In August, Sonny Gebhardt inherited an apple orchard.
The call from the lawyer and a letterhead confirmed it. His great-uncle had no other kin to give it to. When the deed came, Sonny almost crumpled it up.
But ten acres might cover a year's rent, and pizza rolls to boot. So without even seeing the property, he searched for a way to sell it.
Which was not as easy as it looked. Real estate agents required ridiculous commissions. Facebook attracted more trolls than legitimate buyers. And anyone seriously interested asked for inane info like its irrigation system, number of viable trees, and soil acidity.
By November, Sonny decided he had to visit the lot to find answers and get some photos.
Far from the city, the farmhouse sat on a hill overseeing the stubby trees. Crispy leaves scrambled from his Corolla as it rolled through the snaking dirt road.
Sonny walked up and down the rows, counting trees while holding up his phone for a signal. Something made a noise, like a cooing dove.
"Hello?" Sonny called.
"Here," said a voice. "I'm stuck."
Sonny trudged through the prairie grass. A teen girl in a white sundress lay on the ground, an exposed root wrenched around her ankle.
He cleared away the leaves and pushed her moccasined foot out.
"You need some help? We can get to the farmhouse," Sonny said. She might have been homeless, except she looked too clean. Her hair, thick and golden in a pixie cut, was immaculate.
"Yes, I don't think I can walk."
Sonny hoisted her arm on his shoulder. She was surprisingly light.
"Where are your parents? Can you call them?" Sonny asked.
"I could, but they won't come. They're retired, so they don't do much but sleep."
"Are you a runaway?"
She drew back. "No! I'm independent! I'm thirty years old." She touched his bushy hipster facial hair. "I like your beard."
"Uh, thanks." Sonny had grown it more out of slack than fashion.
After inserting the farmhouse key, the entered. Dusty dropcloths covered the furniture. The floorboards squeaked with every step. Yet the running water worked. He wiped out a coffee mug for her.
"So what are you doing out here? Did you see my post?" Sonny asked.
"What post? Did you build a post?"
"No, to sell this place."
The girl's eyes widened. "You're selling it? You can't be."
Sonny shrugged. "What am I going to do with an orchard? I'd rather have the money and avoid the taxes."
"Haven't you ever been to an apple orchard? Gone on a scenic hay ride? Sipped warm apple cider? And the fruit! So much you can just pick up and eat right there. Pearl and lavender petals falling like snow. Golden leaves and little bees buzzing."
Sonny plopped on the musty threadbare couch. "I lived in the city all my life."
"Then you don't know what you're missing. When spring comes, the sun warms your face. Little florets forming like stolen kisses."
"I'm not cut out for farm work." He gestured to his body, formed from PC gaming and fast food hamburgers. "I don't know anything about running an orchard. And I already have a job... sort of."
"Fitting room clerk" wasn't a career, but the fixed hours were a step up from political sign placer and windshield repair.
"What if you keep the orchard for one year? One harvest."
"Where would I start? I don't know what to do with the trees. Do you have to, like, weed them or something?"
"Trees don't ask for much. All they need is an open sky, some dirt to call home, and someone to look out for them."
"Do I need workers?"
"The two of us can do it. There's only three hundred and eighty-eight."
"Three hundred?"
"Most of the work doesn't come until Autumn. I can come back in the Spring and show you everything you need to do."
"Where are you going to be before that?"
She paused. "Nowhere special."
Sonny bit his lip. "You go 'nowhere special' for four months?"
"You could use that time to learn how to make things. Apple butter. Apple cakes."
"Apple wine?"
"Sure, I guess. It'll be a bountiful harvest though. That I guarantee."
"Who are you, Joanie Appleseed?" Sonny asked.
Her laugh sounded like a percolating coffee maker. "That's a good name. Joanie." She held out her hand to shake, smiling sweetly. "Just one harvest."
Putting a year between him and his money wasn't ideal. But her bright eyes were nothing but sincerity and hope.
"Deal," he said.
#
Sonny took down his posts and auctions even after seeing all the zeroes behind the sale prices of other apple orchards. Spring thought about coming back, tried a few times, and finally made the commitment at the end of April.
Sonny returned and walked through the trees. Joanie was right--each twig had formed tiny alternating buds. He hoped she was right that he didn't have to do much.
Back at the farmhouse, a man in black stood on the porch, his blue Monte Carlo in the driveway.
"Can I help you?" Sonny shouted out. The man looked like he belonged in a Stephen King movie. Pitch-black suit two sizes too large, a stark face, and hollow eyes staring back.
