask and drinking to the King’s health, knowing how short-lived gruit ale is, above all in this summer heat,” the counsellor explained, wiping his face without changing his stern expression.  

“Of course, that was the reason!” Glorfindel seemed to have recovered the use of speech. “And we are not beating your cups or anything, Celebrían, you see…”  

“And that song?" Galadriel would not let her prey escape.  

“It was…cultural exchange?” the golden haired warrior offered in a flash of inspiration. Emboldened by the lack of opposition he stood his ground bravely. “We were sharing knowledge about beer and ale…”  

Unexpectedly, the dwarf came into the rescue.  

“Indeed. As you may know, my Lady, since you seem to be well-versed in the secret art of ale brewing, strange as it might seem, although Elves are strange creatures indeed…”  

“Are they, now?” Galadriel asked in a mellow voice that did not fool those around her. She came to take seat beside her grandsons who, as one, dragged their chairs backwards hurriedly to make room for their formidable grandmother.  

“I suppose that means we can join in and taste your cousin’s ale?” Celebrían asked. Without awaiting answer, she nodded to Arwen, who went to a side cupboard and took three smooth wooden pitchers and began pouring the amber liquid in them and passing it on to her mother and grandmother. As if on second thoughts, she then poured one more for herself and took seat beside the defeated balrog-slayer, patting his hand comfortingly.  

“Go on, Master Grór,” Celebrían encouraged him taking seat beside Elrond and bending over to get a better sight of their guest. “You were going to tell us about secret ale brewing knowledge?”  

Sensing that there was something amiss, although unable to place the problem, the dwarf cast a worried look at the tense, forced smiles on the, until now, relaxed faces of the elf lords. Shaking his head –and showering a minor rain that did not reach farther than the table, he took in a deep breath and continued with his explanation.  

“I was saying, my lady, that the lady here..”  

“The Lady Galadriel," Celeborn supplied obsequiously, hoping against hope that the name would strike a chord in the dwarf’s mind. 

“That the Lady Galadriel here seemed well-versed in the art of ale brewing, something very strange, since it is a secret that Durin himself learnt secretly from Mahal and shared only with the Fathers of the Dwarves. From them it passed down onto their sons for generations… I can only guess that somehow the secret leaked out to Elven ears.. In times of ancient friendship that have as well existed between our races,” he rushed to explain at the sudden frowns that were turned to him. “And that the Elves, being strange creatures, shared this knowledge with their wives…although it is a well-known fact that elves do not brew ale, preferring wine above all other drink…” He cast a brief look at Arwen, who had spluttered her ale at the dwarf’s last words, and smiled weakly. “Too strong, young lady?”  

Before she could answer, Elrond and Celeborn launched into a spirited explanation of the virtues of wine over ale, quickly followed by the rest, in a worthy attempt at dispelling the threat. The ladies just smiled beatifically, sipping at their tankards and exchanging knowing glances, bidding their time.  

“Interesting, these cultural differences, don’t you agree, Galadriel?” Glorfindel asked her gleefully, surrendering to the suicidal streak that not even his long sojourn in Mandos Halls had managed to appease, much to his companions’ despair.  

“Indeed. And I suppose that you have your own songs, as well, Master Grór?”  

“Of course my lady! Ale is said to give the warrior his valour, and the axe its edge, and the heart its strength and the bard his voice and inspiration…”  

“And the women their patience?” murmured Celebrían, rolling her eyes to the ceiling.  

“No, not that I have heard,” the dwarf admitted thoughtfully. “We have a few secret songs that only the master brewers are allowed to repeat to conjure the most secret processes of fermentation, but there are others that are well known, the type Lord Glorfindel was singing to us…”  

“But we were already finished, Galadriel,” Elrond hurried to reassure her. “How was your ride?” 

