The Shadow in the Pear Tree

A pear tree looked down upon the sprawling fields and rolling hills beneath it. It was old, as old as Mother Earth, and just as fickle. The land that encompassed it was owned by an axman. He lived in a humble cottage with his young daughter. She danced in the tall grass, swung from the trees, ate the gifts of the soil, and made jewelry from its spoils. The green expanse was her playground and her father only gave one command.

Never approach the pear tree. Evil things lurked there.

The young girl simply could not understand why. Her father was large like a mountain, furry like a grizzly and wise as the elder owls that sang in the evening chill. His ax had felled more trees than the breezes ever could fathom and his dark eyes were scarier than any shadow in the window. The cottage he had built was cleansed with sage and wrapped in security, its brick facade was strong and the honeysuckle plants in the windowsill shimmered with morning dew. She had never felt the pang of fear, she wanted for nothing, and life was as lovely as a song.

Still, the pear tree that loomed in the distance was a curious thing. She could see it, perched on the highest hilltop, and it called to her like a siren’s song. Her father simply reminded her to resist its temptations. Nothing good would ever come from the pear tree.

In the seventh year of her life, the winter gave way to spring. The pear tree once again became green. Summer turned it white with blooms that, from her bedroom window, looked to be bigger than her head. Autumn would bring the crops, the yield large, the fruit would shimmer like gold in the sunlight.

Father could feel the chill on the winds. He knew he must embark to collect the wood needed to secure their safety for the cold season. The air smelt crisp. It would be a harsh winter. So, wrapped in his flannel and ax in hand, he left early in the morn’ to traverse the woods. He promised he’d be home soon and reminded his sweet child to mind the pear tree’s hill.

The young girl found herself growing mischievous. Her little black cat was sprawled out in the sunlight, its paws clawed at the air as it dreamed of mice and balls of yarn. It wanted little to do with her. She had swept the floor with the old, scraggly broom. The dust was piled up by the kitchen table. She had eaten her honeydew, its color made her happy. None of it satiated the intrigue of the old pear tree.

She was not scared. On the contrary. She was interested in its secrets. It was simply a tree. An easily burned thing with fruits that blessed bellies and flowers that scented the air. What could her father have been so uproarious about? What could have turned her unshakeable hero pale as the sheets out on the line? How curious indeed.

The tree would lose its leaves soon after the cold came. The fruit would fall to the ground one by one. It seemed like such a waste. She decided it needn’t be so.

Bundled in a coat of brown the young girl stepped out of her home, closed the lopsided door, and set a boot down in the soggy grass. One step. Another step. And suddenly she was off. She traced familiar paths she had traversed so many times before, with her aim set to the highest hill on the horizon.

Mushrooms bounced happily as she stopped by felled logs. The wildlife stared in wide-eyed wonder as she passed. The birds sang a tune for her journey. She could tell Mister Autumn was on his way. He would bring with him the smells of cinnamon and cloves, fig harvests, and the crackle of the fireplace. He would turn the sprawling fields yellow and it would wave like a blanket of sunlight. She loved when Mister Autumn would come. It kept the smile upon her face the entire way. Perhaps, if she could gather enough of the mysterious pear tree’s golden gifts they could make a pie to celebrate Mister Autumn’s return.

The young girl was elated.

As the early afternoon sun crested the tallest hill, the pear tree turned to a blackened shadow from where she stood. She gazed up in awe and wonder at the silhouette of the mysterious monolith and started her ascent. The wind whistled. Its sound was harsh and loud with nothing to capture its call. The hill had little surrounding it. It stood alone against its peers with might and pride. One could almost graze the sky if their hands could only stretch far enough.

When she finally reached the peak, breathless and wide-eyed, a smile crept across her flushed face. It was more than she had ever hoped, ever dared to dream. She felt as though it would take a lifetime to climb to its tallest branch.

A skittering noise broke through the solace. A long, slender arm unfurled like a rolled parchment from behind the sturdy pear tree’s trunk. Black, sharpened, its pointed limb set down softly atop the bark. More followed. There was a shadow in the pear tree.

“Why, hello,” the young girl said.

“And a good midday to you, little one,” the creature responded.

“Are you perhaps a spider, ma’am?”

“How truly observant you are.”

The large arachnid perched itself atop a sturdy branch, its front appendages crossed. One of its legs had been severed at the knee. Cleanly. The spider’s fine hairs were black as the most starless night, but its eyes glistened like the silver of the fullest moon.

“You are a long way from home, little one,” the spider noted.

The young girl nodded, “I came to pick a pear to bake a pie for Mister Autumn!”

“Ah, well Mister Autumn does indeed love his pears.”

The creature skewered a ripened pear, the color of spices and sunsets, and tossed it to the ground. The young girl, excited for the new experience of the first taste of such a forbidden thing, gingerly took a bite. She savored its juices, the soft flesh that covered it, its cold touch on her tongue from lingering the autumnal breeze.

“Miss Spider, may I inquire what you are doing in the pear tree?” the young girl asked as she took another bite. Juice dribbled down her chin.

“Why this is my pear tree,” she responded with glee, “These are my fruits, my flowers, and my bark. Each morning I spin my webs in this foliage to catch the dew as it falls. Each night I sit upon the highest branch, then I reach high into the sky and weave the stars into the evening with the dew I captured.”

The girl’s expression was one of delight. She watched as Miss Spider clamored down the side of the tree to a lower branch. Miss Spider was much bigger than her father. No wonder he trembled at the mention of the pear tree. The young girl was confused. Miss Spider seemed so lovely.

She stayed until twilight and spoke to the shadow, the conversation delightful and airy. As Miss Spider conversed she wove a tapestry of golden webs, her limbs moved rhythmically and she worked. The sky became a menagerie of lavender and tangerine. Mister Moon would be saying his hello to Mister Sun soon as they danced circles around her isolated world. The wind whistled angrily and the young girl shivered. She would need to go home soon.

“It would seem Mister Autumn has come early. Come, little one, I have made you a gift to stave off his bitter touch,” Miss Spider offered as she extended her long arms down. As she moved, a shawl of golden thread unfurled. She urged the young girl to come forward and take hold of it.

In sheer wonder, the naive young girl approached, hypnotized by its expensive hue. Miss Spider looked on in anticipation. It had been so long since she had the pleasure of company. The damn axman had warned the nearby populace, told them all to be wary, so travelers had stopped coming to the pear tree. Her children were hungry.

When the young girl’s tiny hands grasped hold of the golden garment, the malevolent weaver’s fang-filled smile grew wide. The setting sun captured the rich threads. A bright, harsh light rolled over her innocent eyes. Miss Spider wrapped the shawl around her small frame.

Laughter, joyous in tone and harmony, escaped the young girl’s lips. Even Mister Sun would have been jealous of her glow. Wrapped up in her glee, she did not notice the pears begin to tremble. She did not notice the sharpened points of Miss Spider’s offspring burst through the skin of the fruit, their frames cascading down the trunk like the eclipse of night. She did not notice Miss Spider’s legs had not removed themselves from the coat around her. Nor had she noticed that the arachnid’s playful motions that spun her around like a shooting star had sealed her fate. By the time she had noticed these things, it was much too late and the fangs had engulfed her.

The young girl learned much too late why her father told her to never approach the pear tree.