Why have people stopped wearing watches and started dragging mobiles out of their pocket to check the time?

It’s something lots of people do. I do it myself. But it’s not ubiquitous. Lots of wristwatches are still out there and still being checked. Which makes it interesting, because it’s one of those rare things: a behavior in transition.

Which gives us something to talk about.

*** *** *** ***

People often confuse the concept of Time with the concept of Telling Time. Time is, according to the American Heritage Dictionary, “a nonspatial continuum in which events occur in apparently irreversible succession from the past through the present to the future.” Telling time, on the other hand, is the skill one has in using either physical phenomena or — more often — artificial devices to determine at what point in a relatively arbitrary system defining the very real and yet very intangible ‘time’ said person is currently existing in.

Yeah, that’s way too thick a paragraph. Let me put it this way. There is Time, which exists, and there is Telling Time, which uses a system that doesn’t really exist to approximate and overlay comprehension onto a system that does exist.

One would think, based on that, that Time would be well represented mythologically speaking, and Telling Time would be barely represented if at all. In this, one would be wrong.

Telling Time has, in fact, always had a thick mythological basis. Its very artificial nature responds well to the interplay of imagination and perception that makes for the very best mythologies. When one is completely building their perception of time, and how to tell the difference between ‘then,’ ‘now’ and ‘soon,’ one has lots of elbow room and room for dissent. Throw in the difference between nanoseconds, seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years, decades, centuries, and millennia, and the potential mythological infrastructure is enormous. Now to all of that, add in mornings, afternoons, evenings, twilight, night, dusk, dawn, semesters, trimesters, seasons — natural ones like ‘Spring’ and less natural ones like ‘the Social’ — eons, ages, noon, midnight, yesterday, today, tomorrow, last week, this week, next week, last month, this month, next month, last year, this year, next year, before you were born, back when I was a kid, leaving it to your children, once upon a time and a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away….

Yeah.

So, this gives us the Houris of the Hours, and the Guardians of the Months, and Day Nymphs and the Spirits of the Ages and the Scions of the Centuries and any number of other things, and you’ll meet some of them as we tell more of these stories. Sometimes they contradict each other, but that’s why we have arbitration. It’s really very complicated.

But as for Time itself? We have one guy. That’s all. That’s all that’s necessary. Time exists, and this one guy embodies it. And mostly, he keeps to himself. And we don’t think much about him. After all, the fact of time isn’t nearly as important to our day to day lives as telling time.

Really, when we discuss Time Himself, we usually just imagine he’s wearing robes, maybe carrying a scythe, and generally refer to him as Father Time. And sure, once upon a time he wore robes, mostly because at the time he was hanging around monasteries — he enjoyed illuminating manuscripts and that was where the work was — and pretty much everyone there wore robes. And he did own a scythe, since he had a garden and they only recently invented hedge clippers and gas powered mowers.

But one thing we’ve gotten right. He is a Father. Specifically of a daughter named Natalie. And like good parents since the dawn of time — which is itself an artificial statement about time which Father Time himself would roll his eyes over, since he was in fact there and there was nothing remotely dawnlike about it — after Natalie graduated from College he used his pull to get her a good job. Specifically, Natalie was named the Intendant of What Time Is It? To her fell the concept of both the question — “hey, what time is it, anyway?” — and the answer to that question. Under her was also found “how long until” and “how long has it been since,” at least for shorter periods of time. Which means that while there were hundreds upon hundreds of daemons and Loci employed by the Telling Time industry, Natalie got the crux question. Father Time was pleased. His little girl deserved only the best.

Over time — no pun intended — Natalie would feel somewhat differently about it.

Donal checked the watch on his wrist. It was beautiful. A masterpiece of the art of timekeeping. It was an eighteen karat gold Rolex Cosmograph Daytona — one of the most sought after watches the world had produced. This was one of the ones unofficially called the ‘Paul Newman,’ and it would sell for a remarkable amount of money, if Donal ever chose to sell it.

Which of course he wouldn’t.

“We’re going to be late!” he shouted up the stairs. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

There was a pause.

“Is that supposed to be funny?” she called back down. She didn’t sound amused. She didn’t sound… anything at all, really. It was only the fact that she’d had to shout to be heard that meant her voice was raised in the first place.

“Just get ready. This is an important day for me.”

“They’re all important days for you.”

