I am writing this under an appreciable mental strain for Friday evening has arrived and the pressures of dark forces have accrued, but by the time I set down my pen, I shall be buzzed, for I have obtained the amber elixir.
The origins of the potion are shrouded in mystery. The formula is hinted at in the dread Necronomicon: honey from the hives of winged creatures that haunt lonely hills and whisper with voices that buzz in crude imitation of the speech of men. Hops from the meadows that border the river Oukranos where it winds beside the Enchanted Wood on its way to the Cerenarian Sea. Alcohol content calibrated to the mystic numeral seven. A potion shunned by pregnant women, for it is rumored to produce abominations.
The dark satanic mill from whence it came was founded in Rhode Island in the Yuletide of 1890, year of the nativity of our prophet H.P. Lovecraft. Whether or not the prophet himself ever ingested the earlier incarnations of the sacramental brew is a matter of some speculation. However, his writings predict the fate of the potion with oracular clarity.
At the end of Lovecraft’s tale “The Haunter of the Dark,” a superstitious doctor casts the gem of power known as The Shining Trapezohedron into Narragansett Bay, where it is believed to be lost forever. And yet, in the book Red Equinox, we learn that the gem was subsequently retrieved from the depths by descendants of the Starry Wisdom Church and its power once again tapped to fuel their dark rites. So too, the Narragansett brewery was once relegated to the wrecking ball but has since been resurrected to unleash the power of Lovecraft Honey Ale on the world in January of 2015, three days after the publication of the dread tome Red Equinox.
Great power lost, now tapped again.
Coincidence? I think not.
Some believe the potion is the Space Meade foretold by August Derleth, prescribed as a defense against interstellar travel. I hope they are right as I intend to serve small doses of it to the celebrants who will gather to hear readings from the red book at Jabberwocky in Newburyport, MA and Water Street Books in Exeter, NH on the evenings of January 30th and 31st.
The elixir, difficult to obtain, now occupies a glass upon my desk: a deep amber red reminiscent of the lost gem, topped by lacy golden foam. It flows smooth as the sea into Innsmouth harbor, bringing a scent of sweet honey and herbal overtones. And yet there is an underlying bitter note—a darkness befitting its origins—that courses through the sweet bouquet and lingers for a moment inspiring one to ponder the fathomless icy reaches between the stars.
I have acquired 24 canisters for my congregation. I may need more, for having sampled one; I am tempted to consume them all.