Summer breezes caressed the canopies of apple trees growing in a back lot of Sweet Apple Acres. School was out of session, and the air was warm and dry. If the label on the paint can was any indication, it was a perfect day for three fillies to put a fresh coat on their clubhouse: it was warmer than fifty degrees Fahrenheit and no more than one-hundred. The humidity was between forty and eighty-five percent and the weather service had scheduled no rain.
The clubhouse was a fine treehouse nested around the crotches of an apple tree where the limbs joined the trunk. It had a blue-gray shake roof and pink-painted clapboard siding, a mid-air porch on two sides, and a flying staircase leading to the ground. The fillies loved it dearly. Although it didn't have electricity or running water, one could almost imagine a pony with frugal needs living there. Best of all, it was theirs to keep up and to have all on their own.
With her forehooves and teeth Apple Bloom manipulated a long-handled roller over the siding. The paint crackled stickily as she touched up the last spots then stepped back and looked over the coat one last time. Satisfied she hadn't missed anything, she set down her roller and began to clean up.
In place of her usual bow she had tied her red mane back with a bandanna to keep it clean. She hadn't needed to; she worked with practiced grace and keept herself spotless. The same could not be said for her friends, to one of whom she turned her attention. “Scootaloo, the paint's supposed t' go on the clubhouse, not you.”
The sienna-orange pegasus twisted around, spreading her wings and grimacing at the pink splotches that she had managed to get all over her coat and feathers. One hoof tracked a circle of prints on the dropcloth. “I guess you had the right idea wearing that smock, Sweetie Belle.”
The third filly, a unicorn, finished shrugging out of an old sheet that she had draped over her back and had tied around her neck like a cape. Although she was not as messy as Scootaloo, it had saved her white coat from a few drips and smudges.
“Still you got a little on your horn,” Scootaloo teased.
The unicorn scrubbed the non-existent spot with a hoof. “Did I get it?”
Apple Bloom looked up from the label she had been reading. “Yer fine, Sweetie Belle. Scootaloo, it says here this stuff is non-toxic, but we'd better wash it out of your feathers before it dries. I can't imagine it tastes good. C'mon, you two, it ain't like this paint is gonna dry while we're watchin' it.”
Sweetie sat on her haunches, a hoof at her chin, considering the wet paint. “I wonder if that's really true.”
“Of course it is. Mah granny says so. You ain't callin' her a liar, are you?”
Sweetie Belle caught the playful tone in her friend's voice and joined the mock fight. “Everypony says that. ‘Watched paint never dries.’ Or something like that but I don't think it's true.”
Apple Bloom stepped close to Sweetie and looked her dead in her eyes. “So yer sayin' yer smarter than everypony else?” She cocked an eyebrow. “Prove it.”
“Girls!” interrupted Scootaloo pushing the two apart. “You're welcome to stop bickering anytime.”
“Sorry, Scootaloo,” said Apple Bloom. She glanced at her friend's painted forehoof then at the pink crescent it left on her own chest. “An' sit tight. Yer spreadin' this stuff all over the place.”
She took a damp rag and scrubbed the paint from her chest then turned her attention to Scootaloo, who sat on her haunches with a sheepish grin and held her offending hoof outstretched.
Sweetie looked over to the paint rollers, trays, and cans spread out across the deck. “I guess I'll take care of this stuff.”
Apple Bloom was scrubbing Scootaloo's neck as she answered. “The paint goes back in the can if it's clean. Put the rollers in that little bucket of water for now. When they're soaked we can take 'em off the handles.”
As Sweetie set to work, Apple Bloom wiped the worst of the paint from Scootaloo's coat. The last bits refused to budge, and when she started to wash her friend's wings she hit another snag.
“Careful!” grunted Scootaloo. “Don't go against the grain.”
“Sorry.” Apple Bloom dabbed at the paint-caked feathers, taking care to wipe from roots to tips. “Bad news: it's not coming out. I gotta scrub or something before it dries anything worse.”
“I've got a better idea,” said Scootaloo. “Let's try the hose.”
Sweetie took the dirty rag from Apple Bloom and put it in a bag with the others. “I think I'll stay here and watch the paint.”
“You don't have to,” said Apple Bloom. “I was just joking around.”
“But I want to. Like those ‘Myth Buckers’ guys on the radio. I'm gonna put this myth to the test.” Sweetie stretched a grin across her face.
