You could see it as funny, if you have a dark and possibly insidious sense of humour. All I was trying to do was support small business. I had been reading about the decline of mom-and-pop shops, and the looming corporations looking for a small window to usurp the market. So when I saw a sign for a farm stand a few backroads off my typical path, I went straight away.
The lanes meandered, transforming from asphalt to gravel to dusty dirt. And, as promised, I finally pulled up to a lead-white farmhouse with a brick coloured barn a few hundred yards away. The edges of the fields and orchards lined the way, with beautiful scarecrows stuffed with leaves decorating the perimeter. In front, in the dirt driveway, stood a well-worn wooden booth manned by an old woman with a long grey braid down her back.
I smiled as I approached, a little flutter in my belly as I thought about talking to someone who wasn’t a furious customer on the other end of a phone line.
“Hi there!” I called. The woman turned around with a soft smile on her lips, a soft crinkling of crow’s feet perched at her eye.
“Well now, you’re a new face!” she said, beaming.“Yeah, I saw your sign off the road and just had to come! And such a lovely place!”
“Hmm, well aren’t you just as sweet as autumn syrup,” she remarked, a sharp look to her eyes threatening to creep in. But just as I noted it, it vanished.
Brushing off my moment of discomfort, I asked, “autumn syrup? Is that the same as maple syrup?”
She smiled like I just asked her a million dollar question. “Maple syrup pales in comparison, honey. Autumn syrup is pure magic. The smell…the taste…if ya love the season, you simply must have it!”
She beckoned me to follow her a few dozen feet to the farm stand, and slipped behind it to reach below in what I assumed were shelves built into the booth. A smooth glass bottle, maybe the size of a nip or two, was in her hand.
Hallock Farms Autumn Syrup
The label was refined in a rustic way, soft script declaring its name. The woman leaned in closer to me when she handed the bottle off. “I’m Mary, by the way.” Taking the bottle and shaking her hand, I introduced myself as well.
“Birdie? That’s a lovely name. Haven’t heard it in decades much, now have we? Birdie, I think you’re a special one. Tell ya what– you take this autumn syrup home, free of charge. I think you’ll enjoy it so much that it’ll be payment enough in its own right. Ya find yourself needing more, you know where to find me.”
The kindness of this woman made my heart ache. “Oh, Mary, please– don’t be silly. I’m happy to pay for the aut–”
“Now Birdie, you heard me. You take this autumn syrup, you enjoy it. That’s all I want. Now go along, and I’ll see ya when it’s time.”
She dismissed me, and with a slight dampening to my spirits after, I headed back to my car. I still had an extra skip in my step though– I loved fall, and I couldn’t wait to try this syrup. I removed the lid in the car to take a whiff, and was overwhelmed by impossible aromas of autumn. Crunchy leaves on a forest trail; apple cider mulling on the stovetop; pumpkin guts, cinnamon. The whole drive home, I thought about what recipe I’d like to make first to try this intoxicating syrup.
An hour later, I was on my couch with a plate of apple-cinnamon pancakes and the bottle of autumn syrup on the tabletop.
Settling into my regular nook, I cut up my dinner and dipped a bite of pancake in a small pool of the syrup.
Saying it was amazing was comically underselling it. Ambrosia, the nectar of the gods, came closer, but to this day, I can’t give an adequate description of what autumn syrup tasted like. It reminded me of how Amortentia took on the favourite scent of the smeller to appeal to them perfectly – it was as if the syrup tasted of every flavour I most loved.
I finished my pancakes in short order. I was sated and elated, simply humming with joy at the delight of my autumnal feast. I felt good, great even…for awhile.Still on the sofa, a prickling feeling in my fingers announced itself maybe an hour after my dinner.
Instinctively, I brought my thumb to my mouth to suck of any remaining autumn syrup, but the sensation only worsened– and now my mouth was tingling, too.
Unsettled, I took a Benadryl to assuage any possible, mild allergic response I might’ve been experiencing. I was soon hit with the most common side effect of diphenhydramine: drowsiness. I crawled into bed, weary and sweet, until morning.
Today, I topped my breakfast of oatmeal with the other half of the autumn syrup. The dram only held a few teaspoons of the stuff, it seemed. Just as before, my mouth lit up with the taste of the season, unfolding into thousands of flavours that I loved: smoked vanilla, warm nutmeg, a sunny apple orchard, cold, rainy afternoons in October. My whole body tingled from the perfection of this syrup. Thistle, corn mazes, decadent autumn leaves.
Rubbing at my mouth, I decided to work from home today. At noon, I took a stroll down the quieter roads in my neighbourhood, leisurely pausing to take photos of lush, fiery foliage. My boots crunched along the lanes that slowly turned from asphalt to dirt and gravel.
Eyes in the sky, scanning the canopy for delicious, candy red leaves, I didn’t notice the divot in the path before I landed on my face. A small pile of leaves softened the blow. I would have felt grateful had I not felt such a strange twinge in me. Physically, I was fine, not even a twisted ankle. But with my nose in the leaves, I felt a hunger I never experienced.
