Ghost Apple Cider

It was early, just after dawn, when the pegasus-drawn cart pulled into town. It pulled up next to the burnt remains of the Hopping Hare. It had only been a short while since it had burned down, the studs and joists a blackened skeleton of the inn's former glory. A few rainfalls and a nest of squirrels had prematurely aged the remains of the building.

The lone figure, cowled in a cloak and hood, stepped down from the cart, scratched the pegasus under the cheek, then stood over the remains, surveying them, much like one, upon entering a messy room, might decide which bit of the chaos to start ordering first.

The figure pulled free the hood revealing a waterfall of brown hair, eyes as green as emeralds, and two lapis-lazuli earrings. Her eyes narrowed, determining the best plan forward.

Her first stop was to the town carpenter. “I'm going to rebuild the inn,” she said as soon as she entered. It took the carpenter a moment to recognize her.

“Miss Murakami!” he said. “Of course. But it will require a lot of work, and that means it will require a lot of workers.” He wiped some sawdust off of his hands. “And that means it will require a lot of gold.”

She tossed a bag of gold onto the counter. “Let me know if you need more,” she said.

He weighed the bag in his hands. “That's a good start,” he said. But when he looked up, he saw that he was speaking to an empty workshop.

Her next stop was to the local merchants. They were easier to control when pitted against one another. “I'm rebuilding the inn,” she said. “So I need goods. Specifically, I need spirits and ales from all over the world.”

The merchant on the left spoke first. “I know of a fellow who imports the finest elf wines and dwarven distilled ales. I shall be able to accommodate that request.”

The one on the right crossed his arms. “Well, I'll get you rare ogre moonshine, and the stone fairy's liquor distilled from minerals.”

The first looked at the second. “I'll include draperies for the rooms within your inn,” he said.

The second, not to be outdone. “I'll provide crockery and flatware, fine as you've ever seen.”

The two went back and forth, outbidding one another. Marumi smiled as they battled. When it seemed their generosity had met its natural limit, she held up a hand. “Excellent, my good men,” she said. She tossed them each a bag of gold. “See to it that they arrive as soon as you can.”

Her next stop was to the cooper. He was ready for her when she arrived. “Ah, Miss Murakami,” he said. “Need some barrels for storing your ales?”

She nodded. “But I need something more.”

“Name it and it's yours,” he said.

“A cider press,” she said.

He mulled those words around in his head for a moment. “Very well,” he said. “I shall produce for you the finest cider press the world has ever seen.”

She nodded, tossing him his own bag of gold. “And however many barrels you think is fair,” she said.

“Of course,” he said.

She went from specialist to specialist until the whole town it seemed was in her employ. Later that day, the skeletal remains of the old Hopping Hare were removed and triaged. Some pieces would be reused, giving the spirit of the old inn to the new inn, but the rest would just be cut into small pieces to be used for firewood or to give to children to carve. The wood would be used to cook the meals and warm the hearths, infusing the old inn into those that would visit in the early days of its reopening.

Satisfied with the progress of the work, Marumi took a bucket from the back of the cart. The pegasus was in a pen with local horses, and it ate alongside them. Several children leaned on the fence and watched as it would whip flies with its tail, or flick its wings to ward off the more resilient ones.

She looked at the bucket, ran her hands along its side. It still had the dent in the side from where she had clobbered Kenichi. She thought of him, the hero that plowed on ahead. Fools rush in, and so forth. She didn't have the heart to get a new bucket. It was all she had to remember Kenichi by. That, and the sign from the old Hopping Hare. And the gold. All that gold.

Marumi carried the bucket into the woods. She walked into the dark woods, deeper and deeper. Great antlered deer watched her with cautious tension, and even a bear stopped its raid on a beehive to observe her as she marched across the loam.

In a clearing in the middle of the wood she found it: the tree with its glowing, translucent fruit that looked like little skulls. Ghost apples. She filled the bucket with what she surmised were the ripest of the fruit. As she plucked them from the trees, they gave little sounds like wailing spirits.

