The Silver Bough

by Lisa Tuttle

  “If you’d been there—but you weren’t. I thought it wouldn’t take more than a couple of minutes. I’d catch up to them, I’d speak to her—and then I’d come back.”

  “So what happened?”

  “I can’t explain it. Even though they seemed to be strolling along, and I was walking as fast as I could, I never could catch up to them. Kay never paused or looked back, no matter how I shouted. I didn’t realize how long I’d been chasing them until I was right out of town, in the middle of the dark countryside. And then…not only did I realize that I was totally lost, but I had a moment of clarity when I understood that not only was I trailing along after phantoms, but that there was something sinister going on. I’d been lured away from you—the very person I should have been looking after—I wondered what might have happened to you. So I turned around and tried to make my way back to you, tried to find you—and it just got darker, and darker—until, in the end, I heard your voice. It was you who found me. You saved me,” he finished, simply, squeezing her hand.

  She could think of nothing to say.

  “So what happened to you?” he asked, and she told him about her adventure in the library.

  “Mm, I can’t help wishing I’d been there. So now I’m forever in Nell’s debt, for saving you. Here we are, this is my road,” he said.

  She saw a small sign announcing PRIVATE ROAD emerging from the mist, and realized at the same moment just how thick the fog had become. Looking back, she could see only swirling white clouds, masking everything else.

  “We won’t get lost as long as we hang on to each other and stick to the road,” he said, reading her thoughts. “It’ll take us right to my door. It’s less than half a mile now.”

  “What happens if you hear your wife calling to you from over there somewhere?”

  “I’ll cling all the more tightly to you. And if you see anyone, or any mystery lights, don’t go following them, all right? We’ll keep each other safe.”

  She realized as he spoke that she didn’t feel frightened. Whatever was to come, they would face it together.

  They made it to the house without incident. Inside the large and welcoming farmhouse kitchen—it reminded her of Nell’s, only without the decorative stencil work—she gazed at the windows and saw nothing but the pale mass of fog on the other side of the glass. Behind her, Dave cursed softly.

  She turned around. “What’s wrong?”

  “Electricity’s out. Damn. I really wanted some coffee. Shall I open a bottle of wine?”

  She shook her head.

  The silence stretched between them. He looked pensive. “I could probably rustle up something to eat…otherwise, there’s water. Normally, I’d put some music on…”

  “Why don’t you play me my song?”

  “What?”

  “Your new song, I mean. You did say it was for me.”

  He glanced away. “So you did get my letter.”

  “Well?”

  “Oh, well, it needs a lot of work yet. I’m not really sure about the bridge…and a couple of the words…Besides, I’m a lousy singer, and it should have a string section and a piano. It has to be orchestrated—”

  “So it was just bullshit, your letter.”

  “No!” He looked hurt. “God, Kathleen! I poured my heart out to you—”

  “You really wrote me a song?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you won’t even sing it to me?”

  He sighed, capitulating. “OK, but be gentle with me. I can’t sing for toffee.”

  “Hey, I’m your biggest fan! Besides, nobody’s ever written me a song before—how could I not like it?”

  The sitting room was smaller and darker than the kitchen, but the walls lined with shelves full of books, records, and CDs, the comfortable-looking chairs, couch, floor cushions, and oriental rugs on top of a pale, thick-pile carpet, gave it a cozy, appealing atmosphere. Dave picked up the guitar resting across the arms of one chair and sat down with it. She settled down nearby to listen.

  The song was about someone walking home at night and losing his way; stopping to ask a stranger for directions, he finds that she seems to know who he is and where he lives, and she takes him by the hand to guide him home. The road they travel is at once familiar and strange, and the house she takes him to is her home—a place he’s never seen before, but which he knows at once is where he wants to spend the rest of his life.

  He had a pleasant, unemphatic voice, not especially melodic, but he could carry a tune. She was completely unable to judge the song by any objective standards. How could she compare it to others when this was her song? When it was so simply and openly about his feelings for her?

