But the old orchard trees did not content themselves with a growing abundance of fruit. Once their wizened branches were so laden down they could not possibly produce any more, the trees themselves began to grow and spread and multiply, at an impossible rate. Three days later, Clarimond awoke to find her little patch of orchard much expanded, and her shrubbery rapidly disappearing behind a new crop of tangled little trees. After a week, her garden was covered entirely, her beehives unreachable beneath the hoary arbour.
Her road to market grew virtually impassable, as peach and plum and damson trees encroached upon the streets. The pathways were strewn with fallen fruits, exquisite to behold in their jewel-coloured array, but difficult to wend a way through; and poor Clarimond’s flagging willpower was sorely beset by the feast set out before her, whenever she had cause to leave the house.
The market itself was changed in character, for the citizens of Southtown took little interest in the produce and wares that had always been sold before. Now the stalls were abundant with apples and apricots and cherries, great baskets of them heaped up in sumptuous array, their skins dappled in vivid colours and sequined with silver and gold. Soon, thought Clarimond in dismay, she would be obliged to partake of the fruit out of sheer necessity, or starve entirely away.
‘I will find Pippin Greensleeves,’ decided she, ‘wherever he may be hiding, and he shall be made to reverse this curse! If he has sung it upon us, he shall unsing it again!’
This resolution made, she hardly knew how to carry it out, for how was she to discover the whereabouts of so well-hidden a man, if he did not wish to be found?
But she was not tested for long, for some three weeks after the first apple had appeared at Thistledown House, Greensleeves emerged again, and in a fashion impossible to miss.
Clarimond woke that morning in a state of some trepidation, for the forest of apple trees that had taken possession of her garden had not ceased to encroach. They had now grown all the way up to her parlour windows, and she feared that soon their reaching branches would wander into the house itself, and tear down the walls.
They had yet to embark upon the wholescale destruction of her house, she found as she trod downstairs. They were, however, intent upon foisting their wretched fruit upon her, for she found the windows prised open by means unfathomable, and a scatter of rosy apples strewn all over her parlour floor. The same proved true in all the ground-floor rooms of the house, particularly the kitchen. Maggie Muggwort presided over the preparations for luncheon in a state of high dudgeon, for the windows were opened wide and the floor quite covered with fruit.
‘Maggie!’ said Clarimond, upon beholding this sorry state of affairs. ‘Why do you not close the windows?’
Maggie bestowed upon Clarimond a look of withering contempt, pausing but briefly in her efforts to roll out a ball of dough. ‘I thought of that, too,’ she said sourly. ‘Try it yerself.’
Clarimond crossed warily to the nearest window and threw down the sash. The kitchen was dimly lit in spite of the brightness of the morning, for the trees crowded close along the walls and blocked the ingress of the summer sun. Their knotted branches now set up a terrific tapping and clattering against the panes of glass, and hoary tendrils sprouted forth and probed for a way around the frames. As Clarimond watched in horror, the windows were irresistibly winched open again, and the fresh morning breeze streamed into the kitchen once more.
As did a rain of apples, one of which narrowly missed striking Clarimond in the head.
‘I see,’ she said, regarding the litter of apples with chagrin. This latest crop were of pale, summery colours and a fine, pearly mist bedewed their shining skins. All of this was most attractive, and Clarimond suffered a strong urge to seize the nearest and devour it at once.
‘I shall be going out,’ she said to Maggie in somewhat strained tones, and fled the kitchen.
She fled the house soon afterwards as well, pursued by the sounds of Maggie Muggwort taking out her frustration upon the pastry by way of a sturdy rolling-pin. She paused only to collect her hat and coat before hastening away down the lane, unsure of where she expected to go.
She could go nowhere at any particular speed, for she was obliged to pick her way through so thick a clutter of plums and peaches and pears, she could barely find space to put her feet. The trees seemed to lean towards her as she passed, and she heard a steady rain of colourful offerings falling in her wake with thud after soft thud.
