“Fresh apples! Fresh apples!” Cried a soft masculine voice. “Juicy, soft but not rotten, no sir! Only one iron coin!” The voice once again cried out. This time with a salivated lace of boasting. 

The owner of the voice waited a couple breaths, his tongue wiggled excitedly in his mouth, hidden from sight. His rump sat upon the cold bare ground, studying the common folk that marched backwards and forwards in front of him. His youthful eyes danced with the gusto of a ravenous fox.  

“You their sir!” The man yelled at a fellow walking in front of him, enunciating his words with the thrust of his long-callused index finger. “You look like the kind of man who knows a good apple...” He paused, allowing his prey a moment to soak up the small compliment. “Look at my wares good sir! You won’t find finer apples in all of Connacht – you won’t.” A smooth flourish and the man’s hands were now gesturing invitingly with open fingers to the bushel of apples beside him. 

“Not interested.” Replied the flat tongue of a weathered bloke, his pace forward never bothered to slow for a second for his reply. 

“Hold on now dear sir,” the grocer pleaded. “Please show mercy on this humble grocer and inspect mine fruits, before you make your verdict.” 

“Well, I guess I can perchance spare but a moment of my time – I can.” The promising customer replied, making his way of several paces to the grocer. He squatted low, and began to make his appraisal. 

The customer grabbed an apple harshly in his weathered left hand, tracing his cracked fingers across the delicate green skin, taking in both its weight, shine, and robustness. 

He hummed to himself in thought whilst throwing the fleshy emerald towards the heavens ever so softly. “Lil’ on the small size. Not a huge fan of the green ones either, I’m not. I’ll give you four woods for five.” 

So, the game began.  

“Four for five!” The grocer yipped with mock exaggeration. “Why good sir, these are not just any common apples, why no sir. These are the exotic apples from the forest of Tifindallaroon.” The grocer explained, quickly creating the existence of a magical forest. His mind’s eye saw the rapid growth of lush gold trees, dense bracken, the smell of rich oak and ivy, sounds of birds and a mysterious buzzing always in the near distance. A basic construct that hinted at the subtle Soothsayer’s breed of magic. “Why just one single mouth-watering bite will cure you of all common ailments – it will. It will also make you grow taller, stronger, and should you have any trouble ‘performing’, it will make even the most withered member grow as strong and large as the mighty as the tree it sprung from! An apple this special is worth its weight in gold, but for you my good sir, just a single measly iron coin is all I ask for one of these scrumptious apples.” 

The man stared hard with tired eyes at the seated grocer. Their eyes not quite meeting due the shadows the grocer’s oversized cloth cap casted upon his face. “Does thy grocer take me for a fool? A buffoon? Purchase even the behind of a slab of fresh mutton? You expect me to believe that you, a shady lout of poor attire, with not even a bucket to hold your wares, to possess enchanted products of your description?”  

The grocer examined his customer. Now really taking in this man’s appearance. He was about half way through his life, typical peasants' garb, but made with a slight finer quality and skill. A large muscular back and chestnut crushing hands. “A farm hands? No. A farm owner.” He confirmed with his hubris. “Not a poor farm, no, but neither one that thrives beyond his cultivated brambles, yet a proud man nonetheless. He also slurs less than the common lout and most certainly possesses more words on his tongue that can be scrawled onto a single messenger pigeon.” He then appraised the man’s broomstick posture and hard face, also taking a second gander at girth. “Best not lie too much with this one.” 

“Oh, but sir I do not take you for anything but what I see: A strong, proud man of awesome presence. I make no lies, no sir. You see, I am a hunter and I came across these apples on one of my trips, yes sir. It is as you say, sir, that my enterprise is lacking, but that does not mean my product is too. I hand-picked these gems myself and am not a lying man; honest word.” The grocer fibbed - except for the hand-picking part, that he actually did do. Although, he was also most certainly a poor man, there was no hiding that. 

“Oh yeah, and where is this Tifidi-whatever forest?” The farmer inquired. 

