The Brew That Nearly Sparked a Reformation

~ this short story if part of the Tales from the Cloister series ~

Brother Percival had long accepted that solitude was both a gift and a hazard. It was a gift, granting him silent communion with the Almighty; a hazard, because the mind, when left alone too long, tended to wander into weird territories. Some monks, in their idle hours, took to copying sacred texts or gardening. Brother Percival, however, had taken to brewing.

In theory, it all started innocently. A small experiment here, a slight refinement there. The other brothers at the monastery appreciated a hearty ale, and if the Church insisted on monopolizing hops, well, one had to get creative. There were other ways—unconventional ways—to craft a drink not just potent, but utterly memorable. Yet as Percival stared at his latest batch, a faintly luminescent brew bubbling away in his candlelit chamber, he found himself muttering, “I may have gone too far this time.”

~

Just outside the chamber walls, waves crashed against the jagged, windswept cliffs of Ireland’s western shore, the salt air mingling with the faint aroma of peat smoke drifting from the monastery’s hearth. The abbey stood both proud and humble on that lonely stretch of coast, a rugged outpost of Cistercian devotion. Thick stone walls bore testimony to centuries of storms, and the sea wind that rattled the shutters each night was as much a part of the daily routine as Matins or Vespers. Seagulls wheeled overhead, their cries echoing across the mossy courtyard where silent, cowled figures sometimes paused in reflection—though rarely for long, lest the damp chill creep into their bones.

Life here, though austere, had its bright spots—chief among them the irrepressible spirit of certain monks who turned even the simplest tasks into a venture. Over the years, novices had come and gone, each bringing new colour to the chapel’s daily hush. But none were quite so inventive or quietly mischievous as Brother Percival. Hidden away in his chamber, with the sea wind whistling under the door, he had found a passion that both comforted and confounded him: brewing. And in that unlikely pastime, he had discovered there was more than one way to spark a revelation.

Days in the monastery were governed by the Divine Office—prayers, readings, labour, and silence in prescribed measure. It was, for the most part, a peaceful existence. But Brother Percival’s mind was not one to rest content in the gentle rhythms of monastic life. Between Lauds and Terce, while others engaged in copying manuscripts or tending the gardens, he often found himself wrestling with questions both profound and utterly ridiculous.

“If the soul is eternal, does it age? Or do we remain forever in whatever state we perished?”
“Could a man, through fasting and prayer, become so holy he might simply evaporate into heaven?”
“Why does Brother Oswald snore with such enthusiasm? Is this a test of my patience, Lord? Was he sawing wood in some past life?”
“Could holiness be distilled? If so, would it taste better in an oak cask?”

Truly weighty matters, however, occupied him after Vespers. Once the final prayers were murmured and the cloisters fell into their accustomed hush, Brother Percival lingered in the scriptorium or retreated to his small stone chamber, dusting off his books and contemplating the mysteries of the mind, the soul, and, most recently—ale. After all, if God granted men water, grain, and the know-how to brew, perhaps it was a blessed calling. But the Church kept a tight hold on hops, so Percival sought alternatives in gruit—bog myrtle, yarrow, rosemary, and a host of other pungent herbs that lent his experiments a certain unpredictable vigour. His early endeavours had ranged from the laughably bitter (where valiant knights were brought to tears) to the cloyingly sweet (mistaken for sacramental wine). But his newest creation was altogether different. He envisioned a brew that would keep a monk from nodding off at Matins—one that could transform half-lidded chanting into a chorus fit for angels. A well-intentioned goal, surely… if only he could avoid the unintended consequences that seemed to plague his experiments.

By special dispensation, the Abbot—perhaps still weary from Percival’s past fiascos—had allowed him to skip the morning liturgy that day, to fine-tune his notes in solitude. Thus, while most of the brothers shuffled off to Matins in the dim pre-dawn light, Percival stayed in his cramped chamber, quill scratching out lines of script as he logged the properties of yarrow and wormwood. The sea wind ruffled his papers. A single candle guttered on the desk. He was just thinking he might need to reduce the amount of thyme in the next batch when a thunderous knock rattled his door.

Before he could rise, Brother Oswald burst in, robe in disarray, eyes wide and hands trembling with barely contained energy. Only a short while ago, Oswald had been the monastery’s most languid presence at sunrise—renowned for a snore that rivalled the storm-tossed sea. Now, he looked as though he might leap onto a roof beam at any moment.

“Brother,” Oswald said, voice taut as a bowstring, “we need to talk. About doctrine.”

Percival felt his soul lurch and nearly slip out the window with the howling wind. He forced a swallow. “Ah… yes. Of course.” He glanced at the candle, as though hoping it might vanish and spare him. “What… precisely is on your mind?”

Oswald took a sharp breath, then blurted, “If free will exists, but God’s will is absolute, whose will is more absolute?”

Percival’s heart sank; he recognised that wild light in Oswald’s eyes. It’s the brew, he realised. The “gentle test batch” he had administered earlier was clearly anything but. Setting his quill aside, he stood up slowly. “Well, the Church teaches…”

“…And if indulgences shorten one’s time in purgatory,” Oswald ploughed on, heedless of any reply, “then what if a man never sleeps? Wouldn’t that count as some heroic form of self-denial, thereby trimming years off purgatory? I mean, suppose…”

“Brother Oswald,” Percival murmured, “perhaps you should…”

Oswald barrelled forward. “And if we’re already in purgatory—if this damp, windswept monastery is just a cosmic waiting room—then what does that imply about free will, or indulgences, or anything?” His voice climbed higher. “I feel like my mind is sprinting in a hundred directions, and it’s… it’s both terrifying and exhilarating, Brother! Is this how heresy starts?”

