Apple Green - 1. The Story

“Hey! Young man! You can't leave that parked there.”

James Beaumont turned to see a determined older woman in a tweed skirt pointing at his beloved, bright red roadster. He'd parked on the road outside one of a short row of half-timbered houses. His late uncle's house.

“Can't you see no-one else will be able to get past it?”

The young man stared at the female, then grudgingly eyed-up the narrow Herefordshire village street. Why couldn't his uncle have had the decency to live somewhere civilised? Like London.

He sighed audibly, and made his way back to the driver's side. Where the fuck was he meant to park then?

The woman answered his question before he'd even asked it. “You can park at the village hall. It's fifty yards ahead, on the left.”

James rolled his eyes, got in and drove off. Looking in his rear view mirror, the woman was still standing there. She was probably wondering who the fuck he was. Stranger and all that.

Having left his precious car behind, James strolled back up the narrow lane, carrying his luggage. It appeared he had the place to himself again. Even so, he sensed the twitching of curtains. Looking around him, he noticed a pub, The Green Man, further down on the opposite side. The sign was a well-painted image of an older man's face constructed out of foliage. The expression was enigmatic, the eyes looking straight at him. At least that was some sign of civilisation, though … Memories of several films came to him where the hostile locals always had it in for any strangers. Oh well, at least they ought to have some decent cask ale. Might even be some local micro-breweries.

His uncle's house was picture-postcard material with its tiled roof, and black and white Tudor construction. All very nice, but what his uncle had found to do in a benighted backwater like this defeated him. Next to no phone signal, appalling transport links, no social life, and no broadband. He stood in the road and looked up. Yes, he wasn't an estate agent, but to his eyes, the outside of the house appeared in good condition. Pity the front door opened virtually straight onto the road. Still, it would make a good holiday let, or someone's weekend cottage. The area must get some tourists.

He was just fumbling to find the house key, when the woman appeared again. This time, she was smiling.

“That's better. Parking around here is awkward. Hello. I'm Marian Black, one of the parish councillors. I live just over the road.” She pointed back at another similar, but not identical cottage.

The young man didn't smile in return. He had hoped to get on with the job without any of the locals noticing. But that was crap – was anybody local likely to own a sports car like his? It was going to be better if he got the basic facts out into the open. That way the news would get about without him being further involved.

“Hi. James Beaumont. I've come to sort out my uncle's place. I inherited it last summer.” He in his turn, pointed to the cottage directly behind him.

“Oh … of course, poor Oliver. He lived his own kind of life, but then we're very accepting of that round these parts. Are you intending to stay here for Christmas?”

No, he bloody wasn't. Where were the parties, the eye-candy, and the chances for a mutually satisfying fuck?

“'fraid not. Need to be back at work asap. The City. Just down here to scope the place for redevelopment. Holiday let or some such.”

The woman looked him up and down for a moment. “I could tell you weren't local … You realise the orchard is protected, don't you?” Her smile had faded.

Bloody, meddling environmentalists. “Nothing that can't be resolved, I imagine.” By money, influence, a good lawyer … “Somebody's already taken a look on my behalf.”

The woman's gaze hardened. James decided to just ignore it.

“D'you know if anyone's been keeping an eye on the place? It's taken me some time to get down here. Been too busy.”

“Not as such. Your neighbours would have noticed anything untoward. Oliver kept his own company for the main part. Did you arrange for the power to remain connected?”

Had he? “Err … yeah. Think so. Soon find out. Great to meet you, …”

“Marian.”

“Yeah. Later.”

James clutched the large, heavy key in his hand, brandished it briefly at the woman as his bonafides, and opened up.

He stood for several minutes in the dark, low-ceilinged passage-way to get a feel for the place. The air was damp and cold, the silence all-enveloping. No sound from a central heating pump, or the gentle roar of a boiler, or anything to make the place feel lived-in. Well, he'd soon change that. The solicitor had told him his uncle had at least put in modern central heating. James wandered through the various ground floor rooms until he found the control panel for the heating, and the modern circuit breakers. Excellent, everything was working. He'd soon be warm enough – he was an urban animal, used to his creature comforts.

As he went back through to the front room, James noticed a full basket of firewood, ready for use. His uncle had only been fortysomething when he died? Fifty at the most. James tried to recall the funeral arrangements – he'd been out of the country when it had happened. A green burial? Compostable something or other? Whatever – all very trendy. The wood gave the impression of something sudden happening, out of the blue. Looking at the stone fireplace, a carving made him stare.

