Seamus had just produced his first batch of Everclear when
he and the rest of the leprechauns in the room heard a door downstairs open,
then shut. He heard footsteps, too, as well as the sound of a body being
dragged up the stone stairs. As the sound of footfalls passed in front of the
closed door of the distillery, the faint flicker of the nearly extinguished
soul could be seen in the eye of Seamus’s mind. Patrick wasn’t dead, but that’s
as close as you could get around here without jumping into the empty elevator
shaft in the middle of the tower.
The footsteps and the sound of the dragging body continued upward until they faded from earshot, when another door opened and shut, then silence prevailed.
Seamus realized he’d been holding his breath about a minute.
“The vampires give us plenty of time to recuperate before draining our blood a second time,” Darcy said, as if to soften the harsh blow of reality that Seamus was dealt.
Seamus, wide eyed and mind reeling, turned from staring at the door to staring at Darcy.
Seamus said nothing.
“He’ll be nursed back to health with milk and potatoes,” Darcy continued.
“I remember milk and potatoes when I was in my jail cell,” Seamus said.
“Patrick’s jail cell now,” Conor corrected.
“The vampires are actually quite concerned with our general health in between each draining,” Darcy explained, “they don’t want to kill us by taking more blood than our bodies can produce, and they’re also mindful to replenish much needed phosphates when they’ve finished taking our blood... that’s why they lock us up for a moonth, feeding us milk and potatoes.”
“Phoss- what?” Seamus asked.
“Phosphates,” Darcy said, “from phosphorus. Your body develops a severe need for phosphates after starvation and bloodletting. ”
Darcy might as well have been speaking Swahili.
“How do you-” Seamus was cut off.
“The elf taught us chemistry,” Conor said.
“Some of us retained it better than others…” Darcy muttered.
Seamus was bewildered with the amount of knowledge and means that these other leprechauns had been bequeathed. The well supplied distillery as well as the schooling in chemistry was well beyond what Seamus had been exposed to in the centuries he’d been roaming the emerald isle. He drank plenty of whiskey in his life, but he never bothered making it himself. He always only stole it from the humans in nearby cities. He’d never once heard the word phosphate before, and he thought he may never hear it again.
Seamus sensed a soul approaching. Not weak and dying, like Patrick, but expansive as well as enigmatic.
A knock at the door.
Dirk let himself in without waiting for any response from within.
The company of leprechauns looked expectantly at the elf who’d just let himself into their distillery.
“How much?” Dirk asked.
“Ahhh…” Seamus said, mouth agape, not knowing what Dirk was asking for.
“A gallon and a half, one hundred ninety proof,” Darcy said.
“Perfect,” Dirk said, “bring it downstairs.”
* * *
Seamus carried the brown glass jug of Everclear as he followed Dirk down the stairs into the pipe shop. The shop smelled of machine oil, airborne metal dust, and dwarf sweat. Amid the machinery, stacks of gold tubing, and the two dozen souls of elves and dwarves sat a large, round, gold tank supported by iron legs.
When do we kill the vampires? Seamus directed his thoughts at Dirk, knowing he could hear them. Dirk cast Seamus a severe look. When the time is right, Seamus heard Dirk think. Don’t even think about. The night is young, and Lugosi will be down here soon.
Dirk looked to the gold tank. The thing was probably about as tall as an average human, maybe taller. It had an offset tic-tac-toe pattern of welds along the outside of it. Next to the tank was a wooden ladder.
A dwarf emerged from the top of the tank, squeezing himself out of the tight whole in the top of it and maneuvering himself down to the ladder.
Why not now? Seamus asked in his mind. Dirk’s mind immediately became guarded.
Dirk looked away from the tank that the sweat-laden dwarf had just climbed out of and focused on Seamus.
“Your turn,” Dirk said.
* * *
Seamus dropped down inside the tank. The torchlight from the pipe shop provided an ambient orange glow inside the tank, which was only a little smaller than the jail cell he’d inhabited only days prior.
“Toss me my brush!” the dwarven voice called from outside as a gloved hand appeared in the hole above Seamus.
Seamus knelt down and grabbed a wooden brush off the tank’s floor. It had stiff, shiny wire bristles on it. He handed it to the dwarf outside the tank. Upon being given the brush, the dwarf’s hand disappeared, then reappeared with the jug of Everclear that Seamus had brought down into the pipe shop.
