The People and the Tree
A story about the power we give away.
There was, in a clearing, an apple tree. It was old, impossibly old, the kind of tree that had been there before anyone could remember, before there was anyone to remember. Its branches hung heavy with fruit, red and gold, untouched. The apples did not fall. They did not rot. They waited.
One hundred people came upon the tree. Where they came from is of no importance, nor why they were traveling, nor whether they had been together before. What matters is that they were here, and that they were hungry, and that the apples were there, waiting.
One of the people reached up, plucked an apple, and bit into it. The taste was sharp and perfect, the kind of sweetness that lingers behind the teeth, the kind that makes a person feel awake, alive. Others followed. Soon, each had an apple, and though no one had eaten since morning, they found that one was more than enough. There was laughter that night. Someone sang. A few of them talked about how good it felt to be full, how it was the kind of fullness that left room for something else—something beyond hunger, beyond need.
When morning came, the apples had returned. Not because they had fallen. Not because they had been planted or harvested. They had appeared again simply because they had been picked. This was the way things worked. Each morning, each person reached up, took an apple, ate. Hunger was satisfied, and satisfaction gave way to other things: talk, play, a fire at night, the feeling of a full belly. The tree was steady, the apples dependable.
It was, in every way that mattered, abundance.
Eventually, one among them grew tired of the daily reaching and had an idea. The next morning, the innovator rose early, before the others stirred. They picked every apple from the tree, one by one, until their arms ached and their feet were sore. By the time the rest awoke, the apples were gone.
The innovator stood before the pile and said: "I have done all the work today. I have picked all the apples. They belong to me. But tomorrow, another may rise early and do the same. That way, we each work once and rest for ninety-nine days."
It was a new idea. The people considered it. Their bellies were still full from the day before, and each of them thought that ninety-nine days without reaching, without lifting, without thinking of apples at all, was appealing. And so they agreed.
That day, only the innovator ate. The others sat by the tree, enjoying a day of rest.
But the next morning, something was different. The people were slow to wake. Their stomachs ached, their heads felt light. The apples had returned, as always, but no one reached for them. The work was too much, and they were too hungry. One hundred apples were waiting, but no one had the strength to take them.
They turned to the innovator, who sat beside the ninety-nine remaining apples from the day before, still full. They spoke plainly: "This does not work." And the innovator, looking at the people and then at the apples, could not argue.
So a new arrangement was made. The innovator agreed to share their apples—but not freely. The work had been done, after all. The innovator had taken on the burden for the whole group and had given them all a day of rest. That work, the innovator argued, was worth something. The people agreed. Each would pick an extra apple, one at a time, so that the innovator would be repaid. It was fair.
For ninety-nine days, the arrangement held. But in that time, the innovator did not grow idle. At first, they simply watched. Then, they began to talk. During the long afternoons, while the others worked, the innovator walked in slow circles around the tree, speaking in a voice just loud enough to be heard by the nearest people. They told stories—about the nature of the tree, about how it was a gift, about how its apples were a test of wisdom and fairness.
The storyteller spoke of the burden of leadership, of the need for order, of the danger of greed—not from those who have much, but from those who take without contributing. The people listened. It made the work pass more easily. It made them feel as though they were part of something greater. Some people began to offer a share of their own apple to entice the storyteller to spend more time by their part of the tree. The storyteller accepted these gifts without hesitation. Eventually, all of the people were sharing their apples—not out of obligation, but out of gratitude.
On the morning of the hundredth day, the people could barely remember a time before the storyteller ambled around the tree, offering guidance as they picked. More and more, they found themselves asking the storyteller before picking—how much, from where, at what time. It was natural to defer to the one who understood the tree best.
So when someone finally said, “The tree must be protected,” the others agreed.
And from that day forward, no one picked an apple without the steward’s blessing.
