The Silver Bough

by Lisa Tuttle

  When she got there, it was just reopening after the lunchtime closing, and she met the librarian in the spacious foyer, standing in the brilliant patches of colored light—gold, green, and apple red—cast by the sun through the stained-glass window, a huge bunch of keys in her hand.

  “Hello, Ashley! Back so soon? I thought you’d have had enough of this building!”

  Ashley smiled back politely. “Actually, I wanted to look at that painting by Emmeline Wall again.”

  “Oh. Oh, dear, well.” She shook her head. “I’m afraid that’s not possible. It isn’t actually on display…I hope it will be, very soon, but the storage areas aren’t open to the public. You’ve had the very special privilege of seeing it once—”

  “I found it, actually,” she blurted, annoyed.

  The librarian’s manner cooled immediately, although she still spoke pleasantly. “It wasn’t lost. You were helpful in calling it to my attention, and I’m grateful. When it’s on public display, I’ll let you know. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

  Ashley knew she’d blown it. There was no chance she could wheedle her way upstairs now. Then she had another idea. “Well, yes, there is,” she said. “My grandmother Phemie came from Appleton—I think Graeme told you? I kind of wanted to do some research into her early life. I thought there might have been something about her in the local paper when she ran off—or maybe about her engagement—and when she was Apple Queen, stuff like that, you know? If I could look at the papers from back then…” She remembered the box files shelved upstairs.

  “Of course you can!” Kathleen beamed. “What year was it you wanted?”

  “Nineteen fifty.”

  “Follow me.”

  She trailed her back to the reference room. Instead of turning at the door that led to the stairs, though, the librarian took her to the very end of the long room and unlocked the door to her office. “Come in. We’ve got bound copies of the paper from the early nineteen seventies back to the nineteen thirties in here. There hasn’t been a budget for that since then, so the more recent ones are just piled in boxes.”

  Oh, well, so much for that idea. She looked around the crowded, cluttered room—no coffee and pastries on offer today—and her eyes fell on the wooden apple, gleaming as if freshly polished, on the corner of the desk. The sight of it brought back the memory of the unfair suspicion and hostility directed at her by Kathleen after she’d picked it up the first time, and she clasped her hands behind her back so she couldn’t possibly seem to be trying to touch it again.

  “Here we are: nineteen fifty, January through December. It’s a bit awkward—let’s find a table for you.”

  They went back out to the empty reference room, and Kathleen laid down the unwieldy, green-covered volume on a long table. “There. That should keep you busy. Let me know if you have any questions, or if you want something photocopied, all right? There’s a charge of ten pence per sheet, and I’ll have to do it for you because these old pages are awfully fragile. Take care as you’re looking through them, will you?”

  “Sure.”

  She began at the beginning, in January, turning the brittle pages carefully as she quickly scanned the headlines. Most of it made little sense to her: stories about local worthies and events, references to the politics of the wider world, market prices for fish and cattle and fruit, grainy black-and-white photographs, lists of deaths and births, old-fashioned advertisements for products that no longer existed, priced in a currency that had been obsolete before she was born. The crumbling, yellowed pages offered a murky window into a long-dead world, one that she felt so little connection with that she began to lose focus long before she reached March.

  Still, she went on carefully turning the pages, her eyes glazing over as she scanned the columns of close-set type for a name she knew. Finally, in May, a photograph caught her attention.

  The beautiful, dark-haired, gravely smiling young woman was her grandmother; she recognized her from other old photographs she’d seen. But she also recognized the man pictured beside her, although she’d never seen him in any photograph. He was an absolute dead ringer for the guy she’d seen from the bus, the guy she’d bought lunch for, the mysterious, sexy stranger who wouldn’t tell her his name.

  She read the brief announcement beneath the picture.