  When he finished he looked at her, and she didn’t make him wait. She opened her arms and looked at him with all the love in her heart. “Let’s go to bed.”

  From The Woman’s Dictionary of Symbols

  and Sacred Objects

  by Barbara G. Walker

  (HarperCollins, 1988)

  MUCH of the reverence paid to the apple arose not only from its value as food, but also from the secret, sacred sign in its core: the pentacle, which is revealed when the apple is transversely cut. Gypsies claimed this was the only proper way to cut an apple, especially when it was shared between lovers before and after sexual intercourse. At Gypsy weddings it was customary for the bride and groom to cut the apple, revealing its pentacle, and eat half apiece. Such marriage customs may suggest the real story behind Eve’s sharing of an apple with her spouse: an idea that developed quite apart from the biblical version, in which there is no mention of an apple, but only of a “fruit.”

  AFTER MAKING LOVE, Ronan fell asleep, but although she was tired and physically sated, Ashley was too preoccupied with thoughts of what was to happen next to do the same. It wasn’t that she wanted to back out, but what had she gotten herself into? All his talk about “your heart’s desire”—what did that mean? What was her heart’s desire? Was it, could it be, this strange man lying warm and close beside her? Did she need to have a particular wish in mind when she ate the apple, or would blind faith be enough?

  She listened to his breathing as it slowed and deepened, and when it became a mild snore, she edged away from him, slipped out of bed, and padded quietly out of the room, pausing to shut the door softly behind her.

  She felt starved. There was a box of Cheerios in the kitchen; she carried it back to the couch, turning on the TV as she passed from force of habit before remembering what her cousins had said about there being no reception in the area. Nevertheless, she clicked through channel after channel of hissing grey visual static, just in case, until she was rewarded at last by a picture, an outdoor scene on a beach with glittering white sand and brilliant sea beneath a wide blue sky. She opened the box and seized a handful of Cheerios while gazing with mild, detached interest at the scene.

  Scottish Cheerios were different from the ones she was used to; they had a sweet frosting. She was surprised, but too hungry to mind, and she munched away as she tried to figure out what she was watching. A movie or a commercial? She couldn’t identify the soft music in the background, although there was something hauntingly familiar about it, and she thought she almost recognized the scenery, too. She had an idea it was a beach where lots of stuff had been filmed, maybe an island in the Caribbean, or maybe Hawaii.

  People—all fit and healthy and young—strolled past occasionally in couples, or ran down to the water in small groups. By her third handful of Cheerios she was growing impatient. What was the point of this undramatic scenery? Cut to the chase, she thought; show us the star, or make the pitch. Even if she’d tuned in to a local community access channel, and this was somebody’s vacation video, there ought to be somebody who’d pause and mug for the camera. Only the fact that there was nothing else on, and that it seemed too much trouble to pick up the remote and switch off, kept her watching.

  Finally, the camera began to close in on one of the young people on the beach. A girl in a
bikini, a young woman with long blond hair, almost a standard-issue beach babe, except that her breasts were smaller than the Hollywood norm, and she could have been Freya’s clone.

  The half-chewed Cheerios turned to sugared sawdust in her mouth. She tensed and leaned forward, blinking in disbelief. As if in response to her wish, the camera zoomed in closer and closer, and with every magnification the likeness to Freya was more staggeringly complete. That was her best friend’s slightly heavy-footed walk, her smile, even the tiny mole beside her left eyebrow…

  What was this? Could it be, somehow, film from a family vacation? But Freya’s family didn’t go to exotic beach resorts, and no way was that pale sand and azure water on the Texas coast—if Freya had ever been anywhere like that in her life, Ashley would have known all about it. So how—where—when…? Ashley gave a soft whimper of disbelief and struggled upright on the lumpy old couch. Was it possible that her friend was still alive? That the reports of her death, the funeral, all the grief, had been some gigantic con? A guy came running up, grabbed Freya’s hand, and off they ran together, laughing, to splash through the surf. Their backs, receding from her, were golden-brown and dusted lightly with sand, so real and close she could practically smell the suntan lotion, and it hit her: this was now, not something filmed in the past, but the present moment, a glimpse of Freya’s present, ongoing life. To ancient Celts, heaven was to be found on an island in the west.