With bulging eyes, a gaping mouth with vegetation spilling out of it, the representation of a man's head was unsettling. Another Green Man or something else? James scoured his memory for clues. Wasn't it – he? – a folk deity, or symbol of some kind? Fertility? Good crops? The carving would have to go if he wanted a holiday cottage. Couldn't cause the tourists to have nightmares. Not good for trade.

He had faint memories of staying in the house as a young boy. Aged six? Not of the house, but more of playing in the apple orchard, towards the bottom of the long back garden. A glimpse out of the kitchen window showed he remembered correctly. Now he actually saw the garden, it confirmed the possibilities he'd already thought of – games area, outdoor pool, barbeque … The orchard trees would have to be grubbed out first. Protected or not. Why hadn't his uncle done it? The trees were too old and uncared for to be much use. His house, he'd do what he wanted with it. James had no time for sentimentality, or any of the 'green' bollocks that were so prevalent.

As he manoeuvred himself and some of his luggage up the narrow, twisted staircase, the young man took note of a hatch to the roof space. He didn't much fancy climbing around up there, but it would have to be done. … Was that scratching he just heard? Scrabbling? Bloody vermin, or birds. Or both. James sighed. A trip up the ladder would be sooner rather than later then. He hated ladders. Maybe it would be best if he got it out of the way.

Balanced on the top rung of the pull-down ladder, the young man waved his torch from side to side, trying to penetrate the blackness of the roof space. Why hadn't his uncle insulated it? Something else he'd have to bloody do – otherwise, heating the place was going to be far too expensive. There were no obvious heaps of bird shit, feathers, or anything else to suggest avian squatters. He stopped, listening out for any repeat of what he'd heard earlier. Nope. Silence. The sort of absence of sound which was deeply disconcerting to a Londoner like himself. Looking around, he saw the usual detritus that found its way to an attic – Christmas stuff, unwanted clothing, cardboard boxes. Then he saw a present, one solitary present, tied up with a bow. Weird. It was almost as though it was waiting to be found.

Stretching an arm out, James just managed to drag the present closer. It looked old. The wrapping paper was thick and embossed, almost like 1970s flock wallpaper. Puzzled, he picked it up. Fuck, if it was a present, it wasn't anything of any substance. He shook it gently, sniffed at it – still no closer to guessing. Placing it with care under one arm, he slowly climbed back down the ladder.

Later the same evening, James was sitting in front of the fireplace with the present on his lap. He'd managed to prepare a meal of sorts from stuff he'd bought on his way there, and he'd succeeded in making a fire. Something to be proud of, and all without him having ever been a boy scout. Not that the fire was necessary, it made the place more welcoming. He'd only turned on one small table lamp to make the most of the lively red glow. James turned his attention back to the mysterious present. He didn't do Christmas. On the other hand, a puzzle? That was more like it.

Carefully undoing the bow, the stiff paper covering fell away, leaving an old, battered wooden box. James slid back the lid and let his hand do the exploring. Shredded paper, loads of it. Then …? His fingers traced the outline. It was vaguely spherical, smooth, but with short, blunt … thorns? An old memory from his childhood stirred. Conkers, still in their outer shell. Grasping the object carefully, he brought it out. … And nearly dropped it from the shock. No horse chestnut tree had ever produced that. James stared, open-mouthed. It was larger, and turquoise. A brilliant, iridescent turquoise, covered all-over with tiny, ruby red veins. It sat in the palm of his hand as he tried to understand what it was. The texture was of satin, stretched over something that was solid and full of life.

What the …? As the young man continued to stare, suddenly the casing split open. There, in the centre was a softly-glowing, plump … seed? The pale, pearlescent light was unnerving, unnatural. He was no gardener, but surely, nothing like this had been seen before? James stopped. Of course, it'd been seen before. How the hell else had it found its way into a wrapped box? Just what the fuck had this to do with his uncle? For a moment, he looked away, only to see the carving on the fireplace once more. This time, with an atavistic, reddish tinge which made it even more unsettling.

Rattled, the young man put the strange seed back in its casing, got up, and turned on the ceiling lights. The glare wasn't attractive, but it lessened the impact of the light coming from the box. As he sat down again, his eyes were still drawn back to the seed. Its aura was almost mesmerising. James felt he could become lost in its beauty, which was like something out of a fairy tale. With a supreme effort, he looked away again, then closed up the box and re-covered it with the paper.