The people worked as they always had, but with time, some did what they did best. Some were strong climbers and gathered the most. Some were careful counters and measured the shares. Some found they were better at cooking or building or making things, and though they still picked apples, they spent more time doing other tasks.
Among the people, differences emerged. Some worked more, some less. Some had bursts of energy, climbed faster, gathered extra. Others tired easily, or had bad luck. But it all evened out. A person who took more today might take less tomorrow. No one went hungry.
It was, in every way that mattered, enough.
The steward received twenty apples each day, given freely. It was not payment—it was an offering, a recognition of their guidance. But the steward could not be on all sides of the tree at once. It seemed reasonable when they asked first one, then another, to spend their time carrying the message to the people.
And that was how the nine began. At first, they only delivered the steward’s words. But over time, people began asking them for decisions instead of thinking for themselves. They did not pick apples anymore—they were working differently now, at the steward’s behest. It cost the people little to support the nine in a manner befitting their station. More work, after all, required more energy. More responsibility required more compensation.
The tree continued to bear one hundred apples each day. The people continued to pick them. The steward continued to watch over the tree. The nine continued to track the numbers. The work became more efficient. Ladders were built. Ropes were strung. A system was devised so that fewer hands were needed to gather the apples. At first, this was seen as progress. "More efficiency means more time to enjoy life," the people said. But that was not what happened.
Instead, the nine decided that only those best suited for picking should do it full-time. Those who were not as fast, or not as strong, were given other tasks. Some maintained the tools. Some sorted and stored the apples. Some distributed the shares. The nine managed it all. The steward offered guidance and direction.
It still seemed fair. Everyone had a role. The people worked as they always had. But something had changed. Each evening, when the apples were distributed, the steward took twenty. The nine took nearly three each. The rest—ninety people in all—took what was left. And even though fewer people were needed for picking, those who did work were busier than ever.
It was, in every way that mattered, the beginning of something new.
The middle forty, who once had time to relax, now found themselves managing and overseeing the bottom fifty, who picked and sorted and stored. The nine directed and reorganized. The steward simply advised.
The bottom fifty began to struggle. The work was hard, and they had less than before. Some stopped working. Some could not work. Some simply gave up. The nine grew anxious. If the bottom fifty would not pick, the apples would go unharvested. So the nine went to the steward. The steward advised the picking be done.
And so the nine turned to the middle forty and said: "The system is in crisis. We must all do our part." The middle forty, already struggling, were told to give more. The nine praised the steward’s generosity as they offered a single apple to the poorest ten. The crisis was averted. But the balance had not been restored. The burden had simply been shifted downward. And so the cycle repeated. Each time, the bottom fifty struggled. Each time, the nine redistributed burdens—not from the top, but from the middle. And each time, the middle forty had less and less.
And then one day, the bottom fifty stopped working.
The nine panicked. They turned to the middle forty, demanding that they pick all one hundred apples themselves. The middle forty hesitated. The nine made promises, offering eventual relief that never came. The people had always fallen for this before.
But this time, they didn’t.
And in that moment, the middle forty saw what they had refused to see before. They had never been above the bottom fifty. They had only ever been next in line.
And so the middle forty, too, refused.
The nine turned to the steward. "What do we do?"
For the first time, the steward had nothing to say; no innovations, no stories. Just a mountain of apples, more than anyone could eat in a thousand lifetimes.
And the people saw it all at once. The steward did not pick apples. The steward did not organize the pickers. The steward did not plan, did not decide, did not lead.
The steward did not contribute to the people.
There was no coup. No revolution. Only recognition.
The people did not destroy. They did not punish. The people simply did what they did best—picked apples. Some picked more and some picked less, as is natural with the ebb and flow of fortune and initiative.
Hunger was satisfied, and satisfaction gave way to other things: talk, play, a fire at night, the feeling of a full belly. The tree was steady, the apples dependable.
There had always been enough for all.
It was, in every way that mattered, abundance.
Great parable! Well written and provocative.