Cousin Braeburn Writes a Crop-fic

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Cousin Braeburn Writes a Crop-fic

Jeffrey C. Wells

The warm evening wind from the San Palomino rolled in like a wave, bearing the noise of crickets upon it and tugging insistently at the flame of Braeburn's single candle through the gap in the clapboards. The hole in his wall was something he'd been meaning to fix, certainly, but the lack of a true "winter" in the Equestrian southwest meant that wall repair wasn't exactly a seasonal necessity, so long as you nailed a little patch of screen over the gap to keep the flies out, which he had. And it had... you know, mostly worked. Good enough for the moment. Certainly better than merely covering it up with that old painting of the round-flanked reclining saloon mare, which for a long time had been the only thing available to him to hang on the wall. The old girl now rested in a place of honor next to his straw-ticked cot, where he could look over at her while he lay in bed sl... eeping. Sleeping. Yes. That'd do for now.

Braeburn rubbed at his eyes with his hooves and yawned heroically. Can't think of bed now, the blond-sorrel stallion thought to himself. Tempting. Way, way too tempting. As Exhibit A of how tempting his bed was, Braeburn could easily point to the fact that he had been overpowered and bewitched by its itchy charms every night for the past two weeks whenever it came down to a choice between sleep or working on his informational speech to the Appleloosa Joint Equine-Buffalo Agricultural League. He'd been a damn fool to agree to give the speech at all, of course. Braeburn was friendly and gregarious and talkative as the day was long, but put him up in front of a crowd of ponies (and, in this case, bison) and suddenly his throat dried up, his wits left him, and he was reduced to a stammering mess whose best quality was his hat.

It was a fine hat, mind you. But that was neither here nor there. There was a pair of brown eyes on the League, and she'd asked if any ponies might be willing to give an informational speech on effective orchard organization, and Braeburn had been so desperate to say "yes" to some question, any question that that pair of brown eyes posed, that... well, he'd agreed, and well, here he was.

At any rate. Two weeks had become one, had become one-half, had become one-quarter, had become one-eighth, all in that terrible inexorable fashion that reminded Braeburn of a story one of his cousin Applejack's friends had told him on a visit some time back. The purple one. Something about... shooting at turtles with an arrow? Braeburn was not at all certain he understood the point of the story. He suspected it had something to do with "philosophy," which as far as Braeburn could tell was Pegasopolian for "things that don't make a lick of sense because you've thought about them too much." And now, here he was on the eve, the very night before the speech, and he was plumb tuckered and his eyes were practically falling shut and the chair at his makeshift writing desk was half-buried in piles of crumpled sheets of paper, each bearing no more than twenty words apiece. It was a total disaster.

But, it wasn't tomorrow yet. Still time to seize victory from the jaws, right? Mustering his will, Braeburn cleared the desk of empty cider tankards by shoving them off onto the floor, squared up a fresh sheet of paper, took a little lick off the salt box he kept at his hip, grabbed his pen in his teeth, and started to write.

* * *

Fillies, gentlecolts, cows and bulls:

It is my duty obligation pleasure to talk to all you all today about apples and how to best organize one's orchard so that they'll pollinate themselves and each other properly so that we can keep on making apples. Now, it may surprise some of you that we cannot just plant ourselves an orchard and expect it to do its stuff all by its lonesomes. This is unlike corn (for which we have you buffalo to thank, because we didn't even know about it back in the Old World, so thank you kindly). Corn don't generally need any outside intervention, as you buffalo well know. You have a stand of corn, it just needs some wind and some sunlight. Pollen falls down from the tassels, onto the silk, and that is that. Corn really is a beautiful plant in that way.

* * *

Braeburn blinked, then rubbed at his eyes again. "Beautiful" was getting a mite ornamental, but he was going to give it a pass, because he'd already gotten about six times farther on this try than he'd ever gotten before. Besides, it was good to compliment corn, wasn't it? He was pretty sure that the bison were proud of having introduced his people to corn, for which his people had repaid them by giving them a basket of cupcakes and taking Manehattan Island in trade. Braeburn had been doing quite a bit of reading about Equestrian history since the Great Orchard Stampede, and oftentimes it had raised more questions than it had provided answers.

He thought of the brown eyes, then. Yes. "Beautiful" was definitely staying in.

