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BS: Christmas/12th Night Tale by CapriUni Related threads: Twelfth Night songs? (33) Folklore: Old Twelfth Night- the wassail Jan. 17 (7) BS: Happy Twelfth Night (24) 1996 Twelfth Night (5) New Year/Twelfth Night songs needed (9) |
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Subject: BS: Christmas/12th Night Tale by CapriUni From: CapriUni Date: 27 Dec 05 - 09:11 PM THE FOOLISH APPLE TREE, WITH THE HEART OF GOLD Once upon a time, there lived a grove of apple trees in the middle of the foret. They used to be an apple orchard, of course, but the farmer who had planted and pruned them for so many years had died long ago, and the orchard had been forgotten, left to grow wild, and maples and oaks, and sicamore and sweetgum soon joined them. The apple trees were happy, even though they had been forgotten by humans. It gave them just as much joy to feed the bears and the deer and the wild hogs. Now, in amongst the older trees, who remembered the farmer's care, was a little, young tree, who had sprouted just a few years before. This was the first season she had borne fruit, and was so happy when the deer, bears, and wild hogs took pleasure in her small apples. But one apple, she kept for herself. "I want it to be the sweetest apple in the whole world!" she said. "I want it to be the best!" Long after the other trees had dropped their leaves and gone to sleep for the winter, this little tree kept her leaves green, because she wanted to make as much sugar as she could for her last apple, and she held onto to that one apple's stem with all her might. "Don't be foolish!" the Mother Tree of the grove said to her great-great-granddaughter. "Soon, the days will shorten, and there won't be enough sunlight to make sugar anyway. Save your energy for spring, and make a sweeter apple next year." But the little tree was stubborn. "But my perfect apple isn't ready, yet!" she said. "I know -- I just know -- that there is someone out there who will need the sweetest apple of all, and that I can give it to whoever that may be." "But when it gets cold," the Mother Tree said, "it will stop raining. If you don't drop your leaves, your roots will dry out and whither, and you will die." "I can only do my best," the little tree said, and she held on even tighter. In the end, even the Mother Tree had to drop her leaves and go to sleep. She was very sad when her last leaf fell, and she slipped into dreaming, because she was sure that her little great-great-granddaughter would not survive the winter. But the little tree stayed awake. And did her best to hold onto her leaves. Each night, the moon changed its shape in the sky, growing thinner into nothing, and then fat again. The sun rose later each day and set earlier each night. It grew colder. And, just as the Mother Tree predicted, less and less rain fell, and then the rain turned to snow, and she couldn't drink it at all. In the end, the little apple tree couldn't help but drop most of her leaves -- she couldn't hold her breath forever. She could feel herself growing weaker, and almost gave up. But she held onto her apple and to the leaves on its one branch, to feed it sugar, until the person who needed it most came along. Now, on the other side of the forest, between the very edge of the village and the weedy places where the scrub trees started to grow, there stood a little hut. Three humans lived in that hut -- a man, who was a broom maker, a woman, and a boy about ten. But soon, there would be four people, because the woman was pregnant. It was nearing Christmastime, and most of the people in the village were happy. But the people in the little hut were not. They were so poor, they barely had enough food to feed themselves a little bite each, but less have a holliday feast. And the woman was afraid, once the baby came, that there wouldn't be enough food for even one bite each. Late one night, after the boy had fallen asleep in his corner, the woman spoke quietly to the man, and she was crying. "There's nothing for it," she said to him, "I've thought about it, and thought about it, and I can think of no other solution. If our baby is to live, our son must leave home. He's old enough to be hired as an aprentice in the village. You must take him there, tomorrow." The father was saddened at the thought that they would not be together at Christmas, but the more he thought about it, the more he realized that his wife was right. And so it was with heavy heart, the next day, that he bundled his son up in the warmest coat they had (which wasn't very warm), and gave him the best crust of their bread (which wasn't very big), and went with him to the village, to try to find a place where he could be someone's aprentice, and learn a trade. They walked the streets of the village all day, but no one they met had a place for a ten-year old boy. He was either too young and small, or he was too big. And soon the sun was