//------------------------------// // Mac // Story: Near the Tree // by Comma Typer //------------------------------// “Apple Bloom, are ya’ really sure this’ll work?” asks a concerned Big Mac. “Why, yes!” she yells, asserting herself to be on top of the world as she finally mounts the brawned stallion on a spare, good-as-new saddle. It required the help of the girl’s friends serving as an impromptu staircase, though. “I mean, I rode our trusty horses before! Cookie can tell y’all about it… uh, ‘least I can!” Moving ahead of a miffed Cookie, Sweetie Belle looks at the rest, knocking at her own helmet and seeing herself on the scooter, inspecting its worn-out wheels. “Sure, but at least a pony won’t get their hooves suddenly unscrewed.” “Hey, you didn’t complain when I was doing 720s with this thing at Action Sports Junior!” “That was in a controlled environment!” “Can we, uh—” and Apple Bloom pats the yoke before her to get their attention “—get a move on?” With the CMC checking their straps one more time along with their helmets, hooked tight to the scooter, Apple Bloom turns to Big Mac, his face just ahead. The path forward is clear: beyond the grass lay the remaining apple trees to be conquered, with the bushels at the ready for them to hold. “Ya know, ya could’ve just set the bushels so I could buck the trees, that’d be all.” “But we’re not doin’ that,” she says in half a plea. “At least we can do this one together, though, right?” And Big Mac can only shake his head. “Yer’ stubborn, jus’ like my lil’ sister.” But she can feel the warmth of his smile as it flickers back to focus, concentration, back to apple-bucking mode. “We’re all set!” Scootaloo shouts. Gripping the back of a galloping Big Mac, she squeals, holding on to nothing but his trusty yoke. She holds onto the bushel, and right underneath the leaves and branches, with one strong kick—she holds on, never falling off, a sense of balance—and Big Mac looks up, seeing her smile as all the apples fall into her bushel, with not one astray. She looks back. Scootaloo and Sweets follow suit, piled together on the one scooter, circling around their equine leader with their apple-catching bushels. With each stop, each buck, it’s just one foot-push away, and the apples fall at just the right spot, fresh fruit falling in rolling waves where none miss the wide-barreled buckets. Still, with each tree, yet more apples to get, bushels getting heavier and always putting it down, Big Mac leaning down so Apple Bloom can never leave—and his face looks up to her, now to the next tree. No need for a harness nor saddle nor spur—especially a spur! Can’t hurt her brother like that, just weaving around, moving where she wanted to go, guiding her hands where they need to— “Come on, Apple Bloom! Time to buck those trees!” In another world, Big Mac still gallops, still bucks each tree, but Apple Bloom follows close behind on her four hooves, Applejack dealing with her own line of trees as well. Swimming fast in the million-acre farm, apple trees galore, bucking and kicking them dry, strong as a grown-up horse, felling every single apple in sight before autumn takes over to take their leaves. There’d be enough for a full-blown meal for each and every Apple pony from across the kingdom. At the end of it all, an apple pie is baked for everyone with tender love and care, steaming hot, and there’s chowing down and laughter. It’s not just the family, though, for all her friends are there too, and her friends’ friends too. She hugs Scootaloo and Sweetie Belle, pegasus and unicorn, at the door, while a fast-flying rainbow-head and an older unicorn of fancier appearances accompany them. Cider is served for everyone, and with hooves raised high, it’s a great toast to many more years of magical friendship and harmony. Four more. Just four to go. She holds true, bushel in her hand, guided now, in lockstep with her almost-brother. He stops, no longer skidding now. The brakes are smooth; now he’s right under the tree. Hold on tight to his yoke as he rears. Poor Cookie tried that once, and the poor human nearly fell, but here, holding up, eyes on the apples ahead with bushels outstretched— “That’s it, Apple Bloom! Just three more!” And Sweetie’s voice encourages her, leads her on as Scootaloo almost shoots out a lead. Big Mac races her down, though, beaten to second-last. A quick turn, and there, another bushel of apples to hold onto, apples beating down her head, her back, yet shielded by nothing but basket wood— “Come on, Apple Bloom! It’s time to pick those trees!” Just five years old, the world still fresh, and she’s already up against the dirt and its allure. The home, the soil, the growth that thrives everywhere. Yet here it grows fruit, and it shall be her fruit, their fruit. Picked up by Ma and Pa, she first snags the low-hanging fruit, low enough, cooed along by Ma for a job well done, while Pa then climbs up ladders. Applejack and Big Mac were old enough to climb their own ladders, to ascend their own trees. But over there, beside the tallest tree of them all, she sees one apple—red against the cool green, like the end of an antenna. “Oh, do you wanna get that?” comes the sweet croon of Ma. Before the little child knew it, the ladder was taken her way, before being plopped onto a basket that’s now tight for her—kept in a safety belt, but still wrapped around Ma’s shoulder, as she started climbing, conquering the ladder. Higher, with the air catching, the cool wind blowing now, as Ma started picking the apples, parted from the branch with a dinky snap!