Orchard

Once upon a time, there was a young woman. She traveled far from her home in the heat of summer in hopes of fulfilling a dream. Despite the hard work and cruel master, she was optimistic and bright. Every day she would go for a walk in the afternoon, drinking from an enormous water bottle and pausing to stare at pretty trees and flowers. One day, she stopped beneath a tiny grove made of only two trees. A hawthorn and a willow. Surprised by this unusual combination, she started to sit before realizing that the ground beneath the trees held grave markers.

And scrambling to stand up, she fell into the tree. Her hand, scrabbling for purchase on the trunk, went into a hollow she hadn't noticed before. Her fingers grasped paper, thick and old, and she drew what turned out to be five letters, bound together with gaudy pink ribbon. She was about to put them back, thinking they were some lover's notes or something, when she saw the date on the front of the first envelope. It was at least a hundred years beforehand. Excited, she let the ribbon fall to the ground and opened the first letter.

Dear Reader,

This is a record. I write it for anyone who finds it- not just the people I write of, but strangers who know nothing. A tale such as this one is rare. Our sorrows, our loves, our pains need to be recorded, so they may be understood by others. It is only right. If you know what I mean, reader, read on.

If you're reading this, then you've been to Tiny Grove Orchards. You've seen the rows and rows of trees that were once the magical Enchanted Wood. Like any place, Enchanted Wood had its bad part, called the Mist. The Mist, the place without logic, was where trees grew higgly-piggly everywhere without thought to their proper environments. The Mist was my home once, beneath the proud hawthorn. I, and my elder sister, Meg, lived there. We were as different as night and day, Meg and me. She was pale and I was tan; she was as practical as I whimsical. We loved each other for all that, being the only family in the world for one another. We hunted and gathered and worked from dawn to dusk, keeping things together. Living in the Mist, where no human roads passed, we were deprived of the trade that villages on the main roads and side roads enjoyed. We worked around the problem, making what we couldn't get for ourselves and making trips to other parts of the Wood for things we couldn't make. And it was in this that our chief disagreement came.

For Meg and I were gifted. We had what the village seer had called the gift of the Wood. I had found out from a young age that I could make things appear from nothing. This power attracted the greedy but drove away many others, and only eventually only Meg remained for a time. People got over it once they realized that I was neither conceited nor cruel. Meg could do something similar, but less alarming: she could change things to suit herself. When she turned a swindler into a frog, people began to regard her as a kind of witch. Witches weren't common, but they were acceptable. By association, I became labeled as a witch as well. Finding ourselves able to enter and withdraw from society without trouble, we thought our lives were at last set.

But one fine morning we found ourselves lying out in a field of tall, brown grass. The trees we had so loved were gone as though they had never been, and on the hilltop in our sight there lay an enormous white house. There was a barn, and a cellar, and all the necessities of what we later learned was an orchard. The Enchanted Wood had decided to rescue its inhabitants, for the humans were cutting its lifeblood, the trees, away to make farms and grasslands and the like. To save us, the five gifted as we later learned we were, the Wood had changed the Mists into an orchard. Two trees were left, among the acres of fruit trees. A hawthorn, proud and well loved. And a willow, leaning over a glassy pond that never seemed to dirty.

And who were these five gifted ones, saved from the humans' guns and pitchforks? It was I and Meg, and another small family. A father, Oroblanco, who had actually dwelled among humans as a professor and who was well versed in their world. And his two daughters, one of blood and one of adoption. Their names were Strawberry and Dragon. Strawberry was a precocious young girl of perhaps seven, and Dragon was a strange, angsty teenager of sixteen. Oroblanco was only twenty-nine, and I was but twenty five. Meg, my sister, was only twenty-six.

We made a fine little family, or we would have. But as fate would have had it, there was no peace for us. It wasn't the humans, who we fit well in with a few well-spun stories and well-crafted lies. It wasn't our surroundings, for with our skill with trees we lacked for nothing. No, what tore us, specifically me and my Meg, was love. Oroblanco, with his quiet way, won both of our hearts. We both pursued him in silence, nether telling the other of their intentions. Still, Oroblanco could not love us both. He chose my sister, my darkly shadowed sister, and I was suddenly an outcast. She was a mother to two children, and a wife to a widower, and only the ceremony was left. How could I? How could I stand back and let my dreams fade like the Mists had? And so I did the thing I had sworn not to do. You see, in our home, the subject of gift and its purpose was well debated. I believed that only in true emergency was using our power right, while Meg felt differently. She thought we ought to use our power. Oroblanco firmly believed in never using his power. But at that moment, watching them laugh at their futures, my heart was inflamed with that green-eyed monster!

