The Silver Bough (9 page)

Now, standing in the quiet, breathing darkness, listening to her trees murmur and softly creak, Nell was as close to happiness as she could ever be. The apple trees were like her children, although she would never have said so, not even to herself. She tended them and cared for them, and yet they needed her less than she needed them, which was as it should be. They’d given back a focus to her life, given her a reason for getting out of bed in the morning—and, indeed, in the middle of the night. She still had no idea what had shocked her awake—a distant explosion? a car crash on the road below?—but she’d seen for herself there was nothing wrong in
her
domain. Easy in her mind, she made her way back to bed.

In the morning she didn’t give a second thought to what had disturbed her sleep but set off in her car for the town after her usual quick shower and frugal breakfast. The parking lot of the supermarket was crowded, and there were no spare trolleys in the bay where they were usually stored, but that was not particularly remarkable for a Saturday morning. She only guessed at something wrong when she walked through the automatic doors and heard the unusually high level of sound, a babble of half-hysterical shouting as people raced through the aisles, throwing cans of soup and jars of instant coffee and rolls of toilet paper into their trolleys as if stocking for a siege. She stood still, puzzled, gazing in surprise at the ranks of empty stalls that lined the first aisle. Normally the fresh fruit and vegetables were displayed here, but today there was nothing, not a single bag of potatoes, not a solitary orange.

She walked down to the bakery section, where the racks that usually displayed the fresh-baked rolls, pastries, and specialty breads were just as bare. The shelves of prepackaged breads held only one loaf of whole wheat and a vacuum pack of pita breads. She noticed a store employee in a white apron, behind the bakery counter, standing with her arms folded tightly across her full breasts, her cheeks flushed and a look of barely contained excitement on her round, young face. Nell caught her eye. “What happened?”

“Haven’t you heard?”

“Heard what?”

“There was an earthquake!”

Nell shook her head, making no sense of it. “Where?”

“Here! Under the sea, off the coast, actually. Didn’t you feel it last night?
I
did. My dog started howling and woke me up a minute before it happened.”

“The store’s still standing,” Nell pointed out, not trying to hide her scepticism.

The young woman rolled her eyes. “It only caused a landslide, didn’t it? Blocked the road, up at that narrow bit below what they call Fairview. Our first delivery gets here at four o’clock in the morning, but not today. He couldn’t get past the rock. Nobody can. So we’re not getting our ten o’clock either. Nobody knows how long that road’ll be closed for.”

A woman hurried up the aisle pushing a laden trolley ahead of her. With a wary, sideways glance at Nell, as if expecting argument, she reached past her and snatched the whole wheat loaf off the shelf before rushing away.

“As soon as word got round, people went absolutely mental,” said the store employee in a curiously satisfied way. “We sold out of fresh milk in five minutes, and since then they’ve been buying absolutely everything. I shouldn’t think there’ll be anything left by lunchtime. We’ll have to close early.”

Nell left without trying to buy anything. Even if there had been a few things on the shelves that she needed, she shrank away from the feverish hunter-gatherer mentality now ruling the aisles. She didn’t know if things would be any better at the smaller shops—in her view, big stores brought out the worst in people—but even if she went home empty-handed, she could survive for a week or more on home-grown produce and the contents of her freezer.

The streets of Appleton were as crowded and lively as she had ever seen them, even at the height of the summer tourist season. In the glorious sunshine and unreasonably warm weather, everyone seemed to be on vacation. She was usually confident about finding a place to park in the old marketplace (which had been turned over entirely to parking since the demise of the weekly street market) but today it was double-parked and impossible to enter. She found a place to leave the car on a side street near the library, and, deciding that might as well be her first call, lifted the heavy book bag out of the backseat.

Like the supermarket, the library was a hive of activity on Saturday morning, mostly for the elderly and parents with young children. Entering the cool, spacious foyer, she heard the chatter and hum of talk, definitely up a few decibels from the usual sedate exchange of remarks about the weather. But the feverish, hysterical edge she’d sensed in the store was absent. The people here weren’t worried, only pleased to have something new to talk about.

The new librarian—American like herself—was behind the counter, and her smile of recognition was so warm and welcoming that Nell felt disconcerted. No one had responded to her like that in years. People in the town knew her to speak to, but she’d never felt that her presence mattered to anyone, and that was how she liked it.

