The Orange Tree

By Lazlo Ferran

A thriller trapped within a fairy tale:
​​​​​​​
Pippinthorne Sweet tends the last orange tree in post-apocalyptic Utah with his dog, Screwdriver. He barely remembers his family before the holocaust, but meticulously tending the tree keeps him from feeling lonely.

When the orange tree sickens, he is lost.

But the voice of a dead terrorist from Afghanistan enters his mind, offering help, and then he meets Pandora.

"A race-horse of a Novel." - Peter Preston

Categories: fiction, thriller, fairy tale, fantasy, paranormal, occult & supernatural, fun, psychic, adventure, romance, philosophy, war, politics, visionary, spy

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lazlo Ferran
• Release date: Aug 30, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005728571

Lazlo Ferran

Lazlo Ferran: Exploring the Landscapes of Truth. Educated near Oxford, during English author Lazlo Ferran's extraordinary life, he has been an aeronautical engineering student, dispatch rider, graphic designer, full-time busker, guitarist and singer, recording two albums. Having grown up in rural Buckinghamshire Lazlo says: "The beautiful Chiltern Hills offered the ideal playground for a child's mind, in contrast to the ultra-strict education system of Bucks." Brought up as a Buddhist, he has travelled widely, surviving a student uprising in Athens and living for a while in Cairo, just after Sadat's assassination. Later, he spent some time in Central Asia and was only a few blocks away from gunfire during an attempt to storm the government buildings of Bishkek in 2006. He has a keen interest in theologies and philosophies of the Far East, Middle East, Asia and Eastern Europe. After a long and successful career within the science industry, Lazlo Ferran left to concentrate on writing, to continue exploring the landscapes of truth.

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The Orange Tree

Copyright © 2019 by Lazlo Ferran

Published by Lazlo Ferran at Smashwords.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

No part of this book maybe used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information address Lazlo Ferran at:

[e-mail]

Thanks to Peter Preston for reading this through.

Visit the Lazlo Ferran website to see what I am currently working on: http://bit.ly/12nFGgI

Sign up for the Lazlo Newsletter: http://eepurl.com/K9r8P

By the same Author

THE ICE BOAT

THE MAN WHO RECREATED HIMSELF

INFINITE BLUE HEAVEN –

A KING AND A QUEEN

RUNNING

IRON I: TOO BRIGHT THE SUN

IRON II: UNKNOWN PLACE, UNKNOWN UNIVERSE

IRON III: WORLDS LIKE DUST

VAMPIRE – FIND MY GRAVE

ORDO LUPUS AND THE TEMPLE GATE

THE DEVIL’S OWN DICE

THE SYNCHRONICITY CODE

ATTACK HITLER’S BUNKER!

DECEMBER RADIO

SCREAMING ANGELS

THE HOLE INSIDE THE EARTH

MACBETH FOR KIDS

FRANKENSTEIN FOR KIDS

THE NIGHTWALKERS

EMILY TWELVE

SHORT STORIES

INCHOATE (VOLUME I)

EIGHTEEN, BLUE (VOLUME II)

VAMPIRE: BENEFICENCE (VOLUME III)

Chapter One – The Tree

Once upon a time there lived a handsome boy called Pippinthorne Sweet. His straw-coloured hair hung like a mop around his smiling face. Once every six months he carefully divided a segment of the mop clear of his face and cut neatly off the ends of all his locks with a pair of scissors, because he had nobody to do it for him and his animal friends couldn’t use scissors.

Pippinthorne Sweet didn’t feel lonely, because he had been given a task to do and he knew his parents would come back one day to see how well he had done. This task, which occupied every day from dawn till dusk, was to look after the orange tree.

He lived in a two-storey, slatted house, whose white paint had long since peeled away in the sun. It had once been a farmhouse, but when the rich farm owner had sold up, the new owner had built a bigger house and sold the old one to Pippinthorne’s mother and father. The farm surrounded the house on three sides and sat squarely in the natural valley formed by two, low ridges, which benefitted from the rainfall that followed when the hot desert air blasted over either ridge.

