Well hello there, little ponies! How are you doin’ this fine autumn day, eh? I declare, there’s nothin’ like a nice morning sun at the flank end of summer to put the trot back in my old bones. And from the look of it, I’d say some of you fillies and colts have been trottin’ over to Sweet Apple Acres and helpin’ yourselves to a bit o’ the harvest when nopony’s lookin’, eh? Don’t try to sneak one past me; I’ve done enough of my own pinchin’ to trick to the shine of apple juice ‘round a young pony’s mouth.
Oh, don’t get cross-hoofed on me, now. I’m not gonna clap you in irons and haul you off to yer mommas. Ponies is ponies, my ol’ grandmare used to say, and if’n ya don’t have enough bark on ya to snitch an apple or two when the darn things are ‘bout to burst from bein’ so juicy, then you ain’t doin’ it right.
What’s that? Oh, my mark? Well thank you kindly, little miss, for askin’. Ayup, it’s a spiderweb all right. Very perceptive of ya. They call me Webweaver, when they don’t call me less savory things. I like to travel about and spin webs, like the one over there ‘twixt them two trees, see yonder? I set them up, and any tales that’s floatin’ about in the wind, why they just fly over and get caught up in my webs. Ever’ once in awhile, I’ll trot around and see what the wind’s done blown in there, and if’n I think it’s special enough, why I’ll just wrap it up and carry it ‘round with me ‘til I spy a special colt or filly who I think needs to hear about it. No, young sir, I won’t show you. It’s right special, this talent of mine, and if I showed you, then it wouldn’t work.
Flies? Gorry no, I don’t catch flies in my webs. It’s easy ‘nuff to catch flies when you’re as old and slow as I am, and a mite more troublesome to get rid of the pesky things. No, I told ya, I catch tales, and if you’ll hold yer yammerin’ for a bit, I might just set a spell and tell ya one or two.
There now, ain’t this better? Just look at this. A shady spot like this is just the place to set a web, and catch a tale on the breeze. And mayhap it’ll work just as well to undo one and let it float out again; this breeze feels just about right to float it ‘tween my mouth and your ears, and if ya pay attention, ya can send it on it’s way yer own self, and save me the trouble of tellin’ it twice. Carryin’ tales is a worrisome burden, and it can wear an old unicorn like myself down somethin’ turrible, but this here tale’s not too heavy for young ears, I reckon. Let me ask you, have you little’uns heard of the Cutie Mark Crusaders? Ya have?
Stupid club? Blank flanks? That’s a serious charge comin’ from you lot, when the whole lot of ya don’t have more marks yerselves than I do legs under my belly. Snicker if ya want, but cutie marks is serious business to those that hasn’t got ‘em yet, even though you lot with yer own would like as not wanna forget the fact. And the three fillies I’m gonna tell you about are more serious than most about the whole affair.
Now, settle down. No need to go arguin’ about it amongst yerselves. Ever’pony under the sun’s got a mark comin’, sooner or later, and if the fillies in my story’d set that fact in their heads – like you lot ‘arter – they’d be a lot more content. But bein’ content ain’t what these three are about, not by a long shot, and it’s just as well, I reckon, else I wouldn’t have much to say to you here, am I right?
You bet I am, little miss. Lemme tell you what happened…
“Oh no,” Scootaloo groaned, her wings tucking down to her sides as she let her scooter coast to a stop. “It’s totally wrecked!”
In the wagon behind her, Sweetie Belle and Apple Bloom looked dismally over the remnants of their clubhouse. The storm from the evening before had been particularly rough, and the weather ponies had warned everyone there might be some minor damage from tree limbs and other debris. But this…this was…
“It’s a disaster!” Sweetie Belle hopped out of the wagon and trotted over to the base of the tree their clubhouse was perched in. Part of the door hung splintered and ruined from one lonely hinge; there was no sign of the rest of it. Pieces of board, a few shingles and a shutter lay scattered about, and the posters that had hung from the interior walls were hanging limply from a nearby bush. “What’re we gonna do? It looks even worse than when Applejack gave it to us!”