The myth came quick to his lips: “Why, east good sir, east. Past the city of Gallemdale. West of Arbarkk. Right around the corner of the Vermillion Swamp. Can’t miss it – you can’t.” 

The customer went silent and looked idly at the apple that was still in his grasp.  “I’ll give you two irons for five.” 

“Five irons.” The grocer retorted. 

“Three.” 

“Four and five woods.” 

“Three and six.” 

“Four and two.” 

“Three and eight.” 

“Four. Final offer.” 

“Deal!”  

And with the debate over, the two began their exchange. One of money, the other of dubious nutrition. Just as their transaction was coming to an end. The sun made an unexpected appearance, materialising from behind the monochrome canvas above them. 

“Oh, what a beautiful light.” The customer beamed, now starting deeply at the morning sun. 

“Oh, why It is, good sir. Aren’t we truly blessed to be under her warm bosom.” The grocer concurred with his patriate. He too was always humbled by the presence of the celestial amber. 

“Yes indeed. Oh, bless us great Circle. The one that was, is, and shall always be – the true one, complete. Bless us as we bask in your forever giving, warm creation.” The customer said ever so sombrely. Gone now was his hard stare; replaced now with the eyes of a sheltered child. One of whom only knew of war and battles in patriotic fiction. 

Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

“Yes, um bless... The Circle...” The grocer replied in a barely masked uncomfortable tone. 

The customer suddenly cranked his neck and bore into the grocer’s face. The movement looked painful with its jarring snap. The man’s hard face returned quicker than it left and with even greater magnitude. 

“You do not refer to the Lord of singular spiral with the use of his title...” He breathed. “Nay! You speak as if he was an equal. I also detect no awe, wonder or love in thou’s voice...” His stone eyes grew smaller, yet no weaker. The skin slits that now engulfed almost all of his pupils, magnifying the intensity of what was still seen. 

A lump began to form in his throat, “a thousand apologies good sir. I am tired and misspoke. I feel truly horrid to refer to great and omniscient Circle in such a blasphemous manner.” The grocer pleaded. He arose from where he sat, making great effort to be look as harmless as possible while he did so, his back hunched slightly so even his height would not be a factor.  

“Blasphemous...” The customer mimicked, tasting the word in its entirety doing so. “Aye. Most blasphemous indeed.” 

The grocer new instantly he had made a fatal error. By calling his own action blasphemous, he had admitted to what he said to being a crime of faith; a most heinous crime indeed. 

“Worry not grocer, I believe that you did not mean to commit a most despicable crime, so your life shall be spared.” The man assured with the nod of his head. “But a crime you committed nonetheless! I say eighty lashes and some hot coals on the tongue will suffice.” He stated in a gentle tone, as if he truly believed his verdict was an incredibly generous one. 

The hairs on the grocer’s limbs sharpened in retaliation. Salty liquid dribbled down his crown, nestlings themselves in his thick brows. “Please good sir, I beg of thee to forget this one misdemeanour. Allow me to find sanctuary in your good heart. Mercy, sir. Mercy.” He pleaded with hands entwined in each other, his frame bowed forward in submission. 

The former customer stared blankly at him for several seconds, as if he was unable to comprehend what had just been asked of him. Then, a spark of vulgar epiphany ignited in the man’s mind; he began to shake. His body spasmed with an unconcealed rage. Pellets of spit sprang from his slacked jaw in quick succession. Knuckles turned whiter and whiter with self-inflicted pressure. “Y-you dare,” he stuttered “You swine! You dare ask for more goodwill after I have offered you plenty! You who insults the great Lord Circle with such a casual tongue! You demon! You heathen! You fuckin’ piece of unholy filth” He screeched, losing all sense of decorum with his final insult. 

The spit he fired had now swirled and warmed with a passionate blaze. It began to foam, masking the red of the man’s lips, tiny white bubbles spread themselves across his face like boils. 

He took hold of the grocer with his strong leathery hands. The grocer began to retreat, but alas he was fixed in place. He noticed a crowd had now formed around them both. All with cracked eyes and snarls that mirrored his former customer. It appeared that they had overheard the conversation and found themselves on the side of the weathered holy man. “Typical,” The grocer thought. 