The best lawn for miles around lay beside the old farmhouse, and its centre, as long as Pippinthorne could remember, had stood four trees. Three were apple trees, of the red fruit variety, but pride of place went to the orange tree.

Everyone tells me it’s the only arnge tree in the land Pip! his father had told him.

Never let it freeze in winter and you will be rich one day! his mother had told him.

With his tender care the tree had grown to almost fifty feet, borne many juicy, sweet oranges and now sired three saplings. But Pippinthorne wondered when, and how, the orange tree would make him rich. And like many questions in Pippingthorne’s America, there were no answers to be had. His parents had left when he was six. His sister had developed orange blotches on her skin, which began to resemble that of an orange. He couldn’t remember her face well, though he remembered laughing with her about it. But his parents grew worried and told him they would have to take her east, to find a doctor.

If any can treat her! her mother said, shaking her head slowly.

Pippinthorne still didn’t understand why they had left.

As he prepared to tend the tree one morning, Pippinthorne remembered them waving to him as they walked down the drive to the great road, which led to the nearest town, twenty miles away. The thought made him smile, but he jolted himself out of what seemed like a dream and reminded himself that a lot of time had passed since then. A pang in his heart made him grab the tattered photograph from his shirt pocket and stare at the faded image of his sister. The orange blotches on her face made him wince, the more so because of the beaming smile on her face.

I miss you, he whispered, stroking the photograph with the tip of his index finger and replacing it tenderly.

Whereas then he had to drag the ladder to the tree, now he could carry it, although he had recently added an extension, so that he could reach the tallest branches of the orange tree.

Come on Screwdriver! he shouted to his best friend, an ancient, buff-haired mongrel

Pippinthorne wondered why the clouds and sky were orange. They were both blue in his picture books. He had also once thought that the sky and clouds got their orange colour from the tree, but now he at least knew that was impossible and laughed at the thought.

***

The midday sun beat down upon Pippinthorne’s brow, so that he knew it was time for a rest. He squeezed himself a cool drink of fresh orange juice and sat in his favourite rocking chair on the porch of the big house. After he had sipped the tasty drink, he closed his eyes and tried to doze. He could not. Pleasant dreams were in the Pippinthorne’s mind, but something dark edged them out of the way and demanded his attention. He heard a voice:

Hello Pippinthorne. I am lonely.

Who are ya? Pippinthorne heard himself ask.

You can call me Shadow. I want to tell you my story. I can tell you things that you want to know. Like; why the clouds are orange. But it’s a sad story. May I tell you?

Pippinthorne liked happy stories and didn’t want to hear a sad one. But he liked shadows, because they kept him cool in summer. Moreover, he had a gentle soul, so his compassion fought with his reluctance until it won.

Alright, he heard himself say. Tell me.

"I was born in England in 1965. My parents were middle-class, working hard to make a new home in a nice town, not far from London. I was their eldest and had enjoyed all their attention until my baby sister arrived. That event prompted them to move to the new house from a cramped bungalow, but I don’t remember being jealous of my sister event. My memories in the bungalow are few. I recall lifting my sister from her cot, which had been mine before, carrying her into my parents’ bedroom and dumping her, slightly mischievously, on them. They would laugh and all four of us would cuddle up together, until the time came for my father to eat breakfast and go to work.

"When we moved to the bigger house my mother began to work too, so she and I were not so close. My parents made the room next to theirs into my new bedroom. It was big, but held two identical beds on either side, each with a red, cotton cover. I never could work out why I had two beds, and I never asked, but I began to imagine a second ‘me’ in the other bed at night. The thought disturbed me, and I began to find it difficult to sleep. I heard sounds in the next room that I didn’t like; my mother crying or begging my father to stop. Sometimes things were thrown, or somebody banged into something and made the wall shake. I would press my ear against the cold plaster, but I couldn’t understand why my parents seemed to be fighting. I began to think that I was to blame.

