Never see’d an apple tree like that before, didja? Red, yeller, 'n green, all growing on one branch, an' in the dead of Feb’rary at that! Useta be called the witch tree, back when I was a youngun, when the Blank ladies lived in that burned-out ruin over there—though it weren’t burned-out back then, it were a real sweet little cottage. The Blanks is the ones as witched that tree, pourin’ all sorts of potions on the roots ’n sayin’ 'chantments so’s to make the magic work. ‘Course the apples were only fer the real strong magics, the kind that needed more’n what a body could put in a bottle. One of them apples useta cost the folk in town a pretty penny, ’n the ladies guarded ‘em fierce as them gals in the old Greek stories.
Now the green ‘uns, they was fer wealth. Folks as ate them had a habit of comin’ inta money, fer good or bad. The yellers was fer love, but you had to split one between two folks to make ‘em work. Though I heard Sally Buckner shared one with all three of the Niedermeyer boys, an' didn’t they follow her around like she were a dog in heat till the end of her days! I asked Old Melly about it one time, an' she said a body needed to be real careful about sayin’ the right words over a yeller apple if they wanted it to work out the right way. Bad apples, bad love, they all make a body sick to soul.
An' the so'd the red apples, fer that matter, since the reds was pizen. The Blank ladies said they reduced ‘em down, knew how to do things with ‘em to make medicine or only have ‘em affect things like pests ’n weeds, an' they always claimed they wouldn’t sell those partic’lar apples fer love nor money. But folks sure whispered when Bob Tanner, him as was always beatin’ his old lady ’n littleuns, suddenly turned up dead. Bob weren’t a pop’lar feller though, so he weren’t missed too much.
In fact, all the apples on the witch tree was pizened, if anybody but a Blank lady picked ‘em. Jurgi Ludwigson once tried to steal one of the greens after he lost all his money gamblin’, an' he fell down dead in the road, just over there beyond them bushes. Just like Bob, Jurgi’d always had pretty good health, but when they found him dead, didn’t he have a green apple with one bite in it next to his hand? So folks learned right quick not to steal the Blank ladies’ apples.
I suppose by now you can figger that the Blank ladies was witches, a buncha mothers 'n daughters who lived here as far back as anyone can remember. Some people said they’d Kickapoo blood in 'em, but Old Melly—she bein’ the grandmother of the house when I were a boy—said they was French stock. Blank dams. That’s French fer white witches, you know.
An' the Blanks was white witches. Good witches, that is. Maybe out in Salem they might hang their witches, but in these parts most people are practical ‘nough not to look a gift horse in the mouth, ‘specially not when no one could say a bad thing against the Blanks, ‘cept maybe it weren’t right that none of ‘em ever got married, but kept right on havin’ daughters. But far back as this valley can remembers, we never had no plagues. No mysterious deaths, save them as stole apples, as I mentioned. Why, even durin' the war down south, every single boy that went off as a soldier came back whole 'n alive. Dunno any town in America can say the same about that.
I was real personable with the Blanks when I was a youngun. See I was born over in Winona, but my folks died when I wasn’ no more’n four or five, so I moved over yonder to Belle Valle, the village at the mouth of the valley over thataway, to live with an aunt 'n uncle that didn’t much appreciate havin' an extra mouth to feed. I tried to make it up to 'em by doin' work around the valley, an' the Blanks were always real kind to me. Built ‘em a chicken coop there when I were ‘leven or so. Plus shingled their roof when I was older, an' painted up a bit here ’n there…ah, but you don’t want to know about a poor boy.
Well Melly was the granny of the family, as I said. She died when I were about eight or nine I think. Then her daughter, Lucinda, she were the main witch of the house. An' she had a daughter ten or so years older than me: Susan. She were the last of ‘em.