Clarimond grew more frustrated with every contested step, and stopped at last in the middle of the thicket that used to be Hollybriar Way. Two cottages rose on either side of the path, bravely resisting the encroachment of a row of damson trees. In the doorway of one stood Maud Redthorn, sweeping a heap of fallen apples out of her kitchen with a stout besom. The door of the other was firmly closed, but Clarimond heard a thunk thunk thunk as swaying branches hurled particoloured damsons against the solid wood.
Then something struck her in the back, leaving a dull ache there. She spun about, and watched with resentment as a particularly large, firm-looking apple with primrose skin rolled innocently away.
Normally a woman of unruffled composure, even Clarimond’s placid temper could bear no more. Her hands clenched into fists, and she aimed a vicious kick at the lovely fruit. ‘Pippin Greensleeves!’ she cried. ‘Show yourself!’
No answer was returned, nor did the motley singer appear. Clarimond was obliged to collect herself as best she could and continue upon her way, seething wordlessly. She paid little heed to the road she took, but was unsurprised some little time later to find herself approaching the Wynspan Bridge. Of course she would make for The Moss and Mist, and Tobias.
She did not proceed so far as to cross it, however, for seated tailor-style in the very centre was Pippin Greensleeves. He held his silver pipes in his hands and played a flurry of cheery notes as she approached, his black eyes gleaming amusement. She noted resentfully that his multi-coloured coat comprised the same bejewelled hues as the fruit he had brought down upon them, including the pale yellow colour of the apple that had so lately assaulted her.
‘Mr. Greensleeves!’ she hailed him, with some asperity. ‘You mean to take over the town with your wretched trees, I collect? What can you mean by it?’
He did not answer her, or not with words. Another rippling melody poured forth from his shining silver pipes, and the trees on either side of the bridge swayed in time to the tune. Clarimond watched, appalled and fascinated, as a fresh crop of cherries and plums sprouted forth among the branches, vivid in an array of rainbow colours.
‘Greensleeves!’ came Tobias’s voice, and she saw him step onto the northern end of the bridge. ‘What will it take to halt this ridiculous parade?’
Pippin Greensleeves lowered the pipes from his lips and stood up, looking from Clarimond to Tobias and back in a considering way. ‘Who is there in Berrie Wynweald who has yet to partake of my fruit?’
‘But three,’ said Tobias. ‘Clarimond and I, and Theo Penderglass.’
Greensleeves gave a wide smile. ‘That Theo Penderglass?’ he said in a mild way, and pointed behind Tobias.
Clarimond saw Penderglass come wandering into view, his hands full of claret and cinnamon quinces. He ate one as she watched, his smile dreamy, and saluted her with the remaining few. He did not even look abashed by Tobias’s scowl, and called: ‘Fine things, Dwerryhouse! Take a bite!’ before drifting vaguely away.
‘Two, then,’ said Greensleeves. ‘Two steadfast souls, or shall I rather say stubborn? For ‘tis unwise, to refuse a gift out of Faerie.’
‘Faerie!’ gasped Clarimond. ‘What does Faerie want with us?’
Greensleeves gave her a measuring glance, and turned the same look upon Tobias. ‘Partake, and you will learn,’ said he. ‘Climb down from your self-appointed pedestals! Relinquish your burdensome scruples! Refuse no more, for until all of Berrie Wynweald has tasted faerie fruit, the trees shall not relinquish you.’
Tobias stood his gro
und. ‘I will never willingly permit so much as a morsel to pass my lips.’
Clarimond was steadfast. ‘I will not be forced by such paltry arts to partake against my will.’
‘You are afraid,’ said Greensleeves.
Clarimond could not answer, for she knew in her heart that he spoke the truth. If she were to eat even a single bite of a faerie apple, how would she be changed? How benefited, and how cursed?
Tobias did not speak, and she read in his familiar and beloved face a similar trepidation.
Pippin Greensleeves laughed, and blew a trill upon his pipes. ‘It is down to you,’ he said, and vaulted over the bridge. Clarimond waited to hear the splash as he entered the water, but none came. She ran to the rail and looked over, but no sign of the piper could she find.
Tobias folded his arms, his face grim. ‘He is not in earnest,’ he said. ‘Something will change. Something must.’
