The Apple Kingdom.
published 1983.
Amelia awoke to the soft glow of dawn filtering through her bedroom window. The
chirping of birds and the faint rustling of leaves greeted her ears, and she
smiled, knowing it was the perfect day for apple picking. She quickly dressed in
her favorite overalls and a red flannel shirt, then grabbed her worn wicker
basket from the kitchen. Her mother had always used this basket, and now it was
Amelia’s turn to fill it with the season’s finest apples.
The orchard was a short walk from her house, a path she had trodden countless
times. As she walked, the crisp autumn air filled her lungs, and the rich scent
of fallen leaves surrounded her. The trees in the orchard were laden with
bright, shiny apples, their red and green hues gleaming in the early morning
light. Amelia’s heart swelled with excitement at the sight.
She began with the tree closest to the entrance, reaching up to pluck a deep red
apple from a low branch. It came away easily in her hand, and she admired its
smooth, unblemished skin before placing it gently in her basket. The first apple
was always special, a sign of a bountiful harvest to come.
As she moved from tree to tree, she recalled the stories her mother used to tell
her about the orchard. Legend had it that a kind spirit watched over the apple
trees, ensuring they always bore the juiciest, sweetest fruit. Amelia liked to
imagine this spirit as she worked, picturing a gentle presence that moved among
the branches, blessing the trees with its touch.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps on the path. She turned
to see an old man approaching, his face crinkled with a warm smile. It was Mr.
Thompson, the owner of the orchard. He tipped his hat to her as he drew near.
“Good morning, Amelia,” he greeted. “I see you’re getting an early start.”
“Good morning, Mr. Thompson,” she replied with a smile. “The apples look perfect
this year.”
“They certainly do,” he agreed, his eyes twinkling. “This is a special orchard,
you know. It’s been in my family for generations.”
Amelia nodded. “My mother used to tell me stories about it. She said there’s a
spirit that watches over the trees.”
Mr. Thompson chuckled. “Ah, yes. The spirit of the orchard. Some say it’s true,
others think it’s just a tale. But either way, it’s nice to believe in a little
magic, don’t you think?”
Amelia agreed, and they chatted a bit longer before Mr. Thompson continued on
his way. She returned to her task, feeling a renewed sense of wonder about the
orchard’s history.
As the morning passed, her basket grew heavier with apples. She worked her way
to the far end of the orchard, where the oldest trees stood. These trees were
taller and their branches reached high into the sky, but their lower branches
still held plenty of fruit within her reach.
She spotted a particularly large apple hanging from a branch just above her
head. Stretching up on her tiptoes, she reached for it, her fingers brushing its
smooth surface. Just as she was about to grasp it, a sudden breeze rustled the
leaves, causing the apple to fall into her outstretched hand.
Amelia laughed in surprise, marveling at the perfect timing. “Thank you, spirit
of the orchard,” she whispered with a grin.
With her basket nearly full, she decided to take a break. She found a cozy spot
beneath one of the old trees and sat down, leaning against its sturdy trunk. The
sun was higher in the sky now, casting dappled shadows on the ground. She took
an apple from her basket and bit into it, savoring the sweet, crisp flavor. It
was the best apple she had ever tasted.
As she ate, she noticed something shiny sticking out of the ground nearby.
Curiosity piqued, she set her apple aside and began to dig around the object. To
her astonishment, she unearthed a small, ornate box. It was made of wood and
inlaid with intricate patterns of gold and silver. Carefully, she lifted the
lid.
Inside the box was a folded piece of parchment. Amelia unfolded it with
trembling hands and discovered a beautifully written letter. The ink was faded,
but still legible. The letter told the story of a young woman who had once lived
in the village long ago. She had planted the first apple trees in the orchard
and had cared for them with such love and devotion that the spirit of the land
had blessed her with a bountiful harvest each year.
The letter ended with a note of gratitude, thanking the reader for continuing
the tradition of caring for the orchard. It was signed simply, “Eliza.”
Amelia sat back, awed by the discovery. She felt a deep connection to the
orchard and its history, as if she were now part of a long line of caretakers.
Carefully, she placed the letter back in the box and returned it to its resting
place. She covered it with soil and leaves, ensuring it would remain safe for
future generations to find.
As the day wore on, she finished filling her basket and made her way back home.
The sun was beginning to set, casting a golden glow over the orchard. She looked
back at the trees, feeling a sense of pride and fulfillment.
That evening, as she shared the apples with her family, Amelia told them about
her discovery. They listened with rapt attention, marveling at the story of
Eliza and the spirit of the orchard. From that day forward, Amelia felt a
renewed sense of purpose every time she visited the orchard, knowing she was
part of something magical and enduring.
And so, the tradition continued, with each new generation adding their own
stories to the rich tapestry of the orchard’s history. And as long as there were
apples to be picked and stories to be told, the spirit of the orchard would live
on.