Once upon a time there was a woodsman who did nought with his life but cut down trees. All day in the dark forest his axe went hack hack hack in the gloom. And he brought home nothing but firewood, which he burned so he would have the strength to return to the forest the next day.

His daughter watched and wept, for she saw his pain, his emptiness, the loneliness of his repetitive cycle.

One day she accompanied him and was surprised to meet a snake dangling from a high branch.

“Come little girl,” said the snake and hissed in a way that was both terrifying and inviting.

“No!” said her father. “Ignore this evil!”

But she was tempted and she began to climb the tree.

“No!” cried the father. “It is evil, you will die.” And he grasped her leg to pull her down. But she escaped, and climbed, as the snake slithered further up.

As the woodsman began to cry with fear at the loss of his daughter, which he could see with terrifying certainty, he hurled his axe to sever the snake in two.

But his tears obscured his sight and he missed.

The axe flew up, hack hack hack, and fell down, and severed a daughter’s father in two.

The girl did not see, for she had climbed to the top of the forest canopy, where the snake had led her.

The snake was gone, but in his place was a magical apple. It shone like polished glass, sparkled with every colour and more, and was hard and smooth as ice yet warm to the touch.

She plucked it, knowing it was only for her, and descended to find her dead father below.

For years she mourned his life and her loss. The apple became a symbol of that day when everything changed, and she laid it on the altar of the church so everyone may share her grief.

In time an old man came and said to her, “I am the snake, and I can see you have not received my gift.”

By this time the girl was not a girl, but a woman who had run out of fear, for her life was spent in grief.

“What is your gift, snake?” she asked. “Is it my father’s death?”

“No,” said the snake, “It is the apple.”

She said, “It is not an apple. Children have attempted to eat it, not knowing what it meant, but they have found it impenetrably hard. Not even the strongest man in the village can break it. Leave me.”

The old man hissed and left, saying, “It is your life.”

And the woman looked at the apple, whose colours sparkled all the more when she was nearest, and she picked it up.

And she bit into it, and its crispness was extraordinary, and its flesh was beautiful, and its juice was the most marvellous thing she had ever tasted.