Chapter 13

The Cocoons

Brewer’s Reputation: 3,411.

Dream Cutter Stone Shard Quest: 13,300/15,000 shards.

Hawkin

My forester axe was sharper than my knives. With its bit, I fileted one of the large brown bream that I caught. Cutting the fish from its skin felt like spreading warm butter. I steamed the filets in my old woven basket over a pot of water.

Since garlic was plentiful, I peeled and sliced a few cloves. My fingertips became sticky. When I moved on to make a broth, the pot handles smelled of garlic. The handle of my wooden spoon smelled of garlic. When I slid out the chair to my table, the wooden back smelled of garlic. The handle of my knife smelled of garlic. But soon the vicious vapors of onion filled my cabin. I put the onions in the pot of boiling water.

I fetched last year’s dried tomatoes from a barrel in my cellar. When I touched the barrel head, it smelled of garlic and onions. I couldn’t wash my hands. Not when It felt to me that Barnacle-eyes was one step behind me, touching everything that I touched.

I chopped last year's dried tomatoes. My fingers stained yellow when I scooped the pieces into the pot. I added the fish skin which Barnacle-eyes and Thrush would have shared. The pot made bubbles like round teeth that chewed what I threw in. I supposed that was enough to remind me of my dear friends. I gave them extra carrots and a small draught of a stout.

I brought out a bowl and a spoon for Abigail. She seemed deep in thought.

“Breakfast,” I said.

“Smells good,” she said. “I was going through quest notifications that have been piling up.”

I sat. “Anything good?”

“Thewwy’s Puncheon Tap. I haven’t worked on it all since that last shard. I’ve got seven thousand more to get.”

“Will you do it?”

“Is this the bream? It’s good. You didn’t overcook it.”

“It is.”

“It’s a simple shard quest. It’s one of the donation quests. If I donate another seven thousand bottles of beer to Potere, I’ll be rewarded with a tap handle in an inventory space that is linked to a puncheon barrel.”

“Over one hundred gallons of beer.”

“Without the weight of it,” she said. “Did you put garlic in here?”

“I did.”

“We do have a lot of it.”

“Could you donate any beer?” I said.

“I’ve got to use alternative grains.”

“You could just brew wheat ales then.”

“It would be better if I use the opportunity to really explore other grains. Sorghum, buckwheat, spelt, to name a few.”

“So you will do it.”

“Well I am curious. And if I can get my hands on some of these grains, I can grow them around here. Or on Gift Number One.”

“Do you think I put too much garlic?”

“It’s good garlic, so no.”

Breakfast was light. After a few mugs of fresh water, Abigail and I gathered our things and left. We took the northern trail. At the end of an hour, she withdrew two bottles of Honey Cocoon attributes from her inventory.

The yellow birch looked bronze today. The hemlocks wore bright green tips over their old garb of dark green. Their shadows were black beneath a big bright sun. Tree leaves hushed in the canopy.

“This is a good place,” Abigail said.

The bark of young hemlocks was scaly like shreds of cinnamon brown paper. The young ones were covered in that bark from base to top. The ones that towered had furrowed bark. And unlike pines, their branches ranged along the base. Abigail left the younger hemlock alone. She pulled the cork of her beer. It squeaked and then popped out. Foam ran down the glass of the bottle and dripped onto the base of the hemlock.

Each splash of foam swelled in the shape of cocoons. They reached the size of chestnuts; some of apples, others of melons. The foam flashed. Silver cocoon threads were revealed when the light dimmed.

The threads were sticky. Every cocoon wiggled for a moment. As if breathing, each cocoon perceptibly rose and fell. Monster fireflies.

By the time my inspection had satisfied my curiosity, Abigail had poured libations on neighboring hemlocks. Cocoons stuck to trunks, to branches, to whole layers of evergreen needles. Some were laid in shadow. Those that lay in the sun shined and emitted a faint buzz. Something pleasant yet eerie, like laughter along an empty beach. They also purred and moved the way that caterpillars swallow.

So it went. I followed Abigail off trail as she held her bottles upside down. She dashed through the wilderness and I gave her wake a wide berth so that I didn’t disturb the burgeoning cocoons. When we reached the briar where blackberries battled for space, Abigail slung arcs of her beer into the density of thorns.

That was all for now. She said she’d like to save the rest of her bottles for other locations.

We cut west back to the main trail. Along the way, I chopped two fallen trees that lay across the path. I stacked the wood and took a break for fresh water.

By mid afternoon, we reached a meadow where the dandelions and wild strawberries grew. The dandelions were out in full force. The entire meadow was quilted yellow. The serrated leaves of the strawberries patiently laid low.

Abigail poured a couple different sheltering attribute beers. We laid out separate bedding. Until late afternoon, we gathered wood and put a fire between us. It was twilight when I sat to brew a few beers. The first was an oatmeal stout. Something I hadn’t brewed since I was bronze rank.

The oats were toasted so that they were dark brown. Since the beer was only going to 250ml, I inspected every little oat. Those that took on even a matte of black, I set aside. I blended silver rank barley with cragajack barley. I roasted those as well so that they were nearly black. I used Smurgard hops for their earthy and bitter orange peel aroma. I used ethereal yeast and ethereal water to finish the brew, and Crumble Cloud for the foam.

I leveled Crumble Cloud to level 650, Fire and Roast to level 1698, Brewer’s Harvest to level 1656, Alchemical Control to level 1828, and Mash Maser to 1868. I still did not break into gold rank.