Donal snorted, and went into the study to fix himself a drink. Christ only knew how long the woman would take.

Finally, she came through the door. She had worn the Vera Wang in black. White accents. Well, good enough. “Finally,” he snapped. “Let’s get in the car.”

“I may not feel up to this,” she said, following. “You don’t really need me.”

“Of course I need you,” Donal said, opening her door. “Why would you even say that? This is the event of the year.”

“It’s the Midsummer Ball,” she said, sliding into her seat. “It’s no big deal.”

Donal snorted. “No big deal, she says.”

She shrugged.

Donal looked at her. “Hey,” he snapped. “Look at me.”

She kept looking straight ahead.

“I said look at me.”

She turned to look at him, finally.

“I didn’t get my social standing handed to me by my father,” he said. “I worked for it. This event makes or breaks that standing for a year. The elite are on display, and I don’t want any of them to forget for an instant that I’m one of them. And that means you’re going to smile and be nice to people.”

She sighed and looked away. “Do we have to stay long?”

“You can do whatever the Hell you want, once we’ve done a circuit or two.” He pulled the Aston Martin out.

“You know, Sam and I used to do the Midsummer Ball each year,” she said, looking out the side window. Watching the trees and houses go by as they drove through Behind The Scenes of the World. “He was always so excited to go.” She chuckled. “They used to do a roast pork he loved. Every year. A month before the ball he would talk about that pork. ‘Natty, that glaze they use,’ he would say. ‘Oh, the empires that could be built upon that glaze.’”

Donal snorted. “You sure can pick them,” he said. “Thousands of loci in the worlds beyond the worlds, and you found the one man who went to the Midsummer Ball for the food.”

“Yeah,” she said. She kept looking out the window. “I sure can pick them.”

The dynastic powers were driven, of course. Their chauffeurs saw to the cars as they went in. Donal was self-made. It was a huge part of his identity, of his persona in society, so even though his car was worth more than most of the limousines, he drove himself and used that as pride. The valets drove the Aston Martin off as the two walked in. To the side, the Brownie at the door made the Announcement. “The Master of the Wristwatch,” he called out, “and the Intendant of What Time Is It?” His voice rose at the end, making it the question it should be.

“Do you suppose your father is here?” Donal asked, smiling amiably as he nodded to the peers as they passed them.

“Not likely,” Natalie answered. She had her professional smile on, greeting those she met in passing. “He hates these things.”

“I thought you were going ask him to come.” Donal’s smile never slipped, of course.

“Slipped my mind,” Natalie answered. Always smiling, always nodding.

“It would have looked good to be seen with Father Time,” Donal murmured smoothly, kissing the hand of the Duchess of Los Angeles.

“Then you should have asked him yourself,” Natalie answered, letting the Neighborhood Coordinator kiss her cheek.

“He’s your father,” Donal said, all too smoothly.

That was it. Natalie turned away from where the Viceroy of the Cul-de-Sac was waiting. “Yes, he is,” she snapped, just loudly enough to be audible. “And you should remember that.”

There was a hush. Donal paused, and smiled winningly as he turned to his girlfriend. “We’ll discuss it later,” he said. “Come on, let’s not keep our host waiting.”

“I’ll meet you there,” Natalie said, artificial sweetness in her voice. “I think I need a drink.”

Donal frowned, but Natalie turned on her heel and marched off. He watched her go, then chuckled. “You know, you think you’ve got them housebroken, but when you take them out to see company…”

There was a chuckle, strained from some, and Donal set back to work.

He found her at the bar twenty minutes later. She had a Cosmopolitan. And she was talking to Morris, the Digital Timepiece Developer. “–think that there’s a real potential for precision,” he was saying. “And there’s nothing innately unstylish about digital watches.”

“I always liked digital watches,” Natalie was answering. She had enough of a blush to her cheeks that Donal could tell this wasn’t her first Cosmopolitan of the evening. “It’s fun to watch the numbers change. I miss the LED displays, though.”

Morris chuckled. He looked out of place in his tuxedo. His glasses would look hipster, but his hair screamed ‘nerd’ instead.

Donal slid between Morris and Natalie. “On your way,” he murmured to the Digital Timepiece Developer. He nodded to the bartender. “Vesper martini,” he said. “Linnet blanc, Stolichnaya and Boodles British.”

Morris opened his mouth, closed it and stepped off.