Oh, Oroblanco, my love! How well I remember your green eyes, so like my jealousy's! The way your hair, badly cut, sat in disarray upon your head. You are etched into me in a way I do not understand. And I could not, could not give you to Meg. Not like that. So I used my power- my power of Creation- and dreamed up the thing I wanted so badly. I made not a physical thing but- an obstacle. I wanted something to halt your blooming love. Forgive me, Meg, but I could not stand back and watch my heart be trod on so thoroughly. And an obstacle there was! I know not the exact mechanics, but the humans learned who and what we were. They came, with torches and weapons, and to slay what they saw as evil. And I- I made for myself an escape route and ran. Let them die, I thought. Who were they, to revel in their joy and leave me to drown in my own sorrows! My sister, and my love, and my family, and I unwanted. Can you not understand, Meg, that I could not let Pomegranate Cidri become Pomegranate Withri?

I ran, far and fast, as though chased by a devil at my heels, and perhaps there was indeed one. I didn't stop until I reached the safety, the familiar shade of my grove. The center of what is now Tiny Grove Orchards where a hawthorn and a willow grow side by side. I lay there, staring at the wind catching the leaves and could only help horror at my deed. To have left those people who I held dear to die...what a monster I was! Who was I, to keep living?

And so I went out to the cliff far from town, ad wrote this letter. With utmost care I hid it in the hollow of the hawthorn, and then I climbed up into the only tree left among the burned, ashy ruins of our happy and I hung myself. Or so I plan to do as I pen these words. By the time the ink is dry I may have changed my mind. Still, death is my last refuge. Who will find my body, rotting among the apples? Beloved Oroblanco, know that my love shall follow you forever. Dearest Pomegranate, know that I am truly ashamed of my deed.

Forever yours,

Apple Cidri, Under the Hawthorn

Dear Reader,

If you read these words, you must have been to the Tiny Grove Orchard. You must have read my sister's words, guilt-ridden.

I miss the Mist. I miss my real home. Blessed with a gift, and able to explain unlike poor Apple, I found myself far more content than she. Dearest sister! How well I remember you! It seems rather ironic that sweet, good-hearted Apple Cidri should have brought calamity upon anyone. I always thought that I, the night to your day, would bring evil to the world, not you. But you burned our farm and our trees. Little Strawberry nearly died, but the rest of us fare quite well despite your betrayal.

Oroblanco! You may know a bit of the events that passed from Apple's tale but the wonder of love is inexplicable. I felt such passion for Oroblanco. He was not at all like me- bookish and deep. I felt very shallow in his presence. But he once told me I intrigued him, with my strangeness. He called me unique. Shall I share a little secret? I think, if I were plain with mud brown hair and lifeless pale eyes, Oroblanco would certainly have loved you, Apple, more. It was my looks, my difference that drew him like a moth to a flame- an odd comparison, when it was you who did the burning! Still, I can understand your motivation. I would never have done it. Stabbing in the night, a drop of poison or two- that I could do. But to simply let chaos run free? Never. I couldn't just kill everyone. Only you.

But love! It was like a sun rising on an eternal night. My soul was aflame. I wish we could have both had him, but of course that would never be. If there had been a sixth woman, he might have avoided all this unpleasantness to begin with. We are doomed, were doomed from the moment the Wood became a simple farm. We'd never been around anyone but each other, how could we not love him? It was up to him. If only he had been killed, you might have returned to me. We could have made it, Apple. But my love lived. I am grateful, but sorrowful. To lose a sister is not an easy thing.

After you died, hanging on the tree, I read your letter. I buried you beneath our tree. The hawthorn seedlings sprung from your grave, as though even in your death you were a creator. Was it the burden of your power that made you hate like that, Apple? I miss you so much. Blood is thicker than water, than even love. But I needed Oroblanco.

