He waved his hand, pulling me over to him. I was still nervous about Nevli. The trick with nettles, locking me in with Cormac. I didn't trust him, healer or not, but I sat down next to him anyway and he put his arm stiffly about my shoulder. I tried to shrug it off, and shuffled away a bit, but his hand stayed on my shoulder.

"Now just imagine," he said, "that a spirit like Cormac's is here, in this apple bush." He pointed and turned side on to catch my gaze, pushing us apart, aware that I was uncomfortable. I felt his beady little eyes looking deep into me.
"I want you to pick the apples, but while you are doing it, sing this to the apple man.

Apple man, come to me
Touch my eyes so I may see.
Apple man, please don't hide
Show yourself and be my guide.

I am going down the hill to find other forage. While I am gone I want you to pick as many apples as you can carry from this bush only."

He pointed, dropped a carry-sack in my lap and got up. He turned, "Whatever you do, don't fall asleep, just carefully pick the apples and sing the song." He strode off at speed down the hill, his black cloak flapping behind him.

I started humming the rhyme to myself and peered into the mass of twigs. There were many leaves on it, some curling up at the edges and dying back. Some of the apples had dropped to the ground. These were golden, almost glowing with a waxy yellow sheen. Some were the colour of new leaves; others had a blush like a baby's cheek.
I noticed a scent coming from the bush. It was sharp, but sweet at the same time. I breathed it in and felt it clearing my head. Quick as a flash, a tiny wren landed on a branch next to me, looked at me and flew off, making me jump. I felt the wind from its wings against the skin of my face. It made my eyes blink.

I started to hum the ditty Nevli told me and reached into the bush. The twigs were set close together, straight and prickly. They dug into my arm and scratched me. I chose a small, ripe apple that had fallen. The skin was hard to the touch, but yielded slightly under my thumb as I pressed. I took it out of the bush and bit into it. A sharp taste filled my mouth. It was disgusting; I spat it out, my eyes watered with its bitterness. I swallowed some of the juice and it trickled down my throat like wild fire.
The bush came alive for me in that moment. Suddenly it was a being, living and breathing. A fresh young man, like me. His hair was spiky twigs, his eyebrows leafy stalks. His face looked out at me from the bush as he held out his gift of golden apples. I looked back at him and smiled with thanks. Then he was gone, swift as the wren.

He stayed with me as I picked and hummed. The scratches on my skin from picking seemed to grow their own sticks. After a while I could not tell where my arms ended and his began. My fingers became twisted twigs and the apple man shared for a moment my warm blood and being. As I picked he whispered to me, not in speech, its just as if I lost myself and became the bush, the rustle of leaves a new language beyond comprehension.

I shared the Apple Man’s pride for his harvest, a rich year. He showed me the new leaf buds already swelling in the cold of the year, the joyous blossoms in the spring, infested with happy insects gorging on sweet pollen. He showed me the apples swelling over the season, packed with seeds, a tribute to his immense fertility. He told me he was glad to give his fruit to me and I told him that it would be made into cider and drunk in celebration of our human kind. He also asked me to make sure that I planted some of the seeds from my crop in a fertile place where new apples could grow. I worked around the bush and picked his apples into the sack, still humming softly.