The Apple Tree

The Apple Tree

Many years ago, along the green hills of summer, grew an apple tree of notorious long life. Each apple was the gold of harvested wheat; their taste, richer than the local brandy-cream made by the women of Avemar village. However, the apples were long kept hidden from the public by the covetous shepherds of the valley. That is until an outsider, a wealthy priest, discovered the tree while on his way to visit a far off city. Local gossip has it that after tasting one of the apples for the first time, Friar Lucas the Pious lost all faith in his philosophy and fell instead to worshiping false idols; food, wine, women, all became holy relics in his new found communion of vice. This, of course, soon led to his economic downfall and the ex-priest was forced to exploit the apples by selling them to neighboring villages in order to earn his bread. Thus the fame of the little tree quickly spread beyond the hills until it drew the attention of a wild bandit, Red Rupert the Damned, who had a weakness for fruit of exceptional quality. He brought with him from the West his entire band of scoundrels, including his dear mother who was renowned in select circles for baking pies of special magnificence. There in forest and field the thieves hid in wait for any rich traveler who rode innocently on his way to gather the apples to test the truth of their rumored perfection. Many an evil soul met his fate there beneath the trembling leaves. Meanwhile the fruit of the apple tree grew ever sweeter. (Some said that the tree’s new diet of blood made the apples taste now of both wine and concentrated heat.)

In fact, so many evil souls perished among the green hills, due to the overzealous efforts of the bandits, that the devil himself took to spending most of his time there. In the afternoons he wandered the hills collecting lost souls and at night he sat in the highest branches of the little tree and fed his growing addiction to the apples. In all the centuries of his existence he had never tasted anything so lovely, not even from off the feasting tables of God and his angels.

Then one day, after the thieves had long since killed each other off and the rich had begun to busy themselves with more seeming profound things than the country apple, (for example, the newer city apple which had all the rush and bubble of the crowd but none of its corruption), a young poet wandered up the green slope to the tree and rested his head wearily upon its bark. Now it just so happened that the devil, having had no more souls to capture there in years, had taken up a temporary residence in the tree, for he had fallen in love with the mossy taste of the apples and would dine on nothing else.

For a time, the poet slept while the devil pondered what prank he might play on the youth without revealing his presence in the tree. He almost laughed aloud at the thought of bombarding the poet with a volley of unripe apples, each fastened with a shrunken face with which to shout out obscene logic or twist into terrifying expressions. But instead he opted for a more insidious tactic: the manipulation of the young man’s dreams. He meant only to fill the youth’s head with nightmares. However, before the devil could shift into smoke and pour himself into the poet’s ear, the youth awoke, took a parchment book from his sack and began to write:

O nativity,
To think I’ve known the soul of sorrow at my back
Whose words would break the breeding knot,
---For laughter’s sake.
Speak divine and you are uttered false,
A map to the seasons of time’s still progression.
Likened unto death or change,
This ceaseless, groping thing;
A mockery of corruption-
No god will have you, no weak heart possess you,
For you are no-life, no-man, and no-god
Only a metaphoric shape of time,
Crushed by the monotony of your hall.
Without, always without,
But within--
Perfect as pain’s illusion.

A shadow of old sorrow briefly darkened the devil’s face and he had the distinct impression that he was being laughed at, as though the poet had somehow guessed at the very black emptiness of his soul. He grew curious, for he knew nothing of poetry nor of mankind’s newly emerging theories on a collective unconscious. What is this new language of men, he thought to himself, that can bring even devils to question their own existence? This boy is a fool—a remarkable liar—or—
Quite suddenly the poet looked up into the tree and the devil, in terror, found himself meeting the gaze of the poet’s dark eyes. At this, the devil nearly succumbed to the laws of gravity and slipped from his branch. However, he managed to remind himself just in time that poet or no poet, no man can rob the devil of the power of invisibility.

After that experience, the devil decided to return to the world below. Yet after seven days’ time of nothing but gray ash for meals, he found himself suffering from the severe symptoms of withdrawal from the mysterious fruit. He stared into the dusk of his hall all night, incapable of sleep, haunted by waking nightmares. The worst of these left him shrieking at the movement of every shadow for hours afterwards, which, as you can well imagine, was very disorienting for the lost souls undergoing real tortures in the circles of hell above. Throughout all this, the horrifying suspicion that he was insignificant pervaded his thoughts and it took his demonic companions quite some time to reassure him of his supreme vileness and his expert trickery. Even so, he lay huddled on his throne, a strange aching where his heart should have been.

