Call of the apple tree

Tara lived in an old house with her parents and grandmother. The house once belonged to Tara’s great-grandfather and then to her grandfather. One day, it would belong to Tara.

At the very back of the garden stood an old apple tree. It was different from other fruit trees. The guava tree was neat and sensible. The pear was happy all the time. The hibiscus bush minded its own business. The plum tree simply dropped fruit with soft thuds and went back to sleep.

But the apple tree leaned. Sometimes to the right; sometimes to the left. It was as if it was listening. Its branches twisted like long fingers. Its bark was cracked and silver-grey. Even in summer, it cast a cool, shivery shade on the grass below.

Sometimes, at night, it called out to her. Not aloud, or in words. Just a whisper.

“Tara…”

She would be playing with her toys or finishing homework when she’d hear it: a tiny tug inside her chest, like someone gently pulling an invisible string.

She would look out and see the apple tree swaying.

Even when there was no wind. “Amma,” Tara said, one afternoon, “why doesn’t anyone pick apples from that tree?”

Her mother barely looked up from chopping vegetables.

“Oh, that old thing? It’s been there longer than the house. My grandfather planted it. The fruit tastes strange.”

“Strange how?”

Amma was throwing the vegetables in the pot, opening the fridge and also washing dishes. So, Tara wandered off.

That night, Tara dreamed of apples. In different sizes and colours. Then she heard it again. “Tara…”

She slipped outside. The grass was wet with dew. The moon shone brightly through the leaves of the apple tree. It seemed taller at night. In the still of the night, the branches swayed.

“Come,” it said, softly.

“I’m not scared,” Tara muttered, even though her toes felt cold.

An apple dropped. Plop. Right at her feet.

It was perfect. Shiny. Red as a balloon. She picked it up. It was warm. Like someone had just been holding it.

“It’s for you,” whispered the tree. “Eat it.”

Tara hesitated. “It’s good. Try it,” continued the tree. It waved its hands and seemed happy.

She took a bite. It was crisp, crunchy, and sweet with just a touch of tartness. The juice dripped down her chin. She wiped it on the sleeve of her nightgown. She looked up at the tree and smiled. The tree smiled down at her.

The next morning, when Tara’s mother went to her room to wake her up, Tara was missing. Her mother and grandmother searched all over the house. She was not there. They searched the garden.

Her footprints stopped at the apple tree.