Now as I said before, the apples was the strongest magics the Blanks knew, an' cost the most fer any poor soul needin’ a bit of help. Most people just came to the Blanks fer potions, the sort of stuff folks’s grannies forgot years ’n years ago, only with a little extra somethin’ in ‘em that always made ‘em work extra strong. Nearest doctor was over in Viroqua see, but if you knew what it was that ailed you, Miss Lucinda could usually whip you up a cure. Why, one time I were comin' down with the bronchitis, 'n she gave me a bit of tea that had me breathin' easy 'n clean as anythin' the very next day, while all my chums who got it was laid up fer weeks.
Then back in oh…’72, ’73, somewhere in there, Miss Lucinda had gone to deliver some potions to Mrs. Janssen in the next valley over. A sudden storm blowed up, 'n people think she got caught in a flood while crossin' Bergen Creek. They found her drowned the next mornin', an' poor Susan just went to pieces.
Miss Susan had the mind of a bird; quick but never goin’ in just one direction. Sweet as pie, 'n her potions 'n spells could be as good as any Blank’s, but it always seemed like she was preoccupied with one thing or another. Lucinda useta scold her about mislabelin' the bottles, or mixin' up her incantations, things like that. An' after Miss Lucinda died, it only got worse.
Sue did her best to hold up the rep’tation of the Blanks, of course. But there was the sitchation where she was supposed to give Farmer Jones some tablets that would keep weeds outta his fields, but instead she gave him somethin' that made ‘em grow even faster. Jones coulda been a millionaire if’n he knew what to do with all them dandelions, he had so many. An' a similar occurrence where Julia Winthrop—she as had eleven children—wanted a little somethin' to ensure she wouldn’t get no more. An' Susan must have mixed that up too, because didn’t Missus Winthrop birth triplets the followin' spring!
But it were that business with Charlie O’Leary 'n May Elkins that finally put an end to things. See, the O’Learys was the richest family in the valley. An' the Elkinses was second richest, havin' everythin' up on that ridge over yonder. Now both Mr. Elkins 'n Mr. O’Leary had it in mind that Charlie 'n May should get married 'n combine it all into one estate. May was ‘menable 'nough to that; Charlie were a handsome boy, all dark hair 'n green eyes 'n that. But Charlie…well, Charlie was head over heels fer none other than Miss Susan Blank. An' wouldn’t you know it, but she loved him back.
It were quite the scandal at the time. Susan weren’t rich—got swindled by some of the less scrup'lous folk in town after her mama died—an' she weren’t much of a witch, an' the Blanks never married anyone. Half the town thought she’d cast some sort of spell on poor Charlie to get him in her bed so she could start on the next gen'ration of Blanks, but he courted her in daylight hours only, I saw’m myself. He looked just like any other feller in love, an’ anyways he hated apples an’ would’n’a touched one even if Susan offered.
The other trouble was though, that Susan 'n May had been good friends when they were girls. An' May grew mighty jealous of Susan, even though she never said it out loud. She was always the sorta girl who’d smile to someone’s face an’ whisper behind their back, you know. But I was there the night she called on May to ask fer one of them yeller apples, one strong 'nough to make Charlie O’Leary love her instead. After all, weren’t Susan her best friend in the world? An’ if she weren’t gonna marry Charlie, the way none of the Blanks ever married, couldn’t she just let May have him instead? May’d never say a word if Susan had a daughter with Charlie’s pretty green eyes 'n dark hair, long as she got to be Mrs. O’Leary at the end of the day.
Susan refused, of course. Said Charlie wasn’t charmed in the first place, an' she wasn’t about to go changin' his mind fer any amount of friendship or money, an' May would just have to use what God give her if she wanted to try n' steal him. There was a bit of cat-screamin’ between ‘em that night, an' last I saw May was stompin' outta the house with somethin' in that little white hand of hers. But the thing is…Susan insisted she hadn’t given May a thing, not apple or potion, fer pay or otherwise. She’d told her to get outta the house an' turned her back on her.
