Sweet Apple Acres was as uneventful as ever. With harvest season long gone, all that remained to be tended to were the chickens, the dozen or so cows, and the corn crop that the family had sown earlier that year.
Big Macintosh sighed. He’d gone for a stroll among the apple orchards of his home. Now that they had borne fruit, they would dry up for the autumn, and perish in the cold winter. Leaves of amber and red hung perilously from the spindly tips of the branches, and as he watched them, a small gust of wind gently pushed some away. They twirled, reflecting the evening sunlight in the air, before coming to rest either side of him.
He peered at the leaf closely, trying to find some deeper wisdom.
What was it that made it fall?
A philosopher at heart, Macintosh had always revelled in the way she had solved problems so easily. He held himself responsible for letting her run away. His grandmother had chided him for thinking such nonsense, but he still felt guilty. He always felt guilty when she got into trouble. His father had trusted him to take care of his sister, after all. And, loyal to a fault, he had done twice as much work as what was needed. Applejack was more than happy. He’d been there for her every time she needed him. And Big Macintosh had made sure she had kept out of trouble.
Not now, though.
He leaned back against the twisted bow of the apple tree. His bones ached. His heart ached.
The golden leaf fluttered onto his nose.
Choose well; your choice is brief, but endless, he had thought to say to her. Perhaps that particular revelation would have made her stop and think twice before doing what she did.
She knew he was a stallion of little words. He was her brother. She’d have taken his advice.
…Or would she?
He’d heard her preparing. She was always very clumsy like that, and he was a light sleeper.
The letter on her pillow he'd glanced at before tossing it back. Swiftly, and silently, he left the house. Like a shadow, he flitted through the orchards. He could be as quiet and quick as the northern wind when he wanted to be.
There was little need for it, though. She hadn’t gone far. She was down by the old pond, where she and his father used to skim stones.
Maybe even the mere sight of him, standing in the shadow of the trees, would have shamed her into staying. But he had chosen to stay concealed, and watch her for a moment.
She had unslung the pack from her shoulders. Slowly, she began to wandering the bankside, every now and again stooping low to pick something up. This went on for a number of minutes.
And then, she reared, reached back with a hoof… And hurled something as hard as she could.
Skip-skip-skip-skip, splash… The flat stone spun across the glassy water, shattering it. The ripples made the half-moon sway.
He heard her stifle a sob.
It had been a very soft one, but he had heard it nonetheless, and flattened his ears against it.
He hated it when he sister cried. He despised nothing, and disliked precious little, but seeing her upset was something he could not abide by.
But still, he sat on his haunches, peering out from behind the fir that marked the pond. He had burned to go and comfort her, and stop her from leaving. But there was some other part of him. One that had kept him sitting there.
He was not used to such inner conflict. And in the end, he let her go.
And now, she was who-knows where. Doing who-knows what.
He twitched his nose.
The leaf fluttered down, coming to rest on his lap. It reminded him of her, in a way. A wandering soul, pushed and pulled against its will.
What was he to do? Should he have let her stay? Or go? Ever since she’d left, he’d lamented his decision. But at the same time, he had wanted her to go.
He took a deep breath.
Inhale…
He filled his lungs with the scent of faded grass.
Exhale.
The leaf gushed away.
When nothing can be done about the way things are, the wise stop worrying.
That was his father talking. And, as always, his father was right.
He tilted his head skywards. Set against the ever-reddening sky, the tree seemed to carry some of his wisdom.
He closed his eyes, and tried to relax. A few deep breaths, and time itself began to slip away.
He always came here to think on things. It gave him a perfect view of the sunset. On this occasion, though, the problem had solved itself rather swiftly. He didn’t mind. He had spent many days and nights wondering about what he should have done.
In the end, it was a question of doing wrong. And in the end, with true intention, he could do no wrong.
It was with that realization he opened his eyes.
His meditation had been interrupted by the sound of a hoof step.
He opened his eyes, to see a stranger mounting the crest of the hill. A stranger from his childhood, with a very familiar orange mare draped over his back.
He had never really been gone, in Macintosh’s mind. How could he forget someone like that?
That curious, grizzled stranger, who appeared in his grandmother’s life when her daughter, his mother, had died. And departed almost as suddenly, as soon as things were well again.
Big Macintosh wondered if he saw him. He remembered that his sister could be very observant when he wanted to be, but she was asleep. The stallion looked as if he was dozing himself. His gaze was fixed on the ground, and he trod slowly, wearily, his face shaded by the brim of a wide, tan Stetson.
When he trotted slowly by him, Big Macintosh decided to say something.
“Dinner’s on the table.”
The old stallion didn’t even raise his head.
“Ah know. Thanks.”
He smiled.
All was well.