It all began with an ex­tra­or­di­nary bout of sus­pi­cion.

“I saw what I saw,” said Grif­fey as doubt quickly rav­aged his soul like a corpse con­fined to a cheap pine cof­fin. He leaned his shot­gun against a hedge of tightly woven branches and paused. A cat­bird was whistling some­where in the dis­tance. Her bro­ken melody sounded more like a chuckle than a chirp and if he’d glimpsed the black-capped nui­sance cack­ling any­where near him, he’d cer­tainly have shot her!

It was a warm morn­ing. The scar­let rim of dawn was edg­ing the gloomy Shenan­doah like a bright ce­les­tial gri­mace. Mos­qui­tos were gath­er­ing around the muddy banks of the river, hov­er­ing in swarms above over­turned pic­nic benches, rot­ting tire swings, de­cay­ing tree stumps, and heaps of tan­gled brush and ivy.

Old Grif­fey drew a pint of gin from his haver­sack, took a long but mea­sured pull, and bit into an apple for a chaser. He had a headache, a toothache, suf­fered a vi­cious sort of throb­bing against his tem­ples, fore­head and jaw­line just be­neath the ears. A warm chill, pos­si­bly from fever, numbed his joints and cramped the back of his legs. He stepped off the trail and found a shade tree some thirty paces from the river and sat down. Plac­ing the shot­gun on his lap, he swal­lowed an­other pull, chewed an­other bite, and rested com­fort­ably be­neath the dark canopy. He re­flected upon his age, his life, and took stock of what was around.

Be­tween the river­bank and a stretch of pas­ture stood a crum­bling rock wall, it leaned be­side the river like a bloated body over­taken by pur­ple wis­te­ria vines. Low clus­ters of Lonicera and braids of smashed Celas­trus berries be­trayed sil­ver epaulets of sky­light from one end of the wall to the other. The fra­grant ef­flu­via, mixed with the scent of damp soil and tur­bid river water, car­ried Grif­fey’s thoughts onto his wife. A black wave of nau­sea sud­denly took hold of him. He leaned for­ward, gagged, and re­coiled like a tightly wound spring. He kicked off his boot, squeezed his big toe onto the trig­ger, and bit onto the bar­rel of his twelve-gauge. But now, shaken by sav­age un­cer­tainty, which op­pressed him like a dense shadow of bad luck, hor­ri­fied the old man be­yond un­speak­able doubt dur­ing these dark, di­min­ish­ing years of dotage and ir­rel­e­vance. He hes­i­tated…

Ap­prox­i­mately fifty years ago old Grif­fey in­her­ited sixty-five acres of an apple or­chard eleven miles east of Charles Town be­tween Dunkirk Grove and John Phillip’s County. Fer­tile val­leys oc­cu­pied its golden low­lands to the west while a di­min­ish­ing tail of the Blue Ridge Moun­tains crowned its hori­zon to the east. A swell of cot­ton fields, di­vided by a stretch of train tracks, bil­lowed be­yond a small tex­tile plant and surged south­ward. The air here was al­ways pleas­ant, often smelling like a freshly woven bas­ket, a scent not un­like al­falfa mead­ows or the dry, med­i­c­i­nal fra­grance of rag­weed or worm­wood.

It was a pro­duc­tive au­tumn. An un­usu­ally high de­mand for York and Stay­man ap­ples across the Mid­west began de­plet­ing Grif­fey’s or­chard be­fore the end of Oc­to­ber. Dur­ing these rare agri­cul­tural up­surges, ad­di­tional farmhands were al­most al­ways needed. Often ar­riv­ing from the two ad­join­ing coun­ties, they were picked up in town, dri­ven to the or­chard, and pro­vided tem­po­rary hous­ing in­side the old grist­mill be­side Thomp­son-Press creek. About forty-five paces from the mill, perched upon a small bluff hedged by a white picket fence, stood Grif­fey’s mod­est two-story farm­house. It was a gray, pleas­ant, peace­ful af­fair adorned by scores of cur­tained win­dows that flut­tered like long, co­quet­tish lashes dur­ing brisk au­tum­nal cross­winds. A fem­i­nine hand of do­mes­tic­ity could be felt in every room, space, and cor­ner. Even in­side its nar­row dog-run, painted haint blue and lit­tered with old boots, weath­ered jack­ets, and smashed top hats, could one no­tice the de­voted pres­ence of a wife by the vague, in­tox­i­cat­ing scent of pur­ple laven­der, sweet pep­per­mint, and wild lilac.

