The Press That Sang Back — By first frost, Ronan had filled three coat pockets with sounds: twig-snaps, apple-thuds, the papery shiver of leaves racing over his boots. Read the full story →
By first frost, Ronan had filled three coat pockets with sounds: twig-snaps, apple-thuds, the papery shiver of leaves racing over his boots. He wanted one more—the brightest note of the harvest—so he hurried through the press yard as the screw beam turned and the air smelled of crushed apple skins, wet wood, and iron.
The old press answered with a groan, then a bright ping that skipped like a spark. Ronan leaned close. Another ping rang from the gear housing, joined by a quick trill, quick-quick-trill, too lively for metal. Out stepped a brass cricket no longer than his thumb, polishing its legs on a drop of cider. “You brought the low notes,” it said. “I keep the high ones.”
Ronan laughed so hard the baskets seemed to rattle along. He tapped a barrel hoop; the cricket bowed across the screw; leaves hissed overhead; apples bumped in the tubs like small drums. Soon the whole yard was playing, not for Ronan to keep, but for every passerby to carry away in their bones. By first frost, Ronan’s pockets were empty, and the harvest note was everywhere.
