From the quaint town of Sausalito, just north of San Francisco, to Donegal on the west coast of Ireland unfolds an exceptional story of murder and romance. Hawk’s Brew follows a line of Viking triplet brothers through history. The familial traits of the brothers carry over generations following Viking expansion and trade routes through the tenth to twelfth century. On the shores of Ireland, their descendants are drawn into the vendettas and violence that threaten to end their line. From the distant past to the present day, three intertwined tales steeped in violence and love come together through the “Gift” and abilities of a young Irish youth and the love of a woman. 

Note from the author: The three areas that still show the extent of Viking expansion in the ninth to eleventh centuries are Iceland, with its population of just under a thousand, France, and Ireland. We’ve long been aware that many towns and features in Ireland have Norse derivations. Dublin, from the Norse for black pool, being one of the most known. Recent genetic studies have shown that an amazing percentage of Irish carry Viking gnomes. I elected to begin the story in the north west portion of Ireland, one of the first areas that the Vikings first visited. To this day, it is a land that is wild and desolate, it’s inhabitants as often as not dependent on the sea that surrounds them. It is also the ancestral home of my wife’s family which makes the portrayal of the various personalities, much easier to put on the page.

Excerpt

The appearance of the man dressed in a brown tweed jacket, holding a sign printed with "MR. FALCONI," gave little reason to inspire confidence. His pants were rumpled, his shirt stretched tight over a stomach that protruded from a body with no other signs of fat. A cap was perched lightly on a head crowned with uncombed graying hair. He held the sign with two hands over his head, as his height could be no more than five feet, four inches.

Suzanne looked at Mats, whispering, "Oh God, this is your expert on Irish breweries?"

"So it would seem," answered Mats.

Mats saw the little man smile as he lowered his sign. He had noticed their looks of concern along with the recognition.

"Mr. Falconi?" he asked, walking toward Mats.

"Yes," said Mats, extending his hand. "Mr. Tobin, I take it?"

"Charlie Tobin, sure 'tis me," came the reply, almost sung in an Irish lilt. "Have you baggage to pick up?"

"No, we only brought two carry-ons. Mr. Tobin, this is my wife, Suzanne."

"Glad to make your acquaintance, ma'am. Here, let me take that bag for you. There's a pub just down this ramp. We can stop and have a beer while I go over the breweries that I think fit your needs. There are a number within a few hours' drive from here."

The little man led the way, bouncing rather than walking.

"Really, Mats?" whispered Suzanne in Mats' ear, taking his arm as the Irishman moved ahead with her bag.

"Let's give him a chance. He was recommended by a friend in Sausalito who has spent a lot of time in Ireland."

The airport bar had tried to emulate the look and feel of an old Irish pub, but it had missed. It was the type of place you could only find in an airport—any airport. Still, it offered semi-private seating along the walls in three-sided booths, and it was there that Tobin led them, depositing Suzanne's bag on a chair at a nearby table.

"Three beers, darlin'," Tobin called in his musical voice as the waitress approached. "A Murphy's, a Dugan's, and a Cork Cream. Oh, and you might as well bring me a Bushmills chaser." He turned to Mats. "No reason you shouldn't start learning about what you are thinking of buying, now, is there?" 

"I like your style, Mr. Tobin," said Mats, meaning it. He had seen the intelligence in the man's eyes as he'd appraised his employer and his wife before sliding into the booth.

"Charlie. Call me Charlie."

Falconi looked at Tobin, peeling off his rumpled camouflage. There was nothing condescending in Mats' manner, just an intelligence that recognized the good and discarded the frills and showmanship of the impish Irishman.

"These two are medium-sized family-owned concerns that might be receptive to making an exclusive label for you." Tobin pushed two glasses and the bottles of Murphy's and Dugan's toward Mats. "Cork Cream is a cooperative owned by the workers. They might be harder to deal with since everything is done by committee."

Mats tasted one, then the other, passing the glasses to Suzanne, who also sipped the golden liquid before placing the glasses back on the table. Only the Cork Cream held any promise. The others tasted watered down despite their raw alcoholic content.

"Not exactly what I had in mind," said Mats, pushing the bottle of Cork Cream slowly toward Tobin, who took what was left in the glass and drained it before answering Mats.

"You've got good taste as well as bein' a good judge of character—mine, that is. Cork is the best of the three, but no matter. I have six other places lined up for you to visit. We'll just cross Dugan's and Murphy's off the list." The little man stood as he downed the shot of whiskey. "Shall we be off? We can knock off two or three breweries before I deposit you at your hotel."