  MacFarlane—Wall

  Miss Euphemia MacFarlane, 18, daughter of Mr and Mrs Donald MacFarlane, Ballochcraig Farm, and Mr Ronan Lachlan Wall, 33, Orchard House, Fairview, have intimated their plans to be united in holy matrimony later this year. The ceremony will be performed in St Kieran’s Church on 20th December. Mr Wall, grandson of the late Mr Alexander Wall, architect and philanthropist, is currently the sole owner of Wall Orchards Cider Mill, a well-known local business man who served with distinction in the Royal Navy.

  Her eyes went back to the photograph. It had to be his grandfather. She didn’t look much like either of her grandmothers, but this guy…whew, he could practically be his clone! She remembered what Graeme had said about local faces, and the way he’d identified that mysterious figure in the painting as a Wall. She could see the truth of it for herself now. No wonder her “stranger” had known Phemie’s name—but why not admit it? Why not tell her who he was? Unless his grandfather had been so embittered by his fiancée’s desertion that he’d dedicated his life to revenge…but even if he had been, why should his runaway grandson still care?

  Inspired now, she pressed on, sharp-eyed, examining the following pages for anything else about the Walls or the Mac-Farlanes. Two issues later, at the end of May, she found the same picture of Euphemia and Ronan, but this time it illustrated a different story.

  Apple Queen Picked

  Miss Euphemia MacFarlane has been chosen by unanimous acclaim to reign over this year’s Apple Fair, despite her attempt to “de-select” herself with the claim that her recent engagement to Mr Ronan Wall should remove her from consideration.

  According to Mrs R Burns, President of the local Women’s Institute, only marriage itself is a bar to the chance to be “queen for a night.” “Phemie was the obvious choice, and I’m sure she is secretly pleased at the honour. She may have tried to turn it down because she is so modest, to give another girl a chance, but no one will have it. The crown is hers.”

  When Miss MacFarlane’s fiancé, Mr Ronan Wall, was asked to comment he replied, “I can’t risk losing my fiancée to a stranger, so I suppose I shall have to find myself a good disguise.”

  The following week’s paper had several letters on the subject of the Apple Queen:

  Sir—

  In light of last week’s story about the young lady who feared a conflict between her affianced status and the role of Apple Queen I think your readers should be reminded that this is not the first time that this has happened. My own dear mother, Mrs Fergus Donaldson, nee Mary Ann Smith, was the Queen of the Apple Fair in 1910, and the “stranger” who stood up out of the crowd to recognize her, was none other than “her young man,” in a borrowed coat and hat. As a disguise, it would not have fooled a child, but as no one objected to this bending of tradition forty years ago, I think it should be “A-OK” today!

  Yours, etc.

  G. M. Donaldson

  Clachan Farm

  Sir—

  My researches have demonstrated that the tradition that it should be a “dark-haired stranger” who crowned the yearly Apple Queen was in fact seldom honoured, and only lip-service paid to it as a cover-up to allow young maidens to make matches which their families might otherwise prohibit. For a discussion of the connection between marital arrangements and superstitious beliefs, please see my article “Women’s Rites or Women’s Rights?” in The Journal of Scottish Folklore, Vol. VII, Issue 10.

  It is worth pointing out, too, that, except for the case of poor Emmeline Wall in 1916, there has never been any sense of negativity or danger connected to this notional stranger at the Fair. Is she, then, the unhappy exception that proves the rule? Well, perhaps
…however, I believe that if Miss Wall were alive today and able to tell us her tale, we might take a very different view of how her experience connects with the many happy marriages which have, over the years, been sealed with a shared apple.

  Sincerely,

  E. M. Whitton (Mrs)

  “The Whinns”

  Shore Road

  Sir—

  Surely I cannot be the only one to feel that to crown a “Queen” in modern Scotland is entirely backward-looking and foolishly royalist. I am all for a bit of fun, but can’t we change the offensive, outdated terminology? What is wrong with “Apple Maid” or “Comrade Apple” or even “Pick of the Crop”? Let us aim to present a progressive, egalitarian, socialist Appleton to the many visitors who come to enjoy our annual Fair.