Natalie snorted. “I was having a nice conversation with him.”

“He’s currying favor,” Donal snapped. “Trying to get in good with you.”

“And you wouldn’t know anything about that,” Natalie snapped back. “He work with me, you know.”

“He works for me,” Donal answered, glaring at her. “And digital watches didn’t work out. They’re ugly and they’re crass.”

“You’re just afraid he’ll do to you what you did to Sam.”

Donal snorted. “Our dear Count of Pocket Watches was fat. Morris is gangly. You came with me because I was smooth and stylish. Precise. You like precision, don’t you.”

“I’m sick of this,” Natalie said, looking into her drink. “I’m sick of you, Donal.”

Donal chuckled.

“That amuses you?”

“Of course it does,” he said. “You need me, Natalie. Before me, no one could answer your question. Not effectively. I’m the logical conclusion to your aspect. Don’t pretend you can throw me over tomorrow without doing yourself a significant disservice.”

“You think people would stop checking their watches if I dumped your ass?”

“I think we’re not going to find out any time soon, little princess. You want to get drunk? That’s fine. Stay away from clockmakers and timekeepers.” He stepped off, and walked back into the fray.

Natalie stared at him, then nodded to the bartender for another drink.

“No offense, Miss What Time It Is? But your boyfriend’s a dick.”

Natalie turned. Her speaker wore his tuxedo a little more comfortably than Morris had, but he’d also loosened his collar. His dark hair was short. He looked roguish more than handsome.

“What Time is it,” Natalie corrected with a slight smile.

“You’re asking me? My aspect doesn’t even touch on time.” He smiled. “Jason. Proconsul of Portable Telephony.” He offered his hand.

Natalie shook it. “A pleasure,” she said. She looked out across the room, where Donal was laughing it up with the Right People. “Call me Natalie.”

“Seriously,” Jason said, leaning next to her. “That guy’s a total dick. You can do better.”

“You mean I could be with you instead?” She chuckled. “That’s what got me Donal in the first place.”

Jason snorted. “I don’t care if you go out with me or not. I just don’t like seeing guys step on their significant others.”

“That implies I’m significant,” Natalie said.

“Aren’t you? You outrank him. He works for you.”

“What a wonderfully black and white world you live in.” Natalie accepted her fresh drink. “He knows full well that if I dumped him tomorrow, he’d still be the most important man in my life, fully capable of demanding whatever he wanted from me. And as for me? I’m just like his Rolex, or his car, or his pretentious James Bond drink. I’m an accessory. I’m proof he’s arrived and the social world has to take him seriously.” She sipped the slightly tart liquid. “Most of the time, it’s easy enough. I barely need to see him.”

Jason shook his head. “And is that what life is supposed to be?” he asked her. “Is that what you ask out of a relationship? ‘I can’t stand him but I can’t get rid of him and besides — I never need to see him?’”

Natalie shrugged. “Every relationship I’ve been in has tied back to my work, somehow. They court me so that they can make it to the top of the heap. I was annoyed with how Donal dismissed Morris but Donal wasn’t wrong — Morris can’t look at me without seeing how I could expand the role of digital timepieces in the world.”

“So find someone who doesn’t have anything to do with the time,” Jason said. “Or find no one at all. Go it alone for a few years.”

“I like being in a relationship,” Natalie said.

“Do you like being in this relationship?”

“Besides, I’ve tried it with people who have no ties to the time. Date a locus with an unrelated aspect, and you end up never seeing each other. Your concerns and his concerns never touch, and ultimately you have nothing to talk about.”

“Then date a mortal.”

“I can’t.” She looked at Jason. “Some powers can get away with dating a mortal, but my aspect’s too big. Too all pervasive. I tried it once. I practically drove the poor man mad.” She looked in her drink. “Maybe I deserve someone like Donal.”

“Bullshit.”

She looked at Jason.

“Bullshit,” he repeated. “He treats you like shit, Good Lady What Time Is It.” He missed the question at the end of her Aspect, but Natalie let it go. “You don’t deserve to be treated like that. You deserve to enjoy yourself. To enjoy a relationship. To have someone who treats you well and who you can treat well.”

“Someone like you?”

Jason rolled his eyes. “You’ve said that twice now. Do I find you attractive? Yes. And would I treat you better than the Watchkeeper? Damn right I would. But that’s not the point.”

