Braeburn trotted up the hill where the last unbucked tree in the orchard stood, a slight sweat building up on his coat. Bloomberg perched atop the hill, long branches heavy with apples. His bark seemed slightly darker than it had been, but the tree otherwise stood much the same as it had been when it was planted last year.
He crested the hill and stepped around the baskets, then turned and raised his legs, preparing to buck the tree. His hooves sank into the bark with a crunch, and stayed. He blinked. He hadn't bucked Bloomberg that hard, had he? He glanced over his shoulder.
His hooves were planted firmly in its bark, but somehow didn't seem to have damaged the tree. He tried to yank them free, but they stayed firmly where they were. Five minutes passed as he fought against the bark, and he didn't manage to move his hooves an inch. He sighed.
The next instant, his hooves came out of the tree, and he soared through the air, the field blurring beneath him.
He crashed headfirst into another tree a dozen yards away. His head exploded in pain at the impact, and he collapsed to the ground. After a minute, he realized he ought to stand up, and scrambled to his hooves.
He turned and trotted back up the hill, head still smarting slightly. He wasn't sure what had just happened, but he was sure he needed to find out. He marched up to the tree and glared at it. The two spots where there should have been hoof imprints were just as smooth as before he had tried to buck it.
A sharp, rough noise came from the trunk, and he jumped. A gravelly voice said, "What was that? It tickled."
He glanced around, but saw nopony. Confused, he looked back at the trunk. "Who's there?"
"I might ask you the same thing. Who is it down there?"
He blinked, and bent one forearm at the knee, then scowled. "You're on my farm, and I asked you first. So who's there?"
The branches rustled slightly in response. "Your farm? Then that means… ." The bark creaked. "Oh, bugger."
"What?"
Whatever it was, it groaned. "That means I'm stuck in a tree."
His scowl deepened. "Stuck? Well, just get yourself out. Ain't hard to find your way out of a tree. Now, who are you?"
It sighed. "I am Balthor, spirit of plague, here to destroy your crops and hear the lamentations of your branches, blah blah blah. You know the drill."
Braeburn opened and closed his mouth several times. "Well, I'm sorry, but I'm gonna have to ask you to leave. Nothing personal, see. I don't bear no ill will against spirits, but I can't have that goin' on on my farm."
The trunk creaked and groaned, as if it were trying to bend. "Believe me, if I could abandon your smelly little tree, I would be out already."
He blinked. "Why can't you?"
"Oh, you can never just leave your vessel. There has to be this great big ceremony about it." It sighed. "It'd be a sign of weakness. You'd lose credibility."
It paused. "Well, you wouldn't. I would, but that isn't the point."
"So where do I start?"
"If I knew that, I wouldn't still be sitting here, would I?" An apple launched out of the branches and beat him in the side of the head, though not hard enough to really hurt. "Now, get going."
He gaped at it for a moment, then turned and trotted off the hill, all thoughts of bucking apples banished from his mind.
- - -
Braeburn waited in the nearly empty saloon. He still wasn't here. The bartender stuffed a dirty rag into a clean glass and rubbed it around until he deemed it authentically western, then slammed it back on the bar. He worked hard to maintain the proper level of grime in his saloon, just dirty enough to look real to the tourists, but still clean enough not to be disgusting.
He'd put up an open letter that morning after his encounter with Bloomberg, and to his surprise, he'd gotten a reply just a few hours later. A few stains covered the floor, and the odor of whiskey, ale, and salt licks permeated the room, but they still hadn't shown.
He was about to get up and leave when he heard the saloon doors swing, and glanced over. A heavy-set bison clacked across the hardwood floor over to where he sat, and plopped down on the stool next to him. The feathers of his headdress wavered a bit as he glanced at Braeburn, and smiled.
Braeburn tried to smile back. "So I reckon you're Talks-With-Spirits?"
The bison nodded. "That is me."
The bartender cast a disbelieving glance at Spirits, but said nothing. The bison didn't seem to notice. "You are having spirit troubles?"
He nodded. "Yeah. Yep, somethin' like that. You said you can help?"
"Have talked to many spirits for tribe. Can help." He paused. "Where is spirit?"
Braeburn blinked, and his forearm twitched. "What — oh. Oh. Oh, right." He sighed, and slid off the stool, moving toward the saloon doors. "All right, jus', err… follow me, if you don't mind."
The bison nodded, and followed him out the door.
- - -
They trudged through the orchard along the trail to the hill, trees rising on either side. Talks-With-Spirits didn't attempt to start a conversation, and for that, Braeburn was grateful. Best to get right to business. They followed the path in silence.
They reached the top of the hill fifteen minutes later. Braeburn stepped aside, and gestured for his companion to step up. He stepped up to the tree, and stared into the bark for a few minutes.
Braeburn fidgeted. "So? What d'you reckon?"
Talks-With-Spirits didn't answer. Instead, he placed one forehoof on the tree and continued to stare at the patterns in the bark. A minute later, he began to groan.
The tree rustled. "Slow down there, chief. At least buy me dinner first."
He ignored the tree, and continued to groan. After five minutes, he stopped abruptly, then began shouting in some bizarre, guttural language, plodding around the tree in circles and leaving a trail in the dirt as he went.
"That's a bit of an odd pickup line, but hey. Kinky. I like it."
Braeburn watched him work for several minutes. The shaman finished his chanting after his fifth circle around the tree, then stopped in front of him and stared into the branches again, his vocal cords vibrating.
After around ten minutes of near-silence, he coughed. "Err… Mr. Spirits?"
The shaman stopped humming, and glanced at him. "Yes?"
"You figger this one out yet?"
Talks-With-Spirits stared at him. "Communed with Great Spirit."
"And what'd she… he… it say?"
He shrugged. "Great Spirit say, call back during business hours."
The bison turned and began to trot away, leaving Braeburn gaping in his wake. An apple launched out of the tree and bounced off the back of his head as he stared. "Having fun yet?"