The early morning breeze blew through the orchard gently awakening the apple trees whose branches swayed rhythmically from side to side. The sun began to break through the early morning mist, the rays of light brushing the floor encouraging the dew to dry. The orchard itself stood on the bank of a weaving, rambling stream that trickled forward, the water constantly moving in its never ending search of a final destination.
It was a beautiful morning; tranquil, calm, still. Everything Musa wasn’t.
He sat on the river bank his mind racing. It was gone, that much he was sure. The question was where? He had been so careful; well, at least he thought he had been. He made sure he was never recognised, never seen long enough for someone to describe him. So they could say he was tall. So they could say he wore a dark jacket and a hat. But facially no one could describe him. The fedora hid his features and he was always careful to keep his gaze down, to stay in the background unnoticed until it was his time to shine. And when he shone, then they wished they had taken notice of him.
Benedict and Darcy Blacktail, that drunken old fool Partridge. Musa recalled the fear in their eyes when they saw him at his full height. Oh they noticed him then. His strength; his dominance; his speed; his ruthlessness. But Musa knew something was wrong. He had been careless. His hand instinctively went to his jacket. It was gone and that meant trouble.
He couldn’t tell the Master. No, that would spell certain death. He had been spared once when he was much younger and the Master had caught him mid burglary. Musa had eyed the property for weeks, working out the best way in, how to avoid setting off the security alarms. When he entered the property it had all gone to plan; alarms disabled, limited noise; it was all going so smoothly. Right up until the point when he found himself staring down the barrel of a gun.
The Master had seen him earlier that week and rather than increase security he allowed Musa to break in. Realising Musa had found a gap in his security arrangements, the Master waited to greet him. Musa braced himself expecting to the feel the rip of a bullet through his fleshy skin and yet instead he received an offer. A life for a life.
The Master congratulated Musa on helping him identify that his security was lax. He nodded to what was suspended in the far cabinet. There, glistening among the family silver, was a large spoon, a cookery award which had been won a generation before. The Master despised the spoon as a child, its garishness, its tackiness, how out of place it was in the family home. And now the Master was presenting it to him as a weapon of choice.
“Yours,” the Master said. “And I think I will soon have a job arising in security if you are willing to create the vacancy. You are just a petty criminal at the moment. Stay with me and soon your mere presence in a room will be enough to send shockwaves through even the most powerful of men.”
Musa knew what needed to be done as he opened the cabinet door and placed his hand on the cold metal spoon. While he had never killed before he couldn’t deny the surge of electricity which shot down his spine, his veins filling with adrenaline, boosting his verve. He returned within 15 minutes; his first ever kill and yet already he knew it wouldn’t be his last. The bond was formed. He followed his Master wherever he went, protecting him as his right hand man.
The memories he recalled were so vivid, as fresh as the breeze which blew across his skin, and yet in reality, it was from a bygone age. And now, as he sat on the bank of the river he saw that he had been as slapdash as the former security guard he had battered to death all those years before.
History was repeating itself. How had he let his happen?
He rose from the river bank and began to walk through the orchard, which was set out in a rectangular shaped grid, the recently mowed blades of grass which carpeted each row standing straight, stretching and pointing towards the sun. The fresh apples glistened in the early morning sun, looking so ripe that Musa felt they were calling out to him. He stopped and paused, yes they were calling, but to each other, not him.
“Who’s that?”
“Never seen him before. He’s an odd looking fellow don’t you think?”
“Oh yes, really weird.”
“Is he a different variety of apple?”
“No. We have such rosy skin, he’s practically jaundiced.”
Musa walked on trying to ignore the gossiping apples whose chatter continued to grow incessantly. In the distance he saw movement. Musa strained his eyes. It was a man maybe late forties, wearing green wellington boots, with a large wheelbarrow. He heaved it forward, wheeling it to the next tree before reaching up and caressing the apples, picking only those he felt were ready. Musa crouched down low, not wanting to be seen. He had come out this morning to try to clear his mind and now here he was, hiding, unarmed in the middle of an orchard. He looked around and decided to leave the way he had come.
“He’s a sneaky one, look at the way he’s hiding.”
“He doesn’t want Mr Bramley to see him.”
“I bet he is an apple rustler.”
“There’s no such thing.”
“Well, what else is he doing then?”
“Hmm. Good point. Best get old Bramley’s attention quickly.”
“Mr Bramley. Help, help.”
The apples began to shout in unison causing a swell of panic to rise in Musa’s chest. Realising that Mr Bramley was making his way through the orchard to where he was hiding, Musa felt something he had not felt in years; fear. It was normally the other way around, he instilled fear in others and now, he found himself here, one careless mistake leading to another. Musa stood to his full height and roared. No words, just a primal scream, acting as an outlet for his panic.
The roar ripped through the orchard, piercing the serenity of the morning, violating the peace. Mr Bramley stopped dead; shocked to his core at the noise that had just erupted from whoever it was ahead of him. He saw the tall figure standing, screaming, and just when he thought he had seen it all, Mr Bramley’s whole world began to fall apart in front of his very eyes.
The apples, so appalled at the gut wrenching roar which was emitting from Musa, began to fall from the trees hitting the floor. With the vibrations rocketing from tree to tree, the primal scream was replaced with the sound of the apples, one by one, collapsing from their branches, gravity causing them to thud to the floor. And then, in a final shocking act, they split into multiple pieces. Each individual piece of fruit, each variety, each apple, crumbling.
In the distance a pale and horrified Mr Bramley locked eyes with Musa, who in turn did something he had never done before in his life.
Musa turned and ran.