“Mrs. Westray! I’ve got your photocopy here.”

“Thanks,” she said automatically, reaching to take it.

“There’s a charge of fifty pence for the photocopying, and you’ll need to sign this form, Mrs. Westray.”

“Call me Nell. Do you have change for a pound? Um, I don’t know your name…”

“Kathleen. Kathleen Mullaroy.”

“Where do you want me to sign this, Kathleen?”

“Just there. Are these books for return?”

“Yes.”

“Ah,” said the librarian, sounding pleased as she opened the book on top of the stack. “
The Club Dumas.
Did you like it?”

“Very much. Do you have any more by him?”

“Yes. He’s terrific. You won’t find them on the regular fiction shelves, though. There’s a copy of
The Nautical Chart
in large print, and
The Flanders Panel
and at least one other should be on that paperback rack by the door if they’re checked in.”

“Thanks, I’ll look for them.”

The last book on the pile was
Villette.
“Oh, that’s one of my favorites.”

“Mine, too. I used to have a copy, but I must have lost it somewhere along the way.”

“Where are you from?”

“Oh…” She made a meaningless gesture, caught off guard by the abrupt change in subject, and uneasy with it. “I’ve lived a lot of places. I was born in Massachusetts.” She edged away from the desk, anticipating more intrusive questions.

“Do you like biographies?”

She stopped. “Yes.”

“We have a very good one of Charlotte Brontë.”

“Is that the one by Lyndall Gordon?”

“Yes. Did you read her on Virginia Woolf?” As Nell nodded, they exchanged the book-lover’s complicit glance, and Kathleen said, lowering her voice slightly, “Her new book about Mary Wollstonecraft is wonderful. It’s checked out at the moment, but I could put it aside for you if you like.”

“Thanks.” Nell smiled uncertainly. “Well…I’d better find myself something to read now.”

It had been only a brief, casual exchange of views. For all she knew, it was the sort of conversation the librarian had half a dozen times every day, but for her it had been rare and oddly seductive. When she brought her books to the desk to be stamped out, the librarian was again moved to comment, and they wound up discussing the comparative merits of works by Paul Auster, Alice Hoffman, and Russell Hoban.

“It seems we have similar tastes,” said Kathleen, and her friendly, pretty face glowed with pleasure. “And it sounds like you read a lot—more than I have time for.”

Nell shrugged. “I have to have something for when it’s too dark or too wet to work in the garden. I can’t stand much television.”

“I’ve been thinking about starting a book group. They’re so popular everywhere these days; it’s strange there isn’t one in Appleton.” The librarian leaned across the counter, her eyes fixed eagerly on Nell’s. “Would you be interested?”

“No.” The word came out more vehemently than she’d intended. “No, I don’t like clubs; that’s not my kind of thing.” The librarian’s bright, hopeful expression collapsed, and Nell felt as if she’d kicked a dog for wagging its tail.

“Look, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that; I’m sure it’s a good idea—I’m just not good in groups, that’s all. I’m not good in any kind of company—well, I’ve just made that obvious, haven’t I?” She struggled to make amends, trying to smile. “I’ve lived alone too long. I didn’t mean to be rude, I’ve just forgotten how to talk to people.”

“You weren’t rude! And as for forgetting how to talk to people—it was the way you were talking to me about books that made me think you’d be perfect in a book group.”

Nell imagined turning and walking out without another word—but she couldn’t do it. Although she bought books nearly every time she went for a break to the city, there were no bookstores in Appleton; she needed this library. And, anyway, it was never her intention to hurt anyone. While she hesitated, still struggling with the problem, someone came up to the counter with a stack of books to be checked out. She moved aside, but the librarian let her assistant deal with them and did not release Nell from her gaze. “Won’t you think about it?”

“I’m better talking one-on-one than with groups.” As she spoke, she wondered if she shouldn’t just agree and make her escape. She could always find excuses later for not attending.

“Me, too, actually,” said Kathleen, with another disconcertingly warm smile. “Do you want to meet up for lunch sometime? We close between one and two for lunch. How about today?”

Her eyes went to the golden sunlight streaming through the window behind Kathleen. “Not today; not with this sunshine. After the weather we’ve had, I can’t
wait
to get back in the garden.”