At last, it became clear to his fellow demons that they would get no rest until the spell of the apples lay once again in their lord’s digestive system. So they declared a brief holiday of one hundred years and packed him off to the apple tree in the hopes of acquiring some peace and tranquility. Thus the devil found himself at the apple tree once more, watching the poet who composed there each day, several hours before sunset. From the start, the devil found the presence of the youth unbearably distracting. It is a rather difficult thing to nap within the presence of so many grand ideas. At first the devil kept to himself. The youth would sleep, dream a little (the devil was now much too wary to toy with the poet’s dreams), then take out his pen. Often he could not write at all, but sometimes his pen came alive and moved so fast it seemed to be communicating of its own accord and only rarely could it bring itself to stop, whereupon the poet would mutter a curse or two, then glance guiltily at the surrounding hills as if fearful someone might have overheard. It was during these periods of intense concentration that the devil’s curiosity drew him into the lower branches of the apple tree. And there he became fascinated with the intricate movements of the poet’s mortal hands and the faraway look that ripened in his eyes. For the second time, he drew close enough to peek at the poet’s notebook in whose pages he read of galaxies of bone, hidden empires situated in the leaf of every tree, rage and violence--the mirrors of humanity, and, yes, even the cosmogonies of love. This was how the devil slowly, but irrevocably, fell in love.

After a month, the devil found he could not sleep. He tossed among the branches haunted by something like emotion, sending up to the heavens the hissing of leaves and to the earth, the explosion of falling apples. His mind was filled with the complexity of mankind, the beauty of God and nature; disturbing thoughts for the essence of evil to ponder. And all the while the musical scratching of a quill, the flutter of paper, and the searching hands of the poet as he wrote thrust themselves upon the devil’s dreaming eyes and ears.

The next day, an hour before twilight, the poet perched as usual beneath the tree. Engrossed in his writing, he did not notice the unnatural silence that suddenly stilled even the wind and the birds. Right as the sun was sinking he looked up and wondered if this might not be the very last sunset he would ever see. (He often wondered such things, being possessed of a slight morbid streak that seemed to run in the family, on his mother’s side). Just in case, the poet gazed intently at the scene before him, trying to memorize the surrounding hills. As he glanced toward the apple tree, he started suddenly, slammed his notebook shut, and stared.

Peering over his shoulder stood a strange figure clothed in almost oriental finery the red amber color of the apples the poet so admired. He looked like a foreigner for he wore his hair long and his eyes were like the green light of the stars; unusual for those parts, where the locals were swarthy and dark. For some time, the two stared at each other, neither uttering a word.

“Your poetry is-- good,” said the stranger at last, cursing his sudden lack of appropriate adjectives. The poet swore and his face turned as red as the fading sunset. In his philosophy it was a grievous sin to let a poem escape into the hands of a reader before its time.

“It was impolite of you to read it, sir,” said the poet.

“I’m sorry,” the stranger gave a slight bow. He even moved strangely, the poet thought, like an animal, a large cat or a reptilian bird. “I wished to praise not insult.”

“Sir, it is well known by even the most common of men that the word “good” is an adjective of little consequence to anyone. I would not dare use such a term to a beautiful woman unless I wanted to be slapped, never to represent any but the worst kind of life, and most certainly not to criticize a work of art unless I felt moved to pity the poor fellow who merited such lack of enthusiasm.”
The stranger stared for a moment, unable to reply, but utterly convinced that the poet was the most profound being alive. Finally, the poet, eager to regain his privacy and tired of the stranger’s conversation, said, “Sir, may I be so bold as to ask how much of this land is your own?”

The stranger only knelt beside him, an amused smile flickering on his lips. To the poet’s annoyance, the man now seemed to be looking at him without hearing a word he said.

The poet continued, “I assure you I had no intention of trespassing but was only looking for a little solitude and quiet.”

