Page 5 of Apple Boy

Adam appeared to clench his jaw and then in a bright and breezy voice called, “Ye chose a new one, I’m getting’ the boy kitted out Pa. I’ll train him up. S’what ye had in mind, right?” He suggested as he strode away from his father. I realized that Adam either had a death wish or he was not as afraid of his father as I’d first thought. He appeared to know how to handle the man and attempted to maneuver him to keep the temper that was all too evidently bubbling under the surface, at bay.

“Oh, r… right,” Sewell stuttered as if he were knocked off-kilter by my presence. “Aye, you do that. Just see he works fast. Any slackin’ an’ ye’ll get double what I owes ya,” he bellowed after us, directing the threat at Adam.

What I gathered from that comment was that if we did not reach the quota of apples we were supposed to pick Adam would be punished further, in goodness knows what way, and it would be my fault. Damn the man. I could not let that happen.

Adam did not break his unrelenting stride. I scurried behind him like a mouse.

“Pay no mind,” Adam reassured, “He’s an old windbag. The fucker’ll have te catch me first.” He declared with bravado. “I’m not the scared mite I used to be.” Adam seemed to revel in saying those words.

I was so thirsty, and my belly ached from lack of food. I’d eaten the last wedge of my barley bread for last night’s supper, hoping I would find work at a farm and they would feed me. I’d heard that was the tradition in these parts. So, if what I’d heard was true the mistress would lay on a spread of simple fare for luncheon and supper. I was feeling so terribly weak that I found it hard to keep up with Adam. He paused several meters in front of me and turned around his hands on his hips.

“Ye comin’ or not?” he roared, sounding a little too much like his father for comfort and then he appeared to regret his tone. I sensed the anger wasn’t for me. I rushed to catch up with him and swayed, feeling a little light-headed. Adam considered me with narrowed eyes.

“Did ye break yer fast this morning?” He asked. I shook my head. Adam bit his lip.

“Gods, ye look weak as a newborn lamb,“ he observed, “I’ll get ye started in the orchard an’ find summat from Ma’s larder for ye. Can’t have ye fallin’ down on the first day!”

I was warmed again by Adam’s kindness. A lump formed in my throat that prevented even the meekest of thank you’s from exiting. Adam thrust his hands into his pockets, turned, and walked away.

I followed down a laneway encroached by a high wall made of pale rough-hewn stone. A line of ten-wheeled timber bushel carts waited to be filled in the lane.

“Now, most farms take two weeks te harvest, but Pa wants the trees stripped in five days. Each of these bushel bins holds around a thousand apples. Pa pays half-a-silver for each one ye fill.” Adam explained. I gulped. Half-a-silver coin used to mean nothing to me, but now it was everything. It was the difference between starving and eating. It was my ticket out of this godforsaken rural town.

“That’s rather generous pay,” I observed.

“Aye, go figure! He’s a pig, but he pays well.” Adam snickered. “Most workers can fill one or two bins a day.” Adam said, “The apples then get taken to the store ready fer washin’, pulpin’, an’ pressin’—but that all happens when the harvest is in. If yer a good worker pa might keep ye on te help with that.”

Oh, no. Although I’m sure the process was fascinating, I did not envisage hanging around to make the cider. I would be long gone by then. Two-bushel bins per day share with Adam would earn me half-a-silver a day and two-and-a-half silvers for the week. It would be a hard task, but that money would be enough to buy basic rations for my journey and get me to the city.

“Nico’s my Pa’s steward. He makes sure we all start work an’ stop on time, an’ he counts the bushel bins we fill an’ tells pa how much to pay.” Adam explained. “You’re with me so he should leave ye be, but he’s wicked with that switch he carries,” Adam warned. Goodness. I did not want to meet this unsavory sounding fellow.

