Though it be not written down, let it be known that I am drunk.
Alcohol, a vast ocean of specific knowledge. Do you know— no, listen. Do you know? All alcohol is pure spirits, all flavors come later, after the sugars have been eaten, passed through the invisible dying cells of the flocculent yeast, up the copper tubes, down to the terracotta pots, there to reswallow traces of earth, of pear, of agave, of horseradish, of nothing in particular. In Xeres, the solera drips across decades, the angels, wings and eyes and fire, dip their mouths toward the open barrels and take their share.
In the bar, the bartenders love her. Cedar asks questions, offers no wisdom, but is enthusiastic about everthing. This one tastes like dirt. This one like apples. This one comes from the highlands, you can tell (they say) because of how unsweet it is. Cedar, who had swallowed the spirits of a hundred cities, nodes and gasps and prods, and they love her for it. A mouth to taste and an ear to listen. She learns, as she learned the rope paths between the trees, as she learned to harvest ears, storing it all within her word hoard.
You are drunk, they tell her, eventually: go home. Yes, she says, indeed I am, I am made merry with alcohol; and by this grown wise.