"Santino Gebhardt? I hope I'm not trespassing." He grinned sheepishly, as much as he could with receded gums. "I'm Mr. Walden Cane. We exchanged e-mails about your orchard?"
The name was familiar. He was one of the prospective buyers hounding him with questions. But after meeting Joanie, Sonny cleared his inbox. "Sorry. My e-mail probably filtered you out."
"I was afraid something happened to you. Your emails left no contact information. I waited for probate or a foreclosure declaration, but none came. Coming here seemed the only way."
"That's my bad. I thought I'd try working it and see what happens."
Cane's face dropped. "Mr. Gebhardt, I'm willing to pay more than your asking price." His leather shoes clacked as he stepped down the porch stairs. "Are you going to work the entire ten acres yourself?"
"No..." Sonny scratched his head. "I've got someone to help me." He looked around as if she would appear out of nowhere. "Someone? Did you see any viable houses around this area?"
Sonny kept looking around, hoping someone would dig him out of this.
"Mr. Gebhardt... consider the future. Even if this orchard does produce, what are you going to do about it? Purchase fertilizers and pesticides? How will you handle shipping logistics and products and marketing? It's a bigger investment than you might realize." Cane let his words hang, then tipped his hat. "If you change your mind..." He produced a business card like a magician, then returned to his blue car without another word.
Sonny backed away into the trees, seeing Cane's point.
"Sonny!"
Sonny turned around. Joanie rushed forward and hugged him.
"You came back!" Joanie said. "Spring is here."
"Unless it snows again."
"It won't. Can't you smell it?" She grabbed his hand and pulled him further in. "Come on, we need to introduce you to the trees."
"We have to what?"
"While they're waking up. They're getting ready to leaf."
Joanie would mention some neat feature, one's height, one's number of branches. But mostly they enjoyed the peace. Sonny looked out at the barren fields of long grass and weeds.
"Oh no. This one's not looking so good." She hoisted herself into a branch split.
"How can you tell?" Sonny asked. "It looks like all the other trees."
"It's only got three buds." Joanie swiveled around the branches, like a monkey. "Ooh... so mean."
She pointed into the center of the trunk. From this view, branches burst out like a long-exposure firework. "What?" Sonny asked.
"Shrews. If they have babies, they'll chew this tree from the inside out."
"So? There's other trees."
She shouted into the trunk, "This is not your home! There's a billion other places in the field to nest." She gnawed on her thumb. "Let me think. What gets neighbors out? ...tacky decorations, bad smells. Can you make a smell like a predator?"
Sonny recalled some of his finest high school moments after three bags of Doritos. "Not right now."
"Oh! Loud sounds. If we could make a high-pitched noise..."
"Maybe there's something on my phone." He held it up to her.
"Does it make weasel sounds?"
"Nothing like that, but it does have a voice-changer app." He opened it and handed it to her. "Here, try this."
She held it to her mouth and spoke. The auto-tune buzz made her eyes brighten. She bent over the hole and made a balloon-squeaking scream.
Two black mice streaked over the branches and fell into the grass. Joanie laughed as they skittered away. "I love your rectangle."
#
One day, weeds appeared everywhere. Ugly, spiny thistles, leaves like jagged teeth. Unless he took care of them, they would be half his height in a few days.
He started yanking out the big ones with his hands. Then he bought a weed puller. Then he bought a machine. When he read about special fertilizers to prevent weeds he bought those too.
In the middle of summer, the orchard exploded into flowers and foliage. Each tree had grown from a scrawny pre-teen to a healthy bodybuilder. Each day he drove home with stinky, sweat-soaked clothes.
Sonny glared at the trees as he carted bags down each aisle, hating them for making him suffer. If it wasn't the heat, it was the sore muscles. Then bugs attracted to body odor.
Joanie joined him at unpredictable times. At one point, weeks went by before she returned. Even with his yellowed shirt and smelling of the worst barns, she kissed him on the cheek.
"Where have you been?" he asked. "I'm sweating my balls off. My phone's keeps reaching data limits. I'm going to lose my job. And I'm probably going to die from all these chemicals. Bacteriocide, herbicide, fungicide, pesticide, rodenticide. The only 'side' I want right now a side of fries."
"Your muscles look great, though." She squeezed his bicep, dirty and slick. "Come on, we can beat the blahs."
She pulled him toward the barn. He had lost weight, but didn't think anyone noticed. He was eating vegetables in addition to his pizza rolls. Even his neckbeard was gone, no longer necessary to hide his fat chin.
"I'm going to show you how to graft," she said.
"Graft?"
"It's the neatest thing. You fuse the stem of one tree onto another so they share the same root system. The two plants start sharing information and proteins and bacteria resistance, assuming the graft holds."
