The story about the scent of apples?

Question

enkyu very much!!!!

Answer 1

I have never heard about this in my life, can u be more specific

Answer 2

The only story I know about apples is about a grandmother telling her grandson that there is a house that is round and red and has a star inside. He can't guess and she cuts the apple in half and shows him the star inside.

Answer 3

??

This story?

http://home.mindspring.com/~morganstuart...

Answer 4

The waters rocked me with a gentleness like warm life in the womb. The mist shrouded me so I was blind to my own hand before my face. The almost unbearable thrill I had carried with me from the island fell away in that fog and left only peace behind. This day was as natural as breath, and it seemed to me that the very elements moved in concert to escort me onward.

            

I trusted the currents to deliver my little craft to shore, the mist to reveal the hillside at the appointed hour. My sisters had left the isle in earlier days, each according to her purpose, and they had painted this world for me in the bold colors of faith and lust and passion. I offered myself up to it without reservation. The cycle, the story, the very world was ready to revolve again in its knotted circle, unending and unyielding, and I was woven into its delicate inevitability.

            

The veil of mist split before me all at once.

            

I knew the battle of Camlann from visions and prophesies and songs yet unsung, glorious promises of the defeat of death and the new age of Albion. I had relished the fact I would step onto its stage to perform my duty. I had fantasized of this day and the chaos I would midwife into order here.

            

Yet I had not once imagined the truth of war. The hillside bled out in garish red rivulets running down to the lake. Twisted bodies, or portions of bodies, lay frozen in death, tangled in final combat. The air stank of blood and torn earth and flesh burning in ceremonial fires.

            

I did not feel the boat shudder as it ran aground. I was simply there, a part of the shore and the scene, astounded by the ruin I had encountered.

            

Above me, to my left, a lone knight appeared on a soft swell of ground. He stood under his own power, but I gathered from the rigid awkwardness with which he held himself that some of the blood he wore was his own. He gripped a sword in both hands. The blade was the work of my island and I knew it at a glance. My instincts told me I was needed in this solemn act, that the lady of the lake should accept Excalibur here, in the waters, to complete the movement and fulfill the prophecy. But instead I sat frozen, captive to the terrible grief this picture presented, able only to watch as he launched the sword over the lake. The blade soared, end over end, flashing like shards of shattered glass, then sank heavily into the deep.

            

The knight cried out like a wounded animal and I shivered at the sound.

            

I had anticipated change, like the budding of leaves after winter frost, a new life borne of death, sober yet inherently beautiful. I had not foreseen the raw agony of the hour.

            

The knight buckled at the knees and remained there. I looked away, but I could offer him no privacy. All around us the blank and rheumy eyes of the dead stared, unblinking, unashamed at their intrusion on the living. I could feel their gazes devouring me from every direction. I reached for my thin veil and freed it from its circlet. I pulled it down before my face to ease the stench.

            

And to save me from those eyes.

            

When the first call penetrated my shock I started, sure that one of the corpses was awake and asking for me. Then I realized that there were live men among the dead, though they looked little better than their lost compatriots. A bedraggled party of three stood before me. They stooped in deference to injuries and exhaustion, yet they all attempted a low bow before me. I nodded without speaking and they rose gracelessly.

            

I had always planned to walk among the mortals just this once and savor my solitary venture from the island. But faced with the pitiful dregs of an army, men who had funeral pyres to build and hopes to bury, I could not force myself to rise from my boat. I wrenched an alien voice from my throat and said, “Bring him, good sir knights.” The mention of the King sent them up the knoll with more speed than I would have thought possible. Loyalty, it seemed, was the last to die at Camlann.

            

Soon they appeared over the rise, a grim and mute procession. I gripped the wooden sides of my craft in the effort to anchor myself against my sea of emotion. In the careful arms of his liegemen came my love, the one I had never known but always adored. I was born to cherish him, to save him, and though I’d not once seen him I believed I knew him like no other ever could. Prophesy had promised and fate had sealed this moment between us both. If I was meant for him in this hour then in a way he, too, was now for me. My sisters be damned; Morgaine might have slept with him, and Morgause plotted with him, and Viviane granted him his sword, but none of them could heal him as I could.