We went into the village. After a few months in an inn, we rebuilt the house- or rather a small part of it. It served us well for a few years. But your wrongdoing seemed to lurk in every corner. When Dragon said she swore your blue eyes were watching us from the windows, I knew we had to leave. We traveled here and there, and my heart ached from the ravaged Wood. Home was gone, family was gone, and your ghost haunted me. I knew why, of course. You thought we were gone, dead in the fire and blood. Now to watch us live, in even a semblance of happiness, you were determined to damn us. I cannot blame you for wanting the life we have.

I can't conceive, it seems. I've tried, but I will never have my own children. Did you create this, sister? Did you want me to suffer? My head says one thing and my heart refutes it.

The poison boils in the wine cup, where fine wine once stood. A worthy cause, to die and join you, is it not? I shall seal this envelope; leave this letter with my dearest Apple's letter. Companions even in death, our last words shall sit there until someone reads them and knows what we are. Are our sufferings real unless someone else reads and knows them?

I hope so.

Sincerely,

Pomegranate Cidri

Dear Reader,

When I read the previous letters, I was shocked. Emotions had always been incomprehensible to me. Even love- even love- even love was hard. Megra is gone, and she lies with her sister in the shade of that tree. The hawthorn.

And now I will tell my tale, for you, reader, do not know me. You have heard how I endeared myself unwittingly to two women, but before the few happy days on the farm, you do not know what happened.

I married a lovely lady at twenty, and she died giving birth to my precious Strawberry. She looks exactly like my late wife, and I sometimes forget who it is I'm looking at. I knew my wife since I was her age, so it was easy to lapse into the past.

Ever since I was born, I have struggled to control my power. I can know everything about everything around, just by glancing around myself. And it hurts. The strain on my mind was such that I learned fairly early to suppress my magic eye. But the knowledge made me into a bookworm. I was always full of questions, always thirsty to know. This tendency made adults whisper behind my back and insult me to my face. By the time I was thirteen, I was cold. I didn't talk to people too much, afraid of rejection. For some people, who I knew for a long time, it was different. But I closed a shutter between me and the world. I knew what it was like to hurt.

I raised Strawberry on my own, carefully. I didn't want anything to happen to her. It was beneath our willow that I met Dragon. She was the strangest child I have ever met- although she was a teenager already when I met her. Child isn't accurate, but I still think of her as one.

Her hair, coal-black, jet-black, was like a new moon. Her eyes, frighteningly red, like a demon's eyes from a myth. Her scrawny figure and pasty, sickly color were ignored in favor of her inauspicious eyes and hair. It was such thick hair, hanging like a wall across one side of her face. One bright eye would eye me warily- was I going to hurt her or not? She was a beaten, fragile girl, and the breaking had made her angry. She disliked my little Strawberry immensely, unable to stand her for longer than a few moments. Me she withstood out of painfully out of gratitude. It was Pomegranate that she really took to, their outlooks being similar. Megra seemed to really understand Dragon, and they became fast friends. No one seemed to really like Strawberry. They put up with her, faked nice in my presence, but that was the extent of it.

I can remember with startling clarity my first look at the two sisters. They were so different that it was hard at first to see any family resemblance. Truthfully, there wasn't much.

Apple Cidri! She reminded me of famous paintings of goddesses or angels. I half expected to see a halo and wings on her. Her hair was fine and white blonde, looking ethereal in the sun. She was tanned enough to suit her pale hair. The eyes on that woman were as bright as could be, like pieces of the tropical sea pressed into her irises. They were that blue. I imagined there were fish and coral beneath her lids. Everything about her was cute- the little nose, the pouted mouth, the way she squinted when she was concentrating. Her hands were small. She dressed in a feminine ladylike fashion that I didn't see on anyone else in the house. It was if she wasn't even from the Mist- she was so normal.

