“Succor!” Balkis cried, and reached up to pluck—but the apple fell into her hand. She dropped the divining rod and plucked another—it fell even as she touched it—and carried both to Panyat. “I regret they are such poor and withered things, my friend, but perhaps—”
“They will do! Oh, bless you, my friends!” Panyat's eyes opened wide; he moved a hand, but it trembled and fell. “I cannot… cannot…”
“Here.” Balkis thrust the apple under his nose. The Py-tanian inhaled deeply, then closed his eyes, trembling with the sensation as new life coursed through his veins. He inhaled again and again; color came back into his skin, and he seemed to swell with vitality even there in Anthony's arm. Then a hand, no longer palsied, reached up to take the apple. He held it under his nose, inhaling its fragrance with every breath, though it seemed to shrink and wrinkle even as they watched.
“The tree!” Anthony cried out, aghast.
Balkis turned to look and saw that amid a shower of its own yellowed leaves, the apple tree had shriveled. As they watched, limbs broke off and fell, the trunk caved in on itself, and the bark shredded into motes, until they found themselves staring at a pile of sawdust.
Finally Anthony spoke, his voice trembling. “What manner of tree was that?”
“A blessed one,” Panyat said, his voice no longer faint, but still not as rich as it had been. “By your leave, my friends, let us spend the night here, for I am not yet strong enough to walk.”
“Surely,” Balkis agreed. “After all, where there is one apple tree, there may be others.” She sat down, reaching up for the Pytanian, and Anthony set him down with his head and shoulders in her lap. Then he turned to gathering wood and building a fire.
They woke in the predawn chill. Anthony fanned the fire to life, fed it a few sticks, and brewed a porridge of crumbled joumeybread. They ate, watching the east and talking in low tones, savoring the freshness of morning and the scents of life around them, so welcome after the dearth of the desert. Then the first rays of sunlight broke over the eastern ridge and Balkis threw back her head, closing her eyes and letting the warmth bathe her face.
Panyat cried out with joy.
Turning wide-eyed, Balkis saw a green spike stretching up from the heap of sawdust. As they watched, the shoot grew taller and the dustpile smaller, giving its substance to the life of the plant. They stared, entranced, as the shoot grew into a foot-high sapling and put out thread-thin branches.
“What manner of tree is this?” Anthony asked, his voice shaking.
“It is a thing of Faerie, my friends,” said an old quavering voice.
They turned in alarm, Anthony leaping to his feet, but the old man who approached only raised one palm, saying, “Peace, peace. I am the guardian of this grove and mean no harm to you, unless you mean harm to my trees.” He was bald, with a white beard falling almost to his waist. He wore a robe the color and texture of bark, and carried a staff in his hand that still bore twigs and leaves. Balkis thought it must have been her imagination that made the leaves seem to freshen when he stopped, resting the butt of the staff on the ground.
Panyat folded his hands over his midriff and the slight bulge of the dried-up apple within it.
“Peace, my friend—you may keep the apple,” said the old man. “Indeed, you may take as many as you wish.”
“A safe offer,” Balkis said with a cynical smile, “since there are no others that have not rotted to dust.”
“Ah, but there will be,” the old man said.
“We cannot wait four months.”
Panyat cried out in joy.
Turning back, Balkis saw that the shoot had grown into a sapling and put forth buds. Even as they watched, those buds opened into lovely, pale pink blossoms. Buzzing began and grew, and bees appeared as if by magic to crawl into the flowers and collect pollen.
“This tree thrives remarkably,” Anthony said, wide-eyed. “If I could take only a dozen of its seeds home to my father and brothers, they would grow such an orchard as the neighbors would never believe!”
They watched spellbound as the tree grew and grew. The old man carried buckets of water from the stream to moisten its roots, pruned it carefully, and pinched off flowers that were too close together. The blossoms withered and fell to reveal small hard fruit that swelled as the tree waxed. The old man still carried bucket after bucket of water, then shovelfuls of the mud of the riverbank, rich with decaying weeds to pack around the roots. By midday the fruit was full and ripe and the whole grove filled with the sweet aroma.
“How marvelous!” Anthony reached up to pluck an apple.
“You must not eat!” the old man warned.
Anthony's hand froze an inch from the apple. “Why must I not?” he asked, eyes still on the fruit.
“Because it is a thing of Faerie,” the old man answered, “and if you take within you anything of that mystical land, it will shackle your heart forever to illusions. I have seen people thus bound, forever seeking, never satisfied. Everything they see they feel they must own, for that will make them happy, but an hour or a day after they have gained it, their delight in it fades and dies, and they grow restless, once again looking for their hearts' desire. Poor fools, they do not realize that what they truly seek, no one can attain in this world.”
“Is not this the common state of men?” Balkis asked, eyes wide.
The old man turned to her, a gleam of approval in his eye. “Perhaps, and of women, too. Ail of us are fools, but the wiser know that what they truly seek cannot be held or weighed. But if you eat the food of Faerie, you will never gain that insight.”
“I, however, need not fear it,” Panyat said, “for I shall take only the perfume, as all of you do, and that much has not harmed you.” He reached up a hand. “May I?”
“You may indeed,” the old man said, smiling with approval, “for your folk at least have realized the value of the insubstantial. Nay, take of the fruit as many as you can carry, and may they serve you well.”
Anthony lifted Panyat; he plucked three apples and stowed two of them in the fold of his loincloth. As Anthony set him down, he held the third to his nose and inhaled. Immediately the flush of health returned to his cheeks; his eyes sparkled with vigor, and he smiled. “Oh, thank you, my friends! I am well-provided now.”
“But how is this?” Balkis cried. “It ages!”
They looked, and sure enough, the apple tree had begun to look old; dry leaves fluttered from dying branches, and as they watched in shock and grief, the bark thickened, dead branches broke off, bark closed over the knots, and the limbs became gnarled and twisted. The dust of dry rot poured from the trunk, leaving a portion of it hollow. The apples fell, soft and wrinkled, and as the rays of the setting sun touched the leaves, they turned yellow and fluttered to the ground. As twilight descended, the tree itself began to crumble away to powder until, as gloaming thickened into the darkness of night, it was again only a heap of sawdust.
“How could such vitality and beauty fade so quickly?” Balkis protested, tears in her eyes.
“You shall ask that of yourselves in thirty years, my friends,” the old man sighed. “Set your hearts and minds on things that endure.”
“What things are those?” Anthony asked. “Ho! Do not leave us in ignorance!”
The old man had turned to go, but now he looked back, a smile glimmering. “What endures? Why, the beauty of music and poetry, which is gone in an instant but awakens again at a singer's thought—but you and your lady have something far more lasting about to spring into life between you, though like this tree, it requires tending and care to grow to its fullest. See you prove as good in gardening as I.” Then he turned away into the shadows and was gone.