  Yours in equality,

  Robert Martin

  14 Fore Street

  Ashley turned page after brittle page, slowly, carefully, a headache beginning to build as she swept the closely packed columns for any more mentions of her grandmother. She found Ronan Wall cited in a couple of stories, both about his business interests: rumour of expansion unfounded; cheap foreign apples no threat to Appleton’s Fairest.

  Finally, there it was, the first week of October: the same picture of Euphemia MacFarlane, but this time with Ronan cropped out, above the stark headline:

  Local Girl Disappears

  The family of Euphemia MacFarlane, 19, have appealed to the public for help in tracing their missing daughter.

  Miss MacFarlane was last seen late on Saturday night (September 30th). Her parents, Donald and Agnes MacFarlane, say they heard her arrive home at around midnight. When she did not appear for breakfast, they assumed she was sleeping in, and made no attempt to disturb her until nearly noon. At that time Mrs MacFarlane discovered her daughter’s room was empty; the bed had not been slept in, and certain of her personal possessions were missing.

  Contacted at his home, Mr Wall could shed no light on the mystery. He said he had delivered her to her parents’ house in his car, at about 1 A.M. Sunday morning; they had parted on amicable terms. He denied they had quarrelled, and said he believed nothing between them had changed. She had seemed happy—a statement confirmed by her friends and family members.

  Police have said they entertain no suspicion of foul play. According to their inquiries, a woman answering to Miss MacFarlane’s description was seen in Glasgow’s Buchanan Street Bus Station on Sunday afternoon, apparently alone and in good spirits.

  Mr and Mrs MacFarlane do not accept that their daughter would have left the family home without explanation, except under duress.

  “It’s not like her at all. There is a mystery there,” said her brother Hugh, speaking to this reporter on behalf of the family. “She had no reason to run away. We love her and want the best for her. If she reads this, I hope she will get in touch.”

  If anyone knows what has become of Euphemia Mac-Farlane, her parents would like to hear from them.

  It was still a mystery, thought Ashley, closing the covers of the newspaper file. Although she knew what had become of Euphemia MacFarlane, she still had no idea why she’d run away like that and kept her whereabouts secret from her old friends and family to the end of her days.

  Her mind flashed back to Saturday, to the stranger, and that strange link between them, and she shivered, all at once understanding why somebody might just run for it, not pausing to explain, never looking back and never taking the risk of letting anyone from her hometown, anyone who might tell him, know where she could be found.

  She got up and went to knock on the office door.

  “Yes? Oh, hi, Ashley. Find what you were looking for?”

  “You said you could make some photocopies? I’d like this picture.”

  “Of course.” Kathleen rose and took the heavy volume from her, opening it to the page she’d been marking with her finger. “Wow. Your granny was gorgeous.”

  “What do you think about him?”

  “Mm, yes, tasty.”

  “Recognize him?”

  Kathleen frowned and peered again at the grainy old print.

  “From the picture in the museum,” she prompted. “Remember?”

  “Oh, yes, that man Graeme thought had to be a Wall. I see what he meant.”

  There was a brisk knock, and then a trim, auburn-haired woman in her forties put her head around the door. She looked surprised. “Sorry, Kathleen, I didn’t realize…”

  “That’s all right, Miranda. This is Ashley, she’s Shona Walker’s cousin from America.”

  “Nice to meet you, Ashley. I hope you don’t mind if I borrow Kathleen for a few minutes?”

  “I’ll be right back,” Kathleen told her. “If you want to wait here?”

  “Could I have a drink of water?”

  “Of course, help yourself. There are glasses in the cupboard under the sink.”

  Alone in the office, she drank a glass of water, then looked around, her gaze homing in on the wooden apple. The smooth curves of it gleamed darkly. Before she really thought about it, she’d crossed the room and picked it up.

  It was like the first time; the piece was irresistible, demanding to be held. You can’t put something like the apple in a museum, locked away in a case; it will be too frustrating to look and not touch; people will always be trying to break in.