“Not as interesting as this cultural exchange, Elrond,” she answered most graciously. “And this ale is indeed…tasty. I do feel compelled to return your generosity with a bit of our borrowed beer knowledge, Master Grór, if you would hear it from a lady’s lips, and an Elven one at that…”  

“Galadriel..” Celeborn’s voice had a mildly warning tone, but she cast him an innocent look.  

“What, my lord! It is not as if I am revealing secrets of the realm or…”  

“I would love to hear your tale, my lady,” the dwarf nodded courteously, and noticing that he was still standing on his chair, he chose to sit down on the table, an expression of polite interest shinning on his reddened face.  

“I could tell you the most widespread version,” Galadriel began with a mischievous expression on her face. “The one which recounts how Yavanna wanted to prepare the most delightful drink to celebrate the wedding of her friend Nessa and Tulkas, the last comer of the powerful Vala… I could tell you how she worked with dedication and secrecy, and how she recruited the aid of her peers to manage the most powerful fermentation, and the most exquisite flavour…” Her voice flowed sweet and charming, almost as if she had returned in thought and song to the blessed lands of her youth.  

“…How Varda sent water from the eternal snows of Taniquetil, and Estë sent Melian’s nightingales to gather the sweetest gruit that has ever been gathered, with pine needles and sweet cinnamon, and thyme and heather flowers, and yarrow and other sweet herbs the likes of which have never flavoured Middle-earth springs…Uinen stole the crown of mighty surf and Vána danced after the wild bears to find their most secret, delicately scented honeycombs, deep in the tallest, umbrageous, most fragrant forests in the rolling hills beyond Valmar… 

Even the birds in the herbs garden stilled their voices as the Lady of the Galadhrim, the most beautiful of the House of Finwë, recalled the beauties of Valinor.  

“I could sing the songs of enchantment and the words of praise that she wove over her mash and wort, how she summoned Nienna’s compassion, and Vána’s joy, and Estë’s dreams, and Varda’s light, and Vairë’s foresight, and her own power over the growing things, and how she added a few drops of dew from Laurelin to complete the most delicious, powerful gifted and heart-warming draught that was ever brewed this side of the waters or the other…  

“The wedding lasted for a month or two, and the ale lasted while the merriment went on, and many songs where sung, and blessings conceded, and joy spread over the land of Valinor that even over poured and crossed the waters, as the powerful lords of the Valar drank the nectar and were sweetly intoxicated with all the gifts and blessings from their own wives….Ever since then brewing is a female job, and one  made with love and devotion by the elven women, who take after the teachings of the Giver with the same care they put in the making of the way bread,” she finished in her beautiful voice.  

A deep silence followed, her last words still floating on the air like an enchantment, calling to mind voices and lands and faces beautiful beyond measure and never glimpsed by any of those present…except for Glorfindel and herself. Moved, Celeborn grabbed his wife’s slender hand into his and pressed it lovingly while Elrond and Celebrían only had eyes for each other… All of a sudden, the dwarf’s harsh rasp as he cleared his throat broke through the last threads of the elven dream that still lingered in the air.  

“Ah…a beautiful tale, my lady, if I may say so… but, a tale anyway, and good for elves, if they indeed brew…But beer making is a business for male dwarves, as Lord Mahal taught us in the dawn of the dwarven kin…”  

“You may be right, Master Grór,” Galadriel acquiesced with her mellow, feline smile. She picked up her tankard and downed a long swig. “Not bad,” she admitted, placing the pitcher on the table with a dull thud and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “So good, indeed, that I feel compelled to tell you the true story of beer making, Master Grór,” she offered in a businesslike tone. “Would you hear it?” 

With a worried glance at the looks of despair around him, and a bit unnerved by the sudden change in the until then meek and fragile looking elven woman, the dwarf sketched a weak smile.  

“If you insist…”  

“I do. The tale goes as follows,” she explained, disregarding her husband and son-in-law’s groans. “Aulë had been secreted in his forge for a long time, busy with his many projects, and not bothering to get out for food or drink or even sleep, for such was the strength of the Valar in their youth that they could engage in exhausting labour and forget all other claims of their incarnate bodies… But Yavanna was bored. And angered, since he seemed to jump from one enterprise to another, never finishing anything, while the remains of his extraordinary ideas piled up in their back yard.  

