One soft and shimmering early summer day, a traveller made his way along the rough road towards the diminutive Romanian town of Tzbena.

His feet were blistered and his back ached, but his heart was light as he made his way. On each side of the road, beautiful orchards were in bloom. Their leaves as lustrous and verdant as any he had ever seen; their blossoms a cloud of foamy white that from a distance looked like newly fallen snow. He inhaled their honeyed scent and his stomach rumbled as he imagined the flavour of the crisp fruit when it was ripe.

The sun was high in the sky above him; the solstice was swiftly approaching. The traveller was glad that Tzbena was almost in sight. The solstice celebrations in Tzbena were known for many miles around. The dancing went on for days and the food and wine flowed freely. All were welcome and the traveller was in need of good food and good company. He smiled to himself and hoisted his knapsack a little higher on his shoulder and marched on.

Half an hour later he came to a fork in the road and looking away to the left, something caught his eye. Amidst the ocean of green and white filling all the other fields he could make out a vast expanse of scarlet. Red, caught by the evening sun, looking almost like a field of blood. The traveller paused at the fork and shielded his eyes to try to get a better view. A glow of iridescent crimson was all he could make out. His curiosity outweighed his fatigue and he turned left and made his way towards the strange oasis.

A few more moments travail brought him to the gate of a small property surrounded by the remnants of what had once been an orchard. As he surveyed it, up close, he felt a shiver run down his spine. It looked as though it had been entirely consumed by fire or scorched by a blistering sun. Everything was burnt sienna - the house, the stable, the well and of course the trees. The most puzzling thing however, was the neatness of this calamity. The carmine carpet stopped precisely at the gate; outside the verges were green and full of wildflowers. The same was true of all other boundaries. The traveller stared in wonderment: what could have done this?

A voice almost in his ear made him jump from his reverie and seemed to have read his mind.

"I suppose you're wondering how this happened, aren't you?" Asked the wizened old man at his elbow, licking his lips in readiness of the story he so obviously had to tell.

"Well, yes. Was it a fire of some strange sort?" The traveller replied.

"Huh, a fire! It was certainly stranger than that. Sit down a moment, my legs aren't what they were young man." Settling himself on the grass verge as he began his story.

"It was just last Christmastime it happened. Sol Habem had lived in the farm all his life and had taken a wife two years previously. Anka was a plain little thing, but so good-natured that everyone adored her. She was sweetness itself - why if she'd been here now and seen a weary traveller such as yourself passing by, she'd have run out to invite you in for a cold drink and a bite to eat, so she would.

Sol now, he was a different kind of fish altogether. Didn't say much, brooding I suppose you might call him. He had bad luck in his past - all his family were dead, he was the last of the Habems. That was the cause of the trouble you see - he wanted an heir. He thought he'd made a good choice in Anka, plain, docile, healthy and large-hipped. But after two years of marriage - nothing. Over those two years Sol changed from being a bit brooding to being a bad-tempered devil! Everyone around here was scared of him; you couldn't say a thing without him jumping down your throat. He threw me out of the house once when he came home and found Anka giving me a bowl of soup. Can you imagine! Everyone felt so sorry for Anka - after all it wasn't her fault she was barren, was it?"

The old man paused for a moment and produced a bottle from inside his jacket. He coughed unpleasantly and then took a swig from the bottle, offering it then to the traveller.

"No, no thank you. Go on with your story - what happened next? He said waving the filthy bottle away.

"Well, it was coming up to the winter solstice and Anka was making a batch of turtas in the kitchen."

"Turtas?" Interrupted the traveller.

"You've never had turtas son? You've missed a treat! They're delicious pastries filled with honey and walnuts - we have them round here every Christmastime, and Anka's were the best for miles. In fact I'd made sure that I was around when she was cooking them in the hope that I might get one or two. I was happily sitting in her warm kitchen when I heard Sol coming up the path. Quick as a flash I hid in the cupboard, thinking that I would slip out when his back was turned.

He sounded in a worse mood than usual. Little Anka tried to placate him with soft words, but they seemed to have no effect. He saw that she was making turtas and suddenly said that they should finish the ceremony."

"What ceremony'" the traveller interrupted again.

"Huh? Oh, the turtas represent fertility and traditionally when a wife is in the middle of kneading the dough she stops and follows her husband out into the orchard. To ensure fruitfulness for the coming spring they enact a little ceremony where the husband goes to each barren tree with an axe and threatens to cut it down, and the wife has to say to him each time 'Oh no, I am sure that this tree will be as heavy with fruit next spring as my fingers are with dough this day.'

As you can imagine, Anka was surprised at his suggestion given that fertility was such a touchy subject between them. But she looked pleased and duly followed him out into the orchard. I crept from my hiding place, but didn't dare make a dash for it as Sol could've still spotted me. Instead I stood and watched them from the door. It was a clear fine night and their voices carried easily to my ears. I watched as Sol strode from tree to tree, heard his passionate threats to cut each down and Anka's sweet voice pleading for each to be spared.

But then there was a pause, which made me squint my eyes and cock my ears anew. Sol had turned from the tree that Anka knelt by and was now looming directly over her, his axe held high. Terrified, I heard him say 'And what of you, you barren little bitch? Will you be heavy with fruit next spring? Should I spare you?' Before she could answer or I could move, the axe, glinting in the evening sun, descended upon poor Anka almost cleaving her in two! Without a thought my old legs sprung into action, I was out of that house like lightning and past Sol before he even noticed me. Once at the gate, I allowed myself one glance back: Sol was just standing there staring at the huge pool of blood and gore in front on him, gradually soaking into the roots of the tree - which unlike Anka had been spared."

The two sat in silence for a moment, ruminating on the terrible tale. Then the traveller asked: "So what did you do, alert the neighbours, go for help?"

"Well there seemed no rush for that. Too late for Anka anyway. And in truth I was terrified of Sol. So I passed a troubled night huddled in my bed, a head full of frightful images. In the morning I knew that I had to do the right thing, so I went to all the surrounding farms and told my dread tale. So it was with a large posse that I made my way back here the following afternoon, which was solstice eve. We crept along this road not knowing what Sol might do when we faced him. But we need not have worried. Sol was dead. He'd hung himself from the same tree that Anka's devastated body lay beneath. We buried them both under that tree and went home to our families with sickened hearts. There was not much celebration that night.

"But what about the -" the traveller said impatiently gesturing towards the gory orchard behind them.

"Be patient boy! I was just about to tell you. No one went near Sol's place for sometime after that. He had no family to take over the orchard as I told you, and no-one hereabouts was keen to make a claim on it, with it's morbid history and all. So it stood empty and abandoned. Then gradually as spring approached, the farmers leaving nearby noticed a strange thing. As the sun got hotter, Sol's trees did not grow greener; they did not sprout and blossom as God intended. They burned - or so it seemed. Every inch of Sol's farm, every blade of grass, every tree, every flower - even the house itself smouldered without flames until only a charred shell was left. And as summer approached the whole property became the colour of old blood.

As you can imagine, if no one was keen to take on the place before, they certainly aren't now! So I guess it'll stand here forever, a site of infertility and death. And maybe as a warning to husbands not to be too harsh on their wives, eh?" The old man snorted with laughter, clapping the stunned traveller on the back at the same time.

The traveller said nothing and soon they were back on the road to Tzbena, travelling together towards the summer solstice celebrations it was so famous for. The traveller forced himself not look back. He hoped he would enjoy the festivities of the day; that the wine and food would not catch in his throat at the memory of that vile and bloody orchard.

copyright © the author, 2000