  She rolled it against her cheek with the palm of her hand and enjoyed the satiny-smooth finish of the wood. Cool at first, it quickly soaked up the warmth of her skin. Her nostrils flared as she picked up a smell that was not wood or polish; something musky and sweet. She put it closer to her nose and sniffed, then drew back and stared in surprise. It smelled like apples!

  She cocked her head, puzzled. Did the wood of an apple tree really smell so much like the fruit?

  She tossed it up and caught it, did it again when she felt something move, then shook it, holding her breath as she listened. She wasn’t wrong. The carved fruit was hollow, and something rustled, soft as a whisper, inside. Yet she couldn’t see a crack anywhere in the smooth surface unless you counted the incised Greek lettering around the top. She shut her eyes and let her fingers search, creeping over the smooth surface, pressing, prodding, and prying until at last they found the place where the two separate pieces met—a join so fine it was practically invisible. She gave it a quick, almost instinctive twist, as if the movement were one she’d learned long ago, and the apple came apart.

  An odor rose: a smell musty, intense, sweet, and rotten that brought a rush of saliva to her mouth, and she shivered. Something—two things, two little shriveled chunks—nestled within the cavity, and she dumped them into her hand. Time had desiccated them so that they were recognizable only by smell, but she had no doubt about it. She was looking at two pieces of a very, very old apple.

  She resisted the idiotic urge she felt to taste one of the scraps of fruit, to lay it against her tongue the way she’d rested the smooth wood of its outer shell against her cheek. Instead, she closed the fingers of her left hand around the dried fruit, and dug into her day pack with her right.

  Inside the bag was a handkerchief that had been her grandmother’s. It was more than sixty years old, and the once-white cloth had turned the color of vellum and was wonderfully smooth and soft with age. The faded pink initials in one corner—E. M’F.—had been embroidered by Phemie’s best friend when she was eight or nine; it had been her birthday present to Phemie. The idea that your best friend might give you only a handkerchief for your birthday, and still remain your best friend, had been a source of great fascination for Ashley. It was the thing that made her realize her grandmother had grown up in a completely different world, a time that was now lost. It was like something out of Little House on the Prairie. Amused by her granddaughter’s fascination, Phemie had made her a gift of it. “I wouldn’t normally, dear, but it’s perfectly clean. I don’t think I ever used it to blow my nose—it was too good for that. I kept it for best, for show.”

  Ashley had ke
pt it for remembrance. She extracted the neatly folded square of cloth from her bag, and wrapped the two shriveled pieces of apple in it, holding her breath until the parcel had been made up and stowed safely away in an inside zipped pocket. Then she turned back to the desk and fitted the wooden apple together again. She replaced it where it had been and crossed the room to the sink, where she drew herself a second glass of water. She was just swallowing the last of it—trying to rinse away an imaginary taste—when the door opened and Kathleen came back in.

  “Sorry about that—” She stopped and sniffed the air.

  “That’s OK,” Ashley said quickly, and tensed with the expectation of being asked about the smell.

  But Kathleen didn’t ask.

  “Um, so, could you do me that photocopy?”

  “Of course.” As she prepared to use the photocopier, which was wedged in between the door and a miniature refrigerator with a coffeemaker perched on top, she went on, “Would you be interested in talking to someone who might remember your grandmother when she was a girl?”

  “Yes! Do you know anybody?” She was curious, but skeptical that this newcomer to the town could help. She’d asked Shona, who’d canvassed the old ladies who attended her church and reported back that although a few admitted to vaguely remembering “old Hugh’s sister—that lassie who ran away,” none claimed any closer acquaintance.

  “Well…it occurred to me you should talk to Miss McClusky. She was the librarian here for many years, and she’s a local, I mean, a real local, one of the few you could call an aboriginal.”

  “Aboriginal!” If Kathleen was joking, she just didn’t get it. “Aboriginals come from Australia, don’t they?”