But she had never studied grafting closely.
The older farmer had.
“That’s a graft union.”
The girl looked back at the trunk.
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“Could it be damage?”
“No.”
He bent.
Examined the lower section.
“Rootstock below.”
“Different bark texture.”
He looked upward.
The crown disappeared inside kudzu.
“This isn't a wild tree.”
The girl’s heart began beating faster.
One tree did not mean much.
A forgotten homestead apple.
A volunteer grafted decades ago.
Interesting.
Nothing more.
Then the largest buck shoved himself between them and began stripping leaves from another mound ten feet away.
The vines shifted.
Another trunk appeared.
The girl stared.
She stepped toward it.
Same size.
Same strange swelling.
Same approximate height.
“Graft?”
The older farmer did not answer immediately.
He moved to the second trunk.
Touched it.
Then looked past her.
“Cut that section.”
She did.
Another mass fell.
Third trunk.
The girl’s breathing changed.
She turned slowly.
Once you knew what to look for, the landscape changed.
What had looked like random hills beneath vines suddenly contained spacing.
Mounds repeated at regular intervals.
One.
Then another.
Then another farther downhill.
The older farmer walked sideways along the slope.
He stopped after twelve paces.
Kicked aside leaf litter.
Found another trunk.
Then another.
The girl stared.
“They're in rows.”
The farmer said nothing.
She repeated:
“They're in rows.”
He looked toward the green-covered acreage.
The teasing had disappeared completely.
A goat tore at vines around the first tree.
Something metallic clicked against her horn.
The girl heard it.
She crouched.
“Hold on.”
She pushed vines aside.
A small rectangle of corroded metal had been nailed into the trunk decades earlier.
Almost completely swallowed by bark.
The girl rubbed dirt away.
Letters appeared.
Not readable yet.
The older farmer crouched beside her.
His breathing became audible.
“What?”
She asked.
He took off one glove.
Rubbed the metal carefully.
A word emerged.
Then numbers.
He went still.
The girl looked at him.
“You recognize it?”
The older farmer stared at the tag.
“I recognize the nursery.”
“What nursery?”
He did not answer.
“Who?”
He stood.
Looked across the kudzu.
Then toward the ridge.
“Your land used to belong to an orchard family.”
The girl’s pulse jumped.
“You knew that?”
“No.”
“I knew there had been fruit farther east.”
“Not here.”
He looked back at the tag.
“My grandfather talked about an orchard somewhere on this side of the county.”
“Big one.”
“Apples mostly.”
“Some pears.”
“Closed before I was old enough to remember.”
“What happened?”
“Disease.”
“Bad freezes.”
“Owners died.”
“Road changed.”
“Who knows.”
He looked toward the trunks.
“Everybody assumed it went back to woods.”
The farm girl slowly turned.
Fifty acres.
Covered.
Not empty.
Hidden.