He still felt its influence, but diminished to some extent. What was its purpose? Why was it there? Had it been waiting for him? That last question was deeply disquieting. While trying to distract himself, his thoughts were interrupted … The time was not right, not yet – the call would come soon, and he would answer. … What? James jerked in his seat. Where the fuck had that come from? What call? His eyes were drawn back to the present box. The ethereal glow still crept out through every crack. OK … He needed to go to bed, his mind was obviously playing tricks. Getting up again, James banked down the fire, left the box where it was, and went upstairs.

Sitting in the kitchen the next morning, eating his breakfast, James was back in business mode. He hadn't had a good night's sleep – strange, unsettling dreams, dominated by the image from the fireplace. There was a faint, lingering impression in the back of his mind of being given permission to get on with his tasks. What was it? He wasn't yet needed. Pardon? Needed for what? What the fuck was his mind playing at? The house and the garden were his. His! Resolutely, the young man turned to his work, but the niggle, the shadow stayed in his mind. However much he tried to block it out.

While he waited for the kettle to boil, he'd looked out at the garden. Even from that distance, he could see the apple trees were gnarled and covered in lichen. Some of them even had bunches of mistletoe hanging from the upper branches, the green standing out against the dark, bare trees. When had they last produced enough apples for cider? His uncle had thought about getting rid of them – last winter. While his food was cooking the previous evening, James had found some correspondence stuffed on top of one of the bookshelves. His uncle had got as far as accepting a quote from one company for the work, but then nothing … Odd – why hadn't he followed-up on it? It would've saved his nephew a whole lot of hassle. Right, how many amenities would he be able to fit in the space once the trees had gone? Which were essential? He got to work.

James had spent an hour or two preparing his list with estimated costings, making notes on his phone, when all of a sudden, the summons came. He was needed. Now. The news of its finding had to be spread amongst the faithful. An image of the seed and its brilliantly coloured casing dominated his vision. The mesmerising beauty, the power contained within, were his to serve. Without hesitation, the young man put down his work and rushed through to the front room where he'd left it.

How could he have ignored the seed since he'd got up? What if anything had happened to it? As soon as he opened the door and went in, he saw the glow leaking out from the box. Relieved, James picked it up, opened it, and there indeed was what he'd seen the previous evening. Still jewel-coloured, and otherworldly. All thoughts of redevelopment forgotten, he closed up the box, and hurried across the road.

They were sitting in Marian Black's living room, the open present box on the coffee table. As he'd entered, the young man had noticed another representation of the Green Man, this time more animalistic, with twigs for antlers. The painting above the fireplace was disturbing in a different way from the carving in his house – seemingly more ancient, pagan. And it was hung about with holly and mistletoe. No other Christmas decorations – no angels, Father Christmases, baubles …

James was confused. He wasn't sure why he was there at all. The last thing he knew he'd been wrestling with some figures. The awkwardness of his sudden arrival had been softened by showing his neighbour the box. Somehow, that was the right thing to do. It was allowed. He'd asked a couple of questions, to make it seem as though that was the purpose of his visit. Instead of answering them, the bloody woman had taken one look at the box and its contents, then collapsed into giggles.

Marian was trying to stop laughing long enough so she could speak. “Oh dear … You mean to tell, young man … you don't know a conker when you see one?” She wiped her eyes.

James flushed red. Yes, he fucking did, and that wasn't one.

“I'm sorry, shouldn't laugh, but it is only a conker. A good, solid specimen for all that.” Marian put the box back on the kitchen table. “Why anyone wrapped it up as a present?” She looked at the young man. “Any family jokes come to mind?”

James didn't understand why she was passing it off as something utterly banal. “Can't you see the glow?”

“Sorry?”

“The glow. From what's inside the box. And the turquoise colour?” Nobody could've missed that.

He didn't mention the power, the compulsion. Was it really right that he should be showing the seed? His seed. Yes, came the answer out of nowhere. It gave him comfort. … So why didn't she see what he did?

The woman gave the box and its contents another cursory glance. She looked hard at him.

“I think you've been working too hard, young man. You look pale. Spending some time in the country will do you good. No staring at screens all day, fresh air, the countryside …”

She was the one seeing things. Or not seeing things. James stood and gathered up the box, preparing to leave. An amused pair of eyes were watching him.

“If you'd like a strong, healthy horse chestnut tree growing at the bottom of your garden, I'd let it germinate, then plant it out.”

“I've other plans, thanks.” He left immediately after.

Login to instant messenger

He's arrived

Finally!