Okay! So. Speech going well so far. Firmly instructing his eyes to remain open, Braeburn had another lick of salt and took up the pen again.

* * *

But apples don't work that way. Most apples are going to require an insect presence in the area because they just aren't satisfied with self-pollination. When setting up an orchard, which is going to contain many more apple trees per acre than you'd ever get in the wild, it is real important that you do not neglect to provide those trees with a similarly increased number of insect pollinators. The honeybee is the obvious choice because not only will they pollinate your trees for you, but with proper negotiation, you can also use the honey they produce as an additional food crop. Honey tastes really good. Sometimes I like to imagine what it would be like to lick honey off of a

* * *

Celestia damn it, thought Braeburn, stay on topic here. Frustrated, he pondered crumpling the paper up and beginning again; but he had been doing so well, and it'd be a shame to start all the way over now. He'd just have to not look at that line or think about it while up in front of the audience. He would especially have to not think about it in conjunction with certain members of said audience. Because that would get... really embarrassing, wouldn't it?

Braeburn cleared his throat. Yes. Pen. Keep at it, hoss. You're doing fine.

* * *

Sometimes I like to imagine what it would be like to lick honey off of a

Another thing that must be considered is the specific variety of trees you are planting next to one another. You cannot just plant trees randomly and hope for a good yield. Varieties must be grouped by time of flower: early blossomers next to early blossomers, late blossomers next to late blossomers. In this way you will have the highest number of adjacent trees that are all flowering at the same time. It is kind of like how we all hold barn dances in the spring, when all the young colts' hearts will be thinking affectionate thoughts. We get them all together in the same place at the same time so that there will be the most number of hookups.

* * *

"Figurative language," or as Braeburn understood it, "comparing something to something it actually isn't," was, in the stallion's recollection, an important tool for engaging one's audience and making them think about the topic at hoof in new ways. He was pretty proud of having worked some into his speech. Emboldened, he soldiered on.

* * *

Another matter that must be considered is the so-called "triploid" apple. These are hardy, high-quality, tasty apples and they would make an excellent addition to any orchard, but a curious fact about a triploid apple tree is that it actually produces no pollen of its own. It is absolutely dependent upon the pollen of other trees.

Other trees will look at the triploid apple tree with its strong, healthy limbs and good, solid fruit, and they will wonder why it doesn't produce any pollen of its own. Sure, it bears some good apples all by itself, but it never seems to hook up with other trees, no matter when they flower, and why is that? The triploid apple's momma will often be especially concerned about her triploid son and start asking him if everything is okay with his pollen.

For a while, the triploid apple tree will laugh at these questions (respectfully, since it is his momma after all) and he will tell her that some trees bloom early and some trees bloom late, and that the pollen'll come when it comes. The triploid apple tree is maybe just waiting for the right other apple tree to come along, see? But after a couple growing seasons come and go and the triploid apple can't catch a break, he starts to wonder himself if maybe he isn't trying hard enough. So he puts on extra efforts, little splash of cologne here and there, and basically acts like a fancy city tree for a while because he's got it in his head that that's what the fillies go for these da

* * *

Braeburn blearily regarded his three-paragraph tirade, written in the space of about four breaths. Was it possible to use too much figurative language? Possibly. After a moment of careful thought, he decided to tone it down a bit.

* * *

because he's got it in his head that that's what the fillies girl trees go for these days. But it never seems to work out. And it ain't like he doesn't get chances, it just never feels right, for whatever reason, and when the dance is over he don't ever come calling on them afterwards. Regrets are had. Some tears are shed. Everypony moves on.

So then, one day, the conventional orchard-variety triploid apple will notice the corn stalks growing nearby, really notice them for the first time. He'll look at the shiny, soft golden silk on the tips of their ears and he'll start, you know, feeling the old sap flowing. And at first he'll dismiss it because clearly that's crazy talk. I mean, there ain't no way in Equestria an apple tree should be thinking about pollinating a corn plant. It's against Nature's law, right? So he'll try not to think about her for a while but then every day at sunset when the wind comes in off the desert he'll notice that silk flowing in the breeze and he'll think to himself

* * *

Braeburn wiped a line of sweat from his brow. Hot. It really was a hot wind coming in off the desert tonight. Quickly, awkwardly, he worked his way out of his dampened vest and threw it on the laundry pile awaiting next week's washing day and then rushed back to the page.

