Aban's Accension

Chapter 21: The Pruning

“An apple tree.”

“Not like any apple tree I’ve seen,” Aban mutters.

“This is an old, old apple tree and has been neglected many years. Your grandmother left it to its own devices, pruning only a little here and there in the spring. She claimed that it was well experienced in the ways of growth. It never disappointed her in the fruit it bore. But today I came out to scrutinize its growth and saw no signs of fruit. Its blossoms did not become fruit. It’s all leaves. No good for anyone.”

“Yeah, but you can’t prune it now. It’s too hot.”

“When a tree bears no fruit, it is time to cut off every branch that is not fruitful. And those that show promise I must prune so that it will become more fruitful. No branch that is not close to the trunk can bear good fruit. If all the branches in between are lazy, then the furthest branch will be anemic. And so the whole must be cut off. Far away from the trunk, the main source of water and nutrients, the branches can do nothing but bear leaves. And those branches that are close to the trunk yet bear no fruit but are content to grow only leaves, which serve to create food for itself alone and not to share with others, also must be cut off. This tree must be pruned hard so that next year it will bear fruit.”

El’s words make Aban’s head spin. “That’s like, abuse.”

“It is not abusive when it means growth in the future. To not prune is abusive, for that means the gardener is not paying attention and is not interested in her garden. Overgrowth that is unchecked and wild is as unwanted as those plants and trees that are hacked without thought or left to die from lack of water and food. With fewer branches and the remaining branches closer in, the trunk is not overtaxed and can send more nutrients to those that will bear good fruit. It may seem hard to you, but a good gardener knows it’s necessary and will do it, despite any screams or grumbles or criticisms she may hear.”

Aban mulls over his words for awhile. This yakking on of fruit is... Her mind sidles to a halt. A thought enters unbidden: is he talking about the tree or something else? Or maybe somebody else? Like her. She steps back. She watches him warily. But he continues pruning as before. Clip, flop; clip, flop. Aban relaxes and looks around the garden, thinking of the seeds and wondering if they’ve grown in this drought. She doesn’t see any growth. She snorts, “So if you’re such a good gardener, why aren’t the seeds growing? Why didn’t you prune before, like in the spring, you know, when good gardeners do it?”

“You were not here.”

“Huh?”

El doesn’t reply but steps down from the bottom rung, takes one step to the left, raises his arms with his hands holding the pruner's handles firmly, and opens the handles wide so that the two blades fit around a fat branch he can reach from ground level. The branch is so fat that the blades do not have any space between them and the bark. El must push the blades forward, scratching lines into the wood, until they completely cover the width of the branch. He shuts them hard. Clop. The branch falls with a thud next to the pile of limp leaves and smaller branches. Aban looks down at this fat branch, cut off from its trunk, covered in leaves with not an apple on it. It looks forlorn, hurt, dead. She takes another step back.

“Why are you afraid?”

“I’m not.”

El picks up the ladder and leans it against the fence. Sunlight filters between the newly opened spaces in the tree, casting light patterns on its trunk and on the ground, dappling El as he moves around it. But Aban is busy squishing her toes into the arid soil and watching the dry grains flow down around her digits. El returns to the piles of branches, the pruners in his right hand. He begins to chop the branches methodically and ruthlessly into a pile of tiny twigs and small branches for the compost and another one of big branches for the fire.