by Kit Berry
‘What? I don’t understand.’
‘Buzz attacked me too – look.’
She wore a silk scarf round her neck, not something he’d seen her wear before. She undid it to reveal deep purple bruising around her neck.
‘Sacred Mother! Buzz did that to you?’
‘Yes. It looks worse than it is because I bruise so easily, but I thought he was going to kill me. I wasn’t co-operating with him, just as your sister wouldn’t. He tried to force himself on me but I fought back and then he went completely mad and tried to strangle me. Luckily some gardeners heard and pulled him off just in time. A few seconds more and it may’ve been too late.’
Yul grimaced as he stroked Sylvie’s damaged throat with gentle fingertips. His face was white.
‘And then Magus banished him?’
‘Yes, apparently within about ten minutes Buzz was hauled into his office and told he had to leave. An hour later he was gone.’
‘So he attacks a Village girl and almost a month later he’s still here, unpunished. But he attacks a Hallfolk girl and he’s banished within ten minutes?’
He shook with rage, barely able to contain himself.
‘This is one more thing in a long line of things that Magus is going to pay for,’ he said ominously. ‘Nobody in the Village will think the banishment is because of this attack even if I tell them what’s happened, which I can’t without giving away that we’ve met and you’ve told me.’
‘I’m sorry, Yul,’ said Sylvie gently. ‘But at least Buzz has gone for good.’
‘Yes, but everyone believes he’s been kicked out on our account, because of what happened to poor Rosie. Because Magus is so just and fair, so caring towards his Villagers, such a kind master who puts our welfare above his own son’s. They’re all praising him and saying how well he treats us. That man is so bloody clever! Goddess how I hate him!’
Drowsy and golden, September was the month of the great apple harvest at Stonewylde. Yul, along with many others, was pulled from his normal duties and sent to the orchards to pick fruit. Working from the misty dawns until the mellow dusks, the Villagers arrived daily in the vast orchards filled with apples of every variety. The gnarled old trees groaned with heavy fruitfulness waiting to be harvested, and this was overseen by two men: Stag and Old Bewald. Eating apples were taken to the fruit and vegetable store house, a stone building almost as big as the Great Barn. Cool and dark inside, it was full of different levels and racks where vegetables, fruit and potatoes were stored. Cider apples were carted straight to the Cider House, where the maunds were hauled up by a winch and pulley into the apple loft, ready for the mill.
The apple gathering was overseen by Stag, although anyone less stag-like would be hard to imagine. He was in his fifties, small and wiry, with skin like leather and a permanent squint from screwing up his eyes against the sun. He was in charge of the orchards and under normal circumstances was grumpy and morose. At this time of year he became a complete tyrant. The apple harvest was vital to the community; Stonewylde without cider would be unthinkable. The Cider House was the domain of Old Bewald, an ancient, wizened man who’d worked with cider all his life. Stag and Old Bewald didn’t see eye to eye at all. There was constant friction between the two about which varieties should be harvested next and when the apples were truly ready for picking.
The grass in the orchards, which had grown tall and lush with wild flowers to provide nectar for the hives, had been scythed for hay in June. It had been cut again for silage at the end of August and was now short around the trees so that all windfalls could be easily collected. The ladders were stacked every night near the trees, and just after dawn the tribe of Villagers gathered to begin their day’s work. Yul and his younger brothers, Geoffrey and Gregory, arrived with a group. Rosie was needed at the dairy, and Maizie was busy harvesting her own back-garden produce and making chutneys and preserves. Her jams were all done; row upon row of jars sat on shelves in the pantry all neatly labelled with a picture of their fruit. Maizie would bring down lunch for her children later, after she’d visited the baker’s to collect their daily bread.
The younger Villagers were back in school or the nursery, but anyone over the age of eight or so helped to bring in the harvest. Picking up windfalls was easier for children, who could also climb up into the thinner branches which wouldn’t hold an adult’s weight. They ran errands and helped with other autumn harvesting; the hedgerows glistened with ripe blackberries waiting to be picked, and juicy elderberries clustered thickly on elder trees all over the estate. The sloes weren’t quite ready, but cob nuts were just beginning to fall and needed to be gathered before the squirrels had their fill.
