The Silver Bough by Lisa Tuttle Page A

bought books nearly every time she went for a break to the city, there were no bookstores in Appleton; she needed this library. And, anyway, it was never her intention to hurt anyone. While she hesitated, still struggling with the problem, someone came up to the counter with a stack of books to be checked out. She moved aside, but the librarian let her assistant deal with them and did not release Nell from her gaze. “Won’t you think about it?”
    “I’m better talking one-on-one than with groups.” As she spoke, she wondered if she shouldn’t just agree and make her escape. She could always find excuses later for not attending.
    “Me, too, actually,” said Kathleen, with another disconcertingly warm smile. “Do you want to meet up for lunch sometime? We close between one and two for lunch. How about today?”
    Her eyes went to the golden sunlight streaming through the window behind Kathleen. “Not today; not with this sunshine. After the weather we’ve had, I can’t
wait
to get back in the garden.”
    “Oh, of course. Well, maybe another time? When it’s raining? I’m here the same hours every day except Monday and Sunday.”
    “Actually, I don’t really
do
lunch. It puts such a big hole in the day.”
    That should have been the end of it. Two flat refusals were generally enough to kill any hopes. She hadn’t even apologized or left an obvious opening for her to try again; Kathleen could only retire, more or less defeated, which was what she’d wanted.
    So Nell didn’t understand what made her say, “Why don’t you come to my house for dinner? Tomorrow evening?” She spoke so casually that no one could have guessed what a big thing it was; the first time she’d ever invited anyone to Orchard House.
    Kathleen’s face lit up. “I’d love to! What time?”
    “Six o’clock? It won’t be anything fancy; probably more or less vegetarian.”
    “That’s fine with me.”
    They gazed at each other for a moment, both smiling shyly. Nell felt nervous and hopeful and confused by what she’d just done. She became aware that people were jostling behind her; looking around, she saw that a small queue had formed: mothers and children and pensioners struggling with their piles of books and waiting for her to get out of the way.
    “I’ll take those over here,” said Kathleen, moving to help her overworked assistant. She cast a final, bright-eyed look at Nell. “See you Sunday!”
    In a daze, Nell left the library. She hoped she wasn’t going to regret the invitation. It would be harder, in a small town, to avoid someone once the first overtures had been made if you didn’t want to be friends. She thought of Sam, who’d never understood what he called her “shyness” but which others recognized, more accurately, as a carefully maintained aloofness; he’d always thought it the most natural thing in the world to have and keep friends. As she put her library books into the car, as she got out her shopping bags and walked down to the shops, she felt, for the first time in years, the warmth of her husband’s approval, as if it were his sorely missed presence at her side.

 
     

     
 
    From The Living Magic of Scotland
by Daphne Holdstock
(Mythril Press, 1979)
     
    A LTHOUGH scholars have argued over whether or not the apple tree was represented in the Ogham tree-alphabet discussed earlier, there is no doubt about the veneration with which the apple was regarded by the ancient peoples of Scotland. Even the slightest acquaintance with folklore and fairy tale will bring a dozen references to mind. Apples were the fruit of life and immortality; the earthly paradise was “Avalon” (apple-land), and a branch bearing silver leaves, crystal blossom, and ripe red fruit was the magical passport which admitted mortals into the Other-World.
    This all sounds lovely, and yet the living traces of the long-ago apple-tree cult we can see in the Scotland of today bear a curiously sinister import. The game of