I sprinted up the last hilly knoll and before me spread the imposing castle in its deep moat setting, a glittering spectacle that I never failed to admire, and that I admired even now, when my life was in peril, and seconds were precious.
The bird perched suddenly on a protruding stick, uttered a few thrilling chirps, and was gone, a last blue flash into the dense sin-concealing chaos. I did not see it again, and I did not expect to. Its work was done. Strong in the faith of the wilderness, I believed and always believed that my furry friend would lead me to safe grounds.
I crouched a few moments on a ledge and just stared at the majesty of the castle. Suds was nowhere to be seen. I found a quiet section of refuge, grown thickly with ivory, and I followed it at least a football field long, until the gargoyles towered above me, dark and intimidating, and the castle came up against me like a wall. I could go no farther. I had reached my destination. I had successfully scaled Mount Schadenfreude.
Before I could bask in my accomplishment, a slight sound came from the undergrowth, and I stayed still. It appeared to be the cry of a wild boar, calling to its mate, but my attention was attracted by an odd inflection in it, a strain that seemed familiar. I listened with the utmost attention, and when it came a second time, I was so sure that it was Suds that my heart almost bungee-jumped out of my chest.
It was naive of me to think that he would arrive in full daylight, exposed to every hostile eye. It was his natural course to approach in the dark and send an incognito signal that only I would know. I imitated the call, a soft, low note, but one that traveled far, and soon the answer came. No more was needed. The circle was complete. Suds was hiding somewhere close and I knew that he was lingering by the overskirts of the castle, waiting.
I took a long breath of intense relief and delight. One less cautious would have immediately repeated the call, but I knew that Suds had found me and I did not want to run the risk of tipping off the terrorists where we were. Meanwhile, I listened attentively for any quiet sign, but many long minutes passed before I heard a faint whistle. I never doubted for an instant that it was my drinking buddy and again my heart felt that triumphant feeling. Surely no man had ever had a more loyal or braver comrade! If I had vicious enemies I also had a faithful and, most likely inebriated, friend who more than offset them.
I saw a shadow, a deeper dark in the darkness, and I whimpered the low bellow of the wild boar. In an instant came the answer, and then the shadow, turning, glided toward me. I leaned out from the tree to the last inch, and called in a penetrating whisper:
"Suds! Over here!"
In the dusk his iconic figure loomed up, more than ever a tower of strength, and his slender but muscular form seemed to be made of gleaming bronze. Had I needed any infusion of courage and determination his appearance alone would have gave it to me.
"There he is!" said Suds, in a whimsical tone, obviously drunk.
"What happened to you?" I asked. "You disappeared like Whitey Bulger."
"I made a beeline down an open path and when I turned around you were nowhere to be found. So I drank the rest of the growler and passed out on a huge stump for a few hours."
"I am being chased by Islamic terrorists with suitcases containing homemade chemical bombs. I have not seen them, but I know from the venom and persistence of the pursuit that they were after me. I eluded them by coming down the cliff and hiding among the sand dunes."
"I’m here now, brotha," said Suds. "There’s nothing to fear but beer itself, baby!"
He spoke in his usual Boston bravado and in a light playful tone, but I knew the depth of his feelings. The friendship of the brewmaster and the high school teacher was held by hooks of steel like that of Matt Damon and Ben Affleck.
"I heard your hearty wild boar call," said Suds. "It wasn’t very loud, but never was a sound more welcoming and inviting."
"It is merely the custom of my people, forced upon us by need, and I but follow."
"It doesn’t alter my astonishment, kingmaker. You, my friend, are the ultimate adventurer and I have to say — you passed the test."
We awkwardly hugged and headed toward the entrance of the monk’s castle.
The doorbell sounded with a loud chime. Brother Goric, head of the brewery, answered, dressed in the Cistercian habit of white robe with a black, hooded outer robe, gray socks and leather sandals. His dark hair was cropped short. He wore a plain digital watch with a black band.
The interior of the monastery was circled by sandstone walls like a medieval fortress (it was founded in the twelfth century and rebuilt in the nineteen-twenties), but its brewery was as high-tech as they come. From the grain bins to the onion-domed copper kettles to the fermentation tanks, the operation was largely gravity-driven and even a seasoned professional like Suds was extremely impressed.
It was the biggest brewing day of the year, but the abbey was still quiet and peaceful. Brother Goric led the way past the aluminum tanks and the bottling room, where the infamous Brother Thomas was addressing a handful of hardcore travelers.