—and her own little hand reaches out, about to clutch an apple before it’s snatched away. No, it is not yet the highest apple. The steps stop, the climb ends. Her eyes behold, at the top of the world, the entire city, her home and all reality in her innocent mind, with its great metal towers rising into the stars in space, the sun and the clouds much closer than they’ve ever been, and the whole farm is all in her eyes. She is queen of apples, for a few precious seconds. Right in front of her, at the top of the tree, the juiciest apple she’s ever seen. “Come on, just two more!” His canter breezes over tender grass, like in the rodeo shows with dear Cookie. But through ropings and blue ribbons, even through growing up with her since Big Mac ever bought the little horsie for the family as a surprise—treated with apples, tender love and care, in and out of a dozen country fairs—she could never talk back. But now Big Mac was her brother and steed. A gift he is, in the form of a loving and caring creature, from Ma and Pa to her. She raises her hands on instinct, bushels raised as her vision is wrested from the tree. With powered up hind legs, there’s the buck—hold on, time it well, squeeze the yoke with one hand— and she avoids falling, apples hailing down from the sky. The last advance plies through kicked-up soil, adrenaline rushing—her will and Big Mac’s, straight as an arrow, to the final tree as she raises her bushels high. In slo-mo, like cavalry who’ll fight to never have their freedom taken, she closes her eyes as the afternoon sunlight brightens her non-vision. “Soup’s on, everybody!” Just as she dreamed it: Thanksgiving Night, the house all aglow with warm lights and candles. While turkey is served like usual, there’s a lot less meat here. In its place, some crumbling carrot cakes along with just fresh carrots, cornbread that’s never too mild, stew with peppers and potatoes galore, and of course a great litany of apples, apples—from pies to cakes and jam and cobbler and tarts, all to be washed down in fresh apple cider. But beyond the smells, water flows from her mouth like a kitchen sink and the familiar faces of family come to the light. Granny sits down with her applesauced apron, and Applejack and Big Mac dig in with ravenous appetites, hands dirty, forks and knives attacking ceramic. On the other side, the same yet different: an aged and arched mare content to watch her grandchildren enjoy a whole new world; a cowgirl in the form of a hat-wearing pony, ponytailed, taking a scrumptious bite of juicy pie; herself, finding her own horse version cute with the bow on top—surely someone great to talk to, and maybe they also have a film club there, if the parallels go that deep And there’s Big Mac, gulping down the last bit of cider, his mane and everyone else’s flapping in too-fast wind, gravity sideways and everything falls out the front door, telling her to— “Stop!” The world freezes, and the wind slaps her face. Bushel no longer in her hands, Apple Bloom’s eyes fly open. “Wait, what?” “We’ve already gotten half the truck loaded,” Scootaloo finishes, having taken the basket away, and Sweetie Belle jerks a thumb beside her. The old jalopy is jammed up with one more delivery of apples on its back, a posthumous affair for the beat-up vehicle with its broken hood spewing out smoke. At Big Mac’s nod, it’s a signal for Apple Bloom. Get down; job here’s done. Only now does she notice the growing throng of news reporters and news vans scattered loosely, already reporting about the stallion that’s not really on the loose, just making a scene, a tad too helpful, and the sandpaper noise of the crowd settles in. The bushels are running over and the truck is full. Scootaloo pulls up her scooter into the passenger seat, and Sweetie happily takes in questions from one or two of the reporters by the window. Without thinking, the Apple girl shields herself from prospective journalists (lots of juicy impressions already, talking to the sister of some magic user before first contact). She gets to the car, but not without helping Big Mac attach himself to the front bumper of the jalopy one more time. Camera flashes have the sense to not shower a couple teenagers with too much attention, but she still ignores, is still flustered, even when Big Mac gallops quickly away, fast enough to outrun a news van obeying the speed limit, the attacking of hooves against asphalt overwhelming the other CMC cheering in victory, congratulating her for a job well done. But in her mind, a hand finally clutches the hoof forever.