“Suit yerself,” said Apple Bloom and she and Scootaloo turned down the steps. Their hoof-falls knocked hollow against the wood and they pushed into the unmown grass of the fallow orchard.
Seed tassels swayed and swept along the fillies' flanks. Scootaloo glanced over at her friend and took the lead. Soon, without words, both reached a comfortable canter, their red and purple manes bounding above the tall grass.
Apple Bloom let Scootaloo set the pace, knowing her earth pony self better built for the ground, and let herself enjoy the run as a run and not as a race. Her pegasus friend pushed hard however, and even Apple Bloom found her heart pumping proudly to keep up.
They passed from orchard to wood, hearing only their hooves' group-a'-three beats and the wind in their ears. There the air was cooler and shafts of light cut through the canopy, falling on foliage dappled bright. A stream they forded marked the border between wood and farmed orchard, where the air was perfumed with apple blossoms and ariot with the calls of birds who had alarmed at their approach.
At the farm house they turned cool water against the double heat of sunshine and good exercise. The paint came off clean enough, leaving only small flakes to be brushed or preened from feathers and hair.
But it is a universal rule that two adolescents of any species when in possession of both a garden hose and a sunny summer afternoon are ill-disposed to stop at mere cleanliness. They soaked each other — and half the side of the house for good measure.
Apple Bloom pressed a hoof into the stream, and Scootaloo beat her wings, trying to fan the essence of the rainbow from the sparkling spray. This proved beyond her abilities as a weatherpony but it wasn't the first time she had failed to demonstrate a rainbow-related special talent. In truth she was having too much fun to mind.
They might have carried on all afternoon, but Applejack chose that moment to emerge from the barn and remind them that if they was fixin' t' turn up the earth for mud they might kindly do so in a spare pig pen an' not on the lawn right by the house.
•
Sweetie had watched her friends disappear into the trees then she picked up the last few rags. She put them in a bag, stacked it with the other painting supplies by the porch stairs, and set to her real work of watching the paint dry.
It started out shiny and wet, then it sunk into the grain a little, dripped here and there, and became ever so slightly less shiny. Gentle breezes pushed the paint fumes away, but whatever kind it was that Applejack had given them, it didn't really stink to begin with. She sighed. “Watching paint dry is boring.”
Without anypony else around, the tree was quiet. Sweetie could hear the wind blowing in the branches and the house creaking as it swayed. A cicada started to buzz, muttering at first, crescendoing, and sputtering back to silence. Distant, another one answered. She sighed again. “I'll bet Apple Bloom calls them ‘sickadoodles’ or something.”
She smiled and turned, setting two hooves on the railing, and looked out over the orchard. Little gusts of wind showed themselves in the swaying of the grass. She could see them approach before they tugged at her mane and tail and set the porch swaying just a bit underhoof.
Sweetie Belle turned around and looked at the siding. The paint was still wet.
•
After apologizing to Applejack and taking a quick snack Apple Bloom and Scootaloo set out for the pond at an easy trot, relishing the sights and sounds of summer. This time through the orchards, they moved softly enough to not startle the birds. Robins pulled worms from the ground and a woodpecker hunted bugs in a tree's bark with sharp ratta-tat-tats.
Apple Bloom frowned. “I sure hope Applejack doesn't hear 'em.”
Scootaloo looked around, hoping to spot the bird's black-and-white plumage or red crest. “The woodpecker?”
“Eyep. She doesn't like what they do to the trees so we hafta scare 'em away. If they have babies it's not… easy.”
“Oh.” Scootaloo scowled. “Have you talked to Fluttershy?”
Apple Bloom shook her head. “That was my idea. Maybe we build some birdhouses — we'd just put up logs an' they'd do the rest. I'm sure Fluttershy could convince them to stay out of the trees. But AJ, she says that won't stop 'em from peckin' at the bark for bugs, and I quote, ‘What that mare don't know won't upset her none.’ ”
“Mmm,” said Scootaloo.
“I'm sorry. It's too nice a day to turn unpleasant by thinkin' about things like that. Race ya to the pond.”
•
If Sweetie looked at exactly the right angle she could see the paint had become blotchy. Some patches stayed shiny and others were dull. She checked the can again. Sure enough, the paint wasn't supposed to have a matte finish. She rolled her eyes at the siding and turned toward the stairs.
Maybe it didn't exactly count as “watching” the paint, but Sweetie figured she could make the rules to her own game.