"I would be four years old by now, and my first awareness of myself was a feeling that not all my thoughts were positive. I felt bad that not all my thoughts were positive and wondered if this was why my parents fought. Try though I might, I could not banish these dark thoughts and became guilty about that too. Unable to sleep, I would nervously pull out tufts of cotton from my red sheet and chew them until I could spit them up into the air.

"One day I noticed a tuft of red cotton stuck to the ceiling when I climbed out of bed. ‘Wow!’ I thought. ‘My spit is so strong that I can reach the ceiling.’

After that, I chewed the sheet every night. The tufts were woven into the warp and weft of the cloth in lines, to form a cross-hatch effect, but before long, these lines had thinned enough for my mother to notice. She also saw the red dots on the ceiling and told me off. I had to take them down when I woke every morning, but I continued to chew and spit.

***

Pippinthorne understood that Shadow had gone, so he opened his eyes, only to find that half the afternoon had gone by.

He had just finished stretching and asking Screwdriver whether a walk round the old farm was in order, when, as happened two or three times each week, a voice carried to him over the breeze from the gate:

Hello! I hear you have an orange tree?

"Howdy stranger. I have The Arnge Tree, only one in the land. Perhaps ya’d like a cool, refreshing drink?"

I sure would. Haven’t tasted orange since a soda my ma made me.

Sure. Come on right in. Ya alone?

Pippinthorne always asked this question as soon as he had his only shot gun within reach. His father had told him; one could never be too sure about strangers.

Yep. Just me and my dog.

Oh. Leave him chained to the fence. My Screwy, he don’t take kindly to strange dogs.

When the stranger drew closer Pippinthorne had a chance to take in his appearance; straw hat, the usual bleached and tattered clothes, and variety of deformities. Pippinthorne had grown used to deformities and silently catalogued them, in this case; a short and withered left arm, one eye lower than the other and a pronounced limp, no doubt caused by a withered leg.

‘No older than maself. About fourteen,’ Pippinthorne surmised.

Well, ya look harmless enough, he replied. Both young men laughed. Ya’re in luck. The arnges are ripe on the tree, so ya can choose fresh or cold.

Will, I think I’ll have fresh and cold.

Two dollars then.

I don’t have money.

Ha! Didn’t think ya did stranger. What’s yar name anyway?

Strawman.

Pleased to mit you Strawman. Let me show ya the tree and you can pick yar arnge.

Strawman’s eyes opened wide when he saw the tree. To him its leaves looked unnaturally clean and shiny. It stood taller and straighter than any fruit tree he had ever seen.

Looks like a magic tree! he exclaimed.

Will, uht is, in a way. Which one do ya want? Shall I fitch the ladder?

No. That one there looks big and juicy.

Great choice. Pick uht. Strawman hesitated. Go orn.

The visitor carried the fruit carefully behind Pippinthorne as they walked into the house.

Jeez! You got a working refrigerator? I ain’t seen one of those since I was a kid.

Gat a generator. Had two, but one nids fixing. Ah have to mix this with a bit of wahdur, if ya want it rill cold, Pippinthorne said, holding up the orange and a plastic container of water he had pulled from the refrigerator. That alright?

Sure.

Screwdriver sniffed the stranger curiously, before squatting and blinking, which he knew would nearly always make a stranger stroke him. It worked again. While Pippinthorne set to slicing the two oranges in half, he said:

He’s gettin’ old but still likes his head scratched. Where ya from?

Come from Californiland. Going east, to Newyark. Heard about your tree in Uwok

Ya came over the moun’ans?

Yep!

"Sheesh! That’s a helluva journey! Here ya go. Take is slowly. There’s no more arnge trees on yar journey."

Um. My, that is mighty fine. I remember orange soda. Do you remember those?

Narr. Ah was four when the clouds turned arnge.

"I was four too. You don’t seem to have any features. Are they hidden? Poor eyesight, maybe?"

Narr. Ah don’t have any.

Wow! Really. That’s kinda weird, I mean, these days. Bet you got picked on at school.

Ya forget, I never went to school.

Ah sorry.

Try the fresh one now. Ah have straws if ya want?

