

BITTER APPLES



by M. C. A. Hogarth


Smashwords Edition 
Copyright 2010 M.C.A. Hogarth

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“Which cup would you prefer?” the Emperor asked her, hand stretching back toward the short table.
Her blush rode high on sun-stained cheeks, but there was little demure in the eyes she lifted beneath strands of brass-colored hair. “I would prefer to have the test from your mouth, Most Gracious Lord.”
Both his golden brows rose, but a gleam of interest shone in his gaze. “Very well,” he said, and took her chin in his shining fingers. His open mouth and hers met for a poisoned kiss.

#

Erianthe rolled onto her side, clutching her emptied stomach. Tiny shudders crawled over her body like cold spiders. The perfume of crushed grass riddled her nostrils as her chest heaved.
Behind her the Emperor’s aide smiled faintly, holding the girl’s cloak. “I’m sorry,” she said as Erianthe climbed unsteadily to her feet. The aide handed her a towel and politely looked away as she wiped her mouth and cleaned the front of her rough cotton gown.
“It’s nothing,” Erianthe said.
The aide shook her head. “The Emperor was pleased by your audacity.”
“Was he?” Erianthe asked. She took the cloak with numb fingers and wrapped it around her shoulders, trying to fight off the cobwebs of sickness long enough to leave the imperial lawns. “Too bad I couldn’t withstand his humors.”
The aide’s face followed her as she stumbled back toward the stone path. She called, “The cups were not as strong as the poison in his body.”
“What good is it to withstand the cups when the test is in his kiss?” Erianthe said.
A solemn regret touched the aide’s stern face.
Erianthe’s mouth curved into half of a smile. She staggered to the path leading home.

#

The cottage seemed twice as small, the sky twice as large when Erianthe finally stepped back through the wooden gate. She stumbled to the door and dropped to her knees to vomit again into the sand beside the foundations. When she lifted her head, the geese were staring at her.
“Oh, go on,” she said, waving a weak hand. They barked but did not back away. She closed her eyes, which made the dizziness worse, and dragged herself upright with a hand on the frame of the kitchen window. Long, slow breaths helped keep the nausea at bay. Erianthe moved as gingerly as a crone as she hobbled around to the back of the house and picked up feed for the animals. Her chores took twice as long and three times as much strength, and she was glad to at last collapse into her narrow bed and draw the homespun sheets over her trembling body.
He came to her dreams.
You pleased me, he said.
Erianthe looked away. I have no pity for weakness, Most Excellent Grace. Neither should you.
She woke with his laughter in her ears and a queasiness in her stomach.
That day while she was tending the goats an imperial carriage drawn by palominos drew up to her door. She watched with wide gold eyes as the carriage discharged a page in the gold and crimson livery of the Emperor, who approached her door with the gravity of a messenger at a far more gracious estate. He knocked on her door and started when she came around the side of the cottage to reply.
“Yes?” Erianthe asked.
The page bowed. “A gift from His Most High.” He proffered a glass bottle incised with exquisite frost-white patterns, patterns that only accentuated the rich near-black of the plum purple contents.
“But I don’t drink wine,” Erianthe said. Her stomach shivered at the thought.
The page’s eyes grew saucer-wide. “Are you refusing the gift of the Emperor?” he squeaked.
Erianthe laughed at his expression and shook her head. “No, I suppose not. Though why he bothers to send a farm girl such an expensive gift is beyond my small comprehension.” She took the bottle from his hands and observed with amusement his relief.
That night she walked beneath the dark sky and counted stars. She could have been the color of that sky had she weathered the test of his kiss. But she had not.
Returning to her cottage, she thought that she should at least have a cup. She poured the liquid into a roughly carved wooden mug and drank it to the last drop. Like his mouth, it was bitter and rich.
That night, Erianthe spent more time outside emptying her stomach than in her narrow bed beneath the white cotton sheets. When finally exhaustion drove the cobweb tremors from her body, she slept and dreamed again.
Did you like the gift?
She shook her brass-colored hair back, gold eyes flashing. You are cruel, she said. To give me something when I should be gone from your mind.
You are not afraid, he said, laughing again.
Why? You are supposed to be cruel. You are the Sun on earth, the harshness, the heat, golden-skinned and shining as your patron. Your consort is your kindness, Night embodied, black as soot, as char.
A sly smile found his lips. The Sun can also give life. And the night can also be cruel.
Do not mock me, she said. After a moment, she added, I don’t drink wine.
It is your duty to accept the gifts of your Emperor.
Yes, Erianthe said with defiance contradicting in her voice. She woke then, probing her stomach. She frowned and dressed to attend her chores.

