Ira, The Crabby Apple Tree
A new short-story, and a companion to my first book Frog of Arcadia
On the edge of the lowlands stood an elderly crabapple tree. From time immemorial he had stood there on his own, like a weary sentinel, watching over the comings and goings of his muskeg’s humble residents. When Ira was young, he had taken great joy in giving critters shade on a hot summer day. The mice and the possums in particular would look forward to his picking time, for they knew that Ira’s apples made the sweetest ciders and jellies. Indeed, there was a time when Ira would invite the birds of the sky into his branches to take refuge from the cool nights; there the whip-poor-wills would sing their lullabies as he would keep them warm and dry.
But the high point of his long memory had been in those summers when boys and girls would make their way from the town to frolic in the woods. From a distance, Ira marveled at their games. From his solitary position, he watched with wonder at the stick-forts that the children would build, and at the tire swing which they had hung from an old oak. But children grow much faster than apple trees. And as each summer passed, Ira noticed that the town’s children would visit less and less frequently. It wasn’t long before many of those children would stop visiting those grounds altogether.
Imagine the joy then when two of those children would pay Ira a personal visit years later. Never had Isaac and Ruth come to sit in his shade before, but now that they were older, like matured saplings, it seemed that the apple tree was becoming their preferred getaway.
When picking time came at summer’s end, Isaac decided to carve his and Ruth’s initials into the crabapple tree’s trunk, to commemorate their newly shared last initial. The tree winced in discomfort as the boy’s pocketknife cut into his bark. “I.R.A.” the letters read deeply, with a crude heart shape etched around the inscription. When it was all over, Ira understood what had happened. He had been named, and he was happy.
But those were simpler times, for Ira. As the years went on, the crabapple tree would discover that Isaac and Ruth would stop coming to visit him altogether. Ira lamented that they would never again enjoy his shade or pick his fruit. He became jealous at whispers of other trees whose limbs were being climbed by boys and girls, and whose fruit was being baked into pies. But all the while, he had forgotten about his old friends, the mice, the possums, and the birds. Indeed, Ira had become completely disinterested in partaking in any of their joys or sufferings. The lives of those critters seemed meaningless to him by comparison, for the boy and the girl had dignified him with a name. And so it was, with the passage of time, that Ira began to question his very purpose. It was true that he had come to love Isaac and Ruth. But more so, he loved the identity that they had given him.
And as Ira’s temperament bittered, so did his fruit. He soon began to wither, failing to bear his orangey-red apples, instead dropping unsavory brownish orbs to the ground. Not long after, his fruit would cease to grow altogether. Adding to his shame, Ira’s leaves soon fell from him. The mice and the possums moved on, finding sweeter fruit elsewhere, and the birds could no longer take refuge in Ira’s naked limbs. Those last apples that Ira did drop simply rotted into the earth.
One day, the winged messenger Caeles paid that lonely sentinel a visit unannounced, swooping down from the heavens and perching himself in one of the crabapple tree’s twisted branches. Ira’s wood creaked and whined from the weight of the merlin upon his stiffened limb, for in his state of barrenness Ira had long forgotten what it had felt like to carry a burden.
“You cause me discomfort,” the apple tree groaned, sourly.
“All creation groans for the revealing of its Maker, Ira.” Caeles replied. “But woah to the watcher who watches in vain.”
“What choice have I had? Planted alone was I, without a companion to pollinate with. While other trees grow in the company of orchards, having their branches pruned and their fruit harvested with due care, my fruit has been doomed to rot upon these wild grounds, where it is consumed by insect. Not once have I been paid the dignity of a boy climbing in my branches or of a maiden baking my apples into a pie.”
“Will you refuse to do that which you were created for because you feel slighted?” Caeles asked. “Tell me, Ira. Are you not of the John Downie variety, gifted with the ability to self-pollinate? What right does the creation have to disregard its created purpose? And for what good is an apple tree that won’t grow apples?”
“I don’t give a fig for expectations.” Ira protested, woodenly. “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, you know. If I’m feeling this way, then it must be because I was made this way. If the Maker wanted me to bear fruit, then I would have been planted somewhere more meaningful. But since I am rooted here, in this dreary countryside I can only deduce that he doesn’t care what I do with my vessel.”
“For shame, Ira!” the merlin rebuked. “Even for a crabapple tree, your fruit has become truly bitter.” Then walking to the branch tip, Caeles pronounced judgement, for that was why he had come.
“Behold! Though you shall not see me, I will return to you next autumn,” he warned, “and I leave two paths set before you. If you will again bear the apples for which you have been created, shall you not live? But if not, I will bring disease upon your very roots, and you shall be felled and chopped into firewood to warm the hearths of the very mice and possums whom you once loved. Yet it will be from your own words that your judgement will have come — for you sourly speak of dignity as though it is above all things. What greater dignity is there than to bring warmth and joy to a humble household in need. So consider from where you have fallen, Ira, and choose life.”
With that, Caeles leapt from Ira’s weary limb, causing it to creek in relief. Ira watched as the great merlin’s wings filled with wind, and carried him across the horizon, helping him to disappear into the purple treetops in the distance.
Ira considered the rebuke, allowing his attention to turn once more to the mice and the possums and the birds whom he once loved. And as he gazed upon their toil, he was refreshed. None of those critters was plagued by desire to be something other than what they were created to be. Despite their meagre circumstances, never would you hear a grumble from them. Even when he had failed to provide them with food and shelter, Ira received not one complaint, for each of them was content to simply blossom where they were planted, for what good is it to wish you were something other than yourself?
Ira remembered the beauty in a simple life, and he felt ashamed for becoming too proud. And with his humbled posture, Ira was surprised to see buds on his branches. It wouldn’t be long before birds would return to his strengthened limbs, taking shelter from the cool nights. Soon, the mice and the possums too would return to frolic and play in his shade, like they did when he had first watched over them.
By the next autumn, around picking time, Ira was honoured with a crown of orangey-red jewels. Just as they once did, the whip-poor-will’s sang their joyous songs and mice and possums were busying themselves with the making of hot cider and preserves, to prepare their homes for winter. Imagine Ira’s surprise then, when he saw Isaac and Ruth walking toward him with their own little sapling bouncing atop the boy’s shoulders. The refreshed crabapple tree bent his limbs toward the boy, allowing Isaac to harvest his ripest apple for the child. The boy smiled, and Ira was fulfilled.