But nothing changed. Clarimond returned home with a heart full of turmoil, her feelings in chaos. Sorely tempted had she always been, to taste the magical fruits borne by her dying orchard trees; fruits she now knew to come out of Faerie. They called to her, with their plump, ripe flesh, their teasing fragrance, and their exquisite, starry colours.
Moreover, if she ate, what would be the advantage? Would she cease to be plagued by the fierce headaches she often endured? Would the weakness in her once-broken wrist melt away? Sometimes she went so far as to raise an apple to her lips and inhale its sweet scent, but moments away from taking a bite.
She always paused on the point of consumption, however, by the recollection that more lay in store. Would she be afflicted by an excess of generosity, like her miserly mother? Would she lose some part of her sight or hearing, like the once-aloof Aelfwines, or would she be rendered mute, like too-loquacious Nell Quartermane?
These questions stayed her hand, and carried the luscious apples from her lips. Even in light of Greensleeves’s threat, she could not bring herself to take such a risk. She went to bed that night with her doubts undiminished and her heart sorely troubled, for what if Pippin Greensleeves spoke the truth? If she did not succumb, would the rampant orchards sweep Berrie Wynweald entirely away?
On the other side of the river, Tobias Dwerryhouse suffered a similar conflux of feelings. He was no more immune to the allure of The Mist’s silvery faerie pears than Clarimond to the golden apples of Thistledown, and often had he been tempted to throw caution to the winds and take just one exquisite taste. He could not condemn Theo Penderglass for having done just that, though it robbed him of one of his remaining allies.
Like Clarimond, he feared the knowledge of his own worst fault, and the consequences that might fall upon him if he ate. Could he not be left in peace, to remain Tobias Dwerryhouse, the man he had always been? Hard it seemed, to be forced to risk his character, his livelihood, or who knew what else, by the arts of such a fellow as Pippin Greensleeves!
And what could Faerie want with Berrie Wynweald, indeed? Clarimond’s question was still unanswered, and it troubled Tobias rather more even than it troubled Mistress Honeysett, for he had more familiarity with the ways of Faerie than he was like to admit.
Stubborn he remained, even as the trees tapped a staccato song upon the walls of his house and the night wind howled through the gnarly branches.
There must be another way, thought he as he lay abed, sleepless and disquiet. Some bargain he could make; some means by which Pippin Greensleeves could be persuaded to relinquish whatever scheme he had in hand in Berrie Wynweald, and leave the townsfolk in peace.
But Tobias could think of nothing. He knew the ways of Faerie, and he read a relentless will secreted behind the piper’s jaunty demeanour. Not a jot less than utter capitulation would Greensleeves accept, and Tobias could see no way to evade the inevitability of his fate.
He fell asleep at last in the early hours of the morning, lulled by the scratching of brittle twigs upon the roof of his house. His dreams were haunted by visions of motley-coloured apples pouring in upon Northtown in an unstoppable sea, burying the houses and shops of his beloved Berrie all the way up to the river. And the tide rolled on, filling up the waters of the Wyn with a rainbow of peaches and pears, creeping ever closer to Thistledown House and his beloved Clarimond…
Chapter Five
Clarimond herself awoke with a fresh resolution in her mind. She dressed rapidly and forsook breakfast in favour of an early walk, her steps turned towards Heatherberry Spinney.
She felt unequal to the demands of the decision which had been placed upon her, unable to determine whether she did right or wrong to resist the importunate demands of Pippin Greensleeves. She could not trust the faerie fruit, for it showered curses upon those who tasted it as surely as it showered blessings. By holding herself aloof from its delights, was she protecting Berrie Wynweald, or bringing further misery down upon it? In remaining intact and sound and unchanged, was she preserving her mind and her energy to resist the tricksy piper, and find some way to liberate the town? Or in her stubbornness and fear, was she drawing her home deeper into trial?
She could not tell, and no one could advise her, for Tobias was as befuddled as she. So she turned to the one place she had always felt at peace in troubled times: her favourite tree, in the centre of Heatherberry Wood.