Apple Bloom meandered through the wreckage to join her. “It’s not that bad,” she offered weakly. “We c’n fix it up again.”
“With what? I forgot to stop by the hardware store on the way over,” Scootaloo shot back. The orange filly dismounted from her scooter and removed her protective headgear. “There’s no way we can scrounge enough stuff again to fix it this time.” Stalking over to the paper decorated bush, she retrieved a crumpled piece and groaned again. “Our map! Now what are we gonna do?”
The little map of Ponyville tracing their adventures in search of their cutie marks was a complete write-off; the only legible bit remaining was the TOP SECRET, DON’T LOOK OR ELSE! still visible in one sodden corner. Sweetie Belle looked it over for a moment, then shrugged. “At least nobody else can read it either. They can’t steal our cutie marks.”
“We didn’t get them yet, remember?” Scootaloo groused. “Besides, how do you steal a cutie mark?”
“I don’t know,” Sweetie replied. “Maybe that’s why we can’t find them, though. Somebody keeps hiding them from us.”
Scootaloo gave her a flat stare and said nothing.
“Have you got a better idea?” Sweetie Belle said crossly. “At least I’m thinking, here.” She sat down, pouting, and returned Scootaloo’s glare. “You have helmet mane.”
“Hey, c’mon, focus, gang!” Apple Bloom stepped between them. “This ain’t helpin’. We gotta fix up our clubhouse, remember?” She sat back beside Sweetie Belle and studied the denuded framework overhead. “Ah think we can fix it, we just need to get some supplies, is all.”
Scootaloo shook herself, her forelock falling gently over one eye, and then exhaled loudly. “Yeah, I guess. But where are we gonna get them?”
“Do you think Applejack can give us some supplies?” Sweetie flipped over a piece of shattered board with one hoof. “She gave us all this old stuff before, remember?”
“Yeah!” Scootaloo brightened at last. “C’mon, Apple Bloom, let’s ask Applejack. She’ll help us out, won’t she?”
Apple Bloom’s muzzle quirked up in an odd expression. “Ah reckon. But ah think ah know what she’s gonna say…”
Applejack drew in a deep breath as she curled her hind legs up close to her body. Poised on her forehooves, she kicked backwards with a loud grunt, striking the bole of the apple tree directly behind her. Tucking her head in just in case, she listened with satisfaction to the chunky sounds as the tree gave up its fruit, the apples pattering down to fill the buckets on either side. “The storm tore it up, huh?”
“Yeah, it’s a real mess.” Apple Bloom shook her head. “Ah don’t think we can put it back t’gether again with what’s left.”
“Yeah, it’s pretty wrecked,” Sweetie Belle added.
“Totally!” Scootaloo offered, waving her forelegs for emphasis. “I mean, ka-pow city!”
Applejack settled back against the tree, resting for a moment. “Well that’s a darn shame, sugarcube. Ah know how hard y’all worked on ever’thing.”
“We were wonderin’ if you had some extra stuff layin’ around we could borrow to try to fix it up. Ah told ever’pony how great a sister you were and you’d never EVER leave a pony hangin’ if you could help ‘em out.” Apple Bloom put on her most sincere expression, and her friends nodded rapidly in support. “Please, Applejack?”
“Aw hon, you ain’t gotta butter mah bread up like that.” Applejack grinned. “I ‘preciate the compliment.” She tilted her wide brimmed hat back and let the breeze toss through her forelock. “Problem is, ah ain’t got much tah give ya. All we got at the moment’s a couple a ‘ol boards and a few nails, and Big Mac needs them fer the barn door. He's got to patch it up 'soon as he gets home.”
Scootaloo perked up. “Hey, do you have six wooden planks?”
