The Torrent under the Apple Tree

They say that if you stand under the lone apple tree in the valley a stranger will come and speak with you. I personally am of the semi-popular opinion that this is just an easy way for shy guys to meet pretty girls. I suppose I cannot hold to that any longer, as this torrential rain has me standing under the self-same tree.

Now that I've seen me next to the apples I shall never redeem myself. At least this rain is sure to deter any young man from tripping over themselves to speak with me.

"It's really coming down, isn't it?"

Speak of the devil and he shall appear. How had I not noticed him walk up? Cursed rain. At least a simple agreement is quite enough to politely respond to this original one-liner. "Yes it is."

"Are you hungry? The apples here are quite good."

I bristle inwardly, then calm myself. However much an apple in woman's hand is frowned upon in local religious circles, this gentleman cannot have known, not with his quite handsome foreign clothing. Nor shall I enlighten him; I have no desire to be placed in company with those dried-up old prunes whose only remaining joy is the misery of others.

In fact, there is no real reason beyond appearance' sake that apples ought not be eaten by fair females. In this rain, no one but he and I shall be able to see. There is God, of course, but I do believe He has bigger matters to worry over than the eating of apples.

"Thank you, sir." I accept the red fruit graciously offered and take the biggest bite I can prudently muster out of the darkest, reddest portion. I have never had an apple, being the daughter of a deacon, and I am pleasantly surprised by the flavor. Nothing this sweet and good can possibly be entirely evil. All that is good came from God, after all, if His testimony is to be believed.

I take my first real look at the handsome stranger, who himself is also devouring an apple. There is something decidedly strange about him, though this may quite possibly be my religious zealotry speaking. But no, do not soon dismiss a maiden raised from childhood on the old stories. I remember quite well that obscure reference, which states "Do you not know? The way to tell the creature from the man is to look into his eyes. For in the eye dwells all light and darkness."

I feel I have little to lose in this relentless torrent, so I risk politeness to peer right into his gaze. "You, sir, are a serpent. Now that I think of it, is it insulting to call a creature 'sir'?"

"Not at all," the serpent-stranger replies with an amused smile. "It is a term showing respect for an existence not your own."

"Please blame my boldness on the rain, but how am I to know you are not the serpent?"

"Simplicity itself. I have told no lies."

I ponder this a moment. One of the first things one learns being the daughter of a deacon is to ponder every statement carefully. He did get me to eat an apple, but he only said it was "quite good", which I would be untruthful to deny. "True enough, sir. I conceed that you are a serpent which tells no lies."

We converse for a while, but at long last the rain lets up and I must bid him farewell. Perhaps one day, when I am old and grey, I shall tell my grandchildren the day's events, but until then the torrent under the apple tree shall remain my secret personal adventure.