“Oh, of course. Well, maybe another time? When it’s raining? I’m here the same hours every day except Monday and Sunday.”

“Actually, I don’t really
do
lunch. It puts such a big hole in the day.”

That should have been the end of it. Two flat refusals were generally enough to kill any hopes. She hadn’t even apologized or left an obvious opening for her to try again; Kathleen could only retire, more or less defeated, which was what she’d wanted.

So Nell didn’t understand what made her say, “Why don’t you come to my house for dinner? Tomorrow evening?” She spoke so casually that no one could have guessed what a big thing it was; the first time she’d ever invited anyone to Orchard House.

Kathleen’s face lit up. “I’d love to! What time?”

“Six o’clock? It won’t be anything fancy; probably more or less vegetarian.”

“That’s fine with me.”

They gazed at each other for a moment, both smiling shyly. Nell felt nervous and hopeful and confused by what she’d just done. She became aware that people were jostling behind her; looking around, she saw that a small queue had formed: mothers and children and pensioners struggling with their piles of books and waiting for her to get out of the way.

“I’ll take those over here,” said Kathleen, moving to help her overworked assistant. She cast a final, bright-eyed look at Nell. “See you Sunday!”

In a daze, Nell left the library. She hoped she wasn’t going to regret the invitation. It would be harder, in a small town, to avoid someone once the first overtures had been made if you didn’t want to be friends. She thought of Sam, who’d never understood what he called her “shyness” but which others recognized, more accurately, as a carefully maintained aloofness; he’d always thought it the most natural thing in the world to have and keep friends. As she put her library books into the car, as she got out her shopping bags and walked down to the shops, she felt, for the first time in years, the warmth of her husband’s approval, as if it were his sorely missed presence at her side.

 

From
The Living Magic of Scotland
by Daphne Holdstock
(Mythril Press, 1979)

 

A
LTHOUGH
scholars have argued over whether or not the apple tree was represented in the Ogham tree-alphabet discussed earlier, there is no doubt about the veneration with which the apple was regarded by the ancient peoples of Scotland. Even the slightest acquaintance with folklore and fairy tale will bring a dozen references to mind. Apples were the fruit of life and immortality; the earthly paradise was “Avalon” (apple-land), and a branch bearing silver leaves, crystal blossom, and ripe red fruit was the magical passport which admitted mortals into the Other-World.

This all sounds lovely, and yet the living traces of the long-ago apple-tree cult we can see in the Scotland of today bear a curiously sinister import. The game of “dooking for apples” played at Hallowe’en is believed by many to be the survival of an ancient Druidic rite, and it also suggests a connection with the water ordeal once used for testing witches, who drowned if they were innocent, but were burnt to death if they managed to survive their ducking.

Old fertility rituals and festivals have long been associated with English apple orchards, but I know of only one such recorded in Scotland. The orchards of Appleton, on the west coast of Argyll, no longer exist, but the last Appleton Apple Fair was held in 1950, so I was able, on my visit to Appleton, to talk to many who remembered it.

From my reading about the Fair I’d been led to suppose it was a Victorian invention that would prove, on closer inspection, to contain nothing authentically Scottish. After all, the town’s very name is English, and the orchards were planted by incomers in the seventeenth century. Yet a visit to Appleton changed my mind, especially when I ventured into the surrounding hills, and particularly into the high valley they call the “reul.” There is
real
magic there; deep mysteries of earth and stone and plant and water.

Even if the Apple Fair was invented to attract tourists, however artificial its beginnings, it could not remain cut off but would soon have been pulled into the service of the local magic. Some aspects are recognizable from other Scottish traditions: that it was supposed to be a dark-haired stranger who crowned the Apple Queen reminds me of the preferred “first-footer” on Hogmanay. My mother always used to say that the first person to step across the threshold of the house on New Year’s Day should be a tall, dark-haired man. If the first caller chanced to be fair-haired, bad luck could be averted by tossing a lump of coal in ahead of him, but if it was a woman, we’d have bad luck all year.

“After the last Apple Fair, we never had any luck in the town,” one elderly woman told me. “It was
her
fault, the Apple Queen. If she’d married her man, everything would have gone on as it always had. But she went away. They
both
did—only not together as they were meant to. And ever since, nothing’s gone right with the town.”