Grif­fey’s wife, Marie, was the youngest of three chil­dren raised in the cold, des­o­late moun­tains of Mor­gan­town. Liv­ing in poverty, she was the only sib­ling to sur­vive a dev­as­tat­ing scro­fula out­break, which nearly an­ni­hi­lated that en­tire re­gion of Ap­palachia dur­ing the turn of the cen­tury. With the loss of Marie’s two older sis­ters, her fa­ther man­aged to save enough for a mod­est dowry, and sent her away to live with an aunt fol­low­ing her sev­en­teenth birth­day. How­ever, the blue pas­tures and green mead­ows of Vir­ginia failed to pro­duce an im­me­di­ate suitor. And be­cause she wasn’t a so­ci­ety woman, Marie’s only op­tion in find­ing a hus­band was lim­ited to poor com­mu­nity dances, wretched live­stock auc­tions, and te­dious bingo gath­er­ings. But one day, as Marie was help­ing her church or­ga­nize the an­nual apple blos­som fes­ti­val just south of the county line, she was in­tro­duced to her fu­ture hus­band ped­dling his prize-win­ning ap­ples.

“Grif­fey’s a rich and harm­less old sort,” af­firmed her aunt one evening over din­ner. She was a frail but prag­matic woman deeply fa­mil­iar with eco­nomic hard­ship her­self. But after hav­ing blown through Marie’s dowry from those “hid­den ‘spences” as­so­ci­ated with rais­ing a niece, she’d sud­denly be­come cold and awk­wardly dis­tant. Fi­nally, as the bit­ter sting of penury eclipsed Marie’s hope in find­ing true and ever­last­ing love, liv­ing con­di­tions with her aunt began de­te­ri­o­rat­ing rapidly. So after a hand­ful of dates, sev­eral din­ners, and chaste moon­lit evenings under the lam­bent shad­ows of his vast or­chard, Marie gra­ciously ac­cepted Grif­fey’s pro­posal with­out pause or hes­i­ta­tion.

Within a few weeks of mar­riage, how­ever, the phys­i­cal act of love be­came a hu­mil­i­at­ing task for the young woman. She thought the en­counter with Grif­fey felt more like an im­pro­pri­ety, a sac­ri­fice—an im­moral vi­o­la­tion of bound­aries—than the fren­zied, erotic re­lease she had once imag­ined. Old Grif­fey took this in stride. He began com­par­ing his wife’s am­a­tory re­luc­tance to the process of break­ing a filly too tem­pera­men­tal to sad­dle and much too in­ex­pe­ri­enced to lunge.

“She’ll get used to it,” he was fond of say­ing after every frigid in­ter­lude, whistling and ar­rang­ing his pearl-but­toned shirt as he re­turned to his or­chard. Sud­denly good health, en­ergy and vigor de­scended upon the old man every mo­ment he thought of her. As if plunged into the depths of a cold moun­tain spring after an ex­haust­ing har­vest, op­ti­mism gilded his rheumatic life like a crisp, ef­fer­ves­cent breeze. It oiled his joints, ham­mered the bend from his back, and im­bibed his thread­bare de­sires with a del­i­cate and be­witch­ing taste for the young, adorably ob­sti­nate fe­male. But like early au­tumn hoar­frost, which de­vours the blush from ap­ples by rot­ting their fi­brous core, icy pil­lars of sus­pi­cion had sud­denly nipped the farmer’s com­po­sure and haunted every crease in his soul.

One evening, tired and feel­ing under the weather, Marie left the or­chard early on ac­count of pierc­ing cramps and a per­sis­tent headache. Quickly fi­nal­iz­ing a few ad­min­is­tra­tive du­ties and wrap­ping up a hand­ful of in­ci­den­tal tasks, she has­tened to close the farm of­fice an hour be­fore twi­light. As the har­vest sea­son was com­ing to an end, and only a few itin­er­ant work­ers had re­mained on the farm, she wasn’t sur­prised to find Grif­fey help­ing load ap­ples onto stakebeds head­ing west. Marie ap­proached, gave him a quick kiss good­night, and walked back to the house be­neath an av­enue of lin­dens arch­ing over the meadow like a soft pur­ple um­brella.

Be­yond the or­chard, past the val­ley, and above the shal­low hills and rolling mead­ows, the gray half-light of evening had ar­rived. It sketched the cool, open hori­zon with bright sil­ver lines and dark slop­ing shad­ows. Grif­fey was tired and left work early. He cut through the or­chard, by­passed the tall av­enue of lin­dens, and paused be­side the creek to pick a hand­ful of dame’s rocket grow­ing be­side a hedge of box­woods. They were Marie’s fa­vorite peren­nial.

“But to blos­som this late in the sea­son…” he mut­tered to him­self while smil­ing to­ward the great, vac­u­ous, and un­re­spon­sive sky, “must cer­tainly be some kind of fa­vor­able omen.” And like all hard­work­ing coun­try­folk teth­ered to su­per­sti­tions be­lieved to pierce the un­fath­omable mys­ter­ies in life, he whis­pered a quick prayer of grat­i­tude be­fore con­tin­u­ing his way home.

