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Fiction
The Apple Tree
In the edge of a spring-green meadow, standing tall and strong, grew an apple tree. The tree was gnarled and twisted and old, but it was beautiful beyond all words. Each spring, its branches filled with snow-white blossoms which sent forth sweet smells floating like magic on the wind. For miles and miles beyond the apple tree's meadow, men would stop their plowing and women would stop their sewing to breath deeply of the near-intoxicating breezes that had been kissed and blessed by the old tree's blossoms. In a few short months, the blossoms gave birth to apples--the sweetest, purest apples anyone had ever imagined. Many an adventurous young boy scaled the knee-high wooden fence to steal the fallen apples and bring them back for their young sweethearts. The tree seemed to be as old as time itself, and as cherished and revered as an angel from God's own country.
The old man hated the tree.
He did not simply dislike it or despise it, he truly hated the magnificent tree from the very pit of his wrinkled old heart. The tree stood at the very edge of his yard, straddling and growing around the wooden fence that separated his domain from the emerald green meadow. The beautiful white blossoms that appeared right outside his door every spring were like a blight to his soul. To him, the bewitching aromas were a stench matched only by Hell itself. The apples that descended from their birthing branches to his yard were tiny little demon seed, always threatening to sprout into another bane of his heart. Even the gentle creaking of branches in the winter was as maddening as fingernails drawn slowly across a slateboard.
He had tried and tried to cut the blasted tree down. He had chopped day and night and day again, succeeding only in ruining a dozen or more axe blades. He had tried chopping at each and every side of the tree, hoping to find a weak spot--an animal den--anything that might help bring the tree down. He spent months alone in his tiny cabin, planning and plotting the tree's demise; yet try as he might, each and every plan failed, and his hatred for the tree only grew.
He did not know why he hated the tree with such passion--he could not even remember when his obsession with the old, gnarled thing had begun. He reasoned that there must be some very good motivation behind his actions, and that seemed to be reason enough. There are more important things to tend to, he always told himself--more important things like finding a way to rid the earth of that devil-tree for good.
One day, while staring intently at his stolid nemesis, the old man had an idea. He had tried for years to fell the tree, but he had never tried to burn it. If lightning struck a tree in the forest, or if men's campfires burned too long unattended, the entire forest could go up in a blaze and leave nothing but charred skeletons that scattered and dissolved with the passing winds. If he could simply burn the tree, the breeze would take care of the rest and he would finally be rid of that horrid, gnarled demon.
The old man set instantly to his new task. His old body pulsed and thrived with a vigor reserved only for the young. He gathered some old branches to spread the fire along, and brought a bottle of his favourite ale with which to dowse both the branches and the tree itself. After he had circled the old tree with the branches and smothered it with the volatile liquid, he gathered up his flint and began to light the fire. He tried once, twice, a third time--finally the fourth caused a small blaze which spread quickly from the perimeter to the tree itself. The old man sat in glee, cackling with joyous laughter as the blaze rose up.
Suddenly, a chance gust of wind blew the acrid smoke directly into the old man's eyes. He stumbled, disoriented, and fell face-first into the inferno of his own creation. As he flailed about helplessly, he felt what seemed to be an arm reach into the fire and pull him up into a standing position a few feet away. Then the arm began beating away at the flames that still licked at the old man's shirt and trousers, and once the old man was able to clear the smoke from his vision, he saw that t he arm was no arm at all, but a long, graceful branch from the twisted old tree. When his clothes were completely extinguished and the danger chased away, the old man looked again in the direction of the tree. The fire was completely out, tough the man could not give any reason for it. Slowly, the smoke began to drift away, and as it did, the old man gaped in horror. The branches he had piled together were blackened and burned to cinders, but the trunk of the old tree remained unchanged; it had not even been scorched.
For weeks afterward, the old man paced back and forth in front of his hearth. Why had the tree not burned? He had soaked it thoroughly with the ale and fed the flames with armloads of dry wood. Any other tree would have practically evaporated under similar circumstances. What had gone wrong? He asked himself these questions over and over as he strolled across his worn wooden floor. The only question he never thought to ask himself was why the tree had helped him and possibly saved his life.
After brooding for more than a month, the old man became possessed again with another idea. He could not fell the tree and he could not burn it, but he had never tried ripping it right out of the ground! What a marvelous idea--simply pull the old tree up like the weed it is!