Yeah! That would be great. Pippinthorne pulled down the box of straws he had taken from a derelict café on one of his foraging trips. He held the half empty box out to Strawman, who took a straw with a smile and a nod. Um. That’s even better. Funny how straws always make a drink taste better! Strawman continued to sip noisily on the two drinks, transferring the straw between each as he chose.

Ya seen any adults? Pippinthorne asked.

Nope.

An awkward pause in the conversation followed, broken only by Strawman’s noisy sucking. He finished both glasses of orange and stood up.

Ah don’t like to ask, but there’s the matter of payment.

Pippinthorne never asked for payment until after the customer had drunk. After all, he always sat them on the side of the table away from the door. His father had told him he never charged customers until they had sampled his wares.

Oh. Well, what will you accept? I don’t have much.

Ah like books most. But cash will do. And if ya have nothing else, ah can find chores for ya to do.

I don’t have books. But I have a comic. It’s very battered.

Great. Ah’ll take that. But ah’ll need somethin’ else.

Well the only other thing I have is an old catalogue – cars.

Oh great! Ah can read catalogues all day.

Strawman handed over the payment and said:

I’ll be going then. Good day to you.

Good day.

As Strawman reached the gate, he turned, waved, turned again and was gone.

***

Come on Screwy, let’s do our walkabout, Pippinthorne said.

He spat on the ground, just as his father and grandfather had done when his grandparents visited, one of the few, vivid memories he had of adults. Shouldering his shot gun, he picked up a pail and set off. His dog fell in beside him.

His first stop was to check his traps. Pippinthorne’s main diet derived from a field of maize and one of potatoes, but he supplemented his vegetable diet with the occasional rabbit, groundhog, ground squirrel of even badger, creatures that came to drink from the creek that wound down from the hills and burbled past the western edge of the farm. He sometimes caught a fish or two when he felt in the mood. The traps were all empty.

Taking the footpath beside the creek, he chatted to Screwdriver as they walked toward the potato field, at the furthest point of his territory.

Looks like good weather for the next few weeks Screwy. Ya know what that means!

The tan hound whimpered sympathetically.

"Harvist! Fresh bread, fresh porridge in the mornings. But I sure ain’t looking forward to the hord work. Guess ah’m getting old! Ya know, funny thing is, I will soon be an adult. Ain’t that queer?"

The dog mumbled something in doggy language.

Yeah! You ain’t so young either now! Here we are.

Taking an old sack, which he always kept in his pocket, he pulled out the trowel inside and dug up a few of the nearest potato tubers. Scraping them as clean as he could, he put them in the sack.

Yip! Ripe as they-ill ever be! Ah better pick the rest over the next few days and we will take them to market. Where ya goin’?

Screwdriver had smelled a rabbit and set off in pursuit.

Ah’ll be in the carn field! Pippinthorne yelled after his friend.

His crop of maize, though not as precious as his oranges, nevertheless represented his greatest income, so he inspected the leaved of every tenth plant with great care. He found few signs of disease or rot, yet again a miracle to be thankful for.

Thank ya Carn God! he said, winking at the orange sky. Ah’ll soon have these in, and ya can concentrate on my arnge tree, until ya go to sleep for the winter.

He picked a few of the ripest cobs, put them in the sack with the potatoes and went to check the sluices. The farm rested on a gentle slope to the north, and a previous farm owner had built a dyke to the topmost field’s four sluices, with a fifth dyke leading to the next field and so on. The sluices were clear, and the soil in the field looked damp enough.

Screwy! Come on!

Approaching barks charted the dog’s progress through the corn field, until it nuzzled the back of Pippinthorne pail hand with its wet nose.

Pippinthorne’s next stop was to milk Eeny and Moe, the two Holstein heifers, and their calves. They all trotted out of their shed in the lower meadow as soon as they heard the familiar rattle of the pail handle and nuzzled his hand.

Pulling a stool out from the wall of the shed, the young man set to work wringing the heifer’s udders of all their warm, fresh milk, his favourite part