Big Mac stared out over the Acres, his front hooves dangling over the porch railing of the family homestead. A light breeze shook the branches in the light of the setting sun, whispering the start of a song. He frowned at that and shook his head to clear out the noise. The trees had already gotten what they wanted.
They could wait a while for the next one.
“Ya done fillin’ in those holes, Mac?”
Without glancing at the newcomer, Mac replied, “Eeyup. All closed up, Granny.”
Granny Smith threw her hooves over the railing alongside her grandson, staring out at the trees with an expression of distaste. “And any problems are good and buried?” Granny continued.
“Won’t nobody be able to even tell,” Mac answered.
She nodded then spit on the ground, growling at the acres. “Three in four months. Bunch of greedy varmints these trees are.”
Mac nodded.
“Goin’ to be my time soon.” Granny held up a hoof to cut off Mac’s protests. “I ain’t an alicorn, Mac. Gonna happen eventually, and since Bloom and Applejack don’t have the blood, it's going to have to be you who handles everything going forward.” She scowled, her wrinkles intensifying the disdain in the expression. “Keep our ancestor’s stupidity contained.”
“Wouldn’t it stop if there was no one to take care of it?” Mac asked.
Granny gave Mac a side-eye. “We’re just cousins to the horrid blood that grew these monsters. Got it shoved onto us because we had the biggest land and not a whole lot of Apples left that farm on this scale. ‘Sides that, you saw what it did to that poor fella, Noteworthy.
“These blasted trees can fend for themselves now.”
“What do we do if they figure that out?” Mac asked.
With a weary sigh, Granny shook her head. “I don’t know, Mac. All we can do is hope they don’t.”
Mac nodded, resting his chin on the porch railing.
They sat in quiet companionship, staring at the burden they had been saddled with. One, tired of the decades of struggle they had already done, the other, thinking of the burdens to come.
“Heard you met a mare in Our Town,” Granny said, breaking their contemplation. “What was her name again… Sugar Cane?”
“Sugar Belle,” Mac corrected.
“You like her?” Granny asked.
“She’s fine enough,” Mac answered, omitting the ‘not really my type’.
“Fine enough to get a foal out of it?”
Mac turned to stare at Granny who continued to look out at the Acres, a sad expression on her face.
“Look, Mac, the blood ain’t followin’ the other two, which means it’s up to you to sire new blood to keep this under control,” Granny explained. “I knew goin’ into this after your father died, that one of you three wouldn’t get a choice in the matter, and, I’m sorry to say, but that’s you, Mac.”
“Is there really no other option?”
“You have a few,” Granny relented. “You can sire a foal with Sugar Face, find some other mare to sire with, or let the orchard go. Walk away and don’t think ‘bout no more.” Granny looked into Mac’s eyes, her expression intent. “But I know you won’t take the third option, much as I’d almost prefer you did.”
Releasing a weary sigh, Mac said, “was hopin’—”
“We all hope for a lot of things, Mac,” Granny interrupted. “Unfortunately, most of us don’t get what we want and you are ‘most’.”
A shrill, metallic ringing filled the air. Granny snorted. “Dang landlines.”
Granny returned to the house, the ringing ending shortly after.
The sound of a haunting tune echoed across the orchard. Mac perked his ears in its direction taking in the sweet tune of the chorus accompanied by the melody of a piano.
Noteworthy indeed, Mac thought.