Applejack blinked. “Um, nope, just two, sugarcube, and ah cain’t spare ‘em.”
“How about some four by eight plywood?”
Sweetie Belle clapped a hoof over the orange filly’s muzzle. “Oh no, we’re not doing THAT again.”
Scootaloo shook free and snorted. “It worked last time!”
“Hold on here, girls. Yer buckin’ the wrong tree.” Applejack straightened up, stretching out one hind leg. “Ah told ya ah cain’t give yah the stuff ah got. But there ain’t no reason ya cain’t take some money and go buy yerselves all the supplies ya need.”
The three fillies traded glances. “Ah don’t think we have enough, Applejack.” Apple Bloom sat down, a pained expression flitting over her face.
“What about them ten bits ah gave ya last week fer yer allowance?” Applejack gave her sister a knowing look. “Ah bet Mr. and Mrs. Cake down to Sugarcube Corner sold themselves a few cupcakes to a pack of hungry fillies after school t’other day.” She leaned down, a small smile beginning to crease the corners of her mouth. “Or am ah the one buckin’ the wrong tree now?”
“Yeah, we kinda spent it all.” Apple Bloom’s expression sunk lower.
“They were really really good,” Sweetie Belle offered helpfully.
“And awesome!” chimed in Scootaloo.
“You three went through ten bits ‘o cupcakes in one afternoon?” Applejack shook her head. “Tarnation!”
Apple Bloom’s expression hit rock bottom, her lower lip pouching out and beginning to quiver slightly. Sweetie Belle trotted up next to her friend, reaching up and rubbing the other filly’s shoulder. “They were really good,” she said again, trying to think of some other reason that sounded…well, reasonable. It had seemed like a good idea at the time…
“Oh, don’t get so down in the face, thar. Yer lip’s stickin’ out so far, yer liable tah trip over it afore ya take two steps,” Applejack soothed, rubbing her sister’s forelock. “Ah’ve got a little extra jingle that ain’t doin nuthin’ but holdin’ down that jar in the kitchen. Maybe ah could spare a few bits for yer clubhouse.”
The miserable expression on the three fillies’ faces vaporized instantly, and they gazed at Applejack with such a worshipful look that the pony could almost hear a heavenly chorus hovering about her head. “Y-You mean it??” stammered Sweetie Belle.
“Well why not? Shoot, it used tah be mah clubhouse when I was yer age. It’d be like restorin’ a national monument fer the Apple Family.”
“That’s awesome, Applejack! You’re the coolest!” Scootaloo darted a look around suddenly, hoping Rainbow Dash hadn’t been within earshot. “Um…how much can we have?”
Applejack crossed her hooves and leaned against the tree beside her, cocking an eyebrow at the little pegasus. “Have?”
A moment’s silence ensued.
Sweetie Belle sallied forth to break it. “Um…how much can we…borrow?”
Applejack shook her head. “No can do, sugarcube. Ah never lend out anythin’. If’n some pony’s in need, I’ll give ‘em ten bits and the hat off’n mah head without sayin’ a word, and not expect to see it again. If it comes back to me, well then, that’s fine too, but lendin’s a bad business.” She swished her tail slowly, enjoying the bemused expression on their faces for a moment. “Ah reckon it won’t hurt nothin’ if you earn that there money, though.”
Sweetie Belle looked distraught. “I don’t think Rarity would like it if I got a job apple bucking.”
The peach colored pony laughed helplessly, swatting the trio of apples marked on her own flank with a forehoof. “I reckon not, Sweetie, and you ain’t got the hooves for it yet, no how. Naw, I ain’t talkin’ about a job, sugarcube; there’s other ways to earn yer pay besides jobs.” She leaned down, holding them in her gaze, a predatory grin on her face. “Naw. Ah’m talkin’ ‘bout…chores.”
The three fillies let out a chorus of groans, and Apple Bloom shook her head resignedly at her friends. “See? Ah told ya…”