The band of Villagers stood in the soft light waiting for orders. The shadows were long and the air hazy with early morning gold. Old Bewald and Stag were away over the far side of the orchards in heated discussion about which trees were ready for today’s harvest. Yul sent his brothers to collect mushrooms in the dewy grass where the blackbirds hopped. Maizie would be pleased, and if they weren’t picked now the mushrooms would be trampled by the harvesters. While he was waiting, Yul strapped a wicker basket tightly round his waist and adjusted the harness on his shoulders. He was still sleepy for he seemed to be working even longer hours than was usual for harvest time. Edward, who orchestrated the labour at this time of year, was piling the duties on him, expecting him to work in the Cider House every evening after the day’s picking was done.
‘Come on!’ grumbled one of the men. ‘Them two, like a couple o’ women the way they nag and scold at each other.’
The carters put nosebags of oats onto the horses’ heads whilst they waited, and people joined Yul in strapping themselves up with a picker. Eventually Stag came stomping over to the group, whose number was growing all the time as more workers arrived. Old Bewald hobbled out of the orchard towards the Cider House muttering incoherently under his breath, a battered clay pipe clamped between his teeth and foul-smelling smoke hovering around him. Stag began to direct the workers to different areas of the orchard, growling out the names of the apples that were to be gathered today. The warm September sun rose higher, the dew started to dry and the day’s work commenced.
Yul was sent over to the far side of the orchards and took a stack of large wicker maunds with him. He and his group began to collect the apples; the children gathered the windfalls, being very mindful of wasps, the adults picked the ripe fruit from the lower branches of the tree, and Yul set the ladder against a strong branch and climbed up to pick from the top. As an agile woodsman he was useful at the apple harvest. He shinned up and down the ladder with the full picker, tipping it into the waiting maunds, which were loaded onto the cart when it came over on its rounds. It was thirsty work and several times Yul sent one of his brothers over to fill his water bottle from the barrel.
Yul was up the tree stretching towards a branch almost out of his reach when Magus rode into the orchard. He greeted his people warmly, encouraging them and praising their efforts. On the great prancing horse he trotted over to the tree where Yul was working with his team and sat watching from the saddle for a while. Yul felt uncomfortable under his scrutiny. Magus looked up at him through the foliage and caught his eye. The man’s face hardened, his eyes cold.
‘I hope you’re working hard, boy!’ he called up. ‘No fooling about.’
‘No, sir,’ replied Yul, smothering his irritation.
‘You’re putting in the hours in the evening too, at the Cider House?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Yul had been right then; he was being given extra work. And of course it was Magus who’d ordered it.
‘Good. There are many extra jobs to be done and I plan to keep you busy from the moment you wake up until you go to bed at night. You’ve been a damn nuisance for the past six months and it’s going to stop. You’re going to be so bloody tired you’ll have no energy for more mischief.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Yul kept his eyes lowered, the d
ark hair falling over them, but his nostrils flared and his mouth clamped tight to stop it quivering. Although he was happy to work for the good of the community, he resented being singled out for added labour. September was a lovely month and he’d have liked a little free time to enjoy it; to walk up on the ridgeway, or go fishing in the evening on the beach with the other Villagers. Not to mention seeing Sylvie.
Magus turned and trotted Nightwing back through the trees to where Stag was supervising the loading of maunds into a cart.
‘There’ll be a group of young Hallfolk coming up after lunch, Stag,’ he said.
Stag suppressed a grunt of annoyance at this, and managed to arrange his features into an expression of mild pleasure and anticipation.
‘Right enough, sir.’
‘I want them to do their bit to help with the harvest. The Villagers work damn hard at this time of year and Hallfolk youngsters should do the same. They’re a lazy bunch, most of them. So make sure they work, won’t you?’
