Page 3 of Apple Boy

“Yes, Win Harding.” I offered my hand, and Aryn looked down at it, appearing taken aback. He took it cautiously in his broad, rough hand, and turned my hand over it as if were made from fine porcelain. The difference in our skin color was all too evident as we clasped hands and it still appeared strange for me to see my fingers without adornment and my nails unpainted. Somehow satisfied that it was real, Aryn gave my hand a shake.

“What with that accent and those pretty, soft hands I bet you’d never done a day’s work in yer life, boy,” he said perceptively.

I shrugged and smiled meekly. It appeared Aryn was shrewd and observant.

“How’d you end up in Mallowick?”

“Um, it’s quite a story, but I’m not planning on staying long”, I added quickly. “I’ll be traveling onward to the City of Serein.”

“Ha! ‘sat right? Well, you’s goin’ in the wrong direction lad!”

Aryn’s sudden raucous cackle woke the other men from their daze, and they looked at me shiftily. Now they were all listening in to our conversation.

“I thought so,” I justified, but honestly, I’d completely lost my bearings and had no idea where I was in relation to my destination. My Empire map was in my trunk, and my trunk rested at the bottom of the Wide Sea.

I had been traveling to the City of Serein with my valet Jossuah to visit with my uncle Ivon, who’d promised my father to ‘make a man of me’ for my Bloomsday. Knowing my uncle’s predilections for whoring and wine, I’d shuddered to think of what that would entail, but now it was irrelevant. I had no idea what had become of my belongings or Jossuah, and I would not be welcome in any bordello dressed in rags with nothing but two coppers to my name, even if the comfort of females was what I sought, which it was not.

“I don’t even know how far away I am.” I admitted. “My traveling companion and I were parted and I’ve lost my belongings. I need to earn some coin and get to Serein,” I explained. I know I should have kept my business to myself, but I’d been so incredibly lonesome and having someone to talk to just made me forget myself and let my guard down for a while. I wondered what fate had befallen poor Jossuah and a stinging pain stabbed in my chest. I did not want to cry in front of these strangers so pushed the painful thoughts back into the dark recesses of my mind.

“Ah, sorry to hear that. The roads be awful bad these days. Serein’s three days by stagecoach in the opposite direction lad. If you survive this week, the Zephyr run’s six times a day from Mallowick.” Aryn informed ominously.

Survive this week? That did not sound good at all. I blanched and barely heard the rest of the information Aryn relayed. I’d seen the Zephyr stagecoaches in the market square and had longed to stow away on one, but it proved far too tricky, and I was a gentleman; therefore, I would pay for my passage if it killed me, and by the things Aryn was saying, it just might.

CHAPTER THREE

BLACKDOWN

Encroached by forested hills on either side, Blackdown Farm sat comfortably in a flat valley. I’d had many conversations about arboriculture in my youth with my father’s Head Gardener, Simpkin, and so remembering what he’d taught, I considered the landscape before me. The pastel blue morning sky appeared vast and endless as it unfurled across the valley where patches of low mist still lingered. A cool breeze came from the south that brought with it the salty taste of the Wide Sea. I winced, and my belly churned at thoughts of the sea. I did not want to think about the sea.

I could tell from the vista that the slight downward slope in the land would give good drainage and that the surrounding hills shielded from fierce icy winds. They would prevent spring blossoms from being blown from the boughs—which Simpkin had taught me was terrible for fruit growers and, in fact, halved the bounty. Blackdown Valley was a perfect location for an orchard. I was now glad I’d paid attention when the old groundsman spoke to me of the trees in my father’s little orchard.

We bridged a hill and turned into the wheel-rutted roadway that led to Blackdown Farm. This orchard was huge. In the distance, I could see the apple trees laid out in regimental lines like an army ready to do battle. My father’s private orchard held sixty trees, but this was laid out on a far grander scale with what looked like hundreds of apple trees laden heavy with fruit. The owner who had lost this farm in a dice game was most certainly ruined. I was shocked at realizing what a big job we had ahead of us—all of these trees needed stripping of their bounty within five days. Surely that was wishful thinking.

The wagon came upon a group of twenty peasant children walking at the side of the road, their ages ranging from, at a guess, eight to sixteen summers. They were heading towards Blackdown too. They turned as one on hearing our approach. They waved and called-out to Adam as the wagon passed. A couple of the boys decided to try to race the wagon up the roadway to the farm. Adam stood in his seat and cheered as the boys arrived at the gatepost. They then unlatched the wide timber farm gate and dragged it open. It seemed to me to be a pleasing rural ritual, and I could see that Adam was well-liked by these children.

We entered through the gates and drew up in a large square courtyard surrounded by a handful of outbuildings, barns, stores, and a sizeable whitewashed farmhouse where a slender, ashen-faced, red-haired woman stood in the doorway. The Sewell’s appeared to live comfortably enough, but if the woman standing in the doorway was the farmers’ wife, Rosalie, there was no loving greeting for her husband.

Farmer Sewell rose from the driver’s bench, “Where’s Nico?” he roared at his wife in the most disagreeable tone.

“In the orchard,” she spat with just as much venom and then turned and went into the house.

“You knows yer business,” Sewell yelled to the workers as he clambered from the wagon and headed stormily in a determined line toward the farmhouse. ”Don’t make me nor Nico remind ye’s. Now get to it!”

Aryn stood with the other peasants and two by two, they jumped off the end of the wagon and into the cobbled courtyard. I followed suit. I turned and watched as Adam unbridled the dappled grey stallion and led him to the water trough.

I could see that the men Farmer Sewell selected had all worked for him before. They knew the ropes, and it was every man for himself. Like gentled livestock, they trundled subserviently into the barn. There they left their belongings, and then, with the children at their heels, went into what looked like a storehouse. The group returned seconds later, the men wearing woven wicker baskets on their backs, and the children, smaller canvas bags slung across their tiny frames. Staring solemnly at the ground, they trundled their way through a second gate and strode off towards the line of trees marking the location of the orchard.

I stood and watched, alarmed at how docile and tractable the workers were. I’d always believed that common folk had more vim and vigor than these fellows, but they trudged along as if they had nary a thought between them.

I was hungry, thirsty, and frustrated by my cluelessness. My whole life had been one of privilege, and I’d barely had to lift a teacup by myself. But that life was over, and I reminded myself that here I had no allies. I was on my own. I had to fend for myself or starve.

I did not want to feel the wrath of Farmer Sewell’s meaty grip again. Not knowing what I should do, I glanced around, seeking a farmhand to ask for advice. The only other person remaining in the courtyard was Adam, tending to the horse. As if pulled by some kind of otherworldly force he saw me the moment my eyes found him, and I felt a pulse of connection spark and run through me.

“Ye’v never done this before, right?” He called as if he hated the words that left his mouth. I shook my head sullenly. I saw his jaw clench.

“C’mere.” He sighed out resignedly,

“I’ll show ye what’s what.” The farmers’ son said, sounding a little annoyed and reluctant. I understood his reluctance; after all, he was already in trouble with his father for defending me back in the square. The farmers’ son left the horse at the water trough and beckoned me to follow him to the storehouse. Relieved, I scurried keenly behind him.