Percival opened and closed his mouth like a fish gasping for water. He’d seen strange reactions to his brews before, but never quite so direct—nor so loud. “Oswald, please, keep your voice down. Let’s talk calmly…” But Oswald’s eyes flickered towards the half-open door. Before Percival could intervene, he heard a measured footstep in the hallway. A shadow fell across the threshold. Slowly, ominously, the door creaked wider. The Abbot stood there in his dark robes, arms folded, brow deeply furrowed. Behind him lurked a few curious monks, feigning disinterest but clearly straining to hear every frantic word from Oswald’s mouth.

“Brother Oswald,” the Abbot said, voice deceptively mild, “you seem remarkably… invigorated.”

Oswald tried to bow, though his body twitched like a hare about to bolt. “F-Father Abbot, I—yes, quite invigorated indeed. Full of questions. So many questions!”

The Abbot’s gaze settled on Percival, then drifted to the scattering of brewing notes on the desk. “And you, Brother Percival. I trust this renewed fervour in Brother Oswald has nothing to do with that harmless experiment you mentioned?”

Percival mustered his courage, remembering the Abbot’s pointed warnings from months past about meddling with questionable ingredients. “Father Abbot,” he began, voice wavering, “I… I did administer a small cup of an improved recipe to Brother Oswald…”

“It’s brilliant, Father Abbot!” Oswald interjected, eyes shining. “I could wrestle an angel right now. Or debate one. Either way, I’d be unstoppable.”

A muscle in the Abbot’s jaw twitched. “Unstoppable indeed. Brother Oswald, why don’t you head to the courtyard and gather your wits? I’ll speak with Brother Percival privately.”

Oswald nodded so vigorously his hood nearly flew off. He bustled past the monks in the corridor, still muttering about free will and purgatory, while the Abbot stepped inside and quietly shut the door. The hush that followed made Percival’s stomach twist. The Abbot took a slow breath.

“Brother Percival, I believe I suggested that you desist from such unorthodox experimentation and find a safer outlet for your enthusiasms. As I recall, I once recommended you might raise gerbils, or grow begonias, in any case, do anything less catastrophic than tinkering with gruit. Have you forgotten the Yarrow Brew of 1263, which drove half the monastery into a dancing fit?”

Percival swallowed. “I haven’t, Father. Truly. I…”

“…or the wormwood incident, when Brother Eustace had composed an entire new hymn in Latin before collapsing from what could only be described as divine fever?”

“…I… oh yes, I remember. B-but I only wanted to create a drink that would keep us awake for Matins—where’s the harm in ensuring we remain alert and pious? I might have overdone the potency a bit, but—” The Abbot raised a hand.

“No need for further explanation; the results speak for themselves. Brother Oswald is near to starting his own reformation—one cup at a time.”

Percival’s ears burned. “Yes, Father Abbot. I’ll lock away the barrels and tweak the recipe. No one else shall taste it.”

The Abbot regarded him with a mix of exasperation and a flicker of reluctant amusement. “Very well. See that you do. And you’d best keep an eye on Brother Oswald, lest his theological fervour spiral into a full-scale crisis before midday. We have no need for preludes to Luther in these halls.”

Percival bowed stiffly. “Yes, Father Abbot.”

With that, the Abbot left as silently as he’d come, and the tension in Percival’s chest eased only slightly. He gathered his notes, trying to work out where he’d gone wrong—less wormwood, more yarrow? Or the opposite? And how to create a brew that roused a monk without making him question the entire structure of heaven and earth? He found Oswald pacing under the stone arches of the cloister, robes flapping in the ocean breeze. The brother’s eyes still sparked with leftover zeal.

“Are we excommunicated?” Oswald whispered, sounding both terrified and thrilled.

“Not at all,” Percival said, managing a cautious smile. “But we’re one rambling monologue away from deep trouble. Perhaps you should rest, let the effects wear off.”

Oswald let out a high-pitched laugh. “Rest? When my thoughts are racing like the tide? I’m not sure I can manage it. God above, I feel so alive. Is that a sin?”

Percival shrugged helplessly. “I fear the Abbot might say it’s an occasion for sin. But for now, do your best to quiet your mind. We can’t have a new heresy erupting every time you take a sip of this stuff.”

Slowly, with gentle nudges, Percival guided Oswald to a corner bench near the garden. The sea wind whipped around them, tangling their robes. Overhead, gulls cried and soared. For a moment, Percival stood there, listening to the rhythmic crash of waves against the rocky shore. Perhaps there was a simpler path—an ale that offered gentle wakefulness without unleashing a tempest of existential angst. He would need to refine his process. But first, he had to calm Oswald and satisfy the Abbot. Deep in his heart, though, a tiny spark of pride lingered. The brew was undeniably effective. Perhaps too effective—but if he could adjust the formula, it might still serve its intended purpose without turning devout monks into roving philosophers at dawn. In time, if all went well, they’d greet Matins alert and pious, singing with the fervour of archangels… minus the manic theological tangents.

Yes, he decided, shooting Oswald a rueful grin, there was promise in this path, so long as he didn’t cause a Reformation before breakfast. The next batch would be gentler—less mania, fewer illusions of purgatorial breakthroughs. And until then, he’d keep those casks firmly sealed, trusting that if God wished to shake the foundations of the Church, He wouldn’t do so through an overzealous infusion of bog myrtle and yarrow.

For now, quiet returned to the abbey halls. A few monks eyed Oswald warily, and the Abbot lingered in the shadows, no doubt listening for any echo of heresy. But Brother Percival, scanning the distant waves, offered a quick, silent prayer: for humility, for guidance, and perhaps for just a little more holy inspiration—the kind that wouldn’t come back to haunt him before the day was through.

~

Fun fact: Martin Luther, the great Reformer himself, was quite fond of beer. One wonders what he might have thought of Brother Percival’s brew…