  With a sharp whine, the television screen went blank; at the same moment, the table lamp and the light in the kitchen both went out, and she cried out as the room was plunged into darkness.

  She made herself stay where she was, getting her bearings. It wasn’t as dark as all that; the living room curtains were heavy, but the kitchen window was uncovered, and she could make out a faint, murky glow. Gradually, as her eyes adjusted, she realized it was no longer nighttime. Hours had passed; she must have slept, even though she thought she hadn’t.

  “What’s wrong?” A pale, naked figure appeared in the doorway.

  Her face felt stiff as she tried to smile. “Nothing. I was startled. We’ve lost electricity.”

  He came farther into the room and held out his hand to her. She let him pull her up off the couch. As soon as they touched, her nervousness went. She kissed him where a crease line from the pillow marked his cheek, and felt beard stubble against her lips.

  “Come on,” he said gently, drawing her back to the bedroom. She went with him eagerly, but as she began to caress him, he caught her hands to stop her. “Get dressed.”

  She pouted. “Why?”

  “It’s late. There’s no time to lose. We have to go.”

  Unease roiled and clenched in her stomach, matching the tension in his voice. She watched him gathering up the clothes he’d abandoned so hastily a few hours earlier, and she thought of Freya running on that beach, wherever it was, wherever she was.

  “Just before the electricity went off, I saw my best friend on television—she was on a beach—I think it was real, and I think it was now—but she’s dead.”

  “This upset you?”

  “Ronan, she’s dead! She’s not romping around on some island paradise—”

  He straightened up, holding his shirt. “Don’t you believe in Heaven?”

  She scowled at him uncertainly and shrugged. “I guess.” Her belief was halfhearted, at best. At worst, when someone said Heaven she thought of cartoon angels standing around on fluffy white clouds; she was more than half-afraid “gone to Heaven” was no more than a euphemism, a weak attempt to comfort children for the loss of pets and grandparents, not a rational explanation.

  He pressed her. “Do you believe there’s a life after death?”

  “Well…I think there has to be something,” she admitted, for how could there be nothing? How could this earth be all that there was? A soul’s existence could surely not be bound and limited entirely by one single fragile body.

  “And your friend was a good person?”

  “Of course!”

  “She looked happy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I don’t understand.” He tilted his head to one side. “What’s bothering you?”

  “If that was Heaven—or wherever Freya is now—how could I see it?”

  “I’d guess…well, the normal barriers are down now. Maybe…maybe you’re nervous about coming with me, and your friend wanted to show you there’s nothing to fear.”

  She felt dizzy. “So that’s where we’re going? To Heaven?”

  He gave her his full attention. “We’re not going to die. Stop worrying.”

  “So, I’m not going to die, but I’m going to see Freya again?”

  “If that’s your dearest wish, then yes.”

  Of course she wanted her best friend back, but that was impossible. As for joining Freya where she was now—that had to mean dying; there could be no other way.

  “How?”

  He shook his head. “Don’t ask me—it’s magic. This is the year of the golden apple, and anything can happen. It will give you whatever you want the most.”

  You don’t know what that is, she thought. I don’t even know. Her mind went blank. Why did she trust this stranger? What was going to happen to her?

  “Put your clothes on, love,” he said gently.

  Stalling for time, she said, “I’ll take a shower first.”

  “You can’t.” He met her glare with a mocking smile. “It’s electric.”

  She gave in to the inevitable and went to the dresser to hunt out fresh underwear and a clean tee shirt. The jeans she’d worn earlier, damp and grass-stained as they were, would do.

  He sat on the edge of the bed, putting on his socks. She sat down beside him and took a deep breath. “Be honest with me.”

