Hero’s Brew
A Short Story
BY
T.W. Colvin
* * * * *
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, duplicated, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, duplicated, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Hero’s Brew (A Short Story)
Copyright © September 2015 T.W. Colvin
All Rights Reserved
Published by Boundless Fiction
Cover Design by T.W. Colvin
Cover Photos Courtesy of morguefile.com
This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this novel are fictitious and are products of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual events, or locales or persons, living or dead are entirely coincidental.
Also by T.W. Colvin:
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Other Short Works
Unknown Handbook
Sixty Seconds
Serials
Dark Princess Episode 1
Dark Princess Episode 2
Dark Princess Episode 3
Dark Princess Episode 4
Dark Princess Episode 5
Dark Princess Episode 6
Poetry
Letters to Langston
Poetically Random
Words for the Journey
Tears from Heaven
Table of Contents
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ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
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About the Author
ONE
The sleepy little town of Wilson Parish had fallen victim to an awakening of the worst kind, with seemingly no relief in sight. It was the beginning of summer and the crime rate in the small town was at an all-time high, making the once family oriented community a hub for organized crime. No matter what they tried, the towns’ people just couldn’t seem to rescue their home from the clutches of the criminals who, in just a matter of months, outnumbered them.
The crime wave spread as quickly and intensely as the June heat across the tiny parish. A big change from the year before, when the big news in town was Anna Pearl Foley’s smashed bakery window, attributed to an all-out family brawl, according to the town busy-bodies. Of course the truth was that the window was accidentally smashed when Anna Pearl lost her grip on a batter filled ladle during a spat with her sister-in-law, Pauline, over whose mother was responsible for the recipe that won the bake off at the Tri-county Fair earlier in the year. But now, those tiny bits of excitement had been replaced by purse snatchings on Main Street in broad daylight and the murder of Fendleman F. McCray, F.F. to the townsfolk.
TWO
Everyone around town knew that F.F. locked up his store at 5 o’clock on the dot, with the exception of Thursdays when he closed at 4:30. That usually gave him time to make it to the bank and Bingo early enough to get a good seat, but on one particularly smoldering Thursday, F.F. made it to 1st National just minutes after a group of hoodlums decided to add bank robbery to the growing crime spree list.
As luck would have it, F.F. turned the corner just after the thieves piled into their getaway car and peeled off. But his luck ran out when he stepped into the bank and was shot by Webster Linkinson, the already frightened security guard. Sadly, F.F. didn’t make it to Bingo that Thursday.
The town didn’t fault Webster, especially with all that was going on in the area. After all, in the 55 years he’d been the security guard for the bank, he’d never even fired his gun. And he certainly wouldn’t have that day if it hadn’t been for the fleeing criminals.
They tried everything they could think of including hiring more police officers, combining the Baptist and Catholic prayer meetings, and forming neighborhood watch groups. All proving futile, especially the neighborhood watch, since the number of people willing to patrol after dark got lower and lower each week. But all that changed the day that Freeman McCray found a solution to all their problems.
THREE
While F.F.’s eldest grandson, Freeman, was cleaning out his house, he came across an antique wooden flute case with the word Champion and the name Dutillet’ etched in its side. Dutillet’ was his great-great grandmothers’ family name, and it was no secret that they dabbled in the dark arts.
He snapped the small box open to find a tightly rolled scroll inside it. Pieces of the paper crumbled as he slowly uncoiled it to show the words Hero’s Brew. His face went from confusion to joy as he read the other words that were revealed. This relic of his great-great-grand-mère’s read like a recipe, but it was far from being a guide to cooking a down home dinner. It was a “how to” for conjuring a hero.
FOUR
Who needed a hero more than Wilson’s Parrish, Freeman rationalized, but he was still unsure. Then the piercing reminder of his loss gave him just the push he needed to commit to the idea. He sprang into action, pacing back and forth, his finger pressed against his lips as he calculated how he could get the items on the list.
“I need help,” he said, his eyes squinted as he strained to pull together viable candidates for his team.
It took a few days to convince everyone to give the Hero’s Brew a try. But the people were desperate to rid the town of evil and Freeman made a compelling argument that it would be good for the town.
So three days after he stumbled across the family trinket, Freeman again stood in the attic, now with his handpicked team of six at his side. They didn’t know if this would work or be a silly waste of time, but they all had a simple desire to reclaim their homes.
It was quite a production. Freeman spread out a map on the floor and Mayor Gamble marked Wilsons Parrish on the map with 6 smooth stones.
Anna Pearl worked with a makeshift cauldron that was really a boiler she was balancing on a small hotplate in the corner. She filled it with water and waited for it to come to a full boil before dropping in 1 serpent’s tongue as she was instructed.
Honey Palmer was up next. As the town bee keeper she was the natural choice to provide 1 living queen bee to the mix. While she was the single choice to supply the ingredient, she had not anticipated it would be so hard to follow through with dropping her beloved “Sweet Bee” in the pot of hot water. She stood staring into the steam coming off the pot with her ingredient buzzing around in a glass jar she was clutching close to her chest.
“Honey, it has to be done,” Anna Pearl, the keeper of the cauldron, encouraged.
It was a gentle nudge, but effective. Honey closed her eyes, took a deep breath and dumped the unsuspecting bee turned sacrifice into the pot.
Freeman thought about enlisting the help of Reverend Peters and Father McCarthy to provide the next ingredients, but he realized that the likelihood of either of them participating in casting a spell to save the town was a miracle he couldn’t count on.
So he asked Patty Jennings, Nurse Patty to all the kids in the Parrish, a member of Reverend Peters flock. And Mark Roman, a police officer, and one of Fa
ther McCarthy’s parishioner’s instead. Both agreed, even when they found out what ingredients they were assigned.
Anna Pearl was busy stirring the ingredients that had already been added as if she were mixing one of the cakes she was known for. Patty and Mark stepped closer to the pot, the hesitation showing on their faces. The odd couple leaned into each other for support, and then Mark reached into his pocket and pulled out a small vial filled with a red liquid labeled grace. Patty followed suit opening her hand to reveal an identical vial that said mercy. They uncorked each container and poured the contents into the mixture.
The liquids plunked together causing the rest of the group to react as if they had heard nails on a chalkboard.
“Keep going, it’s almost done,” Freeman encouraged his team.
Bert Minkus, bank president for over 30 years and Parrish resident for even longer, was up next. He was “no spring chicken”, but his slow stroll to drop in his ingredient had less to do with his age and more to do with the uneasiness he felt participating in the ritual.
He had almost decided to change course and head out the door, but when he looked at Freeman, he couldn’t help but think of F.F., and the circumstances surrounding his death. A baggie crumpled in his fingers as he pulled out a hand full of what looked like potpourri.
“Flowers courtesy of my wife’s garden, tears courtesy of Webster,” He