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The First Brewing
The First Brewing
Part-2
The clearing smelled different that week—sweeter, earthier, alive. For days, the settlers had searched the nearby ridges and streams, finding more of those tough little apples. Not the orchard kind, but small, sharp ones that puckered the mouth. Yet, in their rough skins, Thomas saw possibility.
By mid-morning, Eleanor stood among her neighbors, her basket brimming with apples. Samuel carried his own little pile in his shirt, Anna skipped at her side. The community—farmers, widows, hunters, even the children—were gathered in a circle, like they were waiting for something sacred to begin.
“Never thought I’d be thankful for such ugly fruit,” one man muttered, holding up a bruised apple.
Thomas grinned. “Ugly fruit makes fine drink. You’ll see.”
The clearing smelled different that week—sweeter, earthier, alive. For days, the settlers had searched the nearby ridges and streams, finding more of those tough little apples. Not the orchard kind, but small, sharp ones that puckered the mouth. Yet, in their rough skins, Thomas saw possibility.
By mid-morning, Eleanor stood among her neighbors, her basket brimming with apples. Samuel carried his own little pile in his shirt, Anna skipped at her side. The community—farmers, widows, hunters, even the children—were gathered in a circle, like they were waiting for something sacred to begin.
“Never thought I’d be thankful for such ugly fruit,” one man muttered, holding up a bruised apple.
Thomas grinned. “Ugly fruit makes fine drink. You’ll see.”
As the apples were ground, laughter broke out. A woman scolded her son for sneaking bites. Two men argued over whether to strain the pulp through cloth or let it settle as it was. Children splashed juice on each other until their cheeks glowed pink.
Nokomis, the elder who had quietly watched, stepped forward. Her long gray braid swayed as she knelt near the barrel. She dipped her fingers into the sticky juice, tasting it thoughtfully.
“Your drink is different,” she said in measured English, her voice deep as the earth, “but the way you make it—together—that is familiar.”
Thomas tilted his head. “What do you mean?”
She smiled softly. “In my people, we make drink from berries and corn. We gather, we sing, we tell stories. The drink is not just for thirst. It is for bonding.”
The settlers grew quiet. It struck Eleanor—here, in this rough clearing, two worlds were meeting, not in war, but in shared labor, shared spirit.
By dusk, the barrel was brimming with pulpy juice. They covered it with cloth and set it near the fire’s warmth, where fermentation would begin its quiet magic. For the first time in weeks, there was an air of anticipation that wasn’t about survival, but about joy.
Eleanor helped scrub the sticky juice from Anna’s hands. The little girl was glowing, her braids damp with sweat, but her eyes shining.
“Will it taste sweet, Mother?”
“Sweet enough to make us smile,” Eleanor replied, brushing her daughter’s cheek.
That evening, Thomas lingered as the others drifted back to their cabins. He placed his brass compass on the table beside the cider barrel.
“You always carry that thing,” Eleanor teased gently.
He looked at it, the firelight glinting off its polished face. “A compass keeps you steady, even when the land feels strange. But sometimes…” He paused, meeting her eyes. “…sometimes, people can do the same.”
Eleanor felt warmth rise in her chest—unexpected, unsettling, but not unwelcome. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, suddenly aware of how quiet the night was, save for the crickets and the crackle of the fire.
Days passed. Each morning, someone checked the cider barrel. Bubbles formed, a tangier scent rising. Anticipation spread like fire. Even the weariest settlers carried themselves with more hope.
One night, Eleanor overheard two men arguing.
“Why waste apples on drink when we could dry them for winter?” one snapped.
But another answered, “Because we need more than food to live. We need something to remind us we’re alive.”
The words struck Eleanor deep. She realized this was never about cider alone. It was about creating a reason to gather, to laugh, to feel human again.
On the seventh day, Thomas declared, “Tomorrow, we taste.”
The news spread like wildfire. Even those who had doubted were suddenly eager, asking what mugs to use, who would bring bread, whether they should sing.
That night, Eleanor tucked Samuel and Anna into bed.
“Tomorrow,” she whispered, kissing their foreheads, “we’ll drink cider together. And it will taste of more than apples—it will taste of hope.”
Anna smiled drowsily. “Hope in a cup.”
Eleanor laughed softly. “Yes, love. Hope in a cup.”
with the cider resting, the community waiting, and the settlers learning that the true drink they were brewing wasn’t cider at all—it was trust, laughter, and belonging.
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