‘Oh aye, sir,’ said Stag, thinking ahead as to how he could get rid of them as quickly as possible. Hallfolk were useless at this sort of thing. They had no idea what was required, they couldn’t take orders, and they had no stamina. All they did was get in the way, but Magus’ commands were not to be questioned.
Yul and his team made their way back to the centre of the orchard at mid-day, along with everyone else. Maizie was waiting with a basket of food for her hungry sons, and little Leveret skipped about chasing copper-coloured butterflies. When the food and cider were finished, Yul lay back in the grass. He laced his hands behind his head and gazed at the blue skies through the branches, drowsing in the golden September heat. He was tired and would’ve liked to sleep. All around him people chattered and gossiped, happy with the weather and the way the apple harvest was going. Someone had brought a fiddle and started to play a harvest song, which many people sang along to. After a while Stag hollered at them all to get back to work or he’d tan the nearest arse. Reluctantly they packed up their lunches, brushed themselves down, and headed back to their assigned trees.
Yul and his team were hard at work when they heard the group of Hallfolk coming towards them through the orchard. There was a ripple of discontent amongst the Villagers. The young Hallfolk seemed to be worse than ever each year, becoming ruder and less co-operative. Yul eyed the bunch approaching and groaned at the sight of Holly and her crowd. That was all he needed. He didn’t notice Sylvie trailing behind them, keeping herself apart. She didn’t see him either, up in the branches with only his boots visible from below.
‘Is this the tree he said? Silly old fool – they all look the same to me.’
‘Don’t suppose it matters, does it? One apple’s much the same as another and if they’re ripe, they’re ripe.’
‘I don’t see why we have to do this anyway. That’s what the Villagers are for. Since when did we have to supply manual labour?’
‘Magus has a bee in his bonnet about us not doing enough for the community. It’ll blow over and then we’ll all be back to normal.’
‘It’s not fair! I wanted to ride this afternoon.’
‘Well I was in the middle of watching a really good film and then we were going to have a swim, so you’re not the only one to have their plans ruined. Come on, let’s just choose any old tree and get on with it.’
The Villagers picking below Yul’s feet exchanged glances and rolled their eyes in disbelief. Hallfolk could be amazingly dense.
‘Which tree did Stag ask you to pick?’ asked one of them politely.
The Hallfolk regarded him with disdain.
‘If we knew that, we wouldn’t be confused. Not that it matters, surely – they’re all pretty much the same.’
‘It does matter, sir. Some are for cider, some for eating, and some aren’t ready yet. It’s important to pick the ones Stag has chosen, else all the apples’ll get mixed up. What was the name of your apple?’
‘Some ridiculous name – he said it was near your tree.’
‘Well that tree’s the Onion Redstreak, and those ones over yonder are the Catsheads.’
‘Neither of those.’
‘This here one is a Foxwhelp, and—’
‘Yes, that’s it! Foxwhelp.’
‘There you are then, miss – that’s your tree there. ‘Tis important to pick up the windfalls first so they don’t get trodden underfoot, and then start on the lower branches. Apples should fall into your hand if you cup and twist. There’s the ladder to use for the upper branches.’
‘Yes, alright, thank you. We do understand how it’s done.’
The peaceful golden afternoon with its gentle rhythm of reaching and picking, reaching and picking, whilst chatting desultorily or humming softly, was now spoilt. The young Hallfolk were strident and treated the event as a game. They messed about, throwing apples to each other, swinging on the branches, shrieking and laughing. Sylvie kept her head down and worked steadily, filling her picker and tipping it into the maund before starting again. She was acutely aware of the Villagers’ disapproval and felt embarrassed to be classed as a member of the poorly behaved Hallfolk.
Holly was on good form. She insisted on dragging the ladder over and positioning it against the twisted trunk. It looked precarious; the tree split and divided into branches and there was no good resting place for the top of the ladder. Wearing a skimpy T-shirt, short skirt and trainers, she acted provocatively, tossing her shoulder-length hair about and flaunting her bare legs. As usual, the boys in her group pandered to her ego. The other girls seemed to find it hilarious, which encouraged her further. Sylvie kept as far away from them as possible, picking from the spreading branches on the other side of the tree.