“What is the point, then?”

Jason leaned in. “It doesn’t matter if I’d treat you better,” he said softly. “The point is he treats you like shit.”

She looked back out. Donal was in his element now. Networking. Showing off. He gestured in her direction once, but didn’t look her way. “So be alone,” she said. “Or go out with someone who has nothing to do with my life. Or drive some other poor mortal insane.”

“There’s another option,” Jason said softly.

“What?”

“Find someone whose aspect touches on yours, but doesn’t depend on it.”

Natalie frowned. “Like who?”

Jason shrugged. “I dunno. Don’t computers have clocks on them?”

“Well, yes….”

“But a computer locus wouldn’t rely on you. Your beneficence would benefit him, and his would benefit you, but you wouldn’t need each other in any unhealthy way.”

Natalie considered, then shook her head. “It wouldn’t work,” she said. “Computers aren’t ubiquitous enough. I’d still spend all my time with Donal or someone like him, only now he’d be bitter.”

Jason shrugged. “Then find something that is ubiquitous. Or that will be ubiquitous. If that’s how you have to define your relationships.”

Natalie looked at Jason. “Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“Okay. Tell me about portable phones.”

Jason blinked, and chuckled. “I didn’t mean me.”

“Why not. Just because they’re niche products?”

“They’re niche right now, but they’re going to expand,” Jason said. “They’re getting smaller, and the batteries are getting better. They’re useful, and in their own way they’re as much a status symbol as your boyfriend’s Rolex. Only it’s the models that do more that get the higher status. And that’s only going to grow.” He shook his head. “One day more people will have portables than regular wired telephones. One day, it’ll seem strange when someone doesn’t carry a phone.”

“So, they’ll be ubiquitous?” she said, smirking.

Jason blinked. “Well, yes,” he said. “But then, I’m biased.”

“I’ll bet you are.” She drank the rest of her drink. “Did you ever think of putting a clock in a phone?”

Jason frowned. “A clock?”

“Absolutely. A digital clock, since I’m annoyed with Donal and therefore feeling charitable to Morris right now.”

“Well, there’s no reason we couldn’t….”

Natalie smiled a bit more. “Then let me ask you something, Jason of the Portable Phone. You’ve been very careful to at least sound like you’re just concerned about my welfare, not about getting me naked. Do you want to get me naked?”

Jason looked in Natalie’s eyes. “Maybe,” he said. “I don’t really know you.”

“Good answer.” She set her glass down. “Do you care what people think of you? Do you care if you seem outrageous or silly?”

Jason shrugged. “Not really.”

“Another good answer.” She looked back at him. “What’s my aspect again?”

“What time is it.”

“No. There’s supposed to be a question mark at the end of that sentence. Say it right.”

Jason smiled slightly. “What time is it?”

“Time for me to leave. If you’re willing to throw caution to the wind, you can follow me out.” And with that, the Intendant of What Time Is It? strode for the entryway.

Jason watched her go for a long moment, then set his drink down on the bar and followed.

Donal didn’t notice either one of them as they left.

Systems of time are artificial, but they’re convenient. For example, though Father Time himself simply knows that time exists, and that time continues to move, it makes everything easier for you and I if I just say that we close the scene we just watched, and then looked ahead several years, to another night, and another Midsummer Ball.

“The Intendant of What Time Is It?” the Brownie said. Natalie was in red this year, with silver accents. She looked good.

“Good Lady,” Morris said, stepping to her. They kissed each other on the cheeks. He was wearing wire rims now, and had moved towards ‘hipster’ with his hair. It was a better look for him. “You look smashing tonight.” He grinned.

“I feel smashing, tonight,” Natalie answered. “And I hope there’s a good Riesling with my name on it.”

“It seems likely.” Morris snapped his fingers at one of the walking waiters. The Satyr diverted, offering a tray of flutes. Natalie took one and sipped. Chardonney, not Riesling, but it was still nice. “Projections are looking good for the next quarter.”

“I’ll bet.” She smiled a bit. “But do we have to launch into work? It’s a party. I skipped lunch to make room.”

“We don’t have to do anything,” Morris said, grinning.

There was movement to the side. Natalie glanced and rolled her eyes. “Incoming,” she said with a smirk.

Donal half-stormed up to the pair. “We need to talk,” he said.