setting. The boy was old enough to know the truth, unlike the young Hansel and Grettel, who'd been so easily fooled. He knew there was not enough food for him at home. But he was still young enough to think the world was that there was no problem bigger than he was, really. And so he said to his father: "Go home, and be with Mum," he said, "for surely the baby will come soon. I'll find a place to sleep tonight, and be here in the village first thing in the morning. Maybe then, someone will want to hire another pair of hands." His father tried to tell him how dangerous the village was, at night, when thieves came out, but the boy insisted he was brave enough. And in the end, the father went home without him. The boy found a stable with a wobbly latch on the door, and found a spot in the donkey's stall where he could curl up in the straw, and it was almost as warm as his corner back home. But it was the same on the second day, as it was on the first: no one in the village wanted to hire a boy like him, so as the sun set, with heavy heart, he headed back toward his little hut at the edge of the forest. When he got there, the fire had all but gone out; there was only the tiniest whisp of smoke coming from the chimney. And there was no candle in the window, his parents had gone to bed, and were not expecting him home. And so, right then and there, he decided to go on past the edge of the forest into its middle, and out through the other side. There was bound to be another village on the other side, and surely, someone there would hire him. So he kept on going, without stopping. It was dark in the forest, and tangled, and he had to clamber through thorny bushes and vines. The eyes of night creatures glinted at him -- green in the darkness. And he couldn't tell whether they stared at him in hunger, or just curiosity. But he didn't want to risk being wrong. So when he came to a tree with branches sturdy enough for him to climb, he did. And he spent the night off the ground. He was safe from wolves and wild boar, there, but it was much colder than his corner at home, or the straw of the stable. In the morning, he climbed down and continued on. It was a little easier, now, because it was light enough to see, and he could follow the paths made by the deer and the wild hogs. The paths led to water, which was sweet to drink, but the boy was getting hungry. If it had been summertime, he could have eaten nuts and berries. But now, winter was coming on, and all the bushes and vines were bare. Around noon, however, the deer and hog paths widened, and became smooth -- almost as wide as a street in the village -- and before long, the boy found himself in an apple grove, right in the middle of the forest. Most of the trees were bare, but one branch of one, small, tree was as green as though it were still June. It stood out like a bright flag amid all the brown and gray and white of the snow. As the boy drew closer, amid the green, he saw a flash of the brightest, deepest red -- an apple -- fresh on the tree, at Christmastime! He would have stopped, if he weren't so hungry, and marveled at the miracle of it. But instead, he picked the apple, and ate it, quickly. And it was the sweetest apple he had ever eaten. When he got to the core, he found that the hard, pithy, heart of the apple, where the seeds were nestled, was made of pure gold. He gave a little yelp of glee and ran, as fast as he could, back along the deer and hog paths until he came to his own little hut, where his father was seated by the door, making brooms. His father was surprised to see him, for he thought his son had found a job in the village. When he saw the nugget of gold in the boy's hand, he became angry and afraid, for he was certain that the boy had turned thief. It took some doing, and quite a bit of arguing back and forth, but, eventually, the boy was able to convince his father that his story of an apple tree in the forest was a true one. His father picked up his spading shovel and followed his son back into the forest to the apple grove. The little apple tree, her sweetest apple now given to the one who needed it most, had already started to drop her leaves -- still green -- onto the snow. She was exhausted, and fast asleep, so she didn't feel it when the shovel dug around her roots, or when the strange human picked her up by the trunk and carried her across his shoulder. When she woke, in the spring, and started to put out new leaves and blossoms, she was surprised that her Mother Tree felt so far away, and that she could no longer hear the squeals of the little baby wild hogs. But it was sunny in this patch of earth, and she was sheltered from the wind. And she stretched out her leaves happily to make food for herself. As the seasons passed, she was watered well. And her branches were pruned carefully. She soon grew accustomed to the sound of human voices. And in the fall, she followed her Mother Tree's advice, and made sweeter apples than she had the year before, and then she dropped her leaves, and went to sleep with the other trees, for she was a little older, and a little wiser, now. And Christmastime came, and the little apple tree slept. But then, when Christmastime was almost over, she was awoken with a gunshot into the air, and the banging of pans, and her humans sang to her: Old Apple tree, we'll Wassail thee, And hoping thou wilt bear. The Lord doth know where we shall be To be merry another year To blow well and to bear well, And so merry let us be. Let every man drink up his cup And health to the old apple tree! |
