| SORCEROUS SIGNALS |
| Written by M.O. Bishop / Artwork by Holly Eddy |
| A Few Bottles of Wine |
I am pretending to polish the bar when Sergue slips onto a stool. “Here are some samples from my
latest er’ foray,” he says. There is the clink of glass as he places some bottles in front of me. He then
gives me a wink so I know where they are from.
For my part I take the first specimen and blow off the dust off it. It goes in the direction of Tarbh who
rumbles his displeasure. I would like to tell him to piss off, but sometimes you have to be polite to the
hired help.
So I ignore the minotaur, and instead translate the Faerie writing on the label to see that it is a 3712 Hills
of Taprobane Sauvignon. Then taking a cork screw, I carefully extract the ninety year old stopper,
making sure it does not crumble. I know the owner would have stored it properly, but I still take my
time. A single speck and one can reduce the exquisite to mere vinegar.
Bottle safely opened, I carefully pour a soupcon into a goblet. I gently swirl it about, for a few seconds;
one has to treat very mature wines with respect. Then I carefully sniff its aroma.
Absolutely perfect; crisp, and smoky with a cheeky touch of gooseberry. I carefully sip it and the
tartness of it almost transports me to heaven. A nice dry aftertaste with a tang from the cask which
complements the balanced richness of it. Well worth the acquisition.
When I return to earth, I rinse my mouth out with spring water. Then I take the next bottle, a 3682
Dardanian Riesling and a real paragon. I once tasted a 3697, which is reputed to be the finest vintage of
this variety of wine. I am thus interested to see how this year measures up to it.
In the meantime, Tarbh pours himself a large portion of the Hills of Taprobane, downs it in one then
belches.
“This be the bizness, Sergue,” his voice rumbles. “Oi really likes this 'un.”
My associate grimaces at the words and protects the Dardanian by taking it straight from my hand when
I am finished pouring some into a clean goblet. I too cringe. In the presence of such company, why do
some people have to be so uncouth and plebeian?
Seeing he is not going to get any of the Dardanian, Tarbh tops up his tankard with the Hills of
Taprobane then downs it in one.
For my part, I carefully sip from my goblet, running the pale nectar around my mouth with my tongue.
The authorities are right. It is a tad too sweet and that along with its less fruitiness definitely make it
second to a 3697, or in my opinion a 3690. In addition, there is a touch too much tang from the cask it
has been matured in for my taste. Personally, I believe the oaks of the Forests of Sylvan produce the
finest barrels, but who transports timber a hundred leagues even for wine?
Still for all that it is a masterpiece of the grower’s and maker’s art and not to be wasted on peasants,
especially of the horned variety.
I now take the next bottle, a brown one rounded like a globe. It is a magnum of Maeldun Syrah and a
mere sixty years old. As I carefully remove the silver foil from the top, I comment, “You know there is
going to be hell to pay when the Queen of the Elves finds out someone's been nicking bottles from her
cellar.”
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M O Bishop lives in Cheltenham, England.
By day he works in the finance department of an international life
assurance company running programs for actuaries. By night as well as
writing he studies with the Open University, rings church bells and plays
computer games.
He is an avid reader of science, fiction, fantasy, modern adventure and
historical dramas. He is currently looking at getting a novel published.
By day he works in the finance department of an international life
assurance company running programs for actuaries. By night as well as
writing he studies with the Open University, rings church bells and plays
computer games.
He is an avid reader of science, fiction, fantasy, modern adventure and
historical dramas. He is currently looking at getting a novel published.