So like the other

No surprise – incomers all

No respect

None

Been found already

Quick!

Well overdue

Ripe?

Y

Good

Will he change?

Never

So the wheel turns

Indeed

Logout

James Beaumont was back in his house with the box. He was its guardian. … What? Where were these random thoughts coming from? Again, the image of the glowing seed appeared in his mind before slowly fading away. A seed? No way. It was delayed stress, the silence, anything apart from the box and its contents. As he left the box in the front room, the young man felt he'd been released. A lessening of the connection, but only for a period which would not be determined by him. Fuck, the sooner he was away from the place, the better.

After some lunch, the young man called up one of his apps on his phone. He needed to do some accurate measurements, both of the garden and the house. As soon as he returned to the real world, he'd find someone to do the hard work in the garden. Then he could either resign and do the designs himself, or pay someone else. James frowned. No … he wouldn't be able to survive more than a few days here. So, a designer it was. Money wasn't a problem – he'd just been paid a well-earned, six-figure bonus.

James put his coat back on and went out into the garden. He had to make the best of the short winter day. As he strolled through the orchard on his way to the far end of his garden, he noticed the lack of rotting, fallen apples. Either the trees were even more barren than he'd assumed, or someone had helped themselves. It didn't matter. They wouldn't be around for much longer. One appeared damaged. The young man took hold of a bough which was hanging loose and heaved until it separated completely from its tree. There, that would do for firewood sometime.

As he turned to drag the wood to one side, he was stopped suddenly in his tracks. The seed, it had to be brought outside into the garden. The summons was urgent – it was ripe. Leaving the bough where it fell, James rushed back inside. He rescued the box with its precious cargo and bore it into the daylight. What should he do next? Plant it, was the answer. That was its destiny, and his also. Operating almost without thinking, the young man forced open his uncle's shed, found a spade, and set to work. After a short time, there was a hole in the ground next to the orchard, deep enough to take the glowing, round seed. Could he touch it? Was it allowed? Grasping the turquoise outer shell, he avoided the questions by tipping the seed gently into its hole. There it lay, back where it belonged. The shell disintegrated into dust. Covering the seed with soil, he packed it down until it was level with the rest of the grass.

James found himself back in the kitchen without really knowing how he got there. And he wasn't sure where he'd just come from either. He looked down. There was soil all over his shoes and the bottom three or four centimetres of his trousers. His hands were dirty and scratched. He'd gone outside to …? Measure up, of course. So how? … Maybe his neighbour had something when she mentioned over-work? That bonus really had been earned. In amongst his confusion was an echo of a compliment on a task well done. The young man shook his head to clear it of the remaining fog. He needed to get on with the work, else he'd have to spend even more time in the house. He picked his phone up again and headed upstairs, oblivious to the fact that the orchard and the rest of the garden hadn't been done. The empty present box, still full with shredded paper, sat on the sink drainer, left where he'd put it to wash his hands.

The next morning started out much as the one before. James was sitting at the kitchen table, thinking through the day's tasks. With luck, he'd have enough to go on by the afternoon so he could head home. The pull of London's noisy, vibrant, polluted streets was always irresistible. He wanted nothing more than to leave the place where he was. At least the voice in his head had shut up. The more things he could get in motion before Christmas, the better. He hated the thought of having to wait until January. The cottage might even bring in some money before the summer season was over. The young man applied himself to calculating how much that might be. A useful amount. Who might be persuaded to take on the property's supervision? Cleaning, general upkeep, giving out the key … Hmm … something else to sort out.

Getting up to start work, James was drawn instead to the kitchen window. As he looked out at the silvered, frosty scene, something was different. There was new green amongst the dark, mottled browns. As he stared out at the garden, the voice in his head resumed. A new glory was awaiting him. He should admire the natural wonder which he helped create, and take the gift offered there as a reward. All plans forgotten, James grabbed his coat, opened the back door, and strode out into the bright, crystalline morning.

George Miller was putting his washing out on the clothesline when he noticed his temporary neighbour, that young man from the city, hurrying out into the garden. The next stage had begun. He'd forgotten how soon it happened after the seed had been planted. The old man left the rest of the clothes in the basket, and moved parallel to his quarry, quietly observing. His neighbour stopped precisely where he should, under the shade of the tree that had appeared overnight. The glossy, dark, evergreen tree looked at once as if it were freshly-minted, and something grown over long centuries. It stood sentinel in front of the apple orchard. George smiled and nodded with approval. It showed the power of the one they followed.

