TYLER WODEN | FICTION | THE LAST TREE IN THE ORCHARD | BOOK GIVEAWAY | RAINBOW SALAD

The Last Tree in the Orchard: Chapter One

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Greetings, Tyler Woden here. Welcome to my little book competition. There are three signed copies of ‘The Last Tree In The Orchard’ sitting in front of me, plus three free Kindle Edition versions (as an Amazon gift from me) up for grabs. You can win by participating in the mini-competition here on Medium. If you’d like to enter, then please sate your appetite with the first chapter of the book here on Medium, follow the instructions at the bottom.

Thanks a bunch,

~TW~

Chapter 1 Henry

Henry Hawke gazed out of the tearoom window and marvelled at it. The secret courtyard he had discovered was tucked away in a Parisian alley, an ancient orchard. In the orchard were nine remaining trees of two rows of four and one other, an ancient-looking, mighty tree at the centre.

Benches nearby gave spectators a view of the orchard, but Henry had found that his particular spot was the best view. From his seat, he could see eight of the trees were surrounded by concrete, thick in the middle and low when it came to branches. Their roots pushed down, forming uneven bumps in the pavement, which cracked at their top to show dark soil beneath.

Yet it was the central tree that was the source of beauty of this orchard, Henry knew. Despite its apparent age and being in the city’s centre, it was the only tree of the orchard here which still bore apples. The others were undoubtedly pretty, but the central apple tree was a wonder. When he closed his eyes, he could imagine his grandmother plucking an apple from it to make her own tea for the two of them.

Henry’s grandma had always made apple tea like no other. She would only mix her apples with cinnamon and ginger when the apples were a day ripe. Henry had tried other people’s apple tea, but they failed to compare to her recipe, and since she had passed away two years ago, he had never drunk apple tea again. The memory was still too fresh.

As Henry sipped his third cup of Oolong tea, the teahouse door chime shook him from his memories. He looked around the teahouse again for who had entered but saw no one. The teahouse was small, with golden cushions, pictures of towns on the walls, and purple flowers. It was undoubtedly one of the nicest teahouses Henry had ever been to.

Henry smiled at the staff. Earlier, he had even communicated in French with them as best he could. Despite the language barrier, their exchange had been friendly and warm, with introductory language such as his travel plans. He had tried to tell them he had come to Paris for one reason — to clear his mind. Yet it had not been the whole truth. Henry decided that the entire truth about his divorce would prove to be a morbid conversation topic and not one he would have liked to divulge with any old sorts. Still, regardless of how distant he was from home, the sting of his failed marriage lingered and was an ache in his heart.

It wasn’t like what was often portrayed on television, where people split amicably, and everything was okay. On the contrary, the two of them had fought with such animosity that one had to question how they had got together in the first place. Their love had faded, and their paths diverged.

Their daughter, Sophie, was too young to comprehend her parents’ separation. At ten years old, she still had trouble identifying facts from fiction as adults could. Explaining the situation was difficult for her, but she’d understand eventually as she grew older.

Henry lifted the teacup to his lips and tried not to jostle it. He frowned as he sipped the brew. An odd thing, for the apple-infused Oolong tea to taste as bitter as this when the orchard here must not want for good apples. He noticed that it was only the central tree that bore apples. A strong tree, he thought.

Henry tapped his foot and searched for something else to occupy him. His fingers twitched as he picked up the book on the table, flipping through its pages. It was his book, his own, accompanied by his grandma’s apple tea recipe for a bookmark on the first page. The bookmark was a makeshift recipe his grandma had always stuck to, the writing so small that one needed a magnifying glass to study it. Each time he glanced at it, it reminded him of the most important words anyone had ever told him. ‘Everything is either an opportunity to grow or an obstacle to keep you from growing.’

Henry took another sip of the tea and found the bitterness of it to be fitting. A failed marriage, shitty vacation, and apple orchards that remind me of my grandma, he thought. Why didn’t I pick somewhere more exciting for my holiday? I don’t even like France.