Seamus reached up with both hands and carefully set the glass jug on the curved, golden floor beneath him. Somebody had dropped a clean, wool rag into the tank, landing on Seamus’s head and partially on his shoulder.
Seamus plucked the rag off of his head and unstopped the cork from the glass jug.
It’s not fair, Seamus thought as he tipped a splash alcohol onto the woolen rag and began scrubbing the floor of the gold tank.
This tank is probably made from *my* gold. Seamus thought as he kept scrubbing, first in back-forth motions, then in tight circles. Cleaning in an ever widening outward circle, Seamus finished scrubbing the curved floor, and began scrubbing the walls, his hand occasionally running over a hard ridge, the seam wear portions of the gold had been welded together.
How did they make this, anyway? Seamus thought about Dirk’s explanations during orientation, how the dwarves melted gold down into strips and also into square plates.
The smell of alcohol began burn Seamus’s nose, and irritate his eyes. He splashed more alcohol onto the rag and continued scrubbing the curved walls before him. The light from the pipe-shop had cast elegant half circles and curves the color of sunrise within the tank. Seamus noticed he was cleaning over a reflection of his face, the image warped and fat from the gold plate’s curvature.
“They need our gold”, Seamus recalled Darcy saying earlier while making the Everclear.
Seamus considered the dozens of dwarven souls he could feel beyond the gold walls, outside of the tank.
Sterilization, Seamus remembered Dirk say earlier.
Seamus continued scrubbing. He heard the shop’s door open and shut. No new souls had entered the shop, but the souls in the room, Seamus felt, immediately became alarmed, as if in the presence of a predator.
Seamus heard, indistinctly, the muffled voice of the vampire Lugosi, and suddenly Seamus’s blood ran ice cold. His scrubbing stopped only briefly, then continued. The vaporized alcohol within the tank began to sting Seamus’s eyes. Tears welled up along with the burning sensation.
They need our gold, Seamus remembered, they need our blood.
Sterilization, Seamus thought again about the gold tubes that the dwarves were making in the shop, finally coming to the horrible realization as to why he was cleaning the inside of a large, gold tank with highly potent grain alcohol. Under the employ of vampires.
They’ll fill this tank with our blood, and then kill us.
The footsteps and the sound of the dragging body continued upward until they faded from earshot, when another door opened and shut, then silence prevailed.
Seamus realized he’d been holding his breath about a minute.
“The vampires give us plenty of time to recuperate before draining our blood a second time,” Darcy said, as if to soften the harsh blow of reality that Seamus was dealt.
Seamus, wide eyed and mind reeling, turned from staring at the door to staring at Darcy.
Seamus said nothing.
“He’ll be nursed back to health with milk and potatoes,” Darcy continued.
“I remember milk and potatoes when I was in my jail cell,” Seamus said.
“Patrick’s jail cell now,” Conor corrected.
“The vampires are actually quite concerned with our general health in between each draining,” Darcy explained, “they don’t want to kill us by taking more blood than our bodies can produce, and they’re also mindful to replenish much needed phosphates when they’ve finished taking our blood... that’s why they lock us up for a moonth, feeding us milk and potatoes.”
“Phoss- what?” Seamus asked.
“Phosphates,” Darcy said, “from phosphorus. Your body develops a severe need for phosphates after starvation and bloodletting. ”
Darcy might as well have been speaking Swahili.
“How do you-” Seamus was cut off.
“The elf taught us chemistry,” Conor said.
“Some of us retained it better than others…” Darcy muttered.
Seamus was bewildered with the amount of knowledge and means that these other leprechauns had been bequeathed. The well supplied distillery as well as the schooling in chemistry was well beyond what Seamus had been exposed to in the centuries he’d been roaming the emerald isle. He drank plenty of whiskey in his life, but he never bothered making it himself. He always only stole it from the humans in nearby cities. He’d never once heard the word phosphate before, and he thought he may never hear it again.
Seamus sensed a soul approaching. Not weak and dying, like Patrick, but expansive as well as enigmatic.
A knock at the door.
Dirk let himself in without waiting for any response from within.