He watched as the young man found what he sought – a garland of lush, ripe fruits. Not of that tree, but rather a … present, a lure placed there by another of their kin. George too made use of the dark, blue-skinned fruits. Their turquoise flesh made a juice unlike any other. His neighbour cradled the fruits as he carefully made his way back inside. The old man continued to stand, watching, until the back door closed behind him. Good. All would be well, with luck. The trees must not be allowed to fail. That was the task of all. He returned to finish hanging out the remaining clothes before he also went indoors. A bas-relief on the outside wall featured a grotesque man's head with a profusion of heavily-leaved vines spilling out of the mouth. It was smiling.

Login to instant messenger

He has them

Good

Has it begun?

Don't know

??

Couldn't see

You must know

But …

You MUST

Yes

Without delay Their safety is paramount

We serve him

We do

Logout

Later the same day, James Beaumont was lying on the sofa, having just woken up from a very strange, immersive dream. It was almost like someone was determined to give him the sexual experience of his life, but hadn't bothered to research what pushed his buttons. He'd been promised bliss … Completely bizarre. Yes, he enjoyed a sauna and what might sometimes go on in there, but he couldn't stand twinks in all their lithe, pale callowness. No conversation, no technique, so little water passed under the bridge. He looked down towards his cock. Nope, no signs of life, just as there hadn't been for his dream self. Though there was hardly anything to distinguish between the two – he, his corporeal being, had been in that sauna. Patently impossible as it was.

Wait … he tried to gather in such slivers as remained of his dream. The youths been persistent, as if under orders almost. Had he …? Still no. Fingers, mouths, tongues, all failed to make any impression, although he'd felt, really felt, their every touch. The invitations had been there. Fuck, be fucked? James could still taste his disinterest, boredom almost. The others had given up finally, with much reluctance. He didn't understand – surely his fantasies were his to generate? Eeugh! Please god, he wasn't going to develop a taste for twinks. Was the cottage, or its contents to blame again? There'd been more weirdness in the past few days than he'd experienced in the rest of his life.

Shaking his head at the thought, the young man got up. When had taking an afternoon nap become part of his repertoire anyway? James checked his phone – in fact, it had been several hours. What had he been doing immediately prior to falling asleep? There was a gap in his memory, and not the first one either. He stopped to look at his fingers. They were stained with blue blotches. Where the fuck had that come from? Then he saw drips of the same colour down the front of his cashmere jumper. Had he been eating something? Drinking? His tongue explored all corners of his mouth, seeking anything out of the ordinary. It found a couple of small seeds stuck between his front teeth, but nothing else. How could he have consumed something and have no memory of it?

Controlling an almost overwhelming urge to leave immediately, James gathered up his possessions from around the house. He was free to go? Yes, released for now. … He tried to ignore the voice. With any luck he wouldn't be needed back for at least a month or two. His firm wasn't keen on star employees buggering off at every opportunity. Well, it wouldn't prevent the work from happening. The orchard would be the first to go, then the redevelopment work could start. Happy at the thought, James locked up, then strode off with his luggage towards his car. London, here he came!

Login to instant messenger…

What happened?

Left mid-afternoon

Yes Where were you?

Outside, hidden, watching

And?

**Shrug** It didn't work – wrong dose

Idiot! What else?

Our information was incomplete – the temptation offered was refused

What would he whom we serve say?

… 

Sort it

Will he be back?

He will

Logout

Several weeks later, back in London, the young man was taking a break from his desk when his phone started to ring. It was the contractors.

“James Beaumont.”

Morning. There's a problem. The key you left us with doesn't work, and there's no other way we can gain access. We tried asking one of your neighbours, George Miller, if we might hop over the fence, but he gave us short shrift.

James closed his eyes for a moment. Was nothing about that fucking house going to be straightforward?

“The key I gave you was the one you saw me using when you came to see the job. How can it not be working now?”

Dunno. It fits in the lock and everything, but it won't turn. Mebbes it's seized up or something? Anyway, 'til it's fixed, me and the lads have another job elsewhere that needs doing.

James silently ground his teeth while he tried to think rapidly.

“OK … I would leave it until the week after next, but too much time has been lost already …”

We're not to blame for the weather.

“So I'll be down this weekend instead to sort it. You'll be back on Monday.”

If you're sure. The voice sounded disbelieving.

“I am.”

