The Wonder Tales

Chapter Three

Chapter Three

Clarimond walked south to market as the sun rose, there to purchase samphire, walnuts and the last peas of the summer for her pantry. She had thoughts of crafting a nourishing diet for her mother, though Mrs. Waregrove scarcely seemed to require it, for her health only continued to improve. So sprightly was she, she might have been ten years younger.

Some days had passed since her mother’s miraculous recovery, and there had been no more talk of apples since — or pears either, for she had received Tobias’s account of Barnaby Longstaff’s fate with interest. But the dreams continued to haunt her sleeping hours, and sometimes she fancied she discerned the scent of apples upon the air when she awoke.

‘Should you encounter such another fruit,’ Tobias had said to her, ‘I charge you not to eat, Clarimond! There can be no doubt that there is something strange about them.’

She had not needed such a warning, for she had seen the curious effects for herself. Clover Waregrove had reduced herself to penury with her eagerness to share her possessions, and Barnaby Longstaff was said to be gravely sick, his abruptly enforced sobriety taking its toll upon his ageing body. Clarimond had no desire to find out how consuming such a fruit might affect her.

Nonetheless, she could not help but remember the perfect golden apple with wistful regret. Such an exquisite, blooming thing it had been, so beautiful and inviting! And she could not forget its delicious fragrance, a scent which seemed to follow her wherever she went.

Sternly, she redirected her thoughts, and considered instead the safer delights of samphire and sage, of pickled walnuts and honeyed tea and bunches of fresh, fragrant rosemary. These things she procured with ease at market, and added a cluster of mint and a cloth bundle of gooseberries to her basket for good measure.

Rising above the cheerful bustle of the market were the strains of a fiddle, and voices raised in song. Rarely afforded the opportunity to enjoy music, Clarimond would have liked to remain and listen. But her mother awaited her at home, and her myriad duties would not keep all morning. Regretful but resolute, she turned her back upon the market and directed her steps back towards Thistledown House.

Her route took her down Willowingle Lane and past Fox’s Yard, tranquil indeed after the crowded market. The air was cool so early in the morning, and the sun shone gently. Clarimond breathed in the peace and the beauty, forgetting apples at last, so charmed was she by the spray of late-blooming roses adorning Evangeline Garnett’s garden.

Her steps slowed as she walked through Heatherberry Spinney, for the air was fresh with the scent of dew-dampened earth, and an occasional lone cornflower grew by the path, enchanting her eyes with flashes of bright, vivid blue.

In the centre of the spinney, the clusters of hawthorn, wych elm and ash trees gave way to a large clearing, in the centre of which grew a tangled old tree of a type Clarimond had never been able to identify. It was not so tall as its surrounding fellows, though it was far broader, its twisting branches reaching out to the edges of the glade. Its rough bark was covered in knots and broken stubs where withered boughs had fallen, though its leaves grew thickly enough.

Clarimond had always fancied this lone tree possessed a friendly nature, and watched over the Spinney as its kindly guardian. As a child she had rambled among its sturdier limbs, imagining welcoming faces traced into the hoary bark. Even now she liked to pause beneath its leafy canopy and breathe the warm summer air, for it was like visiting an old friend.

She had never seen it seed itself. No seedlings ever sprouted from the ground beneath, and no saplings with matching leaves ringed the clearing. There was a reassuring stability to its unchanging nature which endeared it still more to Clarimond, for though life buckled and twisted and shifted around her, the tree never altered.

She could not have been more surprised, then, on that bright, clear morning, to discern something different about her favourite tree. One specific and quite distinct difference, in the shape of a succulent blush-pink globe dangling invitingly from a low-hanging branch. It was round and full with a tuck in the top, its smooth skin spangled with white like a breath of frost.

Mesmerised, Clarimond reached out to touch it, and found it softly furred beneath her fingers.

‘Why, ‘tis a peach!’ cried she in swift understanding. Its colour did not much resemble those in the picture-books she had seen, but its characteristics were otherwise familiar enough.

Wondering, she glanced fleetingly about, but saw no other such pomes sprouting among the branches above her. One blissful peach grew splendidly alone, like the apple upon the trees at Thistledown, and the pear at The Moss and Mist.

And Clarimond felt instantly torn, for what was she to do? The fruit woke a hunger in her to taste it, and almost did she throw caution to the winds, and fall upon it at once.

Her better nature won, and she ruthlessly thrust such unwise desires aside. She turned her back upon the beautiful, seductive thing and walked away, but she had not gone three steps before she thought better of it. Were she to leave it where it grew, would some other person find it, and eat it all unawares? It fell to her to carry it out of the temptation of others, though it sorely tested her.