‘One day, she saw three large barrels being dragged outside the forge by her husband’s assistants, and went to ask them if, by chance, her lord was finished with anything.  

‘At least with this,’ one of the Maiar in their service groaned. “I think he will now stop trying to make gold for a while."

"He has not managed to make gold out of anything, though he has tried,” another chuckled.  

"This has a strange smell…what is in there?"  

"In there? The two Maiar looked at each other and laughed. ‘What not, my lady! Mainly barley and water, boiled, and a few drops of dew from Laurelin… and some other herbs that I do not remember…and perhaps a handful of gold shavings…And it might be that the cats added their share as well, by the stench… Lord Aulë has been trying to forge gold out of anything that is bright and yellow enough, but apparently we must now let this rest for a while and concentrate our efforts in other matters…" 

‘As the two apprentices disappeared inside the forge, Yavanna shook her head. Although he had never complained, she knew that her husband suffered for not having been able to produce such a clear, standing proof of his talents as her two famed and beloved trees, and thus exhausted himself in many different, unfinished projects that ranged from portable mountains to making gold out of corn or barley, and other, more secret works that had involved, she knew, even an intervention, with a warning, from the Almighty himself. Briefly, she shot a glance at the small shed where he kept the results of his efforts, doomed to sleep until the awakening of the Children of Iluvatar, and shook her head again, still shivering at what that bold attempt might have cost her inventive husband.  

‘Knowing that all her lord’s woes tended to disappear after a good meal, she decided to prepare his favourite cakes. So she went to pick up a bowl of honey from her most special honeycombs, at the other side of the yard, only to find that the great vat in which he kept her prized honey was almost empty. Listening to the angry bees, she soon learnt of a cheeky thief who had been very busy that same morning, and who apparently was not ended with his business. After a brief conversation, Yavanna knew all the details, and the escape route through the roofs taken by the offender. With a soft word and a wave of her hand she fixed the problem, picked up what honey she could scrap form an almost empty vat and went indoors to prepare the midday meal and the cakes wihile keeping an ear to what happened in the yard.  

‘Not much later, she heard the surprised yelp, the sound of something heavy slipping helplessly, the curse –Darkness everlasting and woe to…- and the mighty splash. She counted to five and then exited the kitchen drying her hands on her apron and composing and innocent, surprised expression on her face. “What is this racket?” she asked as she entered the yard. “Oh! Eonwë! I did not expect you,” she threw merrily at the golden haired, spluttering Maia who had just emerged from one of Aüle’s barrels and tried fruitlessly to fish out an empty clay jar. “Did you lose anything?”  

‘“Eonwë! I did not hear you come” Intrigued by the din, Aulë had as well surfaced from the depths of his forge, and now blinked like an owl at the brightness of Laurelin’s full light. 

‘“I...” Anger and embarrassment contended for dominion over the Herald’s features, and he finally pointed out to the roofs. 

‘“Oh! I had a carpet of moss growing there,” Yavanna apologized, pretending repentance. “I noticed that my honey was disappearing quickly and I feared that one of Oromë´s beasts was stealing it...”  

‘“It was my fault,” the Herald rushed to acknowledge. “I shouldn’t have tried the roofs…”  

‘Casting puzzled looks form his wife to the king’s herald, who dripped a sticky, strangely smelling liquid, Aulë shrugged and invited his friend to lunch, with his wife’s hearty approval. 

‘Nothing happened for a few days, but then one night, as the Lord and the Lady sipped their drinks on the porch enjoying Telperion’s waxing, a low rumble that soon grew to a mighty pop! caught them by surprise.  