And then there was Pomegranate Cidri. My darling Megra. I hadn't loved in so long- it was difficult to love her, I admit it. It as hard to feel, harder yet to show her I cared. Still, for my children, I tried. She was vampire white despite the harsh sun. Her hair was between Apple's and Dragon's in thickness. It was purple, or pink- the shade of her namesake's skin. Her eyes were orange, cat-like, and alluring. She was fine boned in hands, taller then Apple, and dressed in the most bizarre yet exquisite clothing. Like a nymph of the Wood, she was ethereal and mysterious. There was a dark beauty to her, not a sunny cuteness. Her features were strong and fierce and sharp and yet somehow like fine china. Her smiles always seemed to be hiding something, and I was always wondering what.

It was the mystery that reeled me in. I was used to knowing as soon as I looked everything. Apple was so transparent. I couldn't find anything in her to cling to. But Megra held my mind, and she was a quandary.

If I had known the rift I had caused, what would I have done? I've lost nights of sleep to this question. Apple brought catastrophe to our world in her rage. I chose her sister over her, and she showed us exactly how she felt about it, with fire and blood. It rained ash on our land, and she got a quick death by killing herself. I don't think she meant it to turn out this way. She meant to kill us and leave, and then killed herself from guilt. When they say blue eyes watch us from the shadows in our house, I know why. Now Apple is alone.

And her envy dragged my Megra away too. Now it is I and Strawberry and Dragon again, and there is no wood to shelter ourselves in.

Strawberry is now fourteen. Dragon is married.

Surely they can manage without me...

Oroblanco Withri

Dear Reader,

My name is Dragon Withri. Unlike the last three letters, this one at least doesn't end in suicide. I'm in no hurry to die. I am married now. My life is laid out before me.

Secretly, I wish Oroblanco- I can never think of him as Dad- had married Apple instead. Pomegranate wouldn't have been like this- she wouldn't have ruined everything.

I killed them, you know. The mob that was after us, that is- I destroyed them.

It's always been this way. Ever since I was a child, I've destroyed things that were in my way. I learned fast how to stop it from happening. But even then, people hated me. They feared me. And I drew away from them, unwilling to feel anymore. Oroblanco and I were alike in that regard. I say were because he, and his wife, and the woman he rejected are all dead.

Do you know why I wished Apple had been with us? She could create what I destroyed. She could balance me. Not that I didn't like Megra- I did. Truly, I felt so good when we were together. It's just I don't want to hurt people and yet I do. I killed that mob, and I didn't enjoy it, but still. Oroblanco and Pomegranate were trying to keep Strawberry alive, as usual. So it was up to me. And they were swarming, like bugs. And I swatted them like bugs.

God.

I hate Strawberry. Oroblanco seemed totally oblivious to the fact that she was the most selfish, conniving, evil little girl in the world. She wanted things, always. She would go out and find sick people, charge the worried family huge amounts of money, and then heal the sick, but only partially so she could keep collecting. She wanted silk dresses and expensive lace and a pony. That girl wanted the whole damn world. I hated that. She looked down me, called me the demon girl. But at least I helped people when I could, destroying blocks on the roads and other stuff. It was all about her, and the heavens help whoever got in her way. I scared her into behaving sometimes.

That evil child considered herself the sun, moon, stars, sky, earth, and sea. She was the only thing important. When Megra came home carrying her own sister's dead body, Strawberry had a fit because she didn't want a dead body anywhere near her. She started hitting the body, even knocked out a tooth. I beat her soundly for that. At least I helped dress Apple in clean clothes and bath her, then bury her out under the hawthorn.

But let the past be the past, right? My future doesn't lie with the dead, but with my husband. Strawberry can't even do that- find a husband, I mean. She's a beggar. I thought about helping her, but decided a little hardship would do her good.

If you've read this, you know that despite the events that demolished the last of the Wood, there are happy endings.

Sincerely yours,

Dragon Bakri

Readers,

If you are reading my letter, then you've gotten through all the trash before it. Like a diamond in a pile of coal, you've discovered the only valuable piece of writing in the bunch. Surely it is obvious from my fine hand, my elegantly formed words, and my very eloquence.

Let me tell you about the sad story of my life. My mother died, desperate to bring me into the world. It came down to this: it was either I live, or my mother live. She obviously chose to bring mw into the world at her own expense. Who wouldn't? So it was I and Father all alone in the Mist. I hated that. It was lonely there, with no one to talk to but Father. So, despite his misgivings (my father wasn't all that smart) we moved into a town on the Wood's main road. It was much better.