She walked down the stairway and ducked into the shade under the house. The grass gave way to a carpet of moss underhoof, soft blue-green dotted with orange threads and bulbs.
Her hoof-falls crunched on gravel once she passed the limit of even the primitive plants' growing range. There only the apple tree's roots broke the dry and fully-shaded ground. They rose to join the trunk, against which Sweetie Belle leaned her body as she looked around.
The floorboards overhead were shadowed as was the ground below; they encompassed the daylight, which lit a single band of bright vegetation ringing the clubhouse tree. The grass at the margin swayed in the wind, its silhouette like the bars of a prison or the loopholes of a fortress wall.
Here and there overhead, sunlight passed through a window in the house and fell through cracks in the floor, finally casting beams of light through the moss-spore in the overhead darkness. The light illuminated the foundations of the treehouse, which to the right eyes were a marvel of pony engineering. The floor was to be level but the limbs on which it rested grew at random. Sliding loads would cut into the tree's bark. The tree swayed with wind but the house wasn't supposed to shake more than necessary and should tilt even less. One day Sweetie had asked Apple Bloom about it.
•
“I've got a copy of the plans somewhere around here if you wanna take a look,” said Apple Bloom, getting up from her seat and walking to a closet in the back of the clubhouse.
Sweetie arranged her math homework into a neat pile of pages before stowing them in her saddlebags. She then ran a hoof along her abacus, a thirteen-rod beauty made by her sister as a gift. The one-beads were rose quartzes — Rarity had a surplus of small ones at the time — and the sixes were purple sapphires — a touch more expensive than amethyst, to be sure, but they matched Sweetie's mane just so.
Apple Bloom returned with the prints, and the fillies spread them out across the table. Next they turned to blank sheets of paper and derived the equations describing the stresses on beams and joints caused by small shifts in the position of each part. Solving them would explain the house's motion.
Sweetie scythed through the problem with the snick and click of her abacus beads and the soft scritch of pencil on paper. She left sheaves of digits lying in neat rows on the page. These Apple Bloom checked in a soft voice against her own mechanical intuition. “An' that makes sense. Ya push this one and that one shifts ta the left an' lifts the joint here…”
The design was more complicated than any problem in their textbook, but they eventually arrived at the linear approximation and a deeper understanding.
“That's all I've got,” said Apple Bloom. “Big Macintosh is the one who's good at the fancy mathematics. You should ask him if yer curious.”
“Did he design this?” asked Sweetie Belle, her voice squeaking in admiration.
“Nah. He was even younger then than we are now. I think it was one a' the other cousins.”
•
The Apple cousin's fancy mathematics swayed overhead, setting the sun-rays dancing. Sweetie stood up and walked from under the house back into the light. Her unhurried gait rolled across her back, an easy one-two-three-four rhythm. She blinked as she stepped into the sunlight and looked up at the house.
The foundations had been sound when Applejack passed it on, but everything else had called for the fillies' work. Sweetie could see what part of the fresh pink coat she herself had painted, but as always Apple Bloom was the one who lead the project. She found the paint, nails, and scrap wood to replace the broken shutters, to shore up and patch the walls, to fix the stairs' squeaky treads, and a myriad of other small tasks.
She most likely kept a budget of her own. Sweetie could imagine her friend sitting with her big sister some evening, a fire crackling in the living room hearth as they discussed which projects Apple Bloom could afford and which would just have to wait.
•
The pond was cool and deep, shaded by a ring of maples left standing for that purpose. Three-quarters of the circumference were decorated with lily leaves floating flat upon the surface, each no bigger than a filly's forehoof. The center was too deep for the plants; shiny and dark it reflected the cloud-dotted sky. One stretch of the bank lacked lilies as well. There a bluff rolled off and plunged below the water line and a sturdy maple bough stretched over the water.
It couldn't have been more perfect if it were designed that way. A rope hung from the limb, creaking as it swung across the deep. Scootaloo held the free end in her teeth and timed the exact moment to let go.
She fluttered her wings in brief alarm then fell and hit the water with a wet smack. Her wave washed over Apple Bloom, who kicked water back at her surfacing friend.
“Hey Sweet–” Scootaloo called back to the empty bank before lowering her voice and directing it to the one friend who was there. “Do you think that paint's dry yet?”
Apple Bloom looked up, checking the angle of the sun. “Maybe. I wasn't planning on more than a single coat today so it doesn't really matter.”
“Well it's just… maybe we shouldn't have left her behind.”
