He had pointed toward the green-covered ridge.
“Old wire.”
“Collapsed wells.”
“Sinkholes.”
“Snakes.”
“Dead trees.”
“Maybe dumped machinery.”
“Probably an abandoned structure or two.”
“County stopped maintaining the access road before you were born.”
She listened.
Then asked:
“You finished?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“Because there might also be an old cemetery.”
That one stopped her.
“Seriously?”
“No.”
He laughed.
She glared.
He laughed harder.
Now, three weeks later, he stood beside the fence watching her goats fixate on one mound.
“What are they doing?”
“That’s what I want to know.”
“Eating.”
“They've stopped here three mornings.”
The older farmer looked toward the herd.
“So?”
“All twelve.”
“They're goats.”
“They don't organize meetings.”
“Maybe this is their meeting.”
She ignored him.
The tallest doe tugged again.
A section of vine shifted.
The farm girl noticed something underneath.
Brown.
Curved.
Not a rock.
She stepped over the loose fence strand.
The older farmer immediately said:
“Watch your ankles.”
“I know.”
“You've got old wire under there.”
“I know.”
“You got your snake boots?”
She lifted one boot.
“Yes.”
He nodded.
Then followed anyway.
She carried a machete because the kudzu had been thick enough in some places to pull a grown person off balance.
The girl moved slowly.
The goats parted around her.
She reached the mound and pushed aside leaves.
A thick vine crossed horizontally at chest height.
She cut it.
Milky sap appeared.
Another.
Then another.
The vegetation sagged.
The goats surged in.
“Back.”
They ignored her.
“Back.”
One doe attempted to eat the vine she had just cut.
The girl pushed her aside gently.
She grabbed a bundle of runners and pulled.
Nothing.
She planted both boots.
Pulled harder.
The older farmer said:
“You're going to land on your—”
The vines tore free.
She stumbled backward three steps but remained standing.
The older farmer raised both eyebrows.
“Almost.”
The girl ignored him.
A curtain of kudzu fell.
Sunlight struck something that had not seen open sky in years.
A tree trunk.
Thick.
Gnarled.
Gray-brown bark.
The girl stepped closer.
“That's big.”
The farmer nodded.
“Old.”
She brushed leaves away.
The trunk widened near waist height.
Then narrowed oddly.
Not naturally.
She ran her gloved fingers over the bark.
There was a swollen ridge wrapping around the trunk.
The older farmer stopped smiling.
The girl looked at him.
“What?”
He moved closer.
“Move your hand.”
She did.
He scraped loose bark gently with his thumbnail.
Then stared.
The farm girl had grown up around fruit trees.
Not orchards.
A few apples behind the farmhouse.
Two pears near the barn.
A peach tree that produced wonderfully once every four years and disappointed everyone the other three.
She recognized pruning scars.
She recognized suckers.