"You mean it might not work?"
"It can get touchy. You gotta keep a real sharp eye on it."
Sonny groaned--more work.
They practiced with some dead branches, then took a potted sapling into the garage. Joanie bit her lip as she sawed through the branch of one of the oldest sturdiest trees.
The graft became their pet project through August. After a few close calls, the graft started to take.
Their days passed quicker with conversations about what fruit the grafted tree might bear, what color, what taste. The sun often set on them in the middle of the field while they were working and talking. On those days, he slept on the musty couch in the farmhouse rather than drive in the dark.
Joanie was gone when he woke up, but reappeared in the morning, ready to start work again. Soon, Sonny simply stayed overnight in the farmhouse.
In August, Sonny searched each row, finding ugly green apples like hanging pustules. Then one day he caught a flash of red high up in the tree. Sonny stared at it for a while.
"Looks good enough to eat?"
Joanie popped up from behind the tree.
"The first apple of the season," she said. "It's always the most delicious."
She dashed up the tree, plucked it off, and landed on the ground. "Go ahead."
It tasted tart, but with sweet clarity. Jolts of acidic juice ran down the sides of his tongue. While he ate, Joanie pointed out the best apples for pies, for ciders, which trees would provide the best new seeds.
Sonny now drove directly to the orchard from work. He bought a cider making kit, including a carboy and tubing. As a gift, Joanie gave him a mason jar of yeast starter, sealed with rubber band around a red-checkered cloth.
Joanie climbed into the trees, touching each apple and somehow knowing which ones were ready and which ones weren't. Few ever dropped, meaning wasps and bugs had no reason to stay.
Sonny pureed them, separated the pulp, and prepared the mixture in the carboy. Apples covered every square inch of the farmhouse. His tongue was numb from all the sugars.
"What are we supposed to do? We can't eat all these," Sonny said.
"We sell them!" Joanie chirped.
Sonny grimaced. "To grocery stores?"
"No, to the people. All you need to do is build a little stand on the side of the road."
Sonny hammered a stupid little booth from plywood boards slightly better than five-year-old's lemonade stand.
After all the months of work, now he had to sit in a sweltering booth when he could be home watching TV in the air conditioning. Even if the cider turned out, was any of this worth the sun stroke?
"It'll happen. I guarantee it," Joanie said, reading his face. "They will come."
"Like Field of Dreams," Sonny added.
Joanie arched her eyebrow. "Yes. Exactly... like a field full of dreams."
#
But it didn't feel like a dream. Each day he left the orchard disappointed and angry.
One day, a car horn beeped behind him. A blue Monte Carlo was following. The man inside motioned for him to pull over. "Mr. Gebhardt. I'm sorry if I startled you. How fortunate your car appeared ahead of mine..."
"Sorry, my phone gets no reception out here. And the orchard takes up all my time--it's harvest time and we've got apples up the wazoo."
"Tell me, don't you think it's unusual for a first-time farmer like yourself to have such a bountiful crop?"
"Uh... I don't know. My assistant helps."
Cane gripped his shoulder. "And yet she works for no reward? Her presence is erratic? She discloses none of her secrets yet you work for her regardless."
"I... guess. But I couldn't do it without her."
Cane wrapped an arm around Sonny's shoulder and rotated him toward the open pasture. Wind rushed through the soft, sweet-smelling grass. "Tell me, Mr. Gebhardt. What do you see?"
"Meadows. Empty land."
"You know what I see? Potential. Have you ever driven through Nebraska or Wyoming? It's barren. Full of empty land. Cities like San Francisco and New York and Boston are bursting with progress. Yet this land sits idle."
"What about farms?"
"America doesn't need farms anymore. Our food comes from South America. Winter renders them useless half the year anyway. Food surplus is constant and easy to generate. If America needed farmland, why hasn't someone built a farm here?"
"I... don't know." Sonny scratched his head.
"What humans need is low-cost housing. They need space to avoid poverty. We've reached the point we can build a city anywhere we want. No need for communities to use rivers as shipping routes. We have airplanes and trains and trucks. Half the country no longer drives to an office."
"Well, that's a good point."
He pointed to the horizon. "I see the next Minneapolis or Seattle or Berkeley. I see humankind's future. Think about it." Cane lifted his arm off Sonny's shoulder. "It's your choice. Live in the past or look to the future."
#
Sonny twiddled his thumbs, playing dull games on his phone while weighing the pros and cons of selling the lot. Sitting at the empty stand, doing nothing, only compounded his confusion. "You okay?" Joanie asked.