“Hello, Donal. You’re looking nice tonight. How’s your trick knee been acting?” Natalie smiled more broadly.

Donal shot a glance to Morris. “I need to speak to the Lady,” he said.

“And?” Morris asked. His bearing didn’t shift in the slightest.

“And that means I need you to go away.”

Morris shrugged. “We all have needs, Donal. But I was about to ask Natalie to dance.”

“That sounds lovely,” Natalie said. “Donal, be a good boy and wait at the bar. I’m sure I can make time later on.”

Donal pursed his lips. He turned and stormed off, but he didn’t say anything.

“Is it petty that I enjoyed that?” Morris asked.

“I hope not. I’ve been enjoying it for some time. I didn’t realize you’d disconnected so much from him.”

“These days? He needs all the watch buyers he can get. As for me — there’s lots of digital timepieces in the world.”

“There certainly are. I–”

“–all right since Bruce Springsteen! Madonna! Way before Nirvana — there was U2, and Blondie, and music still on MTV–”

“That’s me,” Natalie said, pulling her RAZR out of her clutch bag and flipping it open. “Hey, Jase. You’re late.” She sounded amused.

“Yeah, well, sue me,” Jason said with a chuckle. “I’m about a half hour out. Forgive me?”

“This time, sure. But I’m going to eat without you.”

“Go nuts. Love you, Nattily.”

“Love you too.” She folded the phone, and glanced at the front. 8:14. She could have known the time instantly, of course — it was her Aspect — but she liked the ritual. “Right. Let’s dance, Morris. And then we eat. I hope they’re doing the pork this year. They have a glaze — I swear to God, it’s to die for.”

What *really* causes hangovers? It can’t be just drinking, because plenty of people drink them and don’t get them, or throw up the alcohol and do. It can’t just be dehydration because even folk who drink lots of water get them.

Which, you know, is a fair question. I mean, think about it. There’s lots of scientific basis and explanation given, but nothing’s been definitive. They talk about hypoglycemia or B-12 deficencies or God punishing them for sin.

And where there is question, there is a ripe field for myth. Which is, after all, what we do here.

So, let’s do this thing.

Why does alcohol produce hangovers, and why doesn’t it produce hangovers consistently?

We have mentioned before that the spirits of the world are more properly called daemons. And we have seen a lot of daemons in this work. We have seen the nymphs of money and the mermaids of the sea. We have seen the psychopomps on the green line and the union organizers from the spirits of good order. And of course we have seen the dance of muse and kharite, the inspirer of art and the inspirer of artistic appreciation.

We do not mention Mister Shephard and Mister Crook in that list. But that is another story, of course.

We have also mentioned that daemons come in two basic types — the Eudaemons, or beneficial and helpful spirits, and the Kakodaemons, or malicious spirits. Now, if you read almost any fairy tale or storybook, an ugly specter is raised. Not a demon or ghost — something uglier still. The specter of racism.

Seriously. You’ve read the stories. Trolls and ogres are evil. Fairies and sprites and pixies are good. Banshees kill because they like to do it. Sirens sing sailors to their doom. Neriads are helpful and friendly unless crossed.

Don’t believe it. Not for one second. Eudaemons and Kakodaemons can be found in every race and species of spirit and fairy. A redcap might be a bloody killer, but whether or not he’s a malicious one has little to do with his species or his choice in headgear.

But, these associations have come down through the ages regardless. The good fae and the bad fae. The good nymphs and the bad nymphs. All based on race instead of the true defining edge between a eudaemon and a kaodaemon — the heart. Mankind believes it. And sadly, all too many spirits, godlings and daemons believe it. And this means that all too often, evil lurks in the midst of good, leading to pain and corruption.

Which brings us, interestingly enough, to alcohol.

Unlike many inventions and substances in what we euphemistically call the real world, there was no real artifice or metaphor in the creation of alcohol — at least in the creation of the potable beverage variety. Yes, it was brought to our world by the spirits who carried it from the unseen world, and yes the real world had to piece together some kind of scientific process to explain it after the fact, but really that’s just bookkeeping. Alcohol was created by the spirits for the pleasure of mankind and was given to mankind as a gift. And believe it or not, it was done with the best of motives by the nicest of eudaemons.