The orchard was a more impressive sight close up than I could have imagined. The soldiery of gnarly old apple trees stood in lines sloping far down into the valley, and the twenty men and the children were already busy picking. Timber ladders leaned into branches and workers balanced on them, standing with one foot on the top rung as they reached higher into the trees to dexterously pluck apples and toss them into the wicker baskets on their backs. They looked like performers at a tumbler’s show. It was terrifying and thrilling to see the speed at which they collected apples. As I observed them on the first line of trees, I spotted a wiry man with a dark beard. He was hanging off his ladder at an odd angle. Aryn gathered fruit so quickly in twos and threes that the apples were just green and red blurs before my eyes. The children collected windfalls at the base of each tree. They had smaller hands and were not as quick as the adults so I guessed that their bounty and earnings would be far less.

“This is our line,” Adam declared, leading me to the first tree of a long line that flowed down into the distant valley. He tossed his basket onto the grass. “You collect the windfalls; I’ll do the high ups.”

Adam ducked and picked up a blushed scarlet apple from the grass. He looked it over for rot and worms, wiped it on his shirt, and then sank his teeth into the red skin. The crunch I heard told me that this variety of pomme was firm and fleshy. Juice trickled over Adam’s stubble-free chin, and he smiled, looking at me in a way that, with all of my experience of bedding men, appeared to be flirtatious in intent. He chewed noisily. I had not observed such an erotic display since I’d left Thorn. He watched me cautiously as he ate and then licked the juice from his lips and offered the bitten apple to me. I stepped forward hungrily to accept it, and he tossed the apple. I plucked it from the air with my right hand.

“Good reflexes,” Adam said with a grin. He turned to walk back the way we came.

“Eat as many apples ye can stomach, Win Harding,” he hollered, “But I don’t advise bingin’ or ye’ll give yerself a runny bum,” he added, laughter evident in his voice. “Now, start collectin’ those windfalls,” he instructed, “I’ll go stable Applejack an’ raid ma’s larder.”

I couldn’t deny the laugh that burst from me at hearing Adam’s outrageous comment. The laughter brought with it such a joyous sensation of release. It was strange. I’d been carrying the weight of the world on my back for these past two weeks, and just a few minutes in the company of Adam Sewell made me feel light. All was not lost. There were still good souls still left in the world, and my heart swelled with hope. I watched as Adam walked away, unable to take my eyes off the roundness of his shapely backside in tight brown britches. I shook my head in an attempt to rid it of the lustful thoughts.

I turned to the gnarly, twisted apple tree and fell to my knees in the moist, cold, loam at its base, clutching the bitten apple Adam had gifted to me. I could see his teeth marks in the skin and how they’d torn away the pale juicy flesh. I wanted to place my mouth where Adam’s had been, lick it and drink in the sweetness, all the while dreaming about how he would taste. Was that wrong? I had no idea about Adam’s tastes at all. I didn’t know if Adam was just kind or my kind.

I could have eaten around the apple, left Adam’s bite for last and savored it. But I was far too hungry and thirsty. I devoured most of the apple in four large bites. It was juicy, tart, and the flesh was crisp to the tooth. So ravenous was I that I ate the core too, leaving only the rough brown stalk, which I tossed onto the grass.

I wondered if I should eat another and then I heard a giggle. I looked to my left and saw a young, dark-haired girl of around eight summers watching me curiously with cat-like eyes, her canvas sack bulging with fruit. I sent her a smile, and she giggled again. “What’s your name?” I called to her, “I’m Win”.

“Mabel, sir,” she said meekly “Right nice tastin’ this season, ain’t they,” she said.

“Yes, the apple was very tasty.”

“Da said last season’s was a bit sour, but they’s still good fer cider makin’,” she informed and then she ducked to collect more of the windfalls at her feet. It saddened me that these children in the orchard did not have the same freedom as younglings in Thorn who spent their halcyon days at play and then, when they reached Mable’s age, began their schooling.

I figured I’d better stop dithering and, taking Mabel’s lead; I began to collect apples.

CHAPTER FIVE