The poet twisted nervously at a small tuft of grass as his eyes darted up and down, back and forth in an effort to avoid the unwavering gaze of his companion. At last, the strain became too much for him. He grabbed his notebook and pen in an effort to leave.

“I won’t come and bother you again if—”

Suddenly the devil, for of course it was the devil in disguise, lunged at the poet and kissed him.

“There, what do you say to that?”

“I think you must be a very disturbed individual,” the poet replied breathlessly.

“Ah, then it is most fortunate for us both that I do not exist.” The poet stared at the devil as if he were mad, while something not unlike fear gnawed at his stomach. If he could have escaped at that moment the poet would have fled all the way to the other side of the world, but he had a flair for curiosity which held him tighter than any embrace. So the poet gave in to the strangeness of the devil’s green eyes, his kisses, and soft words with all his heart and did what he knew to be wrong.

“I will make you the richest of kings,” said the devil, feeling that a little temptation was in order now that he had the poet’s attention, “Do you long for gold? I will give you treasures unspoiled by the touch of any mortal hand. I will light the candles for you on St. George’s Eve and every jewel will weep at your touch.”

The poet laughed. “Don’t you know that apples are more precious than gold coins?” He said, “And what is an emerald to a blade of grass? At least these serve some purpose, though they never last.”

Not to be deterred, the devil said, “I would give you all the earth; the kingdoms of men like so many grains of salt; a crown and total dominion lasting until the end of creation.”

“What use do I have for palaces and thrones? Can you speak of kingdoms and poetry in the same breath? One would always destroy the other.”

“I could give you women, then, or men, if you prefer. Imagine it. Every year spent sampling the pleasures of a hundred thousand virgins,” the devil nearly crowed with delight.

The poet looked overwhelmed. “I would rather know the intricacies of every leaf than the bodies of a million women. Keep your crown, your fame and your endless power. Foolish creature, I would rather taste you than all the apples in the world.”

The devil stared at the poet.

“I don’t understand you,” said the devil, murmuring to himself, “I don’t understand. . .” Then all talk subsided, for what more was there to be said?

Thankfully the little apple tree was a modest but polite tree and gave no protest to the actions of the unusual couple resting beneath her branches. She merely shut her knotted eyes at the sight of such unnatural affection and murmured as soft as the breeze. The lovers below heard nothing, of course, for the rest of the world was dead to them. It must be said that the poet was of a fundamentally sweet nature despite his sharp tongue and was most willing to forgive the devil for being himself the prince of lies and the father of numerous evils. He was easily enthralled by beauty, of which the devil was by no means lacking, and had acquired the odd conviction that all things of outer beauty naturally had beautiful souls to match. However, the poet must not be berated for these naive assumptions because love has a way of transforming even the most soiled of souls into a thing of beauty. For his part, the devil could not have been more divinely good than at that moment, although he refused to thank his creator for granting him the love of the poet-- his greatest desire. Instead, he glared up at the sky as if he could just barely make out the gates of heaven outlined against the rose-hued clouds.

“Now I have you,” he whispered through his teeth, glaring all the time up at the heavens, “Nothing will ever take you from me. Nothing.”

At this the poet laughed and said, “Be careful, sir, you tempt Him too much.”

The following evening the devil returned in the same form, that of the rich foreigner, and hid in the branches of the apple tree as before. There he gathered the loveliest apple of all from a welcoming branch and when he was satisfied, climbed down to offer it to the poet who had just set down his pen. Smiling his most gracious of smiles, the devil silently stepped back a pace, then another until he was just outside the drooping canopy of the tree, tauntingly holding the apple beyond the poet’s reach. The poet, like a child presented with a tempting sweetmeat, picked up his book and followed him through the field without suspicion.

The sun was just setting behind them as the poet chased the devil toward the nearby forest, laughing like a schoolboy at his own luckless attempts to retrieve the apple from the devil’s hand. Each time he reached for the golden fruit, the devil would flicker into dust, only to reappear yards ahead of him.