* * *

he'll think to himself, well, Tartarus, why not? But it is important for orchard managers to recognize that the triploid apple is a shy tree, and while he may seem friendly and forthcoming when he's meeting new ponies it really is hard on him when it starts getting serious. So a lot of time is going to pass, and you'll think he's never going to make his move, and in truth, there's a real risk that he ain't going to. But then, one day he'll see the cornstalk over by the other cornstalks and she'll be bending over

* * *

Braeburn paused, wiping away sweat again. This figurative language was dynamite stuff.

* * *

bending over in the breeze, and the triploid apple tree will catch a little glimpse inside one of her ears, and he'll turn away all embarrassed, see, because he is a gentlepony. But she will notice him noticing and she'll come over to him and stroke his trunk with one of her strange, foreign, straight-veined monocot leaves.

"See anything you like?" she will typically say.

"Honest, ma'am," the triploid apple will stammer, "It were an accident, pure and simple, and I hardly saw nothing at all—"

"Hush," the corn will say, in that husky

* * *

The pun was completely unintentional. For a moment, Braeburn considered crossing it out, but then he decided that a little humor might be good to ease the mood. He didn't want his audience getting uncomfortable, after all.

* * *

"Hush," the corn will say, in that husky (pause for laughter) little voice of hers. "I've been watching you over there in your orchard for a long time, mister triploid apple. And I have an answer for that question that you've always been far too respectful and polite to ask."

"What question would that be, ma'am?" the triploid apple will typically stutter.

"Whether or not I would be willing to be pollinated by you," she will reply, smiling seductively at him. "The answer is 'yes,' mister triploid apple."

Under normal growing conditions, the triploid apple will emit a small, choked noise, halfway between a laugh and a sob. "But miss cornstalk," he'll protest. "Surely some other corn plant—"

"I don't want 'some other corn plant,'" the corn plant will say. "They are all too tall and have shaggy tassels on top instead of beautiful white flowers."

'Okay, but... but surely there's gotta be trees in this orchard with bigger flowers than—"

"Hush," the cornstalk will say again, pressing her hoof to his lips. "I want you, mister triploid apple. I do not care if our union will never be a productive one. I dream every night of your pollen attaching to my silk and working its way deep into the heart of my cobs."

"But... but the bees..."

"Oh, stuff the bees!" she will say, tearing off her feathered headdress (or possibly not, depending on how temperate the growing season is that year). "Take me now, in the way of my people, by showering pollen down upon me from above!"

The triploid apple will feel his breath become quick and hot. Was he dreaming? Surely this could not be real! I mean, having this beautiful little bison cornstalk before him, whispering words of lust and desire into his ears. But there she was, gazing up at him, her eyes shining and her voice harsh and needy. Biting his lip and taking it slowly, he gave one of his flowered limbs a tentative shake.

"Mmm," she moaned, as the first pollen the triploid apple had ever produced in his whole entire life began to sprinkle down on the cornstalk's slender, green, grass-like form. "Mmm, yes. Yes, Braeburn mister triploid apple. That. Just like that."

The triploid apple began to feel a slow, warm burning in his limbs that quickly migrated to the tips of his stamens, which bobbed naked and free in the soft breeze of the orchard, now dusty and dripping with a healthy load of male pollen. Gaining courage, he shook his limbs again and again, first gently, and then with more and more force.

"Yes!" shouted the cornstalk, quivering in the wind. "Yes! Yes! Yes! Harder, Braeburn! Rustle them harder! Shower me with your apple seed!"

"Technically, the apple seed comes later," Braeburn gasped. "This is a different part of the plant entirely—"

"Oh, shut up, you silly, wonderful, highly-skilled and knowledgeable orchardpony!" she screamed. "Fill me with clouds and clouds of reproductive particles! I do not care that we will never bear fruit! Our union is pure, and true, and a thing no one should question!"

Braeburn's trunk was shaken down to the heartwood as he felt a great mass of pollen gather in his male parts. His world condensed down to a single point of searing white light, and as a sudden mighty wind roared through the orchard, he gave a long, loud shout, and

* * *

....and there was a knock at the door. Wide-eyed and startled, Braeburn kicked back from the writing desk and tumbled hard to the floorboards in a tangle of limbs.