You see, back in the mists of history, there was a call put forth by the lords and ladies who stood above the spirits of rock and wave and grain. An echo was heard by the Oreads in their caves and the Auloniads in their pastures and vales. A whisper was passed by the naiads in their brooks to the Napaeae who lived in the wooded glens and grottos and by them to the Nereids who lived in the sea.

This call was simple. The world was lush and beautiful and bright, and for their part in making it so, the nymphs of the world were to be commended. And so, there was going to be a truly kickass party.

And so the nymphs ascended to the unseen world, leaving behind their places of mystery. The Dryads, Hamadryads and Meliae left their trees, the Oceanids and Nereids left the sea. The Pegaeae left their springs, the Alseids left their groves, the Limnades left their lakes, the Hesperides left their gardens, and by now you’re sick iof the list so needless to say all the other beautiful, wise and glorious nymphs left their respective homes as well. They gathered on the foothills of Mount Kegger, and they proceeded to have games and spirits and a whole mess of entheogens.

Their entheogen of choice, for the record, was a kind of fermented tree sap they called méli or ‘honey,’ made from the sap of certain sugar ash trees. Which meant, naturally enough, that the Meliae were responsible for bringing the booze to the party. They drank hearty and went wild enough that a commemorative series of Grecian urns depicting them topless in the shower were sold late at night for years.

But as with all really bitching parties, the group reached that time of night where the party slowed down and everyone was feeling mellow. People were sitting back, smoking cigarettes, and talking about how no, I really love you, man. Somewhere in the background, a particularly ambitious Erinye had figured out how to play Tubular Bells on a lyre.

“You know what?” Ceto, one of the Oceanids said, finally. “I figured it out. I mean, I figured it all out.”

“What?” Larunda, one of the Naiads asked.

“Huh?”

“What? What did you figure out?”

“Wh– Ohhhh. Mankind.” Ceto shook her hand. “I figured out mankind. Just now.”

“She is so wasted,” Kyrene, herself an Auloniad, said.

“No no no no no,” Ceto said, shaking a finger. “No. I did it. I figured out mankind. Right now.”

“What about them?” Larunda asked.

“Huh?”

“What did you figure out about Mankind?”

“Oh. I know what they need.”

“What do they need?”

“This,” Ceto said, waving her arms to encompass the whole area. “They need this.”

“Mind-blown overly mellow nymphs whose inhibitions have been taken down with fermented tree sap?” Kyrene giggled. “I’ll bet that’s what they need.”

“No no no. Think about it. Human beings are all so uptight. They need a chance to feel. Like. This.” Ceto grinned. “Because man, I totally feel so cool right now. They should feel this cool. Blow off some steam.”

“You are not going to teach them how to make méli,” Britomartis, one of the Meliae who brought the fermented sap, said firmly. “The last thing we need are a bunch of humans nailing faucets into our trees. Have you seen what those people do to maples?”

Nearby, one of the more powerful Naiads — a nymph named Orseis — wrinkled her pretty brow with thought. “She’s on to something,” she said. “Think about it. Humanity doesn’t really know how to party. They need something to relax them. Something that will lower their inhibitions. Bring their hearts closer to the surface. Give them a release.”

“I’m serious,” Britomartis said. “No fucking méli.”

“All right all right all right,” Ceto said. “No méli. There must be something else we could give them.”

One of the shy Napaeae — whose name has been lost to history — piped up “well, we could combine our natures. Berries and the like from the fields, or grapes. Yeasts. Water from the springs. Do a little fermenting and distilling and….”

There was a long pause.

“Yes,” Orseis said, slapping her hand on the table, which knocked her half cup of méli over. “Of course! We could make up whole batches of beverages that the humans would love, that would be like a méli for them! We could combine them and develop them and cultivate them. We could distill some and age it in barrels of oak to get that nice Dryad nature in them, and give it to the Scots, say.”

The idea caught on like wildfire, and within the hour thousands of overly creative nymphs of all description were busy turning their supernatural natures to the creation of a whole new kind of beverage, meant for mankind.

They had the highest of principles, of course. They wanted to relax us, and calm us, and make us feel good. And it was well known, to both scholars among mankind and among the nymphs themselves, that all nymphs of all varieties were eudaemons. Helpful. Friendly. Kind. Loving. This was well known.