Yet here he was, thinking about his failed marriage, sat in Paris because wherever he walked — he only ever got himself lost — and sipping the same kind of tea his grandma used to make, only this tea was not good. Henry turned the book over and looked at the blurb on the back. It detailed what was in the book and who it was for and was written in plain British English, a token of home. He had never actually read the ‘Police Officers Guide’, but he was aware of its content and context. That had to count for something. The blue font on the navy cover was decorated with a white and blue hatching design, even though the material had slightly discoloured. Despite his good intentions, Henry never opened the book to read it. He wanted to, but he was not much of a reader, and there was always something else he had to do.

He still remembered his conversation with his ex-wife about his dream of becoming a police detective. She had told him, ‘You’re a security guard, Henry, and we have a daughter to feed and put through school. How do you expect me to support you on my salary while you piss around trying to be Columbo?’

That day had been the beginning of the end. Henry had been swallowed up into a hole of sadness he had found hard to shift. Several years of anguish had followed, and several failed jobs later, things had to change. Now, to sum it all up, he still had not taken any steps towards his dream of becoming a detective.

Sophia came first. Always. There was no doubt about that in Henry’s mind, but it was time to change his life. That is what Paris was for him. It was to clear his mind and be ready to become a British police detective. Before this holiday was done, he wanted to be sure he was prepared to commit to the course and give it his all.

Henry held the book tight. The cover was like a door or a gateway to a tunnel that could lead to a different life that could change everything. Still, fear of the unknown kept him from it, so the bookmark the barrier to reading beyond that first page.

‘Come on, Henry!’ he whispered to himself. ‘Just fucking read the thing.’

Though he had not read the book, Henry’s research of policing had been rather thorough so far. He had taken assessments, classes, and even mock tests, and all the feedback he’d gotten was positive. He met all of the requirements.

‘You can do this,’ he said, and this time it was not a whisper. A pungent aroma of apples surrounded him and stole his prep talk. He sniffed around for it, but after he saw no one, he assumed the smell would likely be coming from the orchard outside.

At their strategic locations, the Dai Li stone guards maintained the serenity of the red-tiled roofs and courtyard, enclosed by a ten-foot wall. A small gate stood vigil on one side, providing access to the teahouse and shop. Structures two and three stories tall surrounded it, giving shelter from gusty winds.

Henry looked around again as the smell of apples filled the air, more potent this time. His eyes fell on the orchard again, and he scrutinised each tree. None had blossomed save for the ancient tree at the centre, and once again he noted the central tree was the only one bearing fruit. A peculiar mystery, though Henry was certainly no arborist.

The only noise Henry heard within the courtyard was the occasional chirp of a sparrow. This was one part of the city where one could get peace and quiet.

Henry watched a quiet couple leave the teahouse and head towards the exit. He sat outside the teahouse near an elderly gentleman. The elderly man was munching on a brioche and sipping from a teacup.

The air outside the tearoom was sweet and somewhat overpowering with the fresh scent of apples. It was light, delicate and floral, yet it seemed many times stronger than when Henry had arrived. He used his book to waft away the scent. No matter how much I love apples, Henry thought, this is a little much.

Still, the smell did not take away Henry’s appetite for tea. A further two cups later, he was pulled out of his thoughts as he felt a pressure in his stomach — he needed to use the toilet. He gulped down the last mouthful from his cup with some gritty tea leaves, then marched back into the tearoom.

‘Ah, Monsieur, ca’va?’ The teahouse owner asked. ‘Oui, ca’va. Erm, Wo ist die Toilette??’ Henry replied.

Henry admonished himself as the owner looked at him, puzzled. That was German, you fool, he thought to himself.

‘Ah, oui, WC.’ The owner gestured to the back of the tea shop.

Henry could make out the gender symbols on a pair of doors at the rear and gave his thanks. When he got to the bathroom door, he found it locked. ‘Occupied, of course,’ Henry said to no one but himself. The dial was red, the sealed door a blockade between his bladder and the goal for his urine.

Minutes later, Henry’s patience was diminishing. He had endured until now, but his bladder was increasingly imploring for relief from its discomfort. He had no idea how long the person inside the restroom would take. The probability of having to wait even longer aggrieved him with anger.