Returning from the wood, she found that the main structure of the inn had already been built. Workers hammered and sawed and used ropes and pulleys to put a roof joist atop the structure. It was looking good.

The cooper rode up with a wagon pulled by a mule. “I got started as soon as you left,” he said. “I couldn't stop until I was done.” He pulled a sheet from atop the thing on the cart, revealing a cider press. It had the same level of craftsmanship that his barrels had: water tight and solid. With the help of an idle worker, he lifted it off the cart, setting it on the ground before unloading the barrels. “There'll be more barrels, I assure you,” he said.

Marumi looked at the press. The handles were lacquered wood, comfortable to grip. It used basic machinery to make the process easier, a screw turning to press a thick block of wood against the apples, where they'd drain into a basin below. She nodded in approval. “Thank you,” she said.

She placed a few of the ghost apples into the press and gave it a crank. It glided smoothly, and at first she wasn't sure if she had given it enough force, but was pleased to see that it had effortlessly crushed the apples within, sending the ethereal juice into the basin below. She repeated this process until she had filled the basin, then poured the contents into one of the barrels. Then repeated the process until the barrel was full. The ghost apples were surprisingly juicy, compared to the more mundane variety. She peered into the barrel. Within was a glowing liquid with wispy intangible things swirling around it like ghostly fish. She closed the barrel.

By now, the workers had finished with the cellar, so she enlisted some of them to help her carry the barrels there so they could ferment in the cool darkness. By the time the main structure of the inn was built, she had filled several barrels.

That night, she slept in her wagon, staring up at the stars through the gap in the curtain.

The next day, the workers returned early in the morning. She cooked some food over a campfire, making a hearty breakfast for all who came. This encouraged them to work even harder. By the afternoon, only the finishing touches were needed to complete the inn: the windows, doors, furniture, etc. The carpenter gave her a tour of the inside. It still smelled like sawdust and lacquer. She ran her hand down the walls. They were smooth and expertly joined. She saw the dining area, the rooms, the cellar, the common areas. It was almost exactly like the old inn, but better in every single way.

“This is good,” she said. “When do you expect it to be finished?”

The carpenter leaned against the bar. “I imagine we'll be finished before the day is out.”

She nodded.

Later, she made all the workers lunch, and that helped speed things up faster. Workers carried in furniture: tables, chairs, dressers, beds, mirrors, even some artwork. Other workers installed doors and windows, finishing them with trim. When it was one hand to sundown, the carpenter found her again. “Just one last thing,” he said. He led her to the signpost. The wooden post, like a gallows almost, had two empty hooks. “What did you want to call the new place? I'll carve you up a sign and have the boy deliver it tomorrow.”

She looked at the post. “I already have a sign,” she said. She went back to the wagon and pulled a cloth-wrapped parcel out from under one of the benches. She handed it to the carpenter.

He unwrapped the sign and smiled. “It's a little burnt, but still pretty solid. I think this will be perfect.” He hung the sign on the hooks. “Welcome back,” he said.

One of the workers came up from the dim pre-dusk darkness. “Miss Murakami,” he said. “You've been so kind to us, making us food and paying us so well, that we decided to have a roast in your honor,” he said. Behind him, the meat of a boar was roasting over a fire. “Our way of saying thanks.”

As the workers and Marumi gathered around the roasting meat, the merchants arrived with the first of many shipments. Marumi opened a cask of ale and treated them all to a drink. The festivities went on until well into the night, gradually waning until it was just Marumi sitting by the glowing embers of the fire, poking them with a stick. She looked up at the stars once more. They were a latticework of blue gems, blue like her earrings. They almost looked like dewdrops on a spider's web.

She let the fire burn out, dousing it with a bucket of water for good measure. She went into the inn, a lamp guiding her, finding her room. Once again, she was home. But she still felt like she was missing something.