The old man wasted no time on his renewed quest. He rounded up four of his strongest horses and his thickest chain. He harnessed the horses together and fastened the chain securely around the breadth of the hated old tree. The old man could not help glaring at the accursed thing as he wound the chain around it--only moments left to live, my friend, only moments left at last! With a wicked grin across his wrinkled face, he secured the chain to the harness and the horses. He reached for his long brown leather whip and raised it above his head with a smile. Then he brought the whip down on the surprised horses, over and over and over again, till the blood was running in rivers on their backs and flanks. The horses pulled with all their might, and the old tree creaked and groaned in protestation. This only filled the man with new conviction as he whipped harder and harder on the poor horses' backs.
With a mournful neigh, the left lead horse collapsed into a heap of bloo d and mane and fur. Within seconds, the right rear horse did the same. The old man's face went slack with disbelief. He threw a glance at the old tree, hoping to see it giving way to the expired horses' efforts; but the tree stood with dignity, perhaps even a bit straighter than before. The old man screamed in frustration and raised the whip again for the remaining horses. Before he could bring down his arm, a third horse collapsed and the last one broke free of its reigns and charged directly at the old man, madness blazing in its deep brown eyes. The man froze with horror and fear, expecting to be trampled by the mad horse's coal-black hooves. Just as the horse drew so near that the man could feel its hot breath on his bare, tan arms, a branch the size of the man himself broke free of the tree and crushed the poor beast in mid-stride. When the man was able to pull his wits together, he walked mechanically toward the tree. With shaking hands, he began to unfasten the chain and withdraw its length from around the trunk. To his utter dismay, he saw that the chain had not even left a single mark on the tree's grey-brown bark.
The old man became even more consumed by his obsession with the apple tree. The moon rose and set many, many nights, each one of which was haunted by dreams of the devil-guarded tree. As the man sat on his front porch and whittled, he invariably whittled tiny copies of the tree his dimming grey eyes never left for a moment. With what ink and paper he possessed around his cottage, he sketched the tree in many poses and scenarios of its death. Then one day, as he was tending his garden in the afternoon sun, his tiny thread of sanity snapped and he rushed at the tree, shovel still in hand.
"I can't chop you, I can't burn you, and I can't pull you out of the ground, but I will find a way to rid myself of you forever, even if I have to dig you right out of the earth!" With this exclamation, he began to dig up the soil around the tree's twisted roots. He dug and dug for hours, sweat pouring from his body in gushes and streams. Finally, as the evening light waned from the setting sun, his shovel struck something solid.
For a moment, the old man was puzzled, but this was quickly drowned out by his hatred and his new curiosity. He dug more carefully, etching his way around the object that lie buried deep in the soil. As the last rays of crimson sun poured over the tree and himself, the old man finally discovered what the oblong object was that seemed to be nestled protectively within the roots of the old tree: it was a coffin.
The old man fought down his surprise and dread as he dug deeper to free the coffin from the tree's grasp. Tugging and pulling, his muscles aching, he finally succeeded in dragging the coffin up to the level ground. Wedging the tip of his shovel under the coffin's lid and using it as a lever, he slowly pried the wooden box open. He closed his eyes instinctively as the putrid air stung his eyes and burned his lungs. With a self-assuring cough, he opened his eyes to face the body that lie in quaint repose within the coffin. The man inside was himself.
The old man stumbled back in disbelief. How could that be him, lying dead and half- rotten in a hand-made wooden box from under the earth? He was very much alive, and he secretly pinched himself to prove it. He looked up at the tree that towered over him as he knelt by the open coffin, and the tree seemed almost to speak to him. He wanted to scream in protest, but before he could summon the cry from his throat, he dropped his head in grim acceptance and stood. He could not raise his head to face the tree that had so diligently protected himself from the truth. The tree itself seemed to slump over in anguish as the man turned from it and walked slowly back to the cabin. It had tried so hard to preserve the old man's delusions, but in doing so, it had only served as a reminder of what he had known deep inside all along. As the door to the cabin closed, the tree slumped even further down. The gentle breeze stirred its leaves for a moment and the air rang out in birdsong. The tree waited in patient silence. In a few short moments, the emerald meadow echoed with the abrupt sound of a single gun blast. The tree seemed almost to weep.
In the stillnes s that followed, a slender, graceful branch glided its way down from its perch toward the corpse in the open coffin. It caressed the remnants of flesh lovingly, as if it were trying to ease the pain of a man who had long been dead. Slowly, its tender leaves moved toward what remained of the corpse's face, lingering over the bullet hole that pierced the corpse's right temple. By morning, the tree would be gone, leaving only scattered apples as proof of its existence. The apples themselves would not be golden and sweet in exaltation of spring, but black and bitter with the haunting sorrow of mourning.
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