The Narrative of Scarlet Tomato

Success, really, no, now the hard stuff starts. The clerk read the description of the property. I was excited to hear that one edge of the tract bordered a creek and another ran up to the base of the mountains. One edge of the tract ran up against another unclaimed tract. That would serve me later if my farm succeeded. And the final edge, well, that got a bit foggy, and the clerk was obviously showing some distress while discussing it. The line ran from the mountain down to the old tree, and then turned (angle unsaid) to run down to the creek again.

“Who is this neighbor?” I asked

“Sweet Apple Acres” said the clerk

“Tell me about this old tree.” I said and asked “Was it a white oak or a chestnut oak?”

“It doesn’t say” said the clerk “just that it was old”

“Well” I said “I’ll just have to go out there and look”

“Good luck sir”

Finding the creek was easy, just go to the edge of town and follow the stream up stream. I pulled out my compass and took an azimuth. This was not a survey, just a walk about. Butterflies and bees hummed about. The land had a gentle roll up from the creek toward the mountains. Trees bordered the creek, giving way to grasses and tree covered hills. The trees looked wrong for a typical forest. What were they? Fruit trees?

I decided to make a camp along the creek for my stuff (little that it was), filled my canteen and started my trek. I reshot my azimuth and started counting out my pace. Those trees were most definitely fruit trees. The trees stretch across the land from Sweet Apple Acres, across my track, and into the next track. These were not wild apple trees that had grown up from seedlings spread by the winds and animals. This was a functioning orchard. There were baskets here and there among the trees. Some pony most certainly did not know how to read their plot survey.

This would be trouble. Land I would eventually need for my tomato growing was covered in an apple orchard. The grasslands between the creek and the orchard would be enough to start my farm, but if I was successful, this orchard would have to go. Some pony, let’s call them the ‘Sweet Apples’ had put a lot of work into these trees.

I wasn’t stupid, I knew the mayor had set me up with this mess. She needed some pony to bring a test case against the Sweet
Apples and curb their expansionism. The trees provided nice shade as I paced myself through them. The songs of birds flittered down through the branches. How much power did these Sweet Apples have that the mayor was afraid to clean up this confusion herself?

I reshot my azimuth, just to test if I was still on track. Yes, I was, hooray for all those wood walks dad took me on as a colt. He had a bit of Tennessee Walker in him. Could walk a straight path through a bramble patch, he could.

So here I was in a bramble patch, a very different type of patch. I could hack my way through the brambles, but that would risk branches swinging back and ripping me. And I bet those Sweet Apples had lots of friends and influential ponies in Ponyville, that could even make a successful farm, less than marginal. I would have to tread carefully.

The slope of the land told me I was at the base of the mountain. The sudden edge of the apple orchard confirmed this, as the trees became oak, maple, hickory, and a few aspen. The ground became rocky and the oaks became the most prominent trees. I made a mental adjustment to my pace, adjusting for the increase in the slope. I wondered if there would be any type of bench mark to suggest the corner of the tract. The height of the trees also decrease, I was getting near the tree line.

Midget conifers replaced the oaks, the ground became increasingly rocky, and I had to measure my steps least I trip and fall. I would be in a world of hurt if I it lost it here. I stopped, suddenly aware I was not alone. I cautiously looked around. I didn’t see any pony or anything else, but I felt that something was there. In a few more paces I would be at the estimated edge of the tract. I looked around.

I looked around some more. I could see down the mountain across the forest and the orchard, down to the creek and beyond it to Ponyville. Nice view. The main part of Sweet Apple Acres was down there too. My magenta eyes took in the barns and bunkhouse, their farm and orchards spreading to the far horizon. I would have relaxed except for the nagging feeling that I wasn’t alone.

Then I saw it. A pile of stones covered in moss and lichen. This was the corner marker for the track. I had estimated its location so closely, that it was closer than I would have thought it to be. The stones were large enough that winter snows would not have moved them. I walked the few steps to them. They had been here a long long time. The view here was even better.

From up here on the mountain side it was real easy to see how the tracts had been marked off. To my right and left, up above the tree line I could see other stone markers. Most importantly, those stones would mark the boundary between Sweet Apple Acres and my tract. Any judge, who would see this, would instantly charge the Sweet Apples with trespassing and incursion. But how would I get a judge to come up here?

The invisible presence didn’t do anything to make itself known. I started toward the stone marker for my other corner, keeping my eyes and ears ever watchful. For all I knew it was a mouse, curious enough to watch me, but scared enough to avoid me. How wrong I was.