A Lesson in Apples

By Beka Gremikova

Jack tore into the roasted chicken thigh, the heat of his anger suffusing with the warm tingling of his mother’s herb blend. The flavors of rosemary and thyme soothed him, their homey familiarity pushing against the sting of resentment.

He crunched down on a bone and spat it onto the ground.

“What’s that you got there?” asked the old woman sitting beside him on the bench.

Jack dropped the chicken thigh back into his food sack, sighing. Of all the seats the king had built along the Heroes’ Highway, he’d chosen the one with the nosy neighbor. The little old ladies always looked harmless—that was to gain your trust before they guilt-tripped you into giving up your lunch.

Though, he conceded, he’d needed to sit somewhere. After walking through towns and forests all day, he was famished. The other benches he spotted along the tree-lined lane were all full. With rest spots and water fountains dotting the highway, would-be heroes thronged like pilgrims.

Jack licked his lips, about to tell her to mind her own business. But he could almost feel his mother breathing down his neck—his mother, who had handed the bag of food to him with a kiss on the cheek, murmuring, “Be generous to strangers.”

Still, he couldn’t stop his slight impudence. “Food.”

The old woman pressed gnarled hands to her pale, sunken cheeks, her red lips pursed in an exaggerated “o.” “Bless me soul! A young man on a Hero’s Journey carrying food! Well, I never!”

Jack tilted his head. “Sarcasm actually becomes you.”

The old woman’s thin lips stretched in a smile. “It’s not just a gift—it’s a skill.” Her gaze drifted to his sack. “Just like a well-cooked meal. Did your mother make it?” Her voice sounded creased and worn now, and her eyes shone.

Not the guilt trip, Jack thought. Please, no. “Yes…”

No wheedling response came. A gnarled, quivering hand reached up to adjust the hood around her face.

Jack leaned forward, curious. She was weeping. “Are you all right?”

She sucked in a breath. “Forgive me.” She gave a creaky laugh. “It’s been years, but sometimes the pain is still fresh.” She spread out her hands. “It’s like homemade bread—you forever remember the taste, and it never really leaves you.”

“You lost your mother?” he whispered.

She nodded. “I was only a baby, but losing her…” Her eyes, dark and wise, clouded. “If my mother had been around, my father never would have remarried…” A crooked finger traced the deep wrinkles in her snow-pale skin.

“I’m sorry.” Jack glanced down at the bag, full to bursting with more roasted chicken, cheese quarters, bread slices, fresh fruit.

His cheeks burned as he recalled his mother filling that sack before he left home. He’d declared that he would return in a few months if he didn’t find a princess to rescue. “Don’t give up so easily,” she’d told him. “Give yourself more time.” He’d snapped then. How could she believe in him so much when he couldn’t believe in himself?

Rather than squabble with him, she’d filled his traveling sack to the brim.

“Would you like to join me for my meal?” he finally asked the old woman. Although he couldn’t erase being rude to Mother, he could honor her generous soul.

The old woman clasped her hands together. “I would enjoy that very much.”

He reached into the bag, pulling out a shiny, red apple.

She flinched away from him.

He raised a brow, and she gave a huffing laugh.

“Sorry. Reflexes.” Tugging down her hood, she released a tumble of salt and pepper hair.

“They’re good for you.” He bit into it, relishing the taste of a new spring morning—crisp, fresh, with the slightest sour tang to make his mouth water. “An apple a day—”

“Won’t keep evil queens away,” she muttered, eyeing the apple. “Must be nice to have a loving mother.”

Jack opened his bag to hide his embarrassment, lifting out a homemade loaf. He held out a thick slab to the woman, who took it with a big smile.

He bit off a mouthful of his own slice. Just the right kind of chewy, the crust tasted as rich as his favorite ale, frothy and deep.

The old woman stared at the bread. “It doesn’t even need butter!”

Jack shook his head. “We’re too poor to own a cow, so Mother perfected a loaf that’s delicious by itself.”

They made short work of the bread, cheese, and fruit, and stripped every bite of roast chicken from the bone.

The old woman leaned back at last. “Thank you, child, for sharing that delicious meal with me.”

“Thank my mother,” Jack said, wishing he could.

“You’ll continue on your Journey now, I imagine?”

He nodded, staring down the highway that wound through the thin trees. “I hope to rescue a princess.” Then he’d build his mother a palace.

The woman rummaged in her pocket, producing a shiny, red apple with one bite out of it. “I’m not magical, myself. But this apple killed me once. Maybe it’ll take down a monster for you.”

“It killed you?”

“Well, momentarily. I was revived by a prince on his own Hero’s Journey.”

Jack hoped the princess he eventually saved was half as nice as this woman. He took the apple, wrapping it in a napkin and sticking it into the front pocket of his bag. “You didn’t have to give me anything.”

“I have a soft spot for those on Hero’s Journeys.” Her lips quirked. “Good luck with your quest.”

His heart warmed. The last bitter taste of his anger dissipated. He leaned down and kissed her cheek. “Thank you.”

She waved him away, but her eyes twinkled. “My compliments to your mother.” She stood, hobbling in the other direction. “She has done a hero’s work—cooked a fine meal and raised a fine son.”

A fine son? He’d try to live up to that.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Beka Gremikova lives, writes, and dreams from the Ottawa Valley, Ontario, Canada. She loves travelling, wolves, folklore and myth, and both reading and writing fiction that matches her eclectic tastes. Her story “Nothing More Than Death” was published in the A Kind of Death anthology from Uncommon Universes Press, and she has multiple stories published with Havok. Currently, she is working on an anthology of fairy tale retellings that includes both poetry and short stories.

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