Once they entered the woods they were completely lost to the dying light for a more pronounced twilight than that of the green hills would forever reign there. The air was wet and cool as the poet’s feet sank in the mulch, slowing him down, and at times he thought he had forever lost sight of the golden fruit until the devil would appear suddenly behind the nearest tree, smiling and tossing the apple in the air. After a time, they reached the stone ruin of an ancient garden that must have been built before the surrounding trees had taken total control of the property. Surprisingly, the walls still stood strong, as did several ancient seats and giant urns that marked the garden’s maze of false corners and corridors, although the garden’s inhabitants had long since reverted to the less civilized state of the neighboring forest floor, a place both brooding and wild.

At a little hollow along one of the walls, inset to make room for a marble bench now fallen on its side and sweating rotted leaves, the poet caught his antagonist. They looked at each other awkwardly and then the devil gave the apple to the poet’s mouth and afterwards took for himself a bite. They took turns like this, devouring the apple, wondering at the uniqueness of its flavor, until at last it dropped to the ground and for all they knew, or cared to know, it could have been swallowed up by the earth.

After they had satisfied themselves with each other’s company, the devil said to the poet, gesturing to the surrounding walls, “Do you like it? I saw it in a dream. What do you say we let the apple tree keep her modesty. It must have been she who suggested it to me. Even He cannot see us here; He’s so incapable of true perception. I promise you, His eyes will pass over these woods like a light mist.”

“I think you are brilliant,” replied the poet.
After that evening the two would always meet before sundown, the devil lounging in the tree, and the poet below.

The poet would write a while then look up at the branches and call out, “What does my love desire?” And the tree would answer, “I seek the one who loves me for what I am. No other thing do I desire.” Then the devil would appear and the two would run to the garden like children to carry out the business of lovers. Sometimes the devil came as a young woman as luminous as sunlight, for he had shown the poet how he could change into many things, or he would transform them both into wolves and they would roam the woods together as brothers. So many adventures did they have that it would be impossible to relate them all upon these few pages.

Years passed and change came with them like the seasons while the two wanderers grew ever closer. The poet had only to think of an apple and the devil would appear, wandering into whatever situation in which he found himself, just as if he’d been expected. But the abandoned garden remained their most beloved meeting place, for even the stones there were ancient and wise.
In the autumn of one such year, a young farmer, a fool of a fellow, lost himself in the woods while chasing a renegade calf. All afternoon he wandered path after path until chance brought him to the crumbling gates of the garden. This farmer had once been an educated man, a prospective writer who had never made it past the second tense and first person narratives, yet he still found it useful in times of uncertainty to bring an unpolished rhyme of his out of hiding; a habit that strangely comforted and encouraged him. The air had just turned cold and leaves lay like elfin tiles over the mud walkways. For some time, the farmer cowered beneath the shadow of the outer wall for he was used to open pastures and a sunlight unfettered by leaves and branches. The fear was almost too much for him so he began to mutter phrases he believed to be of his own brilliant composition.

“The puss sat on the mat. . . my lady buck, my lady, the puss in boots came riding, with hell hooked on his heels. . . and over land and mat and sand, my lady buck came riding. . . sweet nonny came a’riding. . .”

He wiped the sweat from his brow. Even a fool knows that genius is hard work.

Of course, like any other artist, he often had doubts about his own worth as a poet. The voice of his father haunted him when he composed. Shrill and without compassion the voice would say to him, “Son, pansies and drunks, that’s what your writer friends are. Great poets, immortal authors? They don’t even have sense enough to tell their left shoe from their right. The gutter, son, the madhouse, that’s all they know. Are you too good for your own people? My father was a farmer, like his father before him, like any great man. He’s earned his keep in heaven. But your poets, they’re all in hell.”

As the echoes of his father’s voice faded, the farmer heard something very strange. Behind him the stones began to tremble and whisper to one another. Wisps of, “Is it him?” and, “God no. Do you think he would stand anywhere shaking like a fool,” fluttered past his ears. The farmer blushed but was much too surprised to be insulted.

“Whisper a little louder and he might hear you,” said another with a grating snicker. This was too much for the man who began to quake anew and recite the Lord’s prayer with magnetic fervor,

“Our father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy-- Oh God--” He found he could not remember the rest.
At this, one by one, the stones began to shriek,

“God? No. God has nothing to do with it. Run, little fool. Sin is catching. Be quick for he will know you’ve come. He can smell a man’s fear. Yes, be quick, fool. The curse of the mother and the father. . . forbidden acts. Consequences. Yes, we know it all. Punishment. Regret is in your blood. Foolishness is catching. Run, little fool, run.”
And the farmer ran, the eyes of every stone following his movements and shouting about blasphemy. Without looking back he ran, and ran, and ran until forest turned to field and field to home in Avemar village.