She turned back, uncertain. It was not so easy to spot, hidden there among a cluster of leaves. Perhaps she ought rather to leave it, and trust that no one merely passing by would chance to catch sight of it.

But as she watched, the peach fell from the tree. It dropped, with a soft thud, onto the dry earth below, where it lay in full view of the path.

She certainly could not leave it precisely there. Quickly she returned and scooped it up, secreting it beneath the produce in her basket. She tried not to look too closely at it, for fear that her resolve might weaken. Would it hurt for her to only taste the peach? If she did not eat it entirely, perhaps it would not affect her, supposing it to be the same strange kind of fruit as the others.

Besides, had the fate of her mother and Longstaff truly been so bad? Mrs. Waregrove had learned generosity and Barnaby sobriety, neither of which traits could be considered contemptible.

If she ate, what alteration might occur in her?

Thus was curiosity added to temptation, and Clarimond shuddered. She rearranged her rosemary and pea pods to better hide the peach, and hurried away. Perhaps if she took her treasure to Tobias, he would have some idea of what to do.

‘I hardly know,’ said Tobias upon consultation, dashing Clarimond’s hopes in three words. She had set the peach upon the polished oaken bar before him, and he gazed at it in consternation. ‘You found it in the spinney?’

‘Yes. Proffered by my favourite old tree, there in the centre.’

‘I know the tree.’ Tobias’s expression grew moody, and he sighed. ‘I did not know that it was a peach tree.’

‘Nor I. There was no sign of any other fruit, but what if it should produce more?’

‘What if there should be more golden apples and silver pears?’ Tobias touched the peach very gently, and Clarimond saw in his eyes a reflection of the temptation she herself felt. ‘I shall put it in the strongbox,’ he decided, and carried it thither at once, locking it away with resolution. ‘How is your mother?’

‘She talks of giving away Thistledown for use as an orphanage.’

‘It is well for you that she cannot.’

Clarimond smiled faintly. ‘No, for the house is mine. But she talks of nothing else.’

‘The effects may wear off, you know.’

‘If it was the apple that so changed her? Yes, perhaps they will. But there is no sign of it yet.’

Tobias kissed her hand, and settled her basket back upon her arm. ‘Stand fast! And if you should find any more apples growing in odd places, bring them to me. There is room in my strongbox yet.’

Clarimond left him with a promise, and turned her steps towards home. She was alert as she walked for more oddly-coloured fruits sprouting among the trees of Berrie South, but she saw no more. Her feelings were mixed as she entered her own house, torn between relief and a trace of regret.

She had scarcely had chance to remove her hat before Maggie swept into the hallway. ‘Thank goodness yer back, ma’am!’ she breathed. ‘There’s a gentleman to see you, and Mrs. Waregrove nowhere to be found. I put him in the parlour, but he is gone into the garden and will not come back in.’

‘How curious. Did he give his name?’ Clarimond hung up her coat and handed her basket to Maggie, who fell to crowing over the contents and did not reply.

‘His name, Maggie?’ prompted Clarimond.

Maggie paused in her inspection of the gooseberries and looked up. ‘I don’t rightly know. He said something odd: “Greensleeves”, I thought it was.’

Clarimond frowned, for she knew nobody of that name. ‘Will you bring tea into the garden?’ she asked of Maggie. ‘And some of this morning’s shortbread biscuits, if you please.’

Maggie went away to attend to this request, while Clarimond stepped into the garden. She saw her visitor at once. He was hard to miss, for his motley patchwork coat and mulberry trousers stood out among the green shrubs and bushes. He appeared to be eating the grass, to her great astonishment, for a stem of it hung from between his lips.

‘Good morning, sir,’ she said as she approached. ‘Mr… Greensleeves, is it?’

He whirled to face her, and made her a fine bow. ‘It is!’ he announced, and took the grass from his mouth. ‘Though I beg you will not mister me. Pippin Greensleeves is my name.’

The sleeves of his colourful coat were predominantly green, she noticed, and wondered. Had he designed the garment to match his name, or was the name inspired by the coat?

‘Clarimond Honeysett,’ she introduced herself. ‘Though I imagine you must be aware of my name, sir. May I enquire as to the purpose of your visit? For I am certain we have never before met.’

‘I have walked in the gardens of Thistledown House before,’ he said with an odd smile. ‘Though it is long since I last set foot here. It is not as I remember it.’

‘I am but lately come into possession of the house,’ Clarimond replied. ‘I have not yet had time to introduce a great many changes, so I fancy the alterations you perceive are largely the work of others. Is it much different?’

Greensleeves flicked his fingers at the neat shrubbery, and the lavender grove and beehives beyond. ‘There was no room for any of that, before, for all was trees.’

