Legend has it, it might be known, that the Oranges came in the cave by coincidence. Those of you who follow the twists and turns of the tale will know that it was not by design.
The Oranges had been smuggled by coal barge, student backpack and costa mongers’ trolley. Masquerading as a sack of anthracite or swedes. They had begun their epic journey far away in the south lands, where oranges and other citrus fruit cause very little fuss.
The cold people of the north, pulling their neck cloths tight against the chill breezes, could not understand how fruit such as these, orange, bright beyond their ken, could be made available in the winter sections of the year when all the feeble northern fruits were long gone.
People are easily disrupted by the inexplicable. They cling to seemingly outlandish explanations to fill the void of their understanding. They circulate rumours of hidden agendas, like a virus, hand to hand, mouth to mouth, wear a mask.
When the Oranges had been safely smuggled away from potential danger, long before they were transformed alchemically into marmalade. They were counted once more. Seventy-One had always been the number of oranges and remained plainly visible on the ticket of transport, bar code and lading bill. But at the final count there were three missing. Scandal, outrage, only sixty eight.
Three Oranges gone missing, could be anywhere, nestled in the corner or rolled into a weed filled ditch, where a hole in the road might cause upset. Three oranges could fit under a copious hat or about the loose clothing of a vagabond. Stolen, purloined, lost, gone awol. In a leather bag with some figs, a note book and a set of keys, who knows.
I saw them once, travelling on the top floor of an omnibus, dangling from the belt of a warrior, stuck in a gutter collecting sludge, in someone else’s lunch pail. Why did they take their sandwiches to work in a bucket. I’ve no idea.
I saw them travelling incognito, with sunglasses and collars turned up, on the metro in Berlin. I saw them dressed as electrical engineers, parked in a white van outside the home of a controversial politician. I saw them yomping, single file, across Dartmoor. They told me to keep stum, zip it, pretend they were never there, turn a blind eye, look the other way. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that they threatened me, but being pinned against the wall and shouted at can be quite frightening.
I hid out of sight just in case, I saw the oranges loaded onto a goods vehicle, going up the steps of an airbus, scooting down the pavement on an electric scooter, out of control, kicking their heels on a corner and avoiding eye contact.
When interviewed by Interpol they were taken into separate rooms. Chains rattled heavily and the chair stuttered across the polished concrete floor as it was pulled.
Come on now, tell us the truth, your friend has confessed, it’s no use trying to cover it up. We know you are an Orange, not a swede and certainly not a lump of anthracite.
The Orange sat silently looking down at the table.
I want my phone call, said the Orange, I know my rights.
They brought in a mobile phone.
The Orange dialled a number and held the phone to its side.
We hear a one-sided conversation.
Hello? Yes, hi it’s me, no, I’m fine. No, no, yes of course, next Tuesday at nine. Yes. Yes, yes of course. Well only if it’s no trouble. Yes, I would. By the way have you heard from Orange Two or Three? We’ve got separated. Oh, I see, I thought as much. OK that’s great, thanks for that, I’ll see you Tuesday. Of course, I’ll bring it with me. No, No. No problem. OK, take care then, see you, bye.
The Orange put the phone down on the table and looked up at the officer.
The Guardians of the Cave 