Eventually, after what felt like an eternity, he heard the sound of a flush and waited with anticipation. Still, no one came out. ‘Come on, what are you doing in there?’ Henry said. He was beginning to assume that the person in the toilet would never come out and that he had imagined the sound of the flush, but the lock finally switched. The door opened, and Henry was assailed with a highly pronounced smell of apples. Oh, it must be the toilet spray, Henry thought. He must have sprayed it to be rid of the smell. How thoughtful.

Henry stepped aside as the last occupant came out. Still, the cramped space stopped them from passing one another without touching. Hence, Henry allowed the elderly gentleman man to pass first.

‘Thank you,’ said the gentleman, his voice strained and grey. ‘My, you’re a tall one.’ A passing remark, but Henry had learned most people meant it as a compliment. The elderly man was dressed in beige from head to toe and wore a flat cap that hid his face. On his hands, he wore leather gloves, and in gloved hands, he carried a bushel of apples.

Henry let the old man pass, but he held Henry’s arm as he passed. His grip was surprisingly firm, and the hand gripping him was curiously no longer gloved. The old man leaned in close. He smelled of apples with a hint of spice, and with an ungloved hand that was rough as the bark of a tree, he grasped Henry by the arm with shocking force. He said in a voice that seemed to grate, ‘Beware, for that which is forgotten may linger still.’ A shudder shot through Henry as the old man let go of his arm. Henry watched the old man walk towards the counter of the teahouse. Henry rubbed his arm. It tingled. Baffled, he entered the toilet but turned and observed the old man before closing the door. Henry saw him take a large red apple from his bushel and place it on the counter.

A shiver shot up Henry’s spine as the old man turned and met his gaze. A twisted smile formed on the old man’s face. Henry noticed the wrinkles and lines that made up the old man’s features and no longer saw a man, but a sort of, tree man. His nose was a twig and his eyes two pits in bark while his mouth was nothing but a cleft.

Henry rubbed his eyes, and when he opened them again, the old man was gone, leaving only a trace in his mind. He grasped at the memory of it, but they faded before he could process them, like a mirage in a desert that was too far away to reach. The air and space around him shook, and a ringing began in his head.

He closed the bathroom door behind him, bent over to avoid hitting his head on the tiny toilet’s too-low light hanging from the ceiling and began to urinate. The ringing in his brain drowned out the sound of his urine hitting the water, so much so that he might as well not have been urinating at all.

The ringing seemed to subside as the urine slowed, and Henry’s mind instead turned to question whether or not he actually saw what he thought he saw. Though the ringing in his head had stopped, his arm still hurt from the old man’s touch.

Henry turned to the mirror in the sink. A wave of branches and leaves sprouted from his face, and roots erupted from cracks in his skin as his eyes turned yellow. Panicked, Henry splashed water all over his face and rubbed. He looked again. Gone. Ah, ordinary Henry, he thought.

Henry dried his hands on a worn towel, then made for walking back into the tearoom. The old man was gone, and Henry was left with a puzzling memory, unable to fully comprehend it. Yet he remembered the old man’s parting words, spoken in perfect English. “Beware, for that which is forgotten may linger still,” the old man had said to him, except they were not just words, Henry knew. Something else was behind them, something ominous, making him feel uneasy.

First came the ringing in his ears and his head, and then came the lights. Henry was hurled with a mighty force, launching him off the ground and through the air. Debris of glass, splintered wood, and lit embers fell around him as his body shot through the air towards the bathroom. He hit something, and everything went dark.

Competition Information

• There are three signed softcover copies of the book and three KDP gift copies to win. One softcover and one KDP can be won from this article
• The softcovers will be posted to the winner free of charge, and the KDP versions will be gifted at the soonest convenience of the author (me) upon the announcement of the winners
• Once the copies are gone, they are gone, but if there are particularly engaging comments, I may be tempted to award another
• The winners will be announced on Monday 9th of October. The next competition will begin on Monday 9th of October also.

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That’s all from me today.

~TW~