Apple Bloom rolled over and attempted a backstroke. “She knows her way around. I'm not worried. She's probably having a good time anyway.”
Scootaloo was still not convinced. She took a deep breath and blew a bubbly sigh into the water. “I don't want her to think we're ignoring her because we're mad at her. That's all.”
“Scootaloo.” Apple Bloom stopped her splashing and drifted. Sound died away except only ripples lapping at the fillies' ears. “Sometimes it's nice for a pony to be quiet and alone. Don't you ever feel that way?”
“Not really.”
“Well sometimes I do. And the clubhouse ain't a bad place for it. Let her find us when she's ready. Actually now that I think of it, remind me later to bring down another barrel a' water — there's enough for her today if she needs it but we're runnin' low.” A smirk played across her face. “And don't worry. Sweetie ain't her sister. All three of us Crusaders know how to pee in the woods.”
Scootaloo couldn't resist her laugh. She affected a prim Manehattanite accent. “I for one cannot possibly imagine a lady as fine as Rarity stooping to such lows.”
•
The paint had glossed up again: it almost looked dry. Sweetie Belle noticed this when she looked, and she bounded up to touch it and confirm. Little flecks of pink stuck to her hoof.
She barked a bitter laugh and her left eye twitched. Taking a rag she scrubbed her hoof clean. The sun had shifted and its light was dimming and cresting, shaded and revealed by a few stray clouds bumping lazily around the sky.
The cicadas still buzzed and every so often Sweetie heard birds call to each other. Against her coat the nestling and nudging of the afternoon breeze grew hypnotic. The sun was slipping behind a cloud when Sweetie decided the porch floor was too hard. She rolled up the dropcloth — the paint was dry enough now to not drip — and pulled a bean bag from inside.
It wasn't a store-bought bean bag; it was an old fertilizer sack stuffed with acorns in place of beans. Sweetie settled herself in, tucking one quarterflank under her rump while allowing the hock of her other hindleg to hang over the edge. She crossed her forehooves under her head and looked up at an angle to the still-drying paint.
The sunlight brightened. Glancing up she saw the wispy remnants of a cloud dissipating in the sun's glare. Following a rainbow trail with her eyes she found Dash descending at the end of the meadow. A half-turn chandelle brought her skimming over the grass towards the clubhouse. She sliced a momentary furrow in her wake, blades of grass being smacked to either side and rebounding wildly in the turbulence.
Dash coasted through her approach and pitched up to land, braking her momentum with strong wing-strokes that buffeted Sweetie's coat and mane.
“Heya, kiddo. Is Scootaloo around?”
“She's probably with Apple Bloom somewhere.”
Dash scowled. “So why are you here alone? Did something happen between you three?”
“Oh nothing really,” said Sweetie. “I'm just watching the paint dry.
Dash gave her a long, hard look. “Really? No. Wait. You're serious.” She stepped up to look at the paint on the siding. “Alright… you gotta tell me now. What's so interesting about watching paint dry?”
Sweetie turned her head and furrowed her eyebrows as she looked up from her nest. “Actually I think I've got something. Do you think the Apples are rich ponies?”
“I… hmm… AJ always seems to have something she's saving for. She works really hard too… I'd say they're probably doin' okay but they're not exactly drowning in bits.” Rainbow sat on the deck next to Sweetie, who rested her eyes and yawned before speaking.
“I think there might be different ways to be rich. Like, take this treehouse. If you buy a diamond it just sits there and looks pretty. You could even put it in a drawer and forget about it. But you have to keep working on a treehouse, so you can't forget to enjoy it.”
“Hunh,” said Rainbow, a frown pulling at her mouth. “I'm not sure I get it.”
“Well they cost about the same, this treehouse and a really big diamond, for one. And you know, if you were a really rich pony and felt like spending some bits you might buy something fancy to show off. That's what I'm trying to say. Not everypony would do the same thing. I'm guessing you wouldn't buy a bunch of new dresses if a bag of bits showed up on your doorstep.”
Rainbow laughed. “Honestly, I'd probably blow 'em all partying or planning a really crazy prank or something.”
“Exactly,” said Sweetie. “Apple Bloom said her family had two big harvests in a row back when Big Macintosh my age. So they spent some of those extra bits to renovate the farm buildings — and to build this treehouse.”
Dash nodded her head. She rose and looked out from the porch across Sweet Apple Acres. “If you put it that way, yeah, they own a lot of land and buildings and all sorts of farm stuff. They don't act stuck-up about it though.”
