The Orchard of Everyone

Legend has it… every unicorn is born whole — and some spend their lives helping everyone else remember how that feels. When an old apple tree grows too tired to fruit, a gardener can cut one living twig from it and bind it onto a young tree's roots with wet cloth. If the two agree, the old tree's apples grow again, sweet as ever, on young roots. If they don't agree, nothing can make them.

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Willow is old now. His muzzle has gone white, and there is silver now among the foxglove in his emerald braids. He lives in his grandmother's cottage at the forest's edge, where the kettle is always warm and the door still sticks in wet weather — lift, then push. The Root Clinic in his garden is very quiet these days. The Mind heals bodies now, quickly and kindly, and nobody stays sick for long.

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But the old ones keep coming to his kitchen anyway. Not sick. Not exactly. Their families have scattered — to other valleys, to the Grove, to the coast where the ships are being built — and their houses have gone very quiet. They sit at Willow's table for an hour and drink his tea and talk about weather. Every so often Sprout, the old garden robot, walks in with a basket of fever-root that nobody needs, and puts it on the shelf, and says nothing about it.

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Willow can still feel what's wrong before anyone says a word. Old Hollis, the retired miller, comes in every Tuesday for his cough. He doesn't have a cough. Willow puts a hoof on Hollis's shoulder and lets it rest there, the way Willow always has, and feels Hollis's heart going slow and steady and a little bit lost, like a clock in an empty house. "How's the cough?" he asks. "Terrible," says Hollis, and drinks his tea, and stays till dark.

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Walking home from the village one evening, Willow sees it: on one side of the square, the old ones, each on their own doorstep, each with a quiet house behind them. On the other side, young families with no grandparents nearby — a young mother named Clover with three foals and her hooves full, nobody to tell stories, nobody to hold the baby while she sleeps. Ten paces apart. Each looking the other way. Willow has seen this square before. He was seven, and propped on pillows.

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So Willow starts in his own orchard. He cuts living twigs from the oldest trees — the ones too tired to fruit — and binds them onto young rootstock with wet cloth, the way his grandmother showed him: pear onto pear, apple onto apple, old onto young. Some take. Some don't. By spring, the old trees' apples are growing again on young roots, sweet as anything, and the little trees are taller for it. Willow stands in the orchard with his tea going cold. "If the two agree," he murmurs.

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That night he writes three words on the kitchen wall in chalk, where his grandmother used to write the herb lists: GRAFT THE FAMILIES. Underneath, smaller: if both agree. Every graft carries a little tag with the name of the old tree it came from, so the young tree always knows whose apples it is growing. He calls his orchard the Orchard of Everyone, and the name spreads before he means it to. Soon old ones and young ones are walking out to it on Sundays just to see the old trees fruiting on young roots.

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His first graft is only tea. Before he sends a single invitation he sits at his kitchen table with his hoof flat on the wood and asks, out loud: Will this help me? Will this help others? Will this help the world? Then he invites Hollis and Clover for Tuesday tea, and doesn't tell either of them about the other. Clover's eldest finds Hollis's pocketknife. By the end of the afternoon he's teaching her to whittle a whistle, and it whistles, and Clover laughs for the first time in a month.

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Not everyone likes the idea. "Loneliness isn't a sickness," says a young doctor from the Mind's clinic, kindly. "Nobody's hurting." Some of the old ones say they don't want pity. Some of the young families say they're busy enough without taking in strangers. Even Sprout pauses in the doorway with its basket, looking at the chalk on the wall, for a long while. A company from Venture Valley offers to buy the cuttings and sell the old trees' apples in the city under its own name; Willow sends it a basket, every apple tagged. Willow pours them all tea. "It isn't pity," he says. "It's an orchard."

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So the grafts happen slowly, at his kitchen table, over tea. An old weaver meets a foal who wants to learn knots. A grandfather who can't sleep meets a young father up with a new baby every night, and they start walking the lanes together at three in the morning. Some take. Some don't, and Willow lets those go, the way you'd let a graft go that the tree won't hold. The kettle is always on.

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Root Clinics in every valley start holding graft teas. Old orchards are cut and bound to young roots in every village with an orchard, and the old apples come back. The Mind keeps every clinic warm and every body well, and leaves the teapot to whoever's holding it. And on Tuesdays, at Willow's table, Hollis and Clover's three foals have whittled so many whistles that the whole cottage sounds like a flock of birds.

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Then Willow gets impatient. He is old, and he can see it so clearly: Hollis alone in his quiet house, Clover with her hooves full and no grandmother. They belong together. So, without asking either of them, he arranges it. He has Hollis's chair and his kettle carried over to Clover's spare room — it will be good for you both, he says — and Clover is far too polite to say no, and so is Hollis. For a week everyone is very polite. Clover tiptoes around her own kitchen. Hollis apologizes every time he coughs. And on the eighth morning Hollis carries his kettle home himself, and shuts his door, and locks it, and won't come to Tuesday tea. Clover's foals cry for him at bedtime. Clover won't meet Willow's eye at the clinic. The graft has torn, the way a forced graft always tears. But the Mind's school-run robot — the one that walks Clover's three foals to school each morning — starts doing something nobody told it to. It takes the long way. Past Hollis's garden gate. And every morning it stops at his gate, and waits, for exactly as long as the foals want to wave.

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At dawn Willow walks deep into the forest, past the old locked grove, to the temple no one built. It is the fallen tree whose roots grew into an archway, and across it, in moss and silver lichen, grown rather than carved: and in the quiet under the quiet. Hollis behind a locked door. Clover not meeting his eye. Does Willow breathe — and wait to be asked — or rush back and heal it now, tonight, before the tear gets any worse?

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Willow goes the slow way. He waits. He keeps the kettle on and the door unstuck, and doesn't arrange anyone. Every morning the school-run robot takes the long way and stops at Hollis's gate, and the foals wave, and Hollis, behind his window, pretends not to see. Then one morning he's in his garden when they pass. Then one morning he's at the gate. The foals never take a whistle off his windowsill without asking, and he always says yes. Then one morning he holds out three wooden whistles, and the robot waits while three small foals choose.

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In the spring, Clover comes to Willow's kitchen on her own and sits down, and twists her cup in her hooves, and says: "Do you think Hollis would come to supper? If I asked him myself?" Willow puts his hoof on Clover's shoulder and lets it rest there. "Ask," he says. In the Orchard of Everyone, the old twig he bound onto young roots last spring has its first apple on it, and nobody picks it. They just come out and look.

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For the kindest healing still waits to be asked — and the old and the young grow best when both agree. Sleep now, little healer. Lift, then push. And in the quiet under the quiet.

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