The company of leprechauns looked expectantly at the elf who’d just let himself into their distillery.
“How much?” Dirk asked.
“Ahhh…” Seamus said, mouth agape, not knowing what Dirk was asking for.
“A gallon and a half, one hundred ninety proof,” Darcy said.
“Perfect,” Dirk said, “bring it downstairs.”
* * *
Seamus carried the brown glass jug of Everclear as he followed Dirk down the stairs into the pipe shop. The shop smelled of machine oil, airborne metal dust, and dwarf sweat. Amid the machinery, stacks of gold tubing, and the two dozen souls of elves and dwarves sat a large, round, gold tank supported by iron legs.
When do we kill the vampires? Seamus directed his thoughts at Dirk, knowing he could hear them. Dirk cast Seamus a severe look. When the time is right, Seamus heard Dirk think. Don’t even think about. The night is young, and Lugosi will be down here soon.
Dirk looked to the gold tank. The thing was probably about as tall as an average human, maybe taller. It had an offset tic-tac-toe pattern of welds along the outside of it. Next to the tank was a wooden ladder.
A dwarf emerged from the top of the tank, squeezing himself out of the tight whole in the top of it and maneuvering himself down to the ladder.
Why not now? Seamus asked in his mind. Dirk’s mind immediately became guarded.
Dirk looked away from the tank that the sweat-laden dwarf had just climbed out of and focused on Seamus.
“Your turn,” Dirk said.
* * *
Seamus dropped down inside the tank. The torchlight from the pipe shop provided an ambient orange glow inside the tank, which was only a little smaller than the jail cell he’d inhabited only days prior.
“Toss me my brush!” the dwarven voice called from outside as a gloved hand appeared in the hole above Seamus.
Seamus knelt down and grabbed a wooden brush off the tank’s floor. It had stiff, shiny wire bristles on it. He handed it to the dwarf outside the tank. Upon being given the brush, the dwarf’s hand disappeared, then reappeared with the jug of Everclear that Seamus had brought down into the pipe shop.
Seamus reached up with both hands and carefully set the glass jug on the curved, golden floor beneath him. Somebody had dropped a clean, wool rag into the tank, landing on Seamus’s head and partially on his shoulder.
Seamus plucked the rag off of his head and unstopped the cork from the glass jug.
It’s not fair, Seamus thought as he tipped a splash alcohol onto the woolen rag and began scrubbing the floor of the gold tank.
This tank is probably made from *my* gold. Seamus thought as he kept scrubbing, first in back-forth motions, then in tight circles. Cleaning in an ever widening outward circle, Seamus finished scrubbing the curved floor, and began scrubbing the walls, his hand occasionally running over a hard ridge, the seam wear portions of the gold had been welded together.
How did they make this, anyway? Seamus thought about Dirk’s explanations during orientation, how the dwarves melted gold down into strips and also into square plates.
The smell of alcohol began burn Seamus’s nose, and irritate his eyes. He splashed more alcohol onto the rag and continued scrubbing the curved walls before him. The light from the pipe-shop had cast elegant half circles and curves the color of sunrise within the tank. Seamus noticed he was cleaning over a reflection of his face, the image warped and fat from the gold plate’s curvature.
“They need our gold”, Seamus recalled Darcy saying earlier while making the Everclear.
Seamus considered the dozens of dwarven souls he could feel beyond the gold walls, outside of the tank.
Sterilization, Seamus remembered Dirk say earlier.
Seamus continued scrubbing. He heard the shop’s door open and shut. No new souls had entered the shop, but the souls in the room, Seamus felt, immediately became alarmed, as if in the presence of a predator.
Seamus heard, indistinctly, the muffled voice of the vampire Lugosi, and suddenly Seamus’s blood ran ice cold. His scrubbing stopped only briefly, then continued. The vaporized alcohol within the tank began to sting Seamus’s eyes. Tears welled up along with the burning sensation.
They need our gold, Seamus remembered, they need our blood.
Sterilization, Seamus thought again about the gold tubes that the dwarves were making in the shop, finally coming to the horrible realization as to why he was cleaning the inside of a large, gold tank with highly potent grain alcohol. Under the employ of vampires.
They’ll fill this tank with our blood, and then kill us.
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