Subject: RE: BS: Christmas/12th Night Tale by CapriUni From: katlaughing Date: 27 Dec 05 - 10:54 PM That is beautiful, CU!!! Thanks so much for sharing it with us. When are you going to publish a book of your stories? It would be wonderful to have them all in one volume or two.:-) luvyakat |
Subject: RE: BS: Christmas/12th Night Tale by CapriUni From: CapriUni Date: 28 Dec 05 - 12:03 AM When, oh, when? I don't know... So may decisions to make, first. And the decisions are the hardest part... |
Subject: RE: BS: Christmas/12th Night Tale by CapriUni From: Alba Date: 28 Dec 05 - 12:05 PM Lovely CapriUni. Lovely. Yeah...a Book of your Stories please:>) Love and Light Jude |
Subject: RE: BS: Christmas/12th Night Tale by CapriUni From: CapriUni Date: 28 Dec 05 - 12:20 PM Okay, since you said "please." But -- print on demand, self-publish, or small house press? And which stories, and how many, and, and, and --? |
Subject: RE: BS: Christmas/12th Night Tale by CapriUni From: katlaughing Date: 28 Dec 05 - 12:51 PM cafepress.com, CU, It's where I did WindWords of Wyoming and no upfront costs. Self-published with them doing the printing. You set the price and they will chip directly to whomever; you can have your own store there where folks can order and cafepress handles all of the transactions. They have a variety of formats, as professional as one could wish. If you want to PM me your addy, I'll send you a copy so you can judge their work for yourself. If you want an ISBN number for it, there are brokers, now, who can get ou just one, instead of having to buy ten at a time as I did. More info if you'd like, by PM.:-> kat |
Subject: RE: BS: Christmas/12th Night Tale by CapriUni From: CapriUni Date: 28 Dec 05 - 01:14 PM It's definitely one of my top options, Kat. But I've read rumors that more traditional publishers won't even look at a writer's work, if they've published Print on Demand things, in the past. And I want to leave as many options open in my future as possible, so I want to check out that rumor, first. But, yeah. I may find that's the best option of all. (and it is something I'm considering). |
Subject: RE: BS: Christmas/12th Night Tale by CapriUni From: katlaughing Date: 29 Dec 05 - 03:57 PM Here's a couple of things you might want to look into as you make your decision: this fellow is blatant, but has the background to be legitimate in his reasons...explore his site a bit to see why he thinks self-publishing is best: No Media Kings; probably more to your liking and mine, 81 year old Marion Vuilleumier, who started the Cape Cod Writer's Conference, has this to say about self-publihsing: She writes on her home computer, regularly communicates by email, writes her book reviews on the Internet, and is lately promoting Print on Demand, a new publishing technique which allows books to be produced and printed in small quantities quickly by a digitalized process. For authors struggling to find publishers and agents, and publishers faced with enormous quantities of unsold books (30 to 40 percent of traditionally published books are returned to the publisher), the technique is raising a lot of eyebrows. "It's the future of publishing," Vuilleumier says convincingly. "Who's going to need bookstores, agents, or warehouses?" she says. "At last, the writer will be on top. It's a whole new world." in this article. :-> kat |
Subject: RE: BS: Christmas/12th Night Tale by CapriUni From: CapriUni Date: 29 Dec 05 - 04:46 PM Kat -- all of what you say is true. I'd probably leap at P.O.D with open arms (and may embrace it with just as much joy once I make the final decision to go that route), but, probably because I had the traditional education of an English Major, I can still see the value of submitting your work to an impartial agent and/or editor. That, of course, is the public reason traditional publishers give for not even looking at a writer who's self-published: there's no "quality control" in P.O.D., and the assumption they're working with is that the writer who's done that wouldn't stand up to a stranger's scrutiny, in terms of quality, or that she would not be willing to compromise or collaborate with a team. But it could also be that they're just trying to hold back the tide that's threatening their industry and livelihood. And we all know how futile trying to hold back the tide can be ;-) |