Well, whatever May had, an' however she got it, she musta gave some to Charlie O’Leary. Charlie’s little sister said May had made him a pie, an' she’d muttered some funny words over it, the kinds of things the Blanks useta say when workin' their magics. May might’ve thought she could use that magic pie to make her own love potion to win poor Charlie, or maybe she figgered if she couldn’t have him, nobody would. Either way, Charlie O’Leary fell sick so fast that not even Susan’s potions could save him, an' the poor boy died in her arms.
After that, Susan was quick to accuse May of pizenin' poor Charlie outta jealousy. Then May said that Susan had sold her one’ve the famous apples an' she’d innocently given it to Charlie in the hopes of winnin' his heart. But Susan had such a habit of givin' folks’ the wrong thing, an' sayin' the wrong spells, that wasn’t it possible she’d accidentally given May a pizened red apple instead’ve a yeller love apple? Well, there was plenty of arguin’ back 'n forth in the town, with some folks thinkin' Susan did it on purpose, an' others thinkin' it was an unlucky accident. I tried to say my piece, that I saw May Elkins had stolen somethin' from Susan’s house the night they argued, but I were still just a boy at that point, an' no one paid much attention to what I had to say.
But don’t you fret, stranger. Folks ‘round here are decent, we don’t burn people even if they are witches. Susan herself decided to burn the house you see back there, with all the Blank ladies’ books 'n potions 'n papers inside. An' she did somethin' to that tree over there that took away all the magic from the apples, though to this day I’m not sure if that was her intention or not. Durin’ the Depression some folks got hungry 'nough to risk the Blank ladies’ curse an’ steal some, an’ far as I knows nobody died’ve ‘em this time. But I never heard’ve anyone gettin’ rich or fallin' in love after eatin’ one either.
Meanwhile, the O’Learys sold out to a cousin an' moved west. May Elkins married a feller from Madison. Didn’t know the first thing about farmin', they’re barely gettin' by. The next war that came along, plenty of young men in town died overseas, an' when the influenza came after that half the people was wiped out. I hear some big industrial farm outlet is comin' to buy up some of the land around the valley, so not sure how much longer there’ll be a Belle Valle. Me an’ the missus, we’re gettin’ too old fer the farm life I say. We’ll sell out I think, once things get in order. Thinkin’ of movin' out to Washington.
Heard they have fine apples out there.
Now the green ‘uns, they was fer wealth. Folks as ate them had a habit of comin’ inta money, fer good or bad. The yellers was fer love, but you had to split one between two folks to make ‘em work. Though I heard Sally Buckner shared one with all three of the Niedermeyer boys, an' didn’t they follow her around like she were a dog in heat till the end of her days! I asked Old Melly about it one time, an' she said a body needed to be real careful about sayin’ the right words over a yeller apple if they wanted it to work out the right way. Bad apples, bad love, they all make a body sick to soul.
An' the so'd the red apples, fer that matter, since the reds was pizen. The Blank ladies said they reduced ‘em down, knew how to do things with ‘em to make medicine or only have ‘em affect things like pests ’n weeds, an' they always claimed they wouldn’t sell those partic’lar apples fer love nor money. But folks sure whispered when Bob Tanner, him as was always beatin’ his old lady ’n littleuns, suddenly turned up dead. Bob weren’t a pop’lar feller though, so he weren’t missed too much.
In fact, all the apples on the witch tree was pizened, if anybody but a Blank lady picked ‘em. Jurgi Ludwigson once tried to steal one of the greens after he lost all his money gamblin’, an' he fell down dead in the road, just over there beyond them bushes. Just like Bob, Jurgi’d always had pretty good health, but when they found him dead, didn’t he have a green apple with one bite in it next to his hand? So folks learned right quick not to steal the Blank ladies’ apples.
I suppose by now you can figger that the Blank ladies was witches, a buncha mothers 'n daughters who lived here as far back as anyone can remember. Some people said they’d Kickapoo blood in 'em, but Old Melly—she bein’ the grandmother of the house when I were a boy—said they was French stock. Blank dams. That’s French fer white witches, you know.