  He turned to face her squarely, unsmiling. “Of course.”

  “Why did my grandmother run away? Why didn’t she go with you when she had the chance?”

  “Her ambitions were worldly. I wasn’t her heart’s desire. Nothing on offer here was. She was more interested in Hollywood than Paradise. She was only nineteen.”

  “I’m nineteen.”

  “I know.” He patted her knee. “Put your shoes on.”

  She pulled her leg away, resenting his patronizing attitude. “Tell me what happened. What was she afraid of?”

  “She wasn’t afraid,” he said, sounding weary.

  “Why did she run away from you?”

  “She didn’t run away from me. Just from this place. The expectations and limited horizons…”

  “Not from you?”

  “I’m the one who helped her. Who do you think gave her money enough to go to America?”

  She gaped at him, abruptly unbalanced, feeling all her preconceptions overturned. “You did? I don’t understand…why?”

  “We formed an alliance. We were friends—partners—united in the wish to get away—not lovers. She set out to seduce me. I was tempted, sure, and flattered, but I was no despoiler of innocent young virgins, and I had no intention of getting married. When it didn’t work out as she’d planned, she was straight with me, told me what she wanted, and I agreed to help her out. We announced our engagement.

  “I don’t know how the Apple Queen was chosen—men didn’t know; it was the women’s business. They chose their representative each year, and of course she chose her partner, the man she wished to share the apple with, even though it might appear, to an outsider, to be the other way around. Until nineteen fifty, when the rare golden apple appeared, the first since my mother was the queen, and the powers that be in this town decided that their best interests would be served by using me. I don’t know why it never occurred to them that I cared for most of the local people as little as they cared for me, and that the winning of my heart’s desire might not be in their best—”

  She interrupted. “But you didn’t eat the apple! So you didn’t get your heart’s desire, so—”

  ”Oh, but I did. My heart’s desire was to get clea
r of this place and take my revenge on it. Phemie didn’t need any magic for hers, either. All she asked was to escape, with the chance to try her luck in Hollywood, and I gave her the money to do just that. We didn’t need a magic apple to give us anything, because going out in the world and getting it for ourselves was what it was all about. Just in case the old stories were true, and our good luck would be shared in by the town, I practiced a bit of sleight of hand and substituted another apple—not even locally grown!—and that was what we ate in front of the crowds.”

  His expression hardened. “For once in my life, that night they didn’t hate me. They thought I was finally doing something right. They needed some powerful magic to revive the local economy. If they’d only realized how much I’d done for this town over the years, how much Appleton’s fortunes were tied up with my business, they wouldn’t have been so eager to see the last of me. But I had no intention of leaving my inheritance behind. I planned my escape. I spent months shifting my money around, out of the business, and by the time I left Wall’s Cider was mortgaged to the hilt and the notes were due. There was no money to pay employees, and the orchards had to be sold to pay off the mortgages—sold at a loss because the trees weren’t bearing and nobody wanted them. It was over; all the while they’d been complaining, they’d never realized how good life really had been. Things could only get worse. But not for me—I’d bought myself a new life, to live wherever and however I wanted.”

  Watching him, hearing the pain from the past still ringing in his words, she felt her emotions toward him shift and change. He wasn’t the powerful being she’d imagined, and she wasn’t in his thrall. She almost pitied him.

  “So why did you come back?”

  “I nearly ruined this town—maybe now I can save it.” He stopped and looked searchingly into her face. “I mean, of course, we can. This is what I came here for, I know it now, and you were called, too, for the same reason. You felt it.”

  She shook her head. It hadn’t been like that for her at all; there’d never been any compulsion. It was all a matter of impulse, drifting, whims, and chance. You went to Scotland because your father gave you the ticket, and you didn’t have anything better to do. Her ties to Appleton were recent and tenuous; she couldn’t get all emotional about it. And as for Ronan, well, he was definitely hot, but that didn’t make him the great love of her life.