The grocer watched as the swarm of crazed peasants slowly encircled him. Less than an hour ago he was a predator, feasting upon the small amount of coins that jangled in their plebeian pockets. Now he was just another meal for the pack. He cursed his slippery tongue. Negotiations had failed, all that was left now was to either fight or flee. Fighting was not an option for this empty-handed grocer, fleeing was the only option. However, to do that he would first need to free himself of the sentient vices that that ached his bones whilst they coiled themselves around him. 

“That’s right! I despise your childish idea of divinity!” He boomed all of a sudden.  “A circle? Hah! Your Lord is but a philosophical shape at his finest. Alas for you all, that shape comes in the form of mere mortal flesh.” An exaggerated smirk grew on his face, “that’s right, your lord is nothing but a man, a man and nothing more.” He roared with a passion that shocked even himself. “A man who lies with common farm animals, so I’ve been told.” The grocer added for final affect. 

Oh, how they howled. They became banshees in response to his provocation. Screaming, squawking, flailing their limbs until they whistled in an effort to drown out his words. 

“Y-y-you demon. How it possible for someone to utter such words?” The farmer hissed, now squeezing so hard on the grocer’s arms he could feel the bones beneath creak and grind. 

“I but speak the truth! Your lord is pitiful! Ugly! Weak! Smelly! Vile! Stupid! Foolish! A common lout! Why, I heard he was the result of a one-legged whore and one of those rats that has been trained to crawl through a man’s buttocks for some kind of perverse pleasure, you know the ones.” The grocer spat, doing his best to be heard over the chorus of ear-destroying screams. 

His foes started swaying side to side, becoming drunk on his venom. The grocer did not relent however, for if he was to allow a mere second of silence, so they may compose themselves, it would be his last. With little other choice he carried on his verbal assault, using ever curse he knew to describe their deity. Most were childish and others used incorrectly, they would not even offend even the most riled drunkard typically, yet these were not normal beings he was dealing with. Each word that came out of the grocer’s mouth, no matter how juvenile, was a shard of crocked glass in their blissful brains. 

Eventually the grocer got what he desired, the man holding onto him could no longer withstand his wicked viper tongue and threw his palms onto his ears. As soon as the grocer no longer felt the weight upon himself, he turned and ran. His apples long forgotten; never once did he look back for them. 

He ran and ran and ran some more. Never once trusting it to be safe. He knew from experience that the modern man could be relentless when it came to their dogma. 

Only after when his body collapsed onto a forest floor did he finally stop. He was not sure when he ended up in the forest that now surrounded him, for the last several miles had been a wheezing blur. The grocer was confident he was now safe though, normally they would eventually stop their pursuit and go back on with their lives as if nothing had ever happened. The grocer supposed that was so they did not destroy themselves in the hunt. Their Lord was at least merciful enough to not work his cattle to death, over an insult to his pride, “Sometimes,” he thought. 

Hours passed before the grocer regained enough of his strength to stand upright. Once he did, he immediately dusted of his tattered clothing and collected his thoughts, “only four iron coins for all that effort,” He grumbled to himself, as he twirled the large metal coins in between his fingers. At that thought, he felt a sudden painful rumbling in his stomach. “Damn, I didn’t even have time to retrieve those shitty apples of mine,” He grumbled. 

With an aching stomach and even more aching body, the grocer was forced to press on. He did not yet feel safe from society and was also in desperate need for food. The man marched on once again, alone.  

It had been nearly sixteen months since everything had changed. Before “he” had taken over. In solitude the grocer had trudged on, in a world with not a single friend, comrade, or even acquaintance. A cursed existence surrounded by cursed people. A grocer without groceries; a scholar without books; an alchemist without a laboratory; a magician without a wand. 

“I’m the last sane man in a world of insanity,” he mused. “wonder if that makes me the crazy one?” He asked himself with his hand on his chin, Rubbing the bristles gently. 

With little else to do the grocer took off into the dark forest, in search for something to quell his aching belly