I had tons of friends and boatloads of money. Thanks to my gift, the gift of life, I had everything I wanted. Why shouldn't I, after all? I had been given a divine gift, as blessing. My natural beauty and addictive charm, too, were assets. It's a shame none of the men around here are fine enough for me. Oh, well. Soon enough some royalty will come along. Who is it that's the King of America again? I certainly have better things to do than sit and read. Forget the papers, and the library, and even the schoolhouses. My face is perfect; what else should I need to know?

I didn't at all like it when Father adopted her. Dragon, I mean. She had the weirdest eyes- feral and evil-looking. Her hair was too thick and dark. And her face! Ugh, she was like a gargoyle or something! And what kind of name is Dragon, anyway? Apparently some savage's fruit is called the Dragon Fruit. Strawberry is a much classier name. Then Father's name was Oroblanco- even worse, perhaps, than Dragon. People just called him Oro. Really, I'm quite glad he's dead, he was terribly embarrassing. My foster mother was awful. She was so mean to me- never giving me presents or taking me shopping. She actually tried to assign me chores! I straightened her out soon enough. Besides, she's dead now. Good riddance to that freakish purple hair and those catty orange eyes! Yucky, yucky, yucky! Apple was the only normal one, unlike her sister Pomegranate (another savage's fruit) she had lovely blonde hair and pretty blue eyes. I would have liked to show her off as my mother, but she died too.

As for my look, let me describe myself. I have pink hair. It's delightful to look at, and soft as silk. Not too thick like Dragon's, and well-cut unlike Father's. My eyes are an amazingly vibrant green that makes men's hearts sing. My complexion is fair, and unfreckled. Freckles are so common. My clothes- well, they are of my own style. At present I haven't as much money as I would like, but I'll find a place to stay today. Certainly I'd bring business to any inn! The last place I tried was so spiteful- saying that after I'd scorned every man in town I ought to be looking for a proper job and earning an honest living. They're so jealous, the people here.

Of course, that's why Apple probably killed herself. I'm ashamed to say such beauty as my own tends to drive some people rather mad. Both sisters simply couldn't bear it, and Father! No doubt he was tired of holding me back. I just wish that he'd bothered to leave me something! But no, everything was left to my foster sister Dragon! She is jealous, too, I'll bet. Soon she might die, and I'll marry her husband and get her money. Derek only married her to get closer to me. People often do that. I mean, who could love a face like hers? Even her mother didn't!

I've run out of ink, it seems. And too much writing will hurt my delicate hands. So goodbye, readers, and take note of the real heroine of our family saga. Me, of course.

Angel of perfection,

Strawberry Withri

She folded all five of the letters back up, tucking them safely into their cream colored envelopes. It seemed wrong, somehow, to put them back into the hollow of a tree. But what else could she do? The writers had meant fro their story to be told. Told to all and everyone, so they would not be forgotten. The poignant tale of love and death that emerged from the voices of the dead captured her heart in an instant. How could she deny anyone else that?

She hesitated as the purpose of her trip returned to her. She was here to research her mentor's book, so she might one day write and publish her own story. Standing here, in the light of noon, reading long-lost letters was not the best use of her time.

But the story she had just read, told in pieces, seemed to demand for her to do something. There was a way, but it left so much to chance. What if people didn't want to read a book about a dysfunctional family? What then? She saw it as almost sacrilegious to leave them here, in the dirty hollow of tree where who knows what lived.

And so the young student, with dark hair like a wall and brown eyes that held a faint red tint, took the letter home in her suitcase. They went north again, and her famous mentor published his latest bestseller. She remained at home, hard at work. Her original story was gathering dust, for her new project was historical, not fantasy.

Orchard, the book was called. It was an immediate hit with readers. But the author, finally having the recognition she deserved, finally knowing what she had always wanted to know ever since she found out she was adopted, took no credit. She insisted that the story was of the Cidri sisters, and the Withri family, and she was only sharing it with the world.

And so the descendant of Dragon Bakri's book, with copies of the five letters, and portraits of the five people, and her reconstruction of the story, spread throughout the world.

For the first time in a century, the hawthorn and the willow put out new buds.