"Just thinking about stuff."
"About what?"
He was about to answer when a red pick-up truck drove by. An old lady approached them. "I had no idea you guys were selling this year."
"Yup," Joanie said. "The trees just needed a little love."
"Think these would make good pies? I have a business too."
Joanie pushed a peck bag forward. "These would."
She blathered about her business while fiddling with her purse and checkbook. Her frozen pies sold via word of mouth at the co-op, goosing her social security a little.
That opened the flood gates. Each day, the number of customers doubled. They started with acquaintances of the old lady pie-maker. Soon young families were arriving, asking when so-and-so apples were coming in.
Sonny and Joanie painted the barn, started packaging dried apples, applesauce, and other products. In a three weeks, their stock had sold. Sonny counted out the cashbox at the farmhouse table.
"See? What'd I tell you?" Joanie shook his shoulders triumphantly. Then she returned to the fireplace, kneeling on her hands on his knees. "So? What do you think?"
"We should celebrate." He popped the top off the bottle of cider. She snatched the bottle and sniffed. "Smells strong."
"It's what the recipe said."
After her first glug, she laughed a little harder. "So what do you think? Was it all worth it?"
Sonny took a big drink. "I gotta say, it's better than canned fruit in syrup."
"Think you'll be back next year?"
Sonny would have gotten more money selling the lot. He still could. But that meant no more satisfaction of closing a full barrel. No more families loading up their baskets in the minivan.
"Will you be?" Sonny asked.
"Definitely!" She reached out and they pounded knuckles, something he'd taught her.
Halfway into their cups, Sonny asked, "So how did you do it? Everyone said how juicy and perfect the apples are. I had to whack one on the concrete to get it to bruise. Is this place built on a nuclear dumping site?"
Joanie laughed drunkenly. "No, it's cause I'm a dryad."
Sonny returned her a puzzled look. "Is that, like, middle-eastern?"
"No, it's... I live in a tree."
"A tree... house?"
"No, a tree. In the orchard. I live in the orchard." She laughed. "Jeez, it's like talking to a snakewood. Look it up on your rectangle?"
He struggled for his phone and accessed his dictionary app.
Dryad: a female spirit inhabiting a tree or wood.
"What th'..." Sonny whispered.
"You asked how they get so juicy. They tell me. It's like raising cows, if the cows could tell you exactly what food would make them give the best milk."
"Wait, I don't get how you live inside a tree."
"Every night. Row three, number fifteen?"
"You expect me to have them all memorized?"
Joanie rolled her eyes. "It's in the back corner. The one tree that doesn't bear fruit."
"I guess I never noticed."
"Because I didn't want you to. That's my tree."
This explained the rainy smell of her hair, the softness of her hands. No matter how many rough branches she grasped, they were always smooth as a leaf.
"Why doesn't your tree bear fruit?" Sonny asked.
She bit her lip again. "I don't know. That's been my tree my whole life. And... it's never flowered." She sighed.
"What if you move to a different tree?"
"It doesn't work that way. That tree is me. The tree of a dryad burrows roots deep into the land. If it could fruit, we could grow another, but..." She shrugged.
"So when the tree dies, you might..."
Joanie nodded sadly.
"And that's where you go in Winter? Like hibernating?"
"It's like the deepest sleep. You don't feel anything or remember anything. And it'll be soon. When the last apple falls."
"Where do dryads even come from?"
"Long ago, the only plants were little things. Tiny shrubs with green stems that lasted until a strong wind came up or animals ate them. Then wood came. Suddenly, plants could grow big, resist weather and bugs, last longer. And they could protect other trees even after death. It's like immortality." She shrugged. "I guess that's where we come from. That kind of specialness needs a guardian."
Sonny sat back. "You know there's this guy who wants me to sell him the orchard. He said you had too many secrets."
Joanie's eyes widened.
"Don't worry. I'm not going to. I don't know how I would even do that."
Joanie beamed. She leapt up and hugged him. "I knew you were a good one. One bad apple can spoil the whole bunch you know."
"Or orchard."
A lame joke but she laughed. She kissed him on the cheek, and stayed in his lap.
Sonny looked into her sparkling eyes. "The guy creeps me out anyway. He said he could see humankind's future in the wasted land."
"You can't have a future unless you have a past."
#
Sonny spent a miserable winter pining for Joanie. It wasn't just her assistance. It was her strong arms massaging his tired shoulders. The hours passed telling stories from his boyhood, life in the city, the job he'd quit to do this. He'd tell bad jokes to hear her laugh. With her, it never felt like work.
