The Brewery

A sharp chill cuts the air, yet it was not harvest time. It was dawn; so early that the morning light hardly shines beyond the barley and the occasional spot of trees. Gold and coppery strands gently danced before the greens of grass. Far over the hills lay the Jones’ orchard with apples of gold and green, tart and sweet. Further beyond lay the brewery.

My name is Aubrey Hughes, and I’m the daughter of George Hughes. My mother is called Abigail Hughes. The three of us all work to provide the bread at the bakehouse. My mother and I help to deliver bread to the homes of those working in the fields while my father brings the flour in from the mill by horse-drawn cart. He teases me about being stronger than him and we compete to see which of us can bring in the sacks faster.

Yesteryear, a young man who once worked about the bakehouse was beaten by the head of the house: a woman by the name of Anne Taylor. Madam Taylor is a strong and wizened woman with a score and three years of baking for the community. The young man was a troubled soul called Thomas Harrison. Hardly sixteen, I took a fancy to him, for he was a might older than me. He had a handsome face and good manners; he’d always be the first in the morning to open the doors and lift his hat with a smile that shed a light so great my cheeks would flush and I’d be forced to look away.

I never knew what happened to Thomas. I missed him dearly for he, despite the great feats he accomplished in his work, had a candor that was unmatched by any young man this side of the country. His disappearance could not stop me from my work, father reminded me, “the good people of this place need all the effort you can give to keep from starving”. Being awake so early was something I still never grew accustomed to. I hadn’t anything but crummings the night before, and my arms were sore and so too were my back and shoulders from hauling those sacks of flour inside. I had not the heart to tell father that such parts of me hurt after encouraging our races lest I would warrant a beating.

Today wasn’t different than any other. Sir Lewis Taylor, son of Anne Taylor, went about getting the oven hot once more whilst I and my mother went about preparing the dough. Madam Anne Taylor was busy getting the loaves from even earlier that morning ready to be delivered.

“Young Aubrey,” she began “Sir John Clarke has a bucket of yeast at his brewery. Could you fetch it here?”

“Yes, ma’am” I replied as I turned to leave,

“Aubrey,” she called as I reached the door,

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Do not even think to spill a drop of the yeast, lest you face the consequence”

I swallowed as I nodded with another meek yes ma’am.

Despite all of the hard labor and the past three winters I have worked for Madam Anne Taylor, she still set me affright. Her eyes possessed a glazed quality like that of a toad or a fish that had long since perished. Soulless is a word I’d use aloud if I had a mind to be beaten till the next harvest.

I always loved the long walks in the early morn. I was hardly taller than the grass and oft imagined myself to be a mouse or a snake amongst the fronds. To remove myself from the idea that I was simply a bakehouse hand was just elation. Finding myself alone in the field with naught a soul in sight was refreshing. Refreshing like dipping your toes and feet into a spring. I have not seen a spring and have only heard of it, but I’d truly like to see one someday. Sometimes I was lucky enough to spot a rat or a mouse. If I was truly blessed, I would encounter a hare. Once, perhaps a fortnight or so ago, I encountered a massive hare that must’ve been as long as my forearm. He didn’t try to run away when I approached. Mayhap it was caused by the enticing crummings that I offered him. Watching his little face twist and his nose twitch made me giggle. After he was done, he gave me a small look of appreciation before heading further down the path before disappearing. My mother told me that it was silly that I’d believe that such a simple creature could be appreciative, but I believe it so.

I had always thought that the brewery always had a strange scent to it. The master of the brewhouse is a man called John Clarke. Master Clarke is a kindly old fellow that lost his wife in his youth to the pox. Clarke was the man that made the beer for our scattered community. Without him, we wouldn’t have lovely evening gatherings during harvest. Without the Jones’ orchard, he wouldn’t have apples for applejack. What Master Clarke was locally famous for was his gin. Father says that he, like a tanner or a smithy, had a ripe profession and had to further himself from others as not to cause trouble. I certainly had to cover my nose whence I came. John Clarke was busy about the brewery and I wished not to bother him. I found the bucket he had left and exchanged it for the best loaf Anne Taylor had this morn. John Clarke is always a kindly man. Mother told me that he traded Juniper berries to father whence our stomachs were upset. Father could not afford the gin he made, however, but he tells me and mother that it has a heady aroma with a taste left after similar to Juniper. John Clarke seemed to be alone today, which was strange for, to my knowledge, Thomas Harrison was his nephew and worked the distillery with him. In earnest, I had hoped to see him hence my eagerness to come this far. With a note of disappointment, I began to carry the yeast home.

The bucket wasn’t near as heavy as the sacks of flour, but the rope handle was uncomfortable to hold, as it dug into the padding of my hands and fingers. The yeast itself sat atop the undrinkable byproduct of the beer. It was like the scum one would find atop a shaded pond. It bubbled and popped as I trudged along like it was alive and each little burst was a “hello” or “how do you do?” I became affixed on the idea of the yeast hopping out and asking for crummings and I couldn’t help but smile at the silliness of such a notion. The crunching of grass startled me, causing my heart to race as I didn’t fear for my well-being at that moment, I feared for the yeast becoming spilled. Even the smallest drop lost is a tremendous waste. My eyes darted about as I was disillusioned from my silly fantasy. Carefully setting the bucket in a spot on the path so it wouldn’t tip, I began to tread in the direction of the stomping.

I have not a clue how much time I spent walking through the grass and foliage, but it mattered not. The thrashing grew distant as I swiftly approached, and I kept running. I was far too deep into the grass now to give up. My heart pounded and I was drenched with sweat despite the cold feeling that tightened my skin. My clothing was soiled by the dampness of the morning dew and the mud that sullied my socks. There was then a glade and a crumpled figure adorned with clothing that was far past ruined.

Its eyes. They pierced my soul. Like that of Madam Anne Taylor: deep and dark with a strange film that reflected light like silver. The skin around the globes was sunken and dark in contrast to the face: pale like fine sand and tight like leather around the bones of the face. Thick and like rope was the hair that hung from its head and patches of dark and sickly hair was about his face. Blood and sinew hung from the lips and was stuck betwixt the teeth that were shades of brown and yellow.

I couldn’t scream. My only priority was to get away. If that monstrosity said anything, I simply couldn’t hear it. The pounding of my heart filled my ears. My first instinct was to get as far away as possible, yet I had to get the yeast. The bucket was far behind me, untipped. I rushed in that direction with the thudding of my heart’s rhythm and the thrashing and ripping of the grass to my side. I grabbed the bucket by the rope, sloshing beer about and staining my skirt and apron. The creature was upon me. I could make out sandstone skin from the brush and the faded eyes of intent.

I could hardly feel any part of my body as my feet unconsciously carried me away from the demon. I cared not for the fate that awaited me at the bakehouse. A bruise across my rear or my face is far less terrifying than that of some God-forsaken creature tearing me asunder. Madam Anne Taylor was the first to notice the state of disarray I was in. She cared not for my condition, of course. She cared for the slight spillage that occurred whilst I ran for my life. My meager attempt at speaking while breathless was dwarfed by the yawping that came from Madam Anne Taylor that day. I swore to her that I’d never work for that woman again. My mother and father greatly protested my actions as such, so I found it best to sneak into my father’s wagon to find work elsewhere. I am not so foolish as to return to those who believe me to be nothing more than a flighty little girl or a scaremonger. I know well what I saw in the field, for it was so uncanny that one couldn’t make up such a thing.

Regardless of it being a monster or demon sent from hell, such things are created by humankind - by our actions and consequences as such.