He was a wizardly figure with a long white beard and large glasses that seem to draw his eyes together at the inner corners. He had a quiet but penetrating voice, a sharp wit, and a near total lack of pretension.
“As monks, the rule is pray and work. These are the two pillars of a Trappist life,” Brother Thomas explained. “If all we did was pray we would lose our mind. There has to be a break between work and monastic life. So we find our balance in brewing."
Brother Thomas, 45, retreated to the castle eight years ago. Before that, he was a captain in the Belgian police force. “We are separated from the world, but we encounter the world in ourselves,” he said. “You do not become a saint simply by entering a monastery. Like anything of value, you have to earn it and it takes time."
The historical King Jehu was an idolater ruler in what is now central Israel. When he was buried, around 700 B.C., his tomb was filled with more than a hundred and fifty drinking vessels — parting toasts to the dead king. By the time he was excavated, in 1948, the liquid inside had evaporated. But Brother Thomas, more than fifty years later, was able to analyze some residue from a wooden ladle and identify its chemical content. By matching the compounds to those found in the foods and spices of ancient Jerusalem, Thomas gradually pieced together the liquid’s main ingredients: laurel leaf, fennel, barley, autumn crocus, and a chunky substance that was probably matzo ball soup.
"A top-notch beer may be judged with only one sip but it’s better to be thoroughly sure," Thomas said, as he poured us a stein full of his famous Do You Feel Lucky Monk Ale. We sat at a spacious oak table in his office in the brewery, surrounded by daunting bookshelves and meticulous lab equipment: a furnace, a microscale, a spectrometer, a liquid chromatograph. Here and there, pottery sculptures, arrowheads, and other artifacts were wrapped in plastic or aluminum foil and stuffed in file drawers or cardboard cases. "Let us drink to the replenishment of our strength," he said, raising his beefy glass of grappa to the sky. "And to you, trusted high school teacher: May you and your bride-to-be grow old on one pillow."
Thomas had recently published his findings on King Jehu and was preparing to make a modern-day replica of the beverage when The New Yorker called.
Jehu Juice, as it was later called, has a brilliant rose-gold color — every batch contains about a bathtub full of wild rosemary — and a thick, honeyed, spicy flavor: a cross between beer, milk, and Jolt. It is the world’s most unorthodox drink. "To have a sip is to taste heaven," Brother Thomas said. "I’ll pledge you a mile to the bottom."
He filled our growlers up to the brim and we talked about the cosmic carpet of the future unrolling before us, of the certainty that we would encounter alien intelligences some day, of the unimaginable frontiers open to each of us. He told us that a passion for politics was a strong indicator that one’s personal reservoir of introspection and creativity was dry — and that without struggle, there is no real victory.
He believed that Obama recaptured the true essence of socialism: in the old days, if you were broke but respected, you wouldn’t starve. On the other side of the coin, if you were rich and hated, no sum could buy you security and peace. By measuring the thing that money really represented — your personal capital with your spouse, friends and neighbors — you more accurately gauged your success.
And then he lead us down a subtle, carefully baited trail that led to my admission that while, yes, we might someday encounter alien species with wild and fabulous lifestyles, that right now, there was a slightly depressing homogeneity to the world.
It was a strange ending to a voyage that had commenced in a most auspicious manner. The charm of new acquaintances and improvised amusements served to make the time pass agreeably. We enjoyed the pleasant sensation of being separated from the world, living, as it were, upon a royal castle, and consequently obliged to be sociable with each other.
I dwelled on how much originality and spontaneity radiated from a couple of random dudes who, two weeks ago, did not even know each other, and who were, for several days, condemned to lead a life of extreme intimacy, jointly defying the anger of the weather, the terrible onslaught of terrorists, the anxiety of approaching nuptials, and the agonizing monotony of the terrain. Such a life becomes a sort of strange existence, with its hiccups and its grandeurs, its serendipity and its diversity — and that is why, perhaps, we embark upon escapism voyages with mingled feelings of pleasure and fear.
But, during our descent down the mountain, a new sensation had been added to the life of the transatlantic traveler. A little floating island of adventure was now attached to the world from which it was once quite free. A bond united us, even in the very heart of the steep gorges of Mount Schadenfreude.
During the final day of our hegira, we felt that we were being followed, escorted, preceded even, by that distant voice, which, from time to time, whispered to one of us a few magical words from the receding world.
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