“Do you think that maybe ponies like us are part of the Apple fortune too?”
Rainbow turned suddenly to stare at Sweetie Belle. “Whaddya mean?”
“Well it's kinda crazy, but back before we started working on the treehouse it was a disaster. I didn't think it would come out as good as it did, but then Apple Bloom started fixing things and getting Scootaloo and me to help. It's… it's almost like we're the ones who own the tree house, but it owns us right back. And by spending the bits and time on it we're kinda spending them on each other. I'm not really sure though.”
“Deep stuff, kid. You three are okay, right?”
“I'm good. And I'm not worried about them. They're probably doing something fun. It's just when Apple Bloom said the paint wouldn't dry, I had to try it whether it was fun or not, you know? There's no way that just watching paint can keep it from drying!”
Dash turned back to the siding and tested the paint herself. “Well it's definitely close.”
“Yeah. I can't wait to tease Apple Bloom about it.”
Dash laughed. “Now that makes sense.” She grabbed the rail and crouched back on her hindlegs but paused a moment before launching herself. “You know what, kid? You might be right. Ever notice how much better dinner tastes at a full table? If that's what you mean by ‘owned’ I guess I'm cool with it. You and Scootaloo are spending the night, right?”
“Yep,” answered Sweetie from her acorn-bag.
Rainbow laughed again. “Wow, you look comfy. Don't tell anypony I'm gettin' all sappy, okay? Catch ya guys later.”
With that Dash was gone in a rush of wings and wind. She flew down the row and rose to tree height with an easy chandelle.
•
After spending the rest of the afternoon swimming, jumping, and splashing with Scootaloo, Apple Bloom noticed the sun start its long summer slide into dusk. By this point she too was a little surprised that Sweetie hadn't caught up with them.
Standing on the bank shaking water from her coat she spoke to Scootaloo. “That paint should probably be dry by now. How about we drop by the clubhouse on our way back?”
The pegasus nodded, her wings fanned to dry.
From the pond they approached the clubhouse through the woods. It was not a usual path; they had to push through scrub in places. Overhead the birds called each other to roost.
Apple Bloom caught sight of Sweetie Belle from several tree-rows away. “Shh quiet, Scootaloo. Look. Ain't that just precious?”
The two stole quietly to the house and softly up the steps. Sweetie Belle was resting her head on her forehooves, the lower of which hung off the edge of the bag. A curl of purple mane half-covered her closed eye. She snored gently in her sleep.
Scootaloo shook with suppressed laughter. Apple Bloom examined the paint with a critical eye and hoof. Gently shaking her friend's shoulder she crooned, “Oh Sweetie Belle.”
Sweetie stirred. “Mm… wha…”
“The paint's dry,” Apple Bloom announced brightly.
Blinking and rubbing her eyes Sweetie got up and stared at the siding.
Scootaloo grinned. “So… What's the verdict? Does paint dry if you watch it all day?”
Sweetie only groaned.
Apple Bloom walked back to the stairs, where Sweetie had packed the painting stuff. “Scootaloo, can you give me a hoof with this here?”
Sweetie stepped forward but Apple Bloom shook her head. “Thanks fer cleanin' everything up. And sorry for leavin' it all for you. We'll take it from here.”
Sweetie satisfied herself with putting the acorn-bag back indoors and joined her friends at the foot of the stairs. The three set off for the farmhouse together.
“Hey, Apple Bloom,” asked Sweetie Belle, “I was wondering what happens when the tree grows. Is the clubhouse gonna end up in the sky?”
“Nah. Trees don't grow like that. They grow taller at the tips but they only get wider around the limbs. We might have to cut the holes bigger or re-level it.”
“How do you do that?” asked Scootaloo.
“Simple. Somepony picks up the house, you adjust the foundation, and then you put the house back down.”
“Somepony just ‘picks up the house?’ ” Scootaloo raised an eyebrow at Apple Bloom, who wore an all-knowing smile as she walked.
“Yeah,” said Apple Bloom. “Me 'r Sweetie Belle or well… I'm not sure you could handle it, Scootaloo.”
Sweetie stopped in place. “How does a little filly lift a whole treehouse?”
Apple Bloom kept walking, chuckling as she said, “I take it y'all ain't never heard of a chainfall. C'mon, you two. Let's see if AJ'll let us help make supper.”
And that's exactly what they did.