Bloody useless, the whole lot. At this rate, he'd be lucky if he got any income from the summer season. The young man fumed. He'd really been looking forward to a weekend-long house gathering one of his friends was throwing. Perhaps he'd be back in time for some of it. He needed a good dose of drug-fuelled fucking to offset the stress of his day job. 'Work hard, play hard' was his motto.

It was the close of a dark, dank February day when James returned to his late uncle's house. In typical country fashion, the house key had been left under the bootscraper. He retrieved the key, inserted it, and listened as the lock opened without any problem. OK … were the men merely incompetent, or was the weird stuff starting up again? He opened the door and went inside. Tired, he turned the heating on, quickly made some food, then collapsed on the sofa. Mindless TV was going to be his only entertainment that evening. After staring unseeingly at the screen for a while, he fell asleep on the sofa.

Login to instant messenger

Finally he has returned!

To do harm to what we must protect

Indeed

The task has still to be accomplished

Y

Has the gift been left?

Y

Do we know all?

Yes – our knowledge is complete

For certain?

Yes – he shall not be able to resist this time

Good

Logout

The young man awoke with the dawn. The skies had cleared over-night, leaving a clear, frost-rimed morning. Stretching to ease cramped muscles, James blearily stumbled into the kitchen. Breakfast, and coffee, even if all he had was the revolting instant muck he left behind. As he went to fill the kettle, sunlight glinting on the thick hoar frost outside made him look out the window. What he saw, made him forget about coffee. A large, evergreen tree had appeared, the same one which had featured in so many of his dreams since he'd left. In them, the tree stood guard over apple trees in his garden, which were verdant and covered in ripe fruit. It hadn't been there when he'd shown the contractors round …

A jolt of his former unease made him almost fear the tree. Had it been party to his weird behaviour? A witness, or something more active? He remembered the soil on his clothes, and the blue on his fingers … While he was trying to rationalise his fears, his thoughts were interrupted once more. Come forth now, and claim the gift for your return. He whom they serve commands it. Immediately alert, breakfast and tiredness forgotten, the young man left the kitchen. With rapid strides he approached the mysterious tree. He did not go unobserved.

Login to instant messenger

Success!

Really?

Y – it has begun

The rule of he whom we serve shall be restored

It shall

Logout

James Beaumont was again lying on the sofa. His face and clothes were stained with the blue juice – he hadn't been at all careful about how he'd stuffed the fruit into his mouth. The compulsion to eat them all had been urgent, and he did not resist. Now he knew bliss awaited him. True sexual bliss … Eyes closed, he drifted off into a drugged sleep. His consciousness was unfettered, free to take him wherever it wished. Or whence it had been commanded.

In the sauna, a young man was the centre of attention. Handsome, well-groomed, knowing, complicit, the young man listened as a group of older, fit, life-travelled men took it in turns to spin their tales. They told of conquests, loves lost and won, desires fulfilled and not, while the youngest lost himself in the telling. His already active imagination was enhanced by certain substances. Other chemicals increased his sensory perceptions; yet more, his stamina. Those men not telling a tale amused themselves by toying with every part of the young acolyte. He felt each stroke, each lick, each pinch as though the men were reaching through his skin into the innermost parts of his being, creating such bursts of pleasure as he'd never experienced before. This seemed to continue for many hours.

By the time the men turned to penetrating him and each other, his state of bliss was extreme. The pleasure centres of his brain were glowing, he was panting, and his body appeared aflame. As he was breached by the first of the men, he convulsed from the sensory overload. Others looked on, standing apart, observing with dispassion. The wheel was turning. Then, as the young man climaxed simultaneously with his mate, he gave one last agonised cry, and fell silent, his body stilled. Those observing nodded with approval and left.

When the February day's greyness turned to night, the form asleep on the sofa had ceased to breathe. The cottage was again silent, lacking a human presence until it was invaded by those wishing to see, investigate, and hide. Things apparently went as they ought, with a doctor, police officer, coroner involved. The coroner recorded a verdict of death by natural causes. A funeral notice was placed in the local paper:

James Beaumont,
who died recently aged 26,
will be given a natural burial at an approved site.
The funeral will be private.
No flowers or other memorials.

Winter slowly gave way to Spring. The apple orchard was green and vigorous, the trees covered in pink and white blossom. The harvest would be good. Even the grass was growing well. The mysterious evergreen tree had vanished, but not before leaving behind a seed which Marian Black had collected. George Miller, looking over the fence, noticed that the bare, rectangular patch of soil at the heart of the orchard would soon disappear. And with it would vanish any memory of the young man who had dared to challenge the trees.