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Rite of Passageby Angelia "Lady Angel" Sparrow"Not too bad tonight, Hobbie," Luke commented, sipping the concoction the pilot was dispensing from the tiny synth. Dak made a face and handed the cup back. Wedge picked it up. "No sense letting good, or in this case pourable, booze go to waste, Dak." He stiff-armed it and gasped. "What'd you put in that stuff, Hobbie?" Han sampled it. "Potent, but drinkable. Then again--" "C'mon, Solo. We all know Corellians drink anything that flows downhill." Hobbie settled back, and crossed his boots on the table. "In fact, did I ever tell you I come from a long line of brewers and distillers?" "That's right, it is your turn tonight, isn't it?" said Jansen quietly. In my clan, when a boy turns 14, (Hobbie began) he is required to spend the year preparing for his test of manhood. On my fourteenth birthday, my father, my older brothers and my uncle, who is the head of our clan, came to me. They explained with great solemnity, that if I wanted to be worthy to wear the family name, I must, over the next year, perfect a distillation to call my very own. How I worked over that year! I perfected my distilling technique and began testing recipes. Nothing was unique. I tried using three kinds of fruit, picked only at the full moon. My second cousin did it ten years before. I tried using berries, picked by hand and stomped by green-eyed virgins. My great-grandfather four times removed had done it. Finally, at wits end, I started brewing with the odd, three leaved groundcover from my back yard. I found the little white chevons on the leaves made it bitter, and altered the recipe. Finally, my fifteenth birthday arrived. I stood before the entire clan, and presented my uncle with the bottle. He poured it out. Now, Rogues, what came out of that bottle was green. Not the pale green of my aunt's mead made with frooberry honey, but bright screaming grass green, a couple shades lighter than your average Rodian. My uncle held it to the light, sipped it, and kept his face stern for a couple moments. Then he smiled! "Today, you are a man!" he announced. "Scribe your recipe for the archives, and brew enough for the Festival of Pauf." I was surrounded by cheering relatives. My uncle let everyone taste, and they all approved. Later that evening, we got a call from my aunt. My uncle had sampled all I had left, and requested I bring more for further judging. She seemed most distressed about the fact he wanted to market it at the concession booth of his new zoo. "Zoo?" I asked, confused. "He is seeing so many animals as a result of your drink, he's put a sign in the front yard 'Follen's Zoo.' Come over, and bring enough that he can drink himself past this." So, what could I do? I went over to my uncle's with a couple bottles of the brew. Sure enough, there stood the sign "Follen's Zoo, admission two credits." "Uncle?" "Ah, Hobbie! Come in, come in. You should see the banthas! And Flitdancers from Iugin. And furballs from Kimanan." "Easy, uncle. Have a drink, and you can show them to me." Anyway, we had a drink. And then another. And sometime later that evening, as my aunt tells it, I staggered into the house and announced the problem was solved. "Sall right, auntie. He shold me da banthash!" Hobbie unzipped his flight suit and showed a checkered imprint on his shoulder. "And this is where she hit me with the waffle iron." |
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