ZING! ZING! A torrent of apples flew at him. The entire apple orchard was ringing with the sound of apples smashing against the trees.
His heart was starting to pound. Who was doing this? Who was wasting an entire basket of apples throwing them at him, and why?
And who was such a good shot?
Suddenly the apples stopped flying, and the boy heard someone calling him. It was his father.
“Philip! Philip, where are you? The cart is loaded, we’re ready to go! Where are you hiding, boy?”
Philip stood up and peered around the side of the tree. “Here, Father! I’m over here in the orchard.” He moved away from the tree and ran toward the spot where he had left his apple basket. He and his father reached the basket at the same moment.
It was empty and lying on its side. A few trampled apples lay nearby.
“What happened here?” his father asked, concerned.
“I…I really don’t know, Father,” Philip stammered.
“Well, where are the apples?” His father crossed his arms, never a good sign.
“I...I don’t know. They’re everywhere. They’re all over the orchard, Father,” he said, confused and upset.
His father looked around. He saw apples everywhere, smashed against the trees, and many piled up and ruined at the bottom of one particular tree. He gave Philip a hard stare. “If you’re going to do target practice, Philip, please use the river stones and not food for our table. Every apple you’ve wasted here could have been saved and dried for food in the winter ahead. You will have extra chores to do tonight.”
His father never really got angry, but Philip could tell he was displeased as he marched back toward the waiting horse and cart beside the old church gate.
There would be no apples for lunch tomorrow. There would be fewer dried apples for the winter ahead.
As Philip bent down to retrieve the empty apple basket and follow his father to their old cart, he heard the most amazing sound.
It was like a creaky cartwheel groaning uphill under a great weight. Or maybe, just maybe, someone high up in the church tower was laughing.
Gargoth’s Story, 1664
The Lion Roars
It was getting dark. Philip wasn’t really sure he wanted to be there, but despite his complaints, his father had insisted. Since the incident the week before, when an entire basket of apples had been destroyed, Philip had been trying to avoid the churchyard altogether.
The more he thought about it, the more sure he was. Someone had been laughing at him from the church tower that day. The sound was odd, though, not like a laugh he’d ever heard before. It was chilling and whispery and kind of sad. It left him thinking of spirits. Philip was a very sensible and brave twelve-year-old boy, however, and he was pretty sure that spirits couldn’t pelt you with apple cores. At least, not so accurately.
Still. Someone was up there, hiding in the church tower, he was sure of that now, which made his current task all the more unpleasant. He had been sent to the abandoned apple orchard to pick a small sack of apples for a sick neighbour, even as the sun was setting.
He wasn’t going to tell his father that he was too afraid to go. His home wasn’t far away, though, and he was quick on his feet. He could outrun almost anyone who tried to catch him.
He kept telling himself this as he unlatched the creaky wooden churchyard gate and slowly swung it open. It made a very loud screech which Philip hadn’t noticed by day.
“Why is everything louder at dusk?” he asked himself, trying to seem casual. The sun was low in the western sky, sending a beautiful orange glow through the small churchyard. The ancient stones still held the warmth of the sun. The only sound was the little river babbling quietly. He stood beside the river for a moment and looked around.
Philip breathed out. “It’s not so bad,” he thought. He hoisted his small sack and turned toward the apple orchard. He stopped dead in his tracks and gasped.
The ancient stone lion statue was broken! The lion’s left ear was broken off and lay jagged and smashed in the grass at its feet.
Philip stared. The lion was the only statue in the village. It had stood in the middle of the churchyard for as long as anyone could remember, proud and fierce on its pedestal of stone. It wasn’t a large statue, but it was very regal.
“Who would do this?” he wondered, dragging his shirt sleeve across his stinging eyes. He was sure the lion statue had not been broken the previous week when he and his father had last been there.
He moved toward the broken piece of statue lying in the grass but stopped suddenly. Something had moved in the apple orchard just a few feet away. He stood stock still, barely breathing. His heart started knocking in his chest. He knew someone was behind him.
“Who…” he cleared his dry throat, “who’s there?” he tried to shout. He wanted to sound brave and big, but unfortunately his voice chose that very moment to break. He sounded like a frightened child, which is exactly what he was.
There was nothing but silence. Philip turned slowly, too afraid to run, and couldn’t believe his eyes.
A basket overflowing with apples waited beside the orchard. He couldn’t tell why, but somehow he knew they were for him.
He gripped his apple sack tightly and slowly app-roached the basket. He jumped across the little river, and in ten strides stood at the edge of the orchard with the overflowing apple basket at his feet. The sun was just about to dip behind the nearby hills for the night.
Philip took a deep breath. “Who is here?” he asked quietly.
Nothing moved, not a bird, not a branch, and even the tiny river seemed momentarily silent. So he took another deep breath, and asked again, slightly louder this time. “Who are you? You might as well come out. I know you’re here.”
But nothing could have prepared him for what happened next.
A small, squat creature with leathery wings stepped out from behind the tree at his feet and looked up into Philip’s face. Philip wasn’t absolutely sure, but there might have been tears in the creature’s eyes.
“Hamithin sorken behem. Sorth belamont,” was what the creature said.
But Philip heard it say in its strange whispery voice, “Do not be afraid. I am alone.”
Gargoth’s Story, 1664
Smoke Rings in the Orchard
Philip stood completely still, barely daring to breathe. The sack for collecting apples had fallen, forgotten, from his hand into the grass. His face held a strange look of bewilderment and dawning comprehension.
The creature was hunched at his feet, looking at the ground. Eventually Philip was sure the creature was crying, since he heard the plunk plunk of its tears hitting the earth and saw small columns of steam rise from where they fell.