He drove out to the orchard every week to visit her tree, not knowing how else to spend his time. The habit of working every day had gotten into his blood. Sometimes he read magazines to her, like she was in the hospital with a coma.
When the weather got warmer, Sonny came to the orchard every day, anticipating buds or new twigs. Joanie's tree looked the same. But no Joanie.
Then the first trees sprouted leaves. No Joanie. But Sonny prepped the fertilizers and pesticides just the same. One day, flowers bloomed. Sonny ran from tree to tree, poking at the silky petals. Maybe she'd be sitting nearby, marveling at the spontaneous blossoms-
Sonny skidded to a stop.
The tree stuck out like a rotten tooth, its black bark hewn like cracked leather. Ropy roots arched out of the ground.
"Joanie?" He called out. "Joanie!"
He knocked on the trunk. He yelled as loud as he could. This tree wasn't just dying, it was suffering.
Walden Cane stepped out. "You forced my hand, Sonny. I had no choice."
"You! What did you do?"
"I spent months trying to figure out which was hers. I only found it thanks to you. It had to be the only tree you were paying so much attention to."
"Who are you? What do you get out of this? Are you some kind of demon at war with dryads?"
"Nothing so basely human. Let's say if Joanie is a spirit of nature, I am her opposite. She's interested in growth and prosperity. I'm interested in progress. And you are interested in..." He held out a syringe. "The antidote."
Sonny reached for it. Cane yanked it away.
His other hand held a piece of paper. "This contract grants the orchard to me. There might be legalities to fine-tune, but it is a binding agreement, believe me."
Sonny clenched his fists. Cane stepped back.
"Careful. Let's not add an assault charge to my armaments. I have very good lawyers."
"Fine, give it here."
The whish of the grass rose and fell. "No," a voice whispered.
"Joanie! Where are you? Are you okay?" Sonny shouted.
The wind stopped. Everything stilled--no birds, no movement.
The tree shuddered. A hand emerged as if from a curtain in the bark. Joanie fell out like a newborn foal and Sonny caught her.
Her eyes were sunken and black, rheumy and red. Dark blotches covered her mottled gray skin. When Sonny grabbed her hand, it had a cold, slimy sheen.
"Knew I'd see you again," she said. She turned her head to the side and threw up grayish purple water.
"What can I do? Can a doctor fix it? We can pump your stomach."
"No," she said. "It's not... that kind of poison. Just don't give the orchard away."
"You might have had a successful year without her," Cane said. "But what about when she's gone? You're going to do all that work yourself? Without a forest spirit to boost your output?" He thrust the contract out.
Joanie coughed. "You can do it. At first, I was just trying to give you a reason not to sell the orchard. But then I genuinely liked you. The same thing happened with your great-uncle."
"But I don't want to do it without you. With you, I never remembered the pain and boredom. All I remember is the apples and relaxing in the farmhouse."
"Just sign. Save her," Cane said.
"It'll survive without me," Joanie coughed. "Remember? They just need the open sky, some dirt, and someone to look out for them." She attempted to say something else, but collapsed into a coughing fit.
Sonny looked around. There had to be something he could do. "Please. This is my fault. You can't die."
Joanie closed her eyes.
#
One of the orchard's hired hands climbed the steps to the farmhouse porch. "Mr. Gebhardt?"
Sonny started down the ladder, having finished reattaching the "Grand Opening" banner. "Yes?"
"I looked over the Zestars. Every single tree is ripe. Looks like they're ready to harvest."
"Good to hear. And the Honeycrisps on schedule?"
"Yes, looks like it."
In the distance, a child squealed. "I lost a tooth!" A little boy held up a shiny red orb like a trophy, a gap in his mouth. Other families sauntered through the tall grass, carrying cloth tote bags.
Sonny reached the ground. "How about the new ones? The Joanies?"
"They're looking all right too. Taking a lot of work to keep them healthy though."
"The harder the work, the more it's worth it. Right?" He clapped the farmhand on the back. "I'll be back."
"Where are you going? It's Opening Day and you're the owner."
"I'll be in the garage."
"Again?"
Sonny smiled. "It's a pet project I need to keep an eye on. Now more than ever." Without another interruption, he walked around the farmhouse to the back garage.
He locked the door behind him. A potted tree stood at the back, braced with tree guards and supports. Sunlight streaming through the skylight kept it highlighted.
Sonny spoke to the empty air. "And how are you doing?"
No answer. Sonny didn't expect one.
He picked up a magnifying glass and examined the graft. The darkwood branch that was once raw and sickly had taken. No breakage in the suture. He followed the branch's length down to its end. When he got there, he grinned.
A tiny flower bud was beginning to pop.