"Is everything okay in there?" came a heartachingly familiar voice from beyond the door.

Braeburn struggled to master his throat and unwind his legs at the same time. "Yep!" he cried out. "Yep! Just a minute!" Eventually he got things sorted out in the extremities department, stumbled to the door, and threw it open.

There she was on the porch, the beautiful chestnut-colored bison heifer that belonged to that hoarse little voice. Balanced on her back was a gleaming enameled earthenware bowl which steamed and gave off an aroma that made Braeburn's mouth positively drippy.

"Hi," said Little Strongheart. "I'm... still learning what your people do and don't consider appropriate, so I have no idea if I'm supposed to be here or not, but I thought I would check up on you. I asked, and no one's seen you around all day."

"Oh! Yeah. Yes. Yes, ma'am." He swallowed, hard. "Just... working on the speech for tomorrow."

"I'm really looking forward to hearing what you have to say," she said. "Thank you so much for agreeing to do it."

"Shoot, ma'am," said Braeburn, his eyes straying again toward the bowl. "No trouble at all." The steam caught the bright clear desert moonlight and made the little bison in the doorway appear surrounded in a halo of pale light.

Strongheart chuckled at Braeburn's gaze, only half misinterpreting it. "Brought you something," she said, flipping it expertly off her back and onto one tiny raised cloven hoof. "Baked butternut squash stuffed with apples and hazelnuts."

"Sounds delicious," said Braeburn, utterly entranced.

A moment passed, filled only with the noise of crickets.

"May I... come inside?" asked Strongheart, teasingly.

"Oh! Sure! Celestia above, where are my manners?" He ushered her into the house, cleared off a cushion for her and began rummaging through his old sideboard for a clean plate, barely finding one. Worry gripped his stomach. "Okay, well," he called over his shoulder, "I've got a plate for you, and—"

"Oh, don't worry about me," said Strongheart, as Braeburn's guts relaxed. "I had plenty of supper. You, on the other hoof, look utterly famished. What have you had to eat today?"

Braeburn trotted back over to the table with the plate and Strongheart began filling it with succulent hot squash. Braeburn spent a moment in honest thought.

"Coffee?" he offered. "Little cider, little salt."

Strongheart laughed. "By the White One," she said. "Mister Braeburn, you are completely inadequate at the simple task of caring for yourself." She glanced over at the hole in the wall, which seemed to Braeburn to have gotten a whole lot larger and more unsightly the moment Strongheart entered the room. "Or your house."

"Oh, yeah, that," said Braeburn, laughing a bit louder than was strictly necessary. "Broke that just the other day. Was going to fix it up tomorrow, right after the speech."

The buffalo got up from the table and trotted over to the hole. "Looks like an easy patch. Couple boards, bam bam bam. Would you like some help?"

"Oh, no, ma'am," said Braeburn. "Fixing houses... well, that ain't mare's work, is it?"

Strongheart looked at him quizzically. "I will never understand how you ponies live," she said, at last. "Still, though, suit yourself. If you think you're going to be okay here, I'm going to head back to the settlement."

"Your bowl, though?"

"Keep it," she said, smiling. "You could probably use an extra dish or two."

"Thank you kindly, ma'am," he said, only just now remembering to remove his hat. Braeburn saw Strongheart to the door, then watched her go; he proceeded to then watch the direction she had went, for a long, long time.

He finished his supper. It was still delicious, even cold.

His meal complete, Braeburn went back to his writing desk, dropped a fresh candle in the holder, and looked over what he had written for his speech so far.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

Then he crumpled the paper between his hooves, dropped it on the floor, gave a deep sigh, squared yet another fresh piece of paper before himself and began again.

* * *

Fillies, gentlecolts, cows and bulls:

Today I am going to teach you how to plant a beautiful orchard. Beautiful as a nice solid set of buffalo hindquarters. I mean, have you ever looked at a bison from behind? Really looked at one? The way that haunch just flows up to the back, framing that that tight little whip of a tail and

* * *

Braeburn crumpled the paper and tossed it to the floor. He gazed despairingly at the portrait of the saloon mare on the far wall. The mare thereon gazed at back him through half-lidded eyes.

"Portrait of a saloon mare," said Braeburn, "it is gonna be a long, long night."