An' the Blanks was white witches. Good witches, that is. Maybe out in Salem they might hang their witches, but in these parts most people are practical ‘nough not to look a gift horse in the mouth, ‘specially not when no one could say a bad thing against the Blanks, ‘cept maybe it weren’t right that none of ‘em ever got married, but kept right on havin’ daughters. But far back as this valley can remembers, we never had no plagues. No mysterious deaths, save them as stole apples, as I mentioned. Why, even durin' the war down south, every single boy that went off as a soldier came back whole 'n alive. Dunno any town in America can say the same about that.
I was real personable with the Blanks when I was a youngun. See I was born over in Winona, but my folks died when I wasn’ no more’n four or five, so I moved over yonder to Belle Valle, the village at the mouth of the valley over thataway, to live with an aunt 'n uncle that didn’t much appreciate havin' an extra mouth to feed. I tried to make it up to 'em by doin' work around the valley, an' the Blanks were always real kind to me. Built ‘em a chicken coop there when I were ‘leven or so. Plus shingled their roof when I was older, an' painted up a bit here ’n there…ah, but you don’t want to know about a poor boy.
Well Melly was the granny of the family, as I said. She died when I were about eight or nine I think. Then her daughter, Lucinda, she were the main witch of the house. An' she had a daughter ten or so years older than me: Susan. She were the last of ‘em.
Now as I said before, the apples was the strongest magics the Blanks knew, an' cost the most fer any poor soul needin’ a bit of help. Most people just came to the Blanks fer potions, the sort of stuff folks’s grannies forgot years ’n years ago, only with a little extra somethin’ in ‘em that always made ‘em work extra strong. Nearest doctor was over in Viroqua see, but if you knew what it was that ailed you, Miss Lucinda could usually whip you up a cure. Why, one time I were comin' down with the bronchitis, 'n she gave me a bit of tea that had me breathin' easy 'n clean as anythin' the very next day, while all my chums who got it was laid up fer weeks.
Then back in oh…’72, ’73, somewhere in there, Miss Lucinda had gone to deliver some potions to Mrs. Janssen in the next valley over. A sudden storm blowed up, 'n people think she got caught in a flood while crossin' Bergen Creek. They found her drowned the next mornin', an' poor Susan just went to pieces.
Miss Susan had the mind of a bird; quick but never goin’ in just one direction. Sweet as pie, 'n her potions 'n spells could be as good as any Blank’s, but it always seemed like she was preoccupied with one thing or another. Lucinda useta scold her about mislabelin' the bottles, or mixin' up her incantations, things like that. An' after Miss Lucinda died, it only got worse.
Sue did her best to hold up the rep’tation of the Blanks, of course. But there was the sitchation where she was supposed to give Farmer Jones some tablets that would keep weeds outta his fields, but instead she gave him somethin' that made ‘em grow even faster. Jones coulda been a millionaire if’n he knew what to do with all them dandelions, he had so many. An' a similar occurrence where Julia Winthrop—she as had eleven children—wanted a little somethin' to ensure she wouldn’t get no more. An' Susan must have mixed that up too, because didn’t Missus Winthrop birth triplets the followin' spring!
But it were that business with Charlie O’Leary 'n May Elkins that finally put an end to things. See, the O’Learys was the richest family in the valley. An' the Elkinses was second richest, havin' everythin' up on that ridge over yonder. Now both Mr. Elkins 'n Mr. O’Leary had it in mind that Charlie 'n May should get married 'n combine it all into one estate. May was ‘menable 'nough to that; Charlie were a handsome boy, all dark hair 'n green eyes 'n that. But Charlie…well, Charlie was head over heels fer none other than Miss Susan Blank. An' wouldn’t you know it, but she loved him back.