            

The knights slipped and stumbled on the upturned and bloodied ground but the King remained secure, high atop their shoulders on a litter fashioned from their battle shields. I wanted nothing more than to remove him from this place. The knights looked to me as they progressed toward my canoe and I straightened in silent salute.

            

They continued on into the water until they could lower him into my little craft. I opened my arms and closed my eyes as they did so. Even now I remember the first thrill of warmth as they settled him before me, his shoulders upon my lap and his head against my bosom. Only the mild splashing of wounded men in shallow water disturbed the silence of the moment. I kept my eyes closed until I could feel them grow still and expectant around me. Then I looked at each of them in turn, nodded thanks for their final act of obedience to our shared destiny, and asked them to push me off into the lake.

            

Then the mist returned and there was no more Camlann with its grotesque landscape of carnage, no broken warriors with dying dreams of the Round Table. There was only the King.

            

Finally, I looked at him.

            

He appeared older than I had imagined he would. The thought was ludicrous, of course, but it struck me all the same. Gray had invaded his curls, his beard, and vanquished much of its vivid dark mahogany. The dull brown of dried blood tracked from the corner of his lips to his neck. I followed the trail until it met the wicked scar of his wound, a jagged tear from shoulder to breast. His men had stripped him of armor and left him in simple cloth garments to expose his injury. I gathered the folds of my cloak and pressed them against the spot where bright red blood still ran.

            

At my touch, he trembled.

            

I began a tuneless, instinctual hum as I brushed the fingers of my free hand against his hair. The coolness of the air I once had found comforting now chilled me as the mud and gore from the fallen King seeped through my skirts and down my bare legs. I dared not shiver and add to his pain.

            

His eyes, when they opened, were not the cornflower blue I had heard described so many times. Instead they were the fathomless gray of the sky before a storm, pregnant with power but quiet for now. He looked straight ahead into the mist.

            

I wondered what he saw there. Or who.

            

He had, after all, no lover to conjure. His woman was another man’s, or perhaps God’s by now — I had paid little heed to the stories of Guinevere’s fate. His only child lay slain by his father’s hand, but not before dealing the King this terrible blow. His friends were piled high on funeral pyres, their bodies oily smoke climbing to the heavens. His advisor was gone, disappeared into the woods, the victim of the very sorcery he once had wielded so well.

            

As I listed the King’s losses to myself, I began to marvel at how truly alone this man was. Apart from the ragged handful of survivors I had encountered lakeside, I was all he had. And though I knew the story of his deeds, the detail of his every campaign, I was, to him, a total stranger.

            

A legendary life spent in service to others, to ideas, and to justice, and now, helpless, he depended for his very survival on the care of those he did not know. It was prophecy, of course, and he knew it. The thought made me unutterably sad. Suddenly my compassion overwhelmed my passion, and I saw him as a man rather than a king.

            

And I loved him more deeply than I had ever dreamed possible.

            

I could find no words to say to him so I just held him as we rocked on the patient waters. After a time he stiffened, and I felt his breath catch as he fought to brace himself against new torment. Jaw clenched, air hissing between teeth, he tried valiantly to endure in silence. As I watched his knuckles go white against the floor of the boat I wondered how long he could survive. Without me and my healing mysteries, his suffering would soon end forever.

            

It was a strange notion, quite unexpected. Before, sheltered on my island with only the foolish dreams of a naive girl for company, I had not imagined Arthur’s life as one of suffering. He was a ruler and a beloved one at that, a legend in his own lifetime. When I had envisioned that King, however, he had not been filthy and agonized, bereft of all he had known and loved. Only now did I see that Arthur had spent himself for his subjects and land. He had given every loved thing away and denied himself comfort. The healing I promised was not the restoration of a man, it was the renewal of a monarch. I was to save Arthur so he could offer himself up to the next cycle, the next story, as fate demanded. It would happen all over again, and I was to be the agent of his self-sacrifice.

            

He saved me from my bleak thoughts then as he eased back against me with a sigh. The spasm was over,