Clarimond felt a flicker of foreboding. ‘What manner of trees?’

‘Varied,’ he said, and glanced towards the wizened apple trees overlooking the river bank. ‘An orchard grew here, the finest in these parts. How little now remains.’ He looked at her, swift and sharp, and uttered a question Clarimond knew not how to answer. ‘Have they ever borne fruit, madam?’

Maggie arrived with tea, saving Clarimond the immediate necessity of answering him as she ushered him to a chair. What could she say? She did not trust him, and had no wish to proffer the truth. But it went sorely against the grain to lie. ‘The trees of Berrie have been barren for generations, sir, as you must know,’ she tried, as she poured jasmine tea and arranged a plate of shortbread.

Pippin Greensleeves accepted the offerings with alacrity, though he was not to be distracted from the pursuit of his enquiry by such delights. ‘Be that as it may,’ he said after devouring two biscuits at once, ‘have your trees borne fruit, Clarimond Honeysett?’

It must be the truth, then, thought she with resignation. But even as she formed the resolution, she noticed the set of silver pipes hung upon a ribbon around his neck. Her mind returned, unbidden, to the dream she had wandered through every night since she had found the golden apple. The distant, eerie strains of pipe music wound their way through every such vision, and she looked searchingly into her guest’s face, her wariness ripening into suspicion.

She saw nothing there to justify her concern. His face was handsome enough, though in no way extraordinary. There was no shiftiness to his expression, no obvious signs of duplicity in his air. She saw only a gleam in his black eyes that looked like amusement to her, and a faint, ironic curl to his lips.

Clarimond remembered the glimpse of a violin she had seen when she entered the garden, strapped upon Pippin Greensleeves’ back. ‘Was it you, playing music in the market this morning?’

The glint in his eyes deepened, and she knew he saw through her evasion. She might as well have admitted the truth at once, and had done with it. ‘Did it please you?’ he enquired, raising his porcelain cup to his lips. He inhaled the fragrance of jasmine tea with clear appreciation, and took a sip.

‘I did not stay to listen, sir,’ she admitted. ‘I had duties at home.’

‘A pity.’ He finished the contents of his cup and plate in a series of quick gulps and bites, and returned both to her tea-table. Clarimond had barely touched her own portion, and saw no need to when Greensleeves bounded to his feet and bowed to her. ‘Next time, I hope you will do me the honour of attending to the music,’ he said with a flicker of a smile. ‘I thank you for your hospitality, Mistress Honeysett.’

He paused by the remains of the orchard on his way to depart, and touched the tip of his finger to one fluttering leaf. ‘It is a shame about the trees,’ he said, and left with a parting tip of his hat.

Clarimond was left to ponder over his words as she finished her tea, staring thoughtfully at the swaying boughs of the ancient apple trees. So absorbed was she, it took her some moments to notice that they were not nearly so barren as they had been before. She jumped to her feet and hastened to examine them, her heart beating quick.

An apple hung low at the back of the withered orchard, almost hidden amongst the leaves. This one lacked the bright gold of the first; its skin was the pale green of jade and dappled with blue, though fully as large and as ripe as the other. A second hung not far away, larger still and the colour of violets and heather. A swift quest of the orchard produced yet a third: smaller than the rest, its skin pale yellow flecked with gold.

Clarimond looked wildly around, but Greensleeves was long gone. She ran for the house, hoping to find that he yet lingered, but to no avail.

Gone! And what a mess he had left in her garden! For she could have little doubt it was some interference of his that had produced so sudden, and so unlikely, a harvest. What manner of stranger was he, to coax apples from withered trees with no more than a touch? And what could he mean by it?

Clarimond returned to the garden and plucked the three magical fruits, secreting them in her basket. She set off at a brisk walk for The Moss and Mist, hoping to catch sight of Pippin Greensleeves somewhere along the way. But not a glimpse of him did she find, and though she inquired with those she passed upon the streets, no one had seen his motley coat and mulberry trousers pass by either.

Tobias greeted her news with disquiet. He locked the rainbow of apples away with the peach, his mouth set in a hard line. Clarimond was obliged to turn away as the lid closed over her harvest, overcome with dismay as the beautiful colours vanished from sight.

‘Tis but the beginning,’ said Tobias.

Clarimond nodded her agreement, unsure whether the flutter in her heart was foreboding or excitement. ‘Who is that man, Greensleeves?’ she said. ‘You were unsurprised. You have seen him before.’

‘He came here a few nights ago, singing of fruit. He has the whole town singing of it by now.’

‘He played at the market this morning,’ said Clarimond. ‘In Berrie South.’

Tobias’s eyes narrowed. ‘I think,’ said he in his calm, deep voice, ‘I am like to need a bigger strongbox.’