When the poet and the devil arrived in the garden at twilight of that same day, they were singing. What words I can’t recall but the sound was fit to remake the world. Just beyond the outer walls of the garden the villagers were readying themselves with flames and knives. They had dug ditches to hide in, gathered their courage with the aid of a brandy bottle, and now they only awaited the command of the simple farmer. He was not shaking now, but the warning of the stones, “He will know you’ve come. He can smell it,” sobered him.

The devil wandered through the garden much too preoccupied with love to notice anything unusual in the murmuring of the stones and the many shallow breathings of mortals nearby. Several of the villagers even dared a peek over the wall; saw the lovers kiss and heard them chatter about the age of the stars, the limits of immortality, and the many merits of patience versus boredom. Then the poet brought up a topic of old, one that had caused too many words of reproach between them throughout the years. The poet wanted to know the devil’s true name, for there was nothing the youth could call his love that satisfied him. The word “devil” still frightened the poet and he would not speak it even in love. The devil laughed and reminded the poet that he gave his name to no one, that no one in all the thousands of worlds knew his true name except God. The poet protested that the devil had freely read the map of his soul in his poetry but the devil replied that the two things could not be compared. Then the poet grew angry and he began to doubt the so-called love of the prince of lies.

“Am I the only one?” he asked defiantly, “Or do you often take your pick among the living.”

The devil frowned. “You are the only true life in all the world. All else is dead before it is even born. I’ve memorized your language, your dreams. Only yours, and I will live forever with that knowledge.”

Sighing, the poet leaned his head against the seat of the marble bench on which he lay and his voice was oddly hoarse as he muttered:

“Fated to death, the confusion,
That I should live to see the sunset of this change,
Love’s sole collusion,
Know the fear of men whose towers have long faded,
Reaping the soiled land of their own fate,
To open eyes already blinded by the sun. . .”

The poet choked and his face grew moist. The whole forest shook with the sound and the violence of his trembling until the marble bench cracked and he fell to the earth. The men lying in wait outside the walls tried to flee then, thinking some giant had awoken in the forest, but they were so afraid that they ran into each other at every turn. Even the foolish shepherd who had brought them to the woods hid in the hollow of the nearest tree, afraid that the demon had finally discovered his presence and was coming now to drag him into hell. But the trembling stopped as soon as the poet hit the ground.

Surprised, the devil knelt quickly beside him and saw that the poet’s face was flushed and hollow looking, his eyes dull. Then he, who had never known fear since the day the earth swallowed him after his long fall from Heaven grew weak with uncertainty. He suddenly looked his age as he traced the poet’s lips with one white finger and gasped when he pulled his hand away and saw that his fingertip was now red with blood. The poet merely turned his head and stared at the ground because he couldn’t bear to see such fear reflected in the devil’s old eyes.

“I’m dying,” said the youth as calmly as if he’d been planning this moment his whole life, “Didn’t you notice. I thought you would.”

The devil’s eyes were proud and young again.

“No,” he said, “Nothing of this earth will ever harm you.” And using all the black arts in his power he drew the sickness from the poet’s lips as if it were a poison. As the poet fell asleep, the devil, regretting his harsh words of earlier and thinking it could do no harm, whispered his true name into the youth’s ear. Then he left him there asleep and wandered far into the world to tend to the business of the damned, thinking little of death or finalities.

When the poet awoke his body felt reborn although he found, strangely, that he could not move his legs or arms. Then the searing coarseness of rope jarred his senses. He opened his eyes to the sight of smoke-enshrouded men, peasants all of them, grunting in mud and sweat like cleverly disguised pigs. They cursed and sneered at him when they saw that his eyes were open, then called the burliest of them over to the fire. It was the fool of a farmer who not long ago had fled the garden in terror. However, the presence of his fellow villagers gave him courage. Though the others feared the poet, for they thought he was a spirit, the farmer knew that no spirit, but only a man of flesh like their own, could be held by a common rope. Still, the villagers kept their distance round the poet while the farmer spoke.