#

The page returned two days later. With the carriage at his back, he approached the door warily and knocked. Again, Erianthe joined him from the back of the house, where she’d been tending her garden.
“Yes?” Erianthe asked, her spade still in her hand.
“A token from His Most Mighty,” the page said, bowing. He proffered a tin made of frail and delicate metal, lifting the top to display hard-shelled nuts, sun-stained ivory like her cheeks. “Nuts from the Karanthera Province.”
Erianthe stared into the tin as she slipped her spade into her apron. “How do you eat them?”
The boy blinked owl-large eyes. “I believe you toast them,” he said uncertainly.
“I see,” Erianthe said, wiping her hands.
Bristling, the page said, “Are you rejecting the gift of the Emperor?”
“Of course not,” Erianthe said, laughing. She took the tin, replacing its lid, and curtseyed with her soil-grimed skirts.
The page bowed and returned to the gold and crimson carriage. Erianthe left the nuts on her kitchen table and continued her chores. Later that night she toasted them in the fireplace and nibbled one experimentally: butter-rich and with the softest hints of bitterness. Intrigued, Erianthe ate two handfuls before bed.
She dreamed.
How did you find my latest gift?
I liked them quite well, she said, tossing her head. Though you are wasting your time on me.
Am I?
Erianthe woke with a mild stomachache and cuddled into her rough white sheets. Her brass-colored tresses coiled on her pillow as she rested her chin against it and stared out the thin window at the rising sun. She slipped out of bed and returned to work.

#

That day she was in the kitchen when the page knocked at her door. She saw his astonishment when she actually opened it and laughed.
“Yes?” she asked.
“A gift from—“
“The Emperor, yes,” Erianthe said.
The boy fidgeted and held out a brown basket, filled to the woven brim with small, hard apples the same crimson as his surcoat. “Exotic Lissan apples, from the fringes of His Most Splendid’s empire. For you, Lady.”
“I am no Lady,” Erianthe said. “Only a girl with a cottage and a few goats and geese. But I will take the apples. Thank you.”
The boy bowed and made his escape, leaving the basket in her hands. She closed the door and picked one of the several. Lifting it to her nose, she sniffed at its hard red skin and bit into it. Juices tart and rich squirted against her teeth.
Erianthe wiped her chin, crunching loudly on the flesh of the apple. Inspired, she set to coring the gifts, stuffing their centers with ground cinnamon bark and honey. She left them to toast above the fire while she finished her chores. That night she feasted on sweet apples, softened and hot, glistening with golden honey. The bite of the cinnamon pinched her nostrils.
She did not dream that night, but slept so soundly that the page’s knock on the front door woke her. Groggily she rolled from her bed and drifted, yawning, to the door. Her nightgown’s rough cotton hems whispered against the wooden floor.
Erianthe opened the door and said, “Yes?”
The page stared at her, the box in his arms forgotten.
“Yes?” Erianthe repeated, rubbing her eyes with her knuckles. After blinking a few times to clear the crust of sleep from her lashes, she saw that the page was still staring. She laughed rustily. “What did I do this time?” she asked and then noticed her hands.
They were black, the black of the night sky.
The box in the page’s hands bounced to the ground, spilling the fine cloth inside as the boy fell to his knees. “By His Grace I did not know you, Lady!” he exclaimed.
“My skin is black,” Erianthe murmured. “What is this?”
From the gold and crimson carriage came the Emperor’s aide. She stood behind the page and bowed. “Lady. We have come to retrieve you.”
“I don’t understand,” Erianthe said, staring at her palms. She looked into the stern face of the aide. “I failed the test. I took of his mouth and it sickened me.”
“But your audacity pleased him,” the aide said. “So he sent you the gifts. The wine, which is not as strong as his mouth. The nuts, which were stronger, but not so much so. And the apples, which had a poison as vibrant and as bitter as his kiss. You are standing, Lady. You are colored like the Night on earth, his consort. We have come to take you home to him.”
Erianthe picked up the box and shook the dust free of the dress that had escaped it on its fall. It was like the one she’d worn to the test, but of silk so fine she could see her hand through it, woven of spun webs.

#

Erianthe stood before him, the gown a white film over her black body. Her brass-colored hair was unbound, and there was little demure in her amber eyes.
“Would you still have the test of my mouth rather than of my cups?” he asked her, a gleam of appreciation in his eyes.
Erianthe smiled. “I would.”
Their open mouths met. She tasted wine, and nuts and bitter, bitter apples.

***

About the author:

M.C.A. Hogarth has been many things--a web database architect, product manager, technical writer and massage therapist--but is currently a parent, artist, writer and anthropologist to aliens.

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Connect with Me Online:

Twitter: http://twitter.com/mcahogarth

Website: http:/www.stardancer.org

My blog: http://haikujaguar.livejournal.com
