Barefoot over dewy grass she makes her way to the shed and takes up the axe. The material of her nightdress offers little protection from the dawn air. At the foot of the apple tree she raises the axe and strikes. The church bells toll six.  Again and again she strikes, gaunt arms driving the axe in arc after arc. The bells toll eight and on the eighth peal the tree falls to the ground – rotten apples tumbling around her feet.

Once upon a time, a long time ago she came to this house an innocent bride. Their wedding day he carried her over the threshold. Then the tree produced apples so perfect you devoured them pips and all. Over the years they have become rotten to the core; maggoty and spoiled.

Together they lie under the tree. He says,
‘Dance for me.’  And she does – a swirling twirling slip of a girl, bare feet light in the grass and a shower of confetti blossom about her head. That night she feels smothered under his weight, unmoved by the overly quick thrusting.  While he sleeps, she touches herself, coating her fingers and bringing them to her nose slick with the scent of fecundity.

Even in her womb the child was wanton and selfish.  Night after night she found herself under the tree, snared in ropes of moonlight.  Eating apple after apple – until her swollen belly would dance with grotesque abandon and she would fall to the ground stuffing handfuls of the rich earth in her mouth, worms and all.  It was no surprise when the baby tore into this world with rosy red lips and hair as black as soil.

Rocking the baby in the cradle she can see a violet night sky.  The stars join together in a siren’s chorus. He finds her dancing naked under the tree.  She is talking to the moon.

‘I see it all now. I understand everything.  Your mind is ponderous. Too dull witted. You cannot comprehend this existence, what I have been shown.’  And her feet trample the ground in fast-syncopated rhythms.  Twirling in ceaseless circles.  Climbing the tree, sharp branches tear at soft white flesh. She reaches for an apple, black in the moonlight, before jumping.‘I will live forever, hear the stars, they sing my name.’

They came then. Pedalling their snake oil potions. Tying her to the bed and letting beetles swarm all over her.
‘How dare you.’  She spat in their faces.  ‘I’m chosen – don’t you understand?’ They pierce her skin with poisons and she sleeps.  Upon waking the world is insipid and dull. She drifts ghost like through the house, trailing fingers making dust motes dance.

As the infant grew brighter, so she faded; unsubstantial like a moon in water. Greedy for affection the child demanded his attention. She watches them through the window playing under the apple tree. She bakes offerings, stirring in what life she can muster to mix with the pungent scent of cinnamon. Apple pies; apple crumbles; apple turnovers; apple tarts. The child would stuff them into that red-lipped mouth and he would laugh. The crumbs falling to the floor to be swept up by her.

She dreams that the child is not hers.  That something in that soil cuckooed itself into her body, consuming a bonny blue-eyed boy.  Going to the garden she searches for secrets buried deep underground.
‘Where have you gone my son? Come, let me help you, it’s cold and dark. You must be scared.  Come little one.  I will warm some milk and wrap you up by the fire.’ The relentless rain forms dark eddying pools as the loam collapses inwards. He finds her there, sodden and spent.

Again they came. Peddling their snake oil potions.  She would turn away and lie staring out the window. She did not know this child with eyes of green who crept silently around her bed.  They left bottles filled with poison and she would hide the pills under her tongue. She did not know this child with cheeks as pink who left vases of delicate blossom beside her.  They pierced her skin and she would drift into dreams that touched an almost forgotten memory.  She did not see the child with rosy lips leave an apple on her pillow.

He bought the child everything a heart could desire. Trinkets found deep in Moroccan Souks; jewel like glace fruits from Spanish markets; a golden comb from a Parisian marché. And from each journey an apple.  Delicately carved apples, filigree silver apples, and an apple made from a ruby on a fine gold chain. He fastened it round the child’s neck.
‘For the most beautiful one.’ He said.

The cuckoo grew. To and fro swinging on a perch under the apple tree. Higher and higher, until the swing reaches its zenith and the girl seems to belong to the sky. The sound of the breaking bough echoes through the house.

They came then.  Filling the house with their black coats; gentle murmurs of condolence and the odoriferous scent of lilies.

She bakes an offering. The smell of cinnamon masking a bitter poisonous note. Apple pies, apple tarts, apple crumbles. He stuffs them into his mouth, devouring them spoon after spoon.

In the night he wakes.  His swollen abdomen dancing and grotesque.  He hears the laughter of the girl echoing through the house and crawls his way to the bedroom. She finds him there, his body sprawled and lifeless. From his hand dangles on a fine gold chain, an apple made from a ruby.

She stands, breathing laboured, rotten apples around her feet. The sky is the colour of the eyes of her bonny boy.  Dropping the axe she starts to dance. Swirling, whirling, twirling, round and round, faster and faster until spent she falls to the ground, her laughter echoing through the empty house.