“Servant of the devil,” he said, “What sins have you committed in these woods. Confess! Or I cannot but think you’ll find your way to hell. There’s no going back for tonight you will surely die.”

“No sin but love,” spat the poet.

“Then love has condemned you.”

“Curse yourselves,” said the poet, “I only pity him who murders me. This love will know vengeance.”

“Then you will not repent?” The farmer drew a flaming stick from the fire and ordered his men to lift the boy to his feet. He thrust the branch against the poet’s arm as the youth struggled but it passed through his flesh without causing him any harm, as if he were only a cloud.

“Spirit,” the villagers cried and sprang from the poet, “Monster. The Lord of trickery and death will destroy us.”

“Fools,” said the farmer, “this is no ghost or sprite. I tell you it is a man.” And he grabbed a dagger from his waist and sliced at the young man’s chest. Again the metal moved through his body without leaving a mark nor drawing any blood.

“Something is not right here,” muttered the farmer. He always was a bit slow.

The poet chuckled and then laughed outright as he stared at his unharmed chest in awe. I’m alive, he thought, invincible! Maybe-- maybe he has even made me immortal! Either way, the poet now had no doubt that he would live beyond this night, whether damned or blessed.

Then, for the first time in the farmer’s unexceptional life, he had a truly remarkable thought.

“This man belongs to the devil,” he said to his men, “And what power does the devil have? His is only of the earth. . .”

Now the farmer was not the greatest of philosophers but he understood the value of aspiring to outgrow one’s baser nature. By this I mean that he knew the power of language. Words were to him as of the utterance of the divine and giving names to objects, man’s first and holy purpose on earth. For the first time, he noticed the notebook at the poet’s feet and by its side a wooden pen. Picking up the pen slowly, he looked into the poet’s eyes and saw the panic of a thousand universes still unexplored suddenly conscious of their own imminent mortality. At the sight of this new weapon, the poet’s confidence faltered and he feared then that the world he so loved was soon to be taken from him. After untying the poet’s hands the farmer tore at his sleeve until his arm was bare to the elbow. The poet tried to step back, to escape from this nightmare of smoke and sweat, but his legs were still tied and now the villagers were beginning to draw nearer to him, blocking all escape.

“Don’t -” he said, but the farmer only frowned. He thrust the poet’s arm to the heavens and carved a word into his wrist, a word that came to the farmer as easily as breathing and which the poet dimly recognized as a word he had dreamt of in his sleep. He did not move, did not struggle against his own pen. The metal tip cut true, and black ink bled into the wound, spreading into his veins until every one of them was black as pitch. As the youth choked and gasped behind him, the farmer stooped to pick up the poet’s book and began to leaf through the brittle pages, then he walked away.

The poet’s breath grew cold as his executioner left the garden with his prize. The poetry had moved him somewhat and anyway it would make a good souvenir to show to his family. Bent over, the poet clutched at his aching arm-- the villagers had backed into the shadows of the garden wall now that the struggle was over-- and stared at the name engraved in his wrist. He tried to call out, to think of an apple, but could not. Then his skin turned gray as ash and he dropped to the earth, dead.

The villagers buried the body hurriedly near one of the walls, for they had not the heart to leave him out in the open, easy prey for wolves and scavenging birds. Once they had put out the embers of the fire and covered his grave with leaves, they fled back to their village to entertain their wives with tales of their bravery.

At sunset the devil sat in the branches of the apple tree waiting for a familiar voice until the sky turned cold and drifted into dusk. Then he wandered toward the forest, sure that the poet would be there for they had never once let a day pass without meeting. The garden, too, was empty but for-- strange indeed-- a lone raven who when she saw him walking up the garden path fixed the devil with her soulless eyes, croaked, then flew away. Even the devil, who was used to evil things, feared the power of omens and signs and for the first time in years his senses were jolted out of their loving reverie. Suddenly he heard sounds everywhere that he had never noticed before. The stones were weeping. They had not meant the poet any harm but they greatly feared the devil. Desperately, he searched through every corner of the garden shouting for the poet but found nothing, until, at last, he came across the broken bench where he smelled the bitterness of smoke. He realized then that he had been fooled—his maker had won. Full of rage, he howled until the very leaves on the ground fled from him.

