The girl tightened her grip on the machete.
“You just told me not to cut too much.”
“Not the tree.”
“The vines.”
She stepped sideways.
The goats moved with her, pushing and stretching their necks toward every fresh opening.
The girl cut through a rope-thick runner, then another. She pulled hard.
A great mat of kudzu leaves and twisted stems sagged toward her.
One of the goats seized a hanging vine and backed away with it in her teeth.
Another joined.
The whole curtain came down.
Behind it stood a second trunk.
The girl stared.
Not a sapling.
Not a wild volunteer.
Another old tree.
Almost the same diameter.
Almost the same height.
And approximately the same distance from the first as though someone had measured the ground before planting.
The older farmer said nothing.
The girl took three steps to the right.
She cut again.
Another trunk.
Then another.
Her heart began pounding.
She stopped noticing the cold morning air.
Stopped noticing the goats.
Stopped noticing the scratches gathering across her gloves.
She looked uphill.
For the first time, the strange humps beneath the kudzu no longer looked random.
One.
Another.
Another.
A line.
Straight enough to be deliberate.
“Those are in rows.”
The older farmer slowly stood.
The girl looked toward him.
“Those are planted in rows.”
“I can see that.”
“Then say something.”
He did not.
His eyes had moved beyond the exposed trees.
The goats were now pulling leaves from a lower section.
A young wether ripped backward with a vine and exposed something metallic against the bark.
The girl heard the scrape.
She crouched quickly.
“Move.”
The goat resisted.
She pushed his shoulder.
He moved only because another goat found a more interesting leaf.
The young woman brushed away dirt.
A rectangular metal tag, green with age and nearly swallowed by bark, had been nailed into the tree decades earlier.
She wiped it with her thumb.
The older farmer leaned closer.
There were letters beneath the corrosion.
Faint.
Almost gone.
He rubbed carefully with the edge of his glove.
The first word became partially visible.
His expression changed again.
“Do you know that?”
The girl asked.
He stared.
“My grandfather talked about a nursery with that mark.”
“What nursery?”
The older farmer looked around the slope.
“One that hasn't existed since before you were born.”
“That doesn't tell me anything.”
He ignored the impatience.
His voice had become quiet.
“Used to supply commercial orchards through this whole side of the mountains.”
The girl looked toward the trees.
“You're telling me these are apple trees?”
“I'm telling you somebody grafted them.”
“Could be pear.”
“Could be apple.”
“Could be both.”
“Could be something else.”
He stood.
Then he turned slowly in place.