As evening descended, storm clouds began to roll in to add a thick humidity to the heat and bring an early darkness to the sky. The wind was just starting to pick up when Feather let her mistress know that supper was prepared, and the breeze brought a chilling relief to the sticky weather. Feather, however, seemed oblivious to the discomfort. Hair plastered to her head, she moved spryly about and maintained her pleasant mood all the while. And when Kijani complimented her on the wonderful smells that came of her work, the girl could only smile happily. 

“I’m glad you have a liking for it, mistress! Ma always says that good food should smell how it tastes, and that if you can do that you’re halfway there.” She began to pour cider from a cool jug, a share for each of them into rough wooden tumblers. “Found this in the cistern, mistress. Don’t think it’s started to turn over yet so it might be softer on your tummy than the harder stuff the menfolk drink. I don’t remember seeing it there this morning though. I think it’s fresh squeezed.”

A rumble of thunder rolled across the heavens just then, causing Feather to look up towards the ceiling. A soft patter of rain began to make itself known against the roof. “Sounds like it’ll be a sod churner, mistress. I hope Master Vinegar is alright. He hasn’t come back in yet. Working late, most like. I know he was up early this morning, too.”

It was dark enough outside now that the next flash of lightning could be seen, and a second peel of thunder rattled the shutters.

—————

Victor was not having a good day. He had stayed up late the previous night in the mill house by the steam, pressing a fresh batch of soft cider for Kijani. It had probably been an… inefficient use of the water powered cider press, but the sight of how much she had enjoyed the gifted apple the other day and the memory of watching the juices run from the corners of her mouth had stuck in his head. His houseguest had savored the fresh fruit so much that he though it a little enough thing to squeeze fresh juice for her. Come morning, he rose early to bottle it and place it in the cooling cistern for her and Feather to find.

Then after a quick breakfast, he had headed out to mark some of the older trees for cutting on the furthest lots. Apple trees were usually productive for about a hundred years, and after that would have to be cleared away for new saplings. Victor didn’t know the exact ages of any of his trees, having bought the orchards only recently, but he could tell by sight which ones weren’t producing as they should. The pear trees were worse. At best, he might get twenty years out of them. It was easy to go through the pear lots and see which ones had to go! Once the harvest was over, he could let the woodcutters in to take whatever he’d marked and (after setting aside his own share for seasoning) make a tidy profit.

Only the further lots were upstream from the mill, and he could see by the rising waters that there must have been a storm upstream; the waters were fast and muddy. Victor knew he would have to hurry back to not only beat the rains that were surely coming, but to raise the floodgate on the cider mill’s damn. If the water was allowed to build up behind the stone embankment, the damn could easily burst and wreck the mill wheel in the process! The amount of water wasn’t dangerous so much to anyone downstream. The danger was to his livelihood. Without the cider mill, a good half of his work would be impossible! The press allowed for cider and juices and apple wines, provided pulps for jellies and jams and apple butters, and a destroyed mill and wheel would destroy profits he would need to help pay hired workers in the next season.

So it was with all due haste that he had tried to drive his cart horse and wagon back. Neither were made for racing, however, and a bad rut caused him to bounce hard upon the wagon’s bench. A crack of wood echoed despair in his heart as Victor realized that the rear axle shaft must just have splintered in its moorings. The cart’s speed slowed considerably. The rains had just started as he turned about to see both back wheels canted upwards at odd angles, a sure sign that the axle had not only splintered but had outright snapped. There was no going anywhere at this point. The horse struggling in its harness, Victor snapped his head back around to see the beast suddenly go down lame. In trying to pull the shattered wagon, it had managed to throw a shoe and twist its own ankle in the process.

Victor, frustrated and angry at fate, paused long enough to chuckle bitterly. A broken cart pulled by a broken horse owned by a broken man. Looking skyward, he scowled up at the heavens and yelled, “You know, you’ve got a weird sense of humor!”

Shaking his head, he dismounted and limped forward to unharness the wounded animal before it hurt itself any more.