Holly climbed halfway up the ladder, making a big deal of the boys looking up her skirt. She began to pick apples and throw them down, trying to hit people. She made a lot of noise and Yul, up his tree, was sick of it. He and the other Villagers had been working for many hours now and he was in no mood for Holly and the Hallfolk. His picker was full so he climbed down the ladder and went across to the maund, where he unstrapped it and gently tipped the apples onto the steadily increasing pile. At that point he looked across and saw Sylvie reaching up into the branches above her, unaware of his presence.
He paused to admire her as he re-buckled the picker, noticing how she’d become taller and willowy in recent weeks. His mouth went dry and he felt a surge of excitement at this unexpected encounter. He was on his way over to her to say hello, trying to be unobtrusive, when one of Holly’s apples hit him on the chest. Without thinking he caught it and threw it back. It bounced off her leg and she shrieked with exaggerated pain. Then she noticed who’d thrown it.
‘Yul! You great oaf! That hurt!’
They all turned to look at him and he glared back sullenly, hair in his eyes. Sylvie turned around too, her heart beating faster at the prospect of seeing him. She’d imagined he’d be working in the woods as usual, not the orchards. He stood by the maund, chin raised and contempt on his face. His bare arms were well-defined with muscle and the picker strapped tightly around his waist emphasised his lean height and the breadth of his chest and shoulders. When had he turned from a boy into a man? It had happened so gradually and yet so quickly. Sylvie longed for him and shivered at the intensity of her emotions as she stood in the sunshine amongst the ripe apples, grappling with the temptation he aroused in her.
He looked away from the group of Hallfolk and straight into her eyes. His deep grey gaze flared with emotion and she read all his love and longing in that look.
‘Oi! Yul! Come here! I want a word with you!’ shouted Holly, still halfway up the tree. He ignored her, but with all eyes now on him thought better of going over to see Sylvie. Instead he returned to his own tree, climbing it swiftly and disappearing amongst the foliage. The last thing he wanted was a run in with Holly and the Hallfolk, bringing down Magus’ displeasure. The Autumn Equinox festival was close now and he was determined to enjoy it this y
ear.
But Holly couldn’t let it rest. She remembered how keen he’d once been and his complete indifference now only fuelled her interest. With Buzz gone, she was at a loose end. None of the Hallfolk boys of suitable age took her fancy; they’d all been Buzz’s satellites and were now directionless and dull. She was surrounded by blond, soft people; Yul was their complete antithesis. He’d grown up so much since the spring and she’d always recognised his promise.
Holly climbed higher up the ladder and then off it altogether, getting right up into the boughs amidst a great deal of commotion. The Villagers were now ignoring the Hallfolk, for the afternoon was well under way and they needed to move on. Their tree was almost picked and they must check with Stag where to go next. There were several maunds sitting on the grass, all full of apples. Yul climbed down from the tree and told one of his brothers to run over to the nearest horse and cart and ask them to come over for a collection. He removed the ladder and laid it on the ground, then unstrapped the picker from his waist.
Sylvie noticed and discreetly made her way around towards him. They managed to stand close together, shielded by the low-hanging branches of the tree, now bare of apples but still covered with leaves. He caressed her slim bare arm with his fingertips, looking into her silvery eyes.
‘How are you, Sylvie?’
‘Better for seeing you.’
‘Me too. I miss you and I wish I could be with you every day, every minute. I think about you all the time, Sylvie.’
She nodded, her heart drumming at his proximity and gentle caress. He moved a little closer and his hand slid round her waist, pulling her to his side. His touch burned her skin through the thin cotton of her dress.
‘All I want is to hold you and kiss you!’ he whispered.
Sylvie’s legs weakened at the desperation in his voice. She felt at once powerful and yet also completely in his thrall. Their snatched intimacy was shattered by a shriek from Holly, high up in the Foxwhelp tree.