It may seem strange to consult a tree for guidance, particularly since the tree in question had proved to be a peach, and was as complicit in the schemes of Greensleeves as all the rest. But thither Clarimond had always gone, when her heart was troubled and her peace in tatters. She had wandered beneath its boughs when her father died, some twenty years before. She had gone there again as a widow, before Thistledown House had become her home. No other place in Berrie could offer the succour she so urgently needed, and so thither went she.
She trod the familiar roads with some difficulty, for the way was much encumbered. The trees had crept farther forward overnight and had entirely taken over some of the paths; Clarimond was obliged to wend her way through the tangled orchards with the greatest care, ever in danger of tripping over a protruding tree root, or some one or other of the many fallen apples that lay in her way.
When at last she reached the spinney, she found it scarcely recognisable. Choked with ancient apple trees and littered with a rainbow of fallen fruits, its dimensions had lost their beloved familiarity to Clarimond, and it took her longer than it ought to find her way to her beloved tree.
She discovered it at last, reigning over its narrowed grove with breath-taking majesty. It was in full, flourishing leaf, but its foliage had deviated from the traditional green. Clarimond’s tree had garbed itself instead in a heathery purple veined with gold, and for the first time she wondered about the source of the spinney’s name.
So bedecked with fruit were its branches that they hung low, weighed down with a heavy burden of abundant peaches. Blush-pink were these, pink and white and gold, their colours growing more vibrant and more intense as they ripened. The ground beneath the tree was a carpet of fallen peaches and leaves, a glory of colour and life and magic fully fit for a queen.
But behind all this splendour, the tree was still her tree. Clarimond felt the familiar sense of comfort and familiarity steal over her as she approached, and her heart eased a little when she stood once more beneath its boughs. She lingered there awhile, breathing in the air’s sweet fragrance and watching the leaves ripple in the breeze.
At length she sighed, deeply and long, for no burst of inspiration eased her troubled mind.
‘What am I to do?’ she said aloud. ‘Who am I to trust? How can I know?’
An answer came swiftly, for a flower blossomed upon a branch directly before her eyes: a delicate white bloom, tinted pink at the edges of each petal, its heart releasing a faint honeyed scent. It withered as she watched and became a firm, golden little nub, a budding fruit. That fruit grew and ripened until an apple hung there, nestled oddly among the clustered peaches. Its skin was gold-dappled-green, the apple the
same in all its features as the very first she had plucked in the gardens of Thistledown House.
Clarimond’s fingers itched to take the perfect fruit, and her mouth watered at the prospect of eating it. But her heart grew afeared. She gathered up her skirts, turned her back upon the glorious tree, and fled.
Twice she almost tumbled, and measured her length among the fallen faerie fruits. But on she ran, and did not slow until she had traversed almost the whole of Hollybriar Way. Some ten feet from the turning into Gradirose she stopped at last, for it occurred to her that something was awry.
Back she went, more slowly and with greater care, until she reached Maud Redthorn’s cottage — or the place where it once stood, for no trace of it remained. No sign of the encroaching orchard could she find, either; all had vanished, and in their place a velvet-green moor had appeared, strewn with quartz-laced boulders and feathered with saffron grasses. A pretty vision it made, but Clarimond gazed upon it in befuddled dismay.
On the other side of the path, what had once been the twin to Maud’s cottage yet remained. Clarimond hammered upon the door until it opened, and Ferdinand Crowther stood blinking in surprise upon the other side.
‘Clarimond?’ said he.
‘What has become of Maud’s cottage?!’ Clarimond gestured wildly at the empty, dreaming dale.
Ferdinand shook his head so hard, his bronzed spectacles almost flew off his nose. ‘I do not know! Early this morning there came a strange mist, all silver and gold, and it shrouded Maud’s cottage so thickly that I could not see through it. When the mist faded, the house was gone and the trees as well, and…’ he gazed at the velvet moor in silent dismay. ‘And it was as you see it.’
Behind him, Clarimond saw signs of disarray about his house, and a large bag stood half-packed in the centre of his kitchen. ‘You are leaving?’
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