The apple trees had long been cleared from this area. Dumped into the creation of the wooden shack, its firewood… Even the slight pier that extended just beyond the shallow of the lake had borrowed a plank or two of apple wood, although Applejack would be loath to admit it. Yet even with the trees removed the place smelled distinctly of apples.
“It is after all the heart of Sweet Apple Acres.” Applejack whispered to herself. She eyed the thick wall of apple trunks that stretched in an ‘O’ around the place. It seemed as if the land itself was hugging her special clearing and she smiled at the idea.
She had played here often as a foal and the tranquil emptiness of the place filled her up with both melancholy and pleasure at the same time. There was no applebucking here, no ponies that needed helping. No ponies at all in fact. She ran a hoof in the dirt and let out a pleased snort.
“All alone.” She said quietly.
The statement brought her mind to the farm and she trotted over to the edge of the small lake, the centerpiece of the clearing in her mind, and sat down. It was true she was completely alone here. Her family was miles back through the wooded hills. It was a fact that always tugged at her during her visits here, if only for an instant.
Big Mac would, like her, appreciate the subtle serenity of the place and Apple Bloom would enjoy the open space and the break from the redundancy of farm life. Yet, there was something about it being hers and hers alone that guiltily kept her from sharing or even speaking of her visits here to either one.
“Next time, maybe.” She knew that she said that every time, and even meant it some, but she said it now anyway to keep herself from feeling glum.
She had asked Grannie Smith once. The older mare had shaken her head and said: “Old ponies like me aren’t meant to prance around in meadows anymore.” Then she winked and feigned sleep. Refusing to open her eyes until Applejack disappeared from sight behind mountains of apple trees and rows of hills. Of course she would know about the “hideout.” Nothing that ever happened on the farm escaped her eyes or ears.
Applejack dipped a hoof in the water and let the ripples play out in wide circles. Watching them disperse against the legs of the pier a short walk down the way. Grannie had probably been aware of this place since Applejack’s first disappearance to here as a young filly, and probably she knew why the younger pony came here too. Yet she just rocked and nodded sweetly when Ponyville’s “most dependable pony” disappeared from the field suddenly for a day or two during harvest season.
Applejack had a sneaking suspicion that it was this “old and unmovable” Granny of hers that would do all of the pony’s daily work each time she snuck off, and not an overzealous Big Mac trying to make sure the schedule never fell behind. The thought brought chills of joy from her nose to her hooves, and she blushed foolishly. She had good family.
The earth pony spent the next couple of minutes listening to the wind, the sound her hooves made suctioning in the mud with each step, and the sound of the birds in the distance. Anything at all that happened to catch her attention as she walked around the cool bank.
There were still apple trees here when she had first burst through the clearing. Granted they were wild and grew in sporadic clumps of five or six here and there, but they were apple trees. She remembered, and shook her head at her own foolishness, how as a filly she would buck one or two down to eat. Their fruit had been beyond sour and she never made it past the first bite, yet each time she came back she couldn’t resist bucking one down. As if in some vain attempt to prove that no apple was too strong for the likes of her.
“It’s really not so sour.” She would say each time, her face puckered into a tight ball of wrinkles. Her tiny tail and mane; which back then were put up into nice bows of red or yellow by Granny, despite her constant squirming and whining. Would inevitably spring loose from their frilly shackles and fly out in all directions.
“No need for such tests now, there ain’t an apple in all of Equestria I can’t take.” She proudly kicked into the air with her back feet and then bowed as if to a crowd of approving stomps. “Well, in a manner of speaking.” She said with a wink.
The entire clearing worked out to be just slightly over one acre. Her acre. She thought. That’s what this place always was and what it would always be. Trotting to the pier she put a hoof down on it and stamped, then after a few moments of waiting continued happily down its walkway. The stamp was part ritual and part necessity. Something she had only begun to do the last few years, when the paint began to peel off in ribbons and the wood started creaking with each step.
She had built it herself many years ago and then rebuilt it once when it broke down. Planks of wood stealthily, (She laughed when she thought about what she considered “stealthy” as a young filly) taken from the barn, one by one late at night. It had been one of the first projects she had done on her own and she was mighty proud when she nailed the final plank in place out above the water. She was never as sure as she had been then that something she built could never break. No matter how many years passed by.
Applejack turned red when she thought about her vain childhood beliefs and that, when it did break, how surprised she had been. Now, although still having faith in her work, she was also realistic about it. Confident in the knowledge that nothing lasts forever; that and smart ponies don’t get dunked in the lake because of pride, at least not twice.
When she had walked to the edge of the wooden path, Applejack picked up a smooth round pebble from a pile at the piers edge and plunked it a few times across the water, testing her arm and aim. She made especially sure before leaving each time to restock the stones here with newer ones from the pond’s shallows. Rock’s that had been worn smooth by the water, she found, made the best skipping stones.
Pleased with her first throw she stayed there, tossing rocks out on the water and watching the fish pop up. Eager to see what was causing the disturbance on the surface and if it was edible, whatever it was. She let the hassle of work and of constant apple harvesting deadlines and schedules be replaced with a jelly-like blob of time, that seemed to flow on and on into itself in a continuous circle of non-movement.