And, as we know, that was also false. Because the choice to become a kakodaemon came from the heart, not from the lineage. And for every ten or fifteen eudaemons among the nymphs, a kakodaemon lurked, quiet and unseen. And as more and more nymphs got involved, those kakodaemons smiled, seeing some chance to spread mischief and have a little fun. And so they added hints and accents to the concoctions. They added addictive qualities here… they added bits of anger and resentment and sulleness there. They added torment and pain, and a loss of control. They coupled a loss of coordination with the loss of inhibition, and they gently nudged those losses of inhibitions to a higher extreme — so that instead of simply making human beings feel good and trust each other more, sometimes there were barfights or unexpected adultery.

These poisons were very, very slight compared to the whole. And while the nymphs would normally have noticed them as they were working on it, it’s worth noting everyone involved was totally wasted on méli. Quality control was somewhat hard under the circumstances.

And so the beverages were brought to the real world, and real world techniques for making them were taught to the humans, as the nymphs whispered the recipies to trusted human beings, confidents, and lovers.

And beers and ales were brewed, and they were good. And wines were pressed and fermented and aged, and they were sweet. And whiskey and rum and vodka and gin spread. Liquor became all the rage, especially at parties.

But the poisons that the kakodaemons slipped into them remained. And so heartache followed in some cases. Liquor made some people angry. Others became depressed. Still others thought they could dance when they were drunk, and that was a sad sight indeed.

But the poisons did not affect all human beings equally. Nor did all drinks cause the same effects. The individual human might be more susceptable to one poison, making him an angry drunk. Another might find himself craving liquor all the time, as the poison wrapped around his liver and his soul. A third might found Depeche Mode.

And some human beings? Well, some human beings are more sensitive to the poisons, and have a very human, very literal reaction to them. The liquor poisons them. In extreme cases, hospitalization has to follow. But far more commonly, they simply feel like sheer, unmitigated Hell when the liquor works through their system and the poison is left behind.

Some people have no sensitivity to these specific poisons, and always feel fresh and cheery the following day. Others aren’t always sensitive to them — sometimes they have seasonal allergies which make them more sensitive, or some other factors that opens their souls metaphysically speaking. Still others always suffer the pains of the morning after.

And of course, these ‘hangovers’ were exploited by those who advocated temperance or just didn’t like parties. They would rail at the suffering men and woman, and mock them, and suggest that they should avoid these things going forward. And so they sowed guilt and anger and arguments about alcohol even when no one was drinking it right then — a very deep poison indeed, causing division where the eudaemons only meant to increase harmony.

The nymphs feel badly that things didn’t work out quite as they’d hoped, but since most of that night was a haze anyway, they didn’t worry overly much about it. For the most part, they got on with their immortal lives and figured that even with the downside that alcohol brought with it, the up side still made a lot of humans happy, and that was okay with them.

As for the kakodaemons?

Set aside for the moment hangovers, as miserable as they made people. Set aside for the moment the indiscretions and embarrassments, from unplanned pregancies through to videos of the office party proving you called your boss a miserable scrotum. Set aside the depressions and the agonies and the interminable Beatnik poetry we ended up having to listen to.

Set all that aside, and consider this. According to the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration, there were 17,013 alcohol related fatalities on the road in 2003 alone. And over half a million injuries.

Statistics like that make a kakodaemon smile an evil little smile. As far as they are concerned, that was one totally kickass party.

It is rumored, by the by, that the Pegaeae — the nymphs of the springs — learned of the poisons and learned of a way to counteract them. So, someone who drinks a large amount of spring water — or, in more practically, any water — will help shield himself from a hangover’s effect. This is because the act of drinking water while drinking or drunk calls the attention of a Pegaea to you. However, as with all the other nymphs, some Pegaeae are kakodaemons instead of eudaemons, and if you should get one of those she’ll likely just make the hangover worse.

It is also rumored that vitamin B-12 helps hangovers. I can’t speak to that, because as everyone knows vitamin B-12 is in the province of the satyrs, and they weren’t anywhere near that party. Still, it’s probably a good idea to stock up on your B complex vitamins anyway.

Regardless, one should remember that the kakodaemons do in fact enjoy making you suffer. And more to the point, they enjoy making you badly injured or dead. So when you indulge in drink, try to do so in moderation lest they have a chance to wreak havoc with you. And don’t turn around and operate heavy machinery — including a car, motorcycle, truck, or folding tandem bicycle — after you’ve been downing shooters, okay? Kakodaemons might like those statistics I quoted, but the rest of us don’t.