The pile of leaves smelled like autumn syrup, promising a sweetness in its richness, a true bite of autumn. I don’t know why I did it. But that leaf, red with pinkened edges and a streak of yellow, was soon inside my mouth. It was crisp and easily softened, bringing to mind the taste of apple crisp and foggy mornings. I ate three leaves before I got a grasp on myself, and pulled myself to my feet to head home.
I ate bland foods for the rest of the night, almost in penance. I was out of autumn syrup, and found myself wondering if that wasn’t for the best.
I was awoken in the middle of the night by a tight twist in my stomach that brought me hurrying to the bathroom. I felt my body heave several times, hearing my sick splash in the toilet water.
Stupid, I said to myself, eyes bleary from vomiting. What did I even do earlier? Why would I do that? Of course leaves will make you sick, you’re not a cow. Briefly, I considered if it would be better to scoop the leaves out of the bowl to go gentler on the plumbing, or if flushing them would be okay.
When I wiped my eyes, I was shocked to only see my plain bread, banana, and applesauce sitting in the bowl. Had the leaves somehow not been why I was sick?My head felt dizzy after being ill, and since it was still the wee hours, I went back to sleep.
Getting ready for work, I ran for the bathroom again as I smelled my fresh coffee brewing. I cracked an egg and was brought to my knees. I sighed: I had no sick days, and had to get into work no matter what. Looks like we’re skipping breakfast today.
As I walked over to my Corolla, I passed over fallen leaves. With each step, their luscious scent wafted to my nose, and I closed my eyes to soak in it. When I opened them again, I was kneeling on my driveway, scooping a small armful of leaves to the crook of my elbow.
I was doing this again?
I brought my haul into the car and heaped them onto my passenger’s seat. I sat down quickly and shut myself in my car, and ate a few more leaves as I drove to work.
I couldn’t focus all day. I made about three phone calls before I took my first trip back to my little green car, sneaking greedy mouthfuls of leaf.
From my car, I called my doctor. I may have been chagrined, but I knew when something was wrong. I googled around, found myself reading about pica. Leaves weren’t common, but really any non-food item can become a craving.
I went home two hours early, after having taken so many breaks. I tried making dinner again, but found myself nauseated at the thought of the contents of my cabinet.
Returning from the obligatory tour of my bathroom, I slumped into the couch for some reflection.
Did you know that the browned leaves are actually pretty tasty, full of oak and rum and ginger notes?
No, I can’t think of that. I need to think of what happened to me. I was fine before I got that strange skin and oral irritation. What had caused it anyway?I froze. I needed to talk to Mary at Hallock Farms.
The stand was still open when my Corolla rolled up to the little farm. I saw her long, silver braid and crinkled eyes trained on my arrival. Mary wore a private smile, hawking those damn bottles of autumn syrup. I noticed that the small dram was the only size available – the only size needed, I thought.
I walked quickly across the pebbled parking lot to where Mary stood. “Oh, Birdie!” she cried. “So good to see you. Is it time already?”
I ignored her and tersely asked, “what have you done to me?”A wry grin wrapped itself around her face for a moment. “Eating leaves, are we?” She glanced at my hand, and I saw for the first time that I was holding a fistful of leaves.
I threw them to the ground in disgust.
“Birdie, isn’t autumn simply the most perfect time of year? The sweet smell of decay and decadence, rich and smooth like syrup. Are you going to tell me it wasn’t worth it, Birdie? You tasted heaven.” She cupped my chin, and tapped on my lip. My mouth began to tingle, like it was full of bees and static.
I couldn’t reply. I was, in fact, speechless, at a loss of how I was experiencing something divine and so horrid, but also my knees were buckling and my lips and throat were burning.
“You wouldn’t change a thing now, would you, Birdie? That’s how the magic works; the syrup doesn’t work alone.” Mary cooed.
The fire was spreading in my body – I must have ingested some of it because my wrists and ankles were itching like they were infested by bugs. I began to scratch, tearing my skin a raw pink until something began to jut through it.
“The spell goes back several generations in my family. We need protection to grow these crops, the herbs and the corn and the like; we need protection for our magic.”
Mary circled me. I could hardly move, on my back and alone in front of her farmstand. I felt stuffed, bloated with every drop of autumn syrup I swallowed, every leaf I put down. Through my wrists, I noticed straw and leaves pushing out. My breathing went ragged. I heard a sussurus with each heave of my chest.
“You understand it, though. It’s why you were so susceptible to the autumn syrup, I know you understand the cycle of life and death and how necessary sacrifice is in between. You are a willing sacrifice to the autumn, Birdie. The spell is impossible without your will.”
I shuffled angrily away, my jeans crinkling with straw and leaves. “You’re crazy, Mary,” I sputtered. “You’re wrong.” Heaving myself into my car, I bent over with my legs still out of the car, bringing up more foliage.
The whisps of air passing in and out of my turgid mouth were what could now be considered my breaths.
Mary’s figure faded in the distance, making no move to follow me as I peeled away. She always said I’d see her when it was time, and I think I’m fast approaching time. Driving past the scarecrows that lined the Hallock farm, I saw that Mary had moved closer to something: a singular, unmanned post.