The damp air, fra­granced by the blue and white petals of these long, del­i­cate blos­soms flut­ter­ing be­neath his nose, re­minded the old chap of his beau­ti­ful lit­tle wife. Her soft gray eyes, her ra­di­ant blond hair, the curl of her prud­ish mouth pout­ing be­neath her an­gu­lar nose, it all de­scribed the most erot­i­cally charged pro­file. Every farm­hand on the or­chard was dis­tracted by her pres­ence, rudely gaz­ing at her small, del­i­cate back­side draped be­hind a thin linen skirt, and openly com­par­ing it to a round, crispy apple! As he fol­lowed the me­an­der­ing creek be­yond a sunken hay barn, he glimpsed his re­flec­tion in a moon­lit pud­dle ed­dy­ing be­tween two weather-beaten stones. He looked old, sour, hag­gard by labor and with­drawn by the heavy pull of time. Vexed by this specter, and ashamed of his con­stant state of arousal, old Grif­fey began feel­ing more like a lecher than he did a hus­band, friend, or part­ner. He tore his anx­ious gaze from the creek and onto the pale, glis­ten­ing hori­zon. A slight dis­tance away, gen­tly light­ing the ten­drils of a droop­ing wil­low tree, stood a thick tal­low can­dle burn­ing in­side the grist­mill be­tween the thresh­ing floor and a nar­row hall­way. The dis­torted fig­ure of a woman, whose breasts flick­ered un­evenly onto the far wall, was now pulling a loose fit­ting blouse over her firm torso. A few mo­ments later, re­treat­ing to an empty grain closet, she blew out the can­dle, walked be­yond the thresh­old and stepped onto the moon­lit pas­ture. As she rushed to­ward the gray farm­house over­look­ing the mill, she tucked loose strands of hair be­hind her flushed ears and weary face, took in a deep breath, and walked in­side.

There was no time for Grif­fey to think or even react. In­stead, a vague rush of col­lid­ing emo­tions flooded his heart like some dry and an­cient es­tu­ary. He caught his bal­ance on an old maple tree and leaned against it until his head had fi­nally stopped spin­ning.

That same night, rest­ing be­side his wife, which proved to be a te­dious chal­lenge of en­durance and re­straint, had ren­dered the old man weary and re­volted by in­ac­tion.

“What should I do?” he asked him­self. “Re­trieve my gun? Flog my wife? Am­bush the scoundrel who emerges from the mill?” Un­able to think be­yond the nar­row and re­stric­tive hori­zon of jeal­ousy and de­spair, he turned onto his side and gazed at Marie. She was lying on her back and sleep­ing soundly. A warm poul­tice had been placed just below her navel and fra­granced the air with lemon grass and eu­ca­lyp­tus leaves. Strange rib­bons of moon­light, which gauzed her skin like a vault of ven­er­a­ble bril­liance, streamed in from the cur­tained win­dow in trans­par­ent waves of shadow. She began re­sem­bling a fair, al­most myth­i­cal maiden poorly cloaked by a robe, but se­cretly con­va­lesc­ing from the sav­age, car­nal, glut­to­nous touch of a crude and in­dis­crim­i­nate farm­hand!

“In fact,” hissed Grif­fey, af­fix­ing his gaze onto the porce­lain wash­basin wedged be­neath re­ced­ing beams of the pal­ing win­dow, “that black­guard is prob­a­bly brag­ging about it in some de­cay­ing beer tav­ern across town!” And as he imag­ined the la­borer snap­ping Marie’s panties off below her pelvis, knees, and an­kles the lash of be­trayal scourged his heart as if struck by a grue­some brand­ing iron. Grif­fey reeled from ex­as­per­a­tion. He stood up, am­bled across the room, and caught his breath upon lean­ing against the win­dow. His head was reel­ing, his mouth was dry, and the weight of his legs felt heav­ier than coal. He tried to glimpse the mill be­yond a deep un­der­growth of shadow, only there wasn’t a glint to be seen, just an empty, un­end­ing hole of blight and black­ness. A solemn church bell, which mourned for day­break be­yond the soft, golden windrows of dor­mant mead­ows, pierced the bed­room walls with gloom be­hind twelve iron-tongued clam­ors. The cold and pious melody, which seamed the old man’s heart with threads of rev­er­ence, also flushed his dod­der­ing viril­ity with un­ex­pected bold­ness. And like a healthy, sala­cious, in­ex­pe­ri­enced young man blinded by the erotic in­tox­i­ca­tion of a fleet­ing mo­ment, old Grif­fey felt a vague in­duce­ment to stran­gle Marie with a surge of ex­hil­a­rated pas­sion, to kiss her mer­ce­nary lips, and bite her un­faith­ful breasts. And per­haps then, dur­ing a pro­longed am­a­tory con­quest, be­tween tones of si­lence and moans of protest, might he fi­nally hear a whis­pered and whim­pered con­fes­sion.

The next morn­ing, how­ever, re­cov­er­ing from the shal­low depths of vile and re­pug­nant im­pulses—the old apple farmer, cow­er­ing from grief and trem­bling with shame, was dis­cov­ered on the bank of the Shenan­doah—life­less, miss­ing his head, and par­tially ob­scured be­neath a net­work of a low grow­ing copse.