The Apple Tree Man

A Tale of Winter and Wassailing

It was the cold sharp of winter. Frost lay like a lacy shawl on the ground, slipped from the shoulders of the icy moon. Hoar hung delicately in the bony trees. The sun strained, weak and reluctant through the low grey mist. Two sons stood at the edge of their father’s grave. He had been kind. Fair. The youngest son most resembled him in physical appearance. Sturdy and stout with tousled, straw blonde hair. Mannerisms too- the way he pressed his thumb against his lips when in thought. But this youngest son could be mean, selfish and idle. The eldest son, with the dark hair and slim figure of his mother, most mirrored his father’s good nature and character.

Their farm was prosperous. The old farmer knew the ways of the land and gently, diligently worked through the calendar year. Always asking for help from his sons but only ever accompanied in task by the eldest – the younger distracted in the spring, lazy in the summer, absent in the autumn and preferring the fireside or soft huddle of his quilt in the winter.

In the tradition of the time, following the death of their parents, the farm -land, buildings and stock would now pass to the youngest of the two sons. Regardless of whether this was deserved, it was observed. The youngest son could have chosen to share the farm- property and management alike- with his brother but being greedy and entitled, he set about installing himself in the big house as landlord over his brother to whom he gave a tumbledown cottage, a barren hen, a dry cow and a withered apple tree and a deed to pay rent in one year’s time.

The eldest brother, set to work immediately. He rolled his sleeves and began with bundles of sticks for firewood. That night when most would have lain in resentment, he dreamt of building repairs, custard and apples.

The dark haired brother stroked the hen and brushed the cow and allowed them the warmth of his cottage. He shared his ale with the apple tree, pouring the golden liquid on the roots, singing and wassailing. He tied ribbon to distract the birds who might steal, hung toast as a toast to those more friendly and lit fires to warm the tree’s gnarled branches and protect the buds.

The farmer, who was well liked, drew a favour from a neighbour and soon the cow was with calf. As the year grew warmer, the hen pecked from his open palm and he spent long days with the cow in the greenest common field. The farmer spoke softly to them all, and by and by, the hen began to lay and the cow began to produce creamy, milk for her baby with plenty to spare. The blue skies and long days merged into autumn and the eldest son worked in the damp orchard’s gleaming, gloaming, golden light picking apples, filling basket after basket.

And what of the younger son? With no knowledge or toil or care, his farm fell into disrepair. The livestock, ignored and malnourished, grew thin and weak. Unable to keep them productive, the youngest son sold them all for a pittance which he soon frittered away. With no attention, his apple trees became tangled, damp and diseased. With boughs breaking, crowded with dead wood and buds burnt with frost, the branches stayed bare. The farmer suffered too. His hair became thinner, his once stocky frame, skinny and his pale skin, pasty. He sat in his squalid cottage and counted the days until he could collect the rent his brother would pay.

Stepping off the lowest ladder rung, the eldest brother, placed the heavy basket down lightly. Leaning his back against the trunk, he rested under the apple tree. He watched the clouds brushing across the blue sky, the wind dancing with the leaves as they held on tightly or gently let go, to float down beside him. Then he heard a voice, deep and warm, murmur, ‘I have a secret.’ The farmer started in surprise. He looked around. No, there was no one else. He listened and the voice repeated, ‘ I have a secret.’ Now, most would have jumped up  and run from that place, shaking their heads and blaming ringing in their ears but the eldest brother looked up into the canopy of the leaves and felt the tree’s breath as the wind ruffled his dark hair.  In a low voice he asked, ‘Will you share the secret?” And the tree replied, ‘There is treasure beneath.’

That winter, the eldest brother swept and raked. He cared for his animals. He fixed a broken tile on his roof. He pondered what he had heard under the old apple tree. He gathered holly and ivy and decorated the lintels and mantles in his home for Christmas. In the new year, in a cold, quiet lull of time and after many days had passed since that autumn day in the orchard, the eldest brother went and gathered a pick and shovel. Snow covered the ground and his footsteps crunched, the only sound in the muffled winter evening as he made his way to the old apple tree. ‘Here?’ he ventured, the farmer’s breath and the winter’s dusky mist mingling in the freezing air, ‘Yes. That is the place’ the tree replied.

With much effort, the farmer dug through the icy clods. The hen came to watch, pecking nearby- a companion in the endeavor. The farmer struck hard earth, unwavering in effort and belief, until at last the spade clanged on the lid of a chest. His brow beaded and his eyes determined, he kept digging until, heaving, he pulled the chest, lifted the lid and revealed a bundle filled with golden coins.

So that evening, as the sun set on Twelfth Night, the youngest brother was woken with the loud knocking of his brother banging his door. Eager to collect rent, the youngest brother ushered the elder into the house. And who’s eyes were wider? The brother who glanced around at the dirty, unkempt hovel that had been his home or the brother who saw riches unimaginable in the hoard of golden coins poured out onto the table top? And who’s embrace was warmer? The brother who generously shared and forgave or the brother who gratefully accepted and apologized?

#englishfolktales #wassail #englishfolklore #midwintersolstice