The Orchard
By Kim Squirrell
A very long time ago, not too far from here.
A great old apple tree stood in the middle of a field.
It was the only apple tree in the whole village, in the whole town, in the
whole country. It was probably, the only apple tree in the whole world.
In the winter when there were no leaves on the tree,
Children climbed its strong wide branches.
In the spring young men and women loved to sit
below the fragrant blossom and have picnics in a shower of petals.
In the summer Mothers and Fathers, Uncles and Aunts,
were grateful for its broad delicious shade, so cooling after a hard days
work.
In the autumn, Granddads and Grandmas, Great Aunts and Great Uncles, sorted
through the rosy apples that were picked from its fruit laden branches.
And after the harvest the fallen apples were left on the ground to feed mice
and birds and badgers, beetles and bugs. All manner of living things were
kept alive by the great tree.
And the harvest?
The harvest filled the biggest barn in the village with the reddest apples
you ever did see. Sweet and sharp they were, crisp and juicy and smelling
of sugar and spice and everything that was nice and all the village came to
taste them. They made pies and puddings and cakes and tarts and cyder and
juice and dried apple rings and had a merry time.
But one year, one cold hard winter, a storm came.
It was the fiercest storm ever. It howled across the fields and ripped through
the hedges, it tugged and pulled at the trees. All the people closed the doors
tight and barred their windows until morning.
In the morning the saddest sight met their eyes.
In the field the great tree was down.
It sprawled across the ground, broken and bruised.
"No climbing." moaned the children
"No blossom." cried the young people
"No shade." lamented the parents
"No apples." wailed the grandparents
"No apples!" they all exclaimed "we could not bear it."
So they set about planting more trees. They searched for apple pips, in compost
bins and cider houses in kitchens and apple stores and planted them all in
the field.
And do you know what? They had planted the very first orchard.
The children could hardly wait to climb the trees.
The young people dreamed of warm spring afternoons under the blossom.
The Mums and Dads and Uncles and Aunts longed for the cool shade.
And the Granddads and Grandmas, Great Uncles and Great Aunts hoped they would
live long enough to taste an apple.
Soon the great day came,
after years of weeding and pruning,
after spring rains and summer sun,
Harvest-time came.
And everyone gathered in the orchard.
But what a shock they had.
Where were the rosy sweet sharp apples smelling of spice and all things nice?
Not on any of these trees.
These were wild trees with small bitter fruit.
What a disappointment!
All their effort and patience come to nothing.
But they were not disappointed for very long.
Soon there was wonder and delight as they found, amongst the wild apples,
other trees.
Trees that had green apples,
golden apples, orange apples
stripped, dappled, blushed apples,
apples smooth and shiny,
rough and waxy,
dull and glossy.
Sweet soft apples,
hard sharp apples
and apples that tasted of pear and plum.
of cool Spring rain and Summer sun.
An orchard of apple trees, different, every one.
But this was not the end of things. Oh No.
The children, who still played around the great fallen apple tree, knew something.
They knew that the tree was still alive. Its roots were still in the earth
and although its trunk and branches lay along the ground, from them new branches
had grown upwards like young trees and from the branches, blossom and leaves
had sprung and now fruit weighed down the branches beautiful rosy apples that
smelled of sugar and spice and everything nice.
And it was these clever children, who discovered something marvellous.
They found out how to make apple trees, without planting pips... but
that's another story.
© Copyright Kim Squirrell 2003