Used to the strange explosions that took place routinely in Aulë’s workshop, and her worries quieted by the fact that he was by her side, Yavanna followed her startled husband at a slower, more composed pace to their back yard.  

“Hammer and anvil!” Aulë stood by a corner, hands on hips, gaping at the unexpected tide that flooded their yard. “What on Ea is this?”  

The barrel that had briefly contained the mighty herald and his stolen jar of honey was now overflowing, foam rising higher and higher and pouring over the rim and in great waves across the yard.  

'“My children!” It took lord Aulë a moment to notice that the flood was filtering under the door to the shed where his creatures rested, and he dashed forth to save them..  

“Galadriel…” Celeborn’s tone was again warning, but she turned a meek face to her.

 “It is the truth, my lord! He loves them like his own children…” She then turned again to the dwarf, who listened with an expression of horrified fascination on his bearded face, and smiled at him.

‘For two days the seven wooden boxes containing the Fathers of the Dwarves lay in Yavanna’s yard, drying in the bright light of Laurelin. Meanwhile, having discovered that the liquid had a strangely appealing taste, the lord and the lady sat there as well, drinking what was left and sharing their memories of the Music, and solving the deepest mysteries of Arda with the clear sightedness granted by beer.

‘And they never again spoke between them about the incident…or its consequences.

‘But in all secrecy, Yavanna essayed the mix combining in different measures what ingredients she could remember, and found out that it tasted even better if allowed to rest for a while. She shared the tale with her peers, so they would try as well, each in her own manner. Soon the new discovery was praised by Manwë, and honoured by Oromë, and tried by Ulmo…and frowned upon by the Fëanturi, who later took to imbibing it in secrecy in a hidden garden beyond the walls of Mandos, while they pretended to be consulting matters of the Music, much to the ladies´ amusement. The secret was later passed on to the elven women, and this is why among Elves and Powers, beer is always brewed by females,  and it seldom tastes the same from one household to another and from one season to another…

‘As for the Fathers of the Dwarves, soaked in beer as they were, it did not cause them ay damage, but instead they awoke with a deep thirst and an inner knowledge of the exact process of brewing…and that is the reason why among you, brewing is a business for males, and beer is always a serious matter,” she finished brightly. “To Aulë’s health and Yavanna’s cunning!" she toasted gleefully, lifting her tankard and emptying it, echoed by Celebrían and Arwen.

An uncomfortable silence followed, until the dwarf dared speak.

“Hmm…I think I liked the other version better,” he managed in a cautious, courteous voice, raising his goblet quickly and drinking to avoid the ladies’ expectant glances. “But of course it is a legend, I suppose I cannot feel offended…” he continued, almost as if convincing himself.

“You better believe her, Master Grór,” Celeborn sighed in a slightly exasperated voice. “After all, she was around when those things happened…”

Time froze in the cool storeroom at the enormous provocation, and even the clueless dwarf moved quickly to get himself sufficiently apart from Celeborn while the elven lady shot daggers at her disrespectful husband.

“Now, at the count of three…” Glorfindel’s restarted again with undisguised merriment. “One, two, three… Here's to a long life and a merry one, a quick death and an easy one…”

The clatter of pitchers and the merry voices did not manage to muffle Celeborn’s calls for mercy as he failed to run away fast enough and fell under his wife’s onslaught.  

“A pretty girl and an honest one, a cold beer and another one!“

“I am not sure that I want to know how wine was first brewed,” Elladan observed gleefully in a not too discreet whisper to his twin. 

“Unless the recipe includes the soaking of a female Maiar, my brother!” Elrohir suggested with a silly chuckle. “Another round anyone?” 

The End.

A/N

Mahal is the name the dwarves give to Aulë, their maker.

The idea comes very loosely from the Kalevala, in which the mythical origins of beer take longer to explain than the mythical origins of Man, and that must mean something, I suppose. The title comes straight form the same place.

And the silly song comes from my poor memory. I know I learnt it long ago in its appropriate context…and it was the best I could come up with.