There, not three feet from where he stood, were the remains of a fire and behind him the fingers of the poet grew out of the dirt like two clumps of marble mushrooms. The devil rushed toward the place and clawed at the ground, uncovering the poet’s face, then his head, and eventually the whole of his still-supple form. He kissed the poet’s cold mouth and his own came away black with ink. Then the devil, who had never wept for anyone but himself, gave way to despair and embalmed the poet with his tears.

I could say for the sake of dramatics that the devil wept for forty days and forty nights, that lightening shredded the sky while the devil vowed that he would never love again, that he had his revenge; but that would be lying. No, that very night the devil dried his tears while he carried his lover back to the apple tree. Then he sat at its base all night and all day, his mind as dull as the shovel he held, before he could bring himself to bury his companion.

“Goodbye old friend,” he muttered to the poet’s corpse, “If you had been a little more wicked perhaps we could have met again . . . in hell.” He paused and attempted to utter a careless laugh which soon faded into a sob.

“But I won’t forget, will I Father?” He leapt to his feet and swung his fists at heaven, “God! Must you take everything from me? You laugh as you spit in my face and you smile whilst you piss on the world. Because I am free, because I do as I please? Which do you prefer, oh Father of Heaven?
“How I despise you! Yes, and your accursed clay image. They’re all monsters. But you’re so good at making those, aren’t you? The things you create. I know them all, the asses and their ignorant insignificance. Are they compensating for something, do you think? Is their wit, their vital part, as grand as yours? I wonder in all these years if you have ever truly lived; if you have ever felt even one atom of what I feel? Do you know anything of poetry, Father? Did you invent it or did they, and to what purpose? Do its subtleties frighten you, its mystery? Oh, I know all about that clown in the forest, his stupidity was etched into the very stones of the place. My, Father, what a lovely present to send your favorite son. How kind of you to think of me at all, and after all these years. Was it your idea to exchange blessings for a corpse?

“God! Curse the whole murdering lot of them! They can run but their barrenness will find them. I promise you that—doomed to look but not touch, impotent all their lives. . .

“Let the fool keep his poetry,” the devil gazed at the poet and touched his own chest, “I have it all here. Don’t worry, love, they will suffer. I won’t have to lift a finger against them. One day or another they’ll kill each other off with their straight thinking and their fear; with their gift for hating. They cannot make anything of beauty. They will die unremembered, utterly unremarkable. . .” The devil collapsed against the tree and wept into the poet’s curls, but the heavens above remained silent.

Later, when he had recovered, the devil finally buried the poet beneath the apple tree. It was the hardest thing he had ever done, closing the poet’s dead eyes and lifting the rusty spade he’d conjured to dig the first hole of the poet’s grave. It made him feel strangely human. The apple tree, too, wept and as the devil left for his empty palace, vowing to forever tempt mortals into discovering and creating poetry, she let a cluster of apple blossoms fall from her branches to come to rest at last on the poet’s grave.

For centuries, the devil fulfilled his promise by whispering the perfect phrase into the ears of young poets when they least expected it and so poetry grew into a prominent art form. Meanwhile, the descendents of the peasants, most especially the farmer who had killed the devil’s lover, lived up to the curse the devil had placed on them. They became agents, fundamentalists, corrupt politicians, but the art they excelled in the most was that of the critic.

As for the little apple tree, the devil hid her away where mortals could no longer find her, for since her roots had begun to feed on the poet’s flesh, her apples had acquired a mysterious power. There are some who say that all the knowledge of the universe is stored within a single apple of that tree but I think that is just a foolish old wives’ tale. How could a piece of fruit hold anything within itself but pulp and seeds?

However, any mortal unlucky enough to discover the hiding place of the apple tree and to taste one of its apples becomes immediately possessed of so much wisdom that he turns at once into a dithering idiot and falls down dead. And so the story goes until, as legend would have it, the devil breaks the chains that bind him to the earth, digs up the bones of the poet from under the apple tree, and is reunited with his love. Then the two of them will ride toward paradise to take back the kingdom of heaven.