When she ran out of rocks she sat down on the edge and placed her lower hooves out to soak in the water. It was cold but not enough to cause her hair to stand, and she leaned back happily, letting the breeze that had begun to appear scoot her hat off of her. It scraped and scuttled around on the wood as if it was alive and the thought made her giggle uncontrollably. The sun disappearing behind one of the many hills in the distance forced her to retrieve it and stand up.
“Shoot… And just when it was getting to the good part.” Reluctantly Applejack trotted back from the pier and down to the water’s edge at its steps. Her shadow seemed to stretch out over the entire body of water, and she lifted her legs dramatically into the air. They came crashing down, tiny puddles appearing as massive waves of destructive power, and she grinned maniacally. With each plunge her hooves dug down into the soft earth, coming back up with a stone which she tossed expertly onto the grassy shore. When she had a nice pile built up she tip toed out of the water and, after drying her front hooves on the grass, removed her hat and scooped them up into it. She dumped them a few minutes later at the piers edge, hesitating in the failing light for the briefest of moments to look at them hungrily.
Unable to avoid her own desire she said: “One can’t hurt.” And in saying picked up the topmost one and sent it skidding eight times on the water.
“Yeehaw!” She danced happily for a second before realizing she was still on the rickety pier. She stopped moving and listened intently for a second before going on. “And the award for first place in stone skipping goes to the amazing Applejack!”
A few minutes later and she stepped off of the pier for the final time that night. She placed her hat upon her head and looking back just for an instant over the water, almost stepped back on. After a small few second debate in her mind, she faced back towards the shack up ahead resolutely.
“Next time.” She smiled. “Next time.”
She arrived at the entrance of the homely shack right as the sun disappeared and the moon took over the sky. She curtseyed at the door, another habit taken from a previous experience, then turning the handle with an outstretched hoof stepped inside.
The shack she had not made only it had been made one day when she arrived. Further proof, she thought wryly, that Granny Smith had been here herself a time or two. The day it had arrived the clumps of wild apple trees that dotted the clearing had been ironically cleared, and she suspected they had gone into the frame work of the one room pony hideout. It had indeed been made of apple wood she discovered on closer inspection. At least, a good majority of it had been. She could tell by the smell as a filly and later, after years of working on the farm, by the look of the grain and the feel of it on her hooves.
It was one of the few things about the clearing that she did not like to think about having happened. Although she appreciated the gesture she had dearly loved those super sour apples and the island like groupings that held them. Seeing them disappear at exactly the same time the shack had arrived was just too convenient for it to be chance or for the wood to have possibly been brought from the barn.
But she let the matter lie, both then and now, knowing that her happiness was at the root of the thing. Besides it gave her something to smile back on, a memory purely born from and about this place. Also, now that the little house was there, she could camp out for the evening. Something she could never do before it was built and that in and of itself made her willing to forgive and forget.
The inside of the cottage was uncharacteristically girlish in nature, with frills and lacing hanging from the ceiling and walls, and knit work pictures of the farm and farm life everywhere you looked. The crochet she had done on her own over the years as a younger pony. Something she was sure that she would die of embarrassment from if somepony else found out. While the lace had been gathered mostly from leftover pieces Granny Smith had scrapped. Some of the more recent strappings had come from Rarity’s shop, but that she refused to think of. As if thought alone would summon the fashion pony right beside her, there and then in her secluded and secret room.
As for furniture the room was decisively barren. A stove was tucked into a corner towards what she considered to be the back of the place, and she made a note in her mind to clean it before leaving the next morning. Aside from that a simple wooden bed graced the remaining floor space. It had been adjusted many times over the years and again she thought of Granny Smith.
The grey haired mare must’ve spent many nights at this place, nails budding out from her clenched jaw as she hammered and pried at the old structure. Eventually banging the last one into place right as the briefest hint of dawn crept up over the horizon.
Knowing how Granny Smith was she probably saw the sunlight coming in through the window and fell asleep on the thing right then too. “Just to test it.” She’d say easing onto the mattress and curling up. It had to bring back the green ponies own childhood and her life as a filly, when sweet apple acres was still a faraway dream.
Applejack made a mental note to give her a hug when she returned and to ask her once more about what life was like back when Ponyville was first getting on its feet. She assumed it was not too different from how life on the farm went everyday: One step at a time, one tree at a time. But Granny Smith never did get around to saying anything about the early days with much detail. All her memories seemed to run together and, inevitably, questioning her on times past always ended with embarrassing childhood photos.
Still, out of all the mysteries her sweet granny had bottled up inside, how she had found a way to disappear here and back to the farm without getting seen was, for Applejack, the biggest; and just like Granny Smith’s other secrets probably something the younger pony would never know. She smiled at the thought however and plopped onto the bed, causing it to sink down with a whoosh.
It was here that she kept her most prized possession. A thick and long hundred piece quilt. Taking it into her arms she hugged it briefly before holding it out to examine. Each of the pieces was made and sent in by a different member of the apple family and she whispered each one’s name as she passed by their section. She had stitched it herself with Granny’s supervision and it was in this way, she told herself, that she would always have the rest of the apple family with her; even all alone out here.
Nuzzling it she let out a contented snort and closed her eyes. Tomorrow she would return to the barn bright and early and ready to help as “Ponyville’s hardest working pony”. Tonight though, she could be alone with everypony in the family. Just being Applejack. Resting on her own secret acre of Sweet Apple Acres.