It were quite the scandal at the time. Susan weren’t rich—got swindled by some of the less scrup'lous folk in town after her mama died—an' she weren’t much of a witch, an' the Blanks never married anyone. Half the town thought she’d cast some sort of spell on poor Charlie to get him in her bed so she could start on the next gen'ration of Blanks, but he courted her in daylight hours only, I saw’m myself. He looked just like any other feller in love, an’ anyways he hated apples an’ would’n’a touched one even if Susan offered.
The other trouble was though, that Susan 'n May had been good friends when they were girls. An' May grew mighty jealous of Susan, even though she never said it out loud. She was always the sorta girl who’d smile to someone’s face an’ whisper behind their back, you know. But I was there the night she called on May to ask fer one of them yeller apples, one strong 'nough to make Charlie O’Leary love her instead. After all, weren’t Susan her best friend in the world? An’ if she weren’t gonna marry Charlie, the way none of the Blanks ever married, couldn’t she just let May have him instead? May’d never say a word if Susan had a daughter with Charlie’s pretty green eyes 'n dark hair, long as she got to be Mrs. O’Leary at the end of the day.
Susan refused, of course. Said Charlie wasn’t charmed in the first place, an' she wasn’t about to go changin' his mind fer any amount of friendship or money, an' May would just have to use what God give her if she wanted to try n' steal him. There was a bit of cat-screamin’ between ‘em that night, an' last I saw May was stompin' outta the house with somethin' in that little white hand of hers. But the thing is…Susan insisted she hadn’t given May a thing, not apple or potion, fer pay or otherwise. She’d told her to get outta the house an' turned her back on her.
Well, whatever May had, an' however she got it, she musta gave some to Charlie O’Leary. Charlie’s little sister said May had made him a pie, an' she’d muttered some funny words over it, the kinds of things the Blanks useta say when workin' their magics. May might’ve thought she could use that magic pie to make her own love potion to win poor Charlie, or maybe she figgered if she couldn’t have him, nobody would. Either way, Charlie O’Leary fell sick so fast that not even Susan’s potions could save him, an' the poor boy died in her arms.
After that, Susan was quick to accuse May of pizenin' poor Charlie outta jealousy. Then May said that Susan had sold her one’ve the famous apples an' she’d innocently given it to Charlie in the hopes of winnin' his heart. But Susan had such a habit of givin' folks’ the wrong thing, an' sayin' the wrong spells, that wasn’t it possible she’d accidentally given May a pizened red apple instead’ve a yeller love apple? Well, there was plenty of arguin’ back 'n forth in the town, with some folks thinkin' Susan did it on purpose, an' others thinkin' it was an unlucky accident. I tried to say my piece, that I saw May Elkins had stolen somethin' from Susan’s house the night they argued, but I were still just a boy at that point, an' no one paid much attention to what I had to say.
But don’t you fret, stranger. Folks ‘round here are decent, we don’t burn people even if they are witches. Susan herself decided to burn the house you see back there, with all the Blank ladies’ books 'n potions 'n papers inside. An' she did somethin' to that tree over there that took away all the magic from the apples, though to this day I’m not sure if that was her intention or not. Durin’ the Depression some folks got hungry 'nough to risk the Blank ladies’ curse an’ steal some, an’ far as I knows nobody died’ve ‘em this time. But I never heard’ve anyone gettin’ rich or fallin' in love after eatin’ one either.
Meanwhile, the O’Learys sold out to a cousin an' moved west. May Elkins married a feller from Madison. Didn’t know the first thing about farmin', they’re barely gettin' by. The next war that came along, plenty of young men in town died overseas, an' when the influenza came after that half the people was wiped out. I hear some big industrial farm outlet is comin' to buy up some of the land around the valley, so not sure how much longer there’ll be a Belle Valle. Me an’ the missus, we’re gettin’ too old fer the farm life I say. We’ll sell out I think, once things get in order. Thinkin’ of movin' out to Washington.
Heard they have fine apples out there.
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