Chapter 3 – Clearing the Rows
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By the time the sun tipped past noon, David had rediscovered exactly how much effort it took to make a sandwich in a house that hadn't really been lived in for months.
The bread was stale but salvageable once toasted. He dug a jar of pickled vegetables out of the pantry—only slightly past the "best before" date—and found a block of cheese in the icebox that hadn't turned yet. It wasn't League food—no catered spreads, no buffet tables—but it was calories, and that was good enough.
He leaned against the counter while Swampert solemnly crunched through an entire, wilted head of lettuce he'd unearthed at the back of the fridge, roots and all. Excadrill sat on the back step, eating Pecha slices out of a cracked bowl with noisy satisfaction. Krookodile pretended not to be watching until David tossed him a small, wrinkled apple; he snapped it out of the air and bit straight through, seeds and all.
'This is what you signed up for,' David told himself around a mouthful of sandwich. 'No chefs. No trainers' lounge. Just you, a half-dead kitchen, and whatever's left in the pantry.'
When the last crumbs were gone, and everyone had drunk their fill from battered metal basins in the yard, he grabbed his notebook and a pair of gloves that had seen better decades.
"Alright," he said, facing his team. "This afternoon, we start on the first berry rows. Just one section. We're not fixing four years of neglect in an afternoon."
Flygon tilted her head, red-lensed eyes whirring faintly, as if to say that fixing everything in an afternoon had never really been their style anyway.
David nodded toward the slope closest to the farmhouse. From here, the berry orchard looked like a tangle of trunks and branches, trees planted in neat lines that had blurred over time into a chaotic lattice of limbs and weeds. Some trees still bore clumps of hard, underripe berries high up in the canopy, untouched; others were skeletal things, branches bare or covered only in greyish lichen.
"Goal for today," he said. "We clear the worst weeds between the trees in the first few rows, mark which trees are worth saving, and see how much of the soil structure we've still got. Nidoking, Excadrill—you're my ground crew. Gentle. We're not turning this into a landslide. Swampert, you're on water; if we see roots that might survive with a drink, we'll give them one. Flygon, Krookodile, Gliscor—you three are on lookout and…pest management."
Gliscor clicked his pincers eagerly.
"Legal pest management," David added. "We're not driving off every wild thing that breathes. Just anything that thinks my orchard is an all-you-can-eat buffet."
Krookodile's grin widened, unbothered by the constraints.
They headed down together.
Up close, the berry trees told a more complicated story than the washed-out view from the farmhouse porch. Each row was made of stocky trunks about as thick as his thigh, planted at even intervals. Between them, grass and weeds grew in dense mats, some almost to his waist. Lower branches drooped under their own weight, unpruned and crowded, leaves yellowing where light no longer reached.
He reached out to the nearest tree and rested his palm against the bark. The wood was cool, rough. A few small cracks ran along the trunk where the outer layer had dried and split, but when he pressed his thumb gently into a thinner branch, the wood bent instead of snapping.
"You might make it," he murmured.
He moved to the next tree. This one's bark felt powdery under his fingers, flaking away at the lightest touch. When he tested a branch, it broke clean in his hand, leaving behind only hollow, grey wood.
"Not you," he said quietly.
He turned his head. "Excadrill—this one."
Excadrill perked up, snout twitching. With a cheerful chitter, he waddled over, claws already flexing.
"Get under the roots if you can," David said. "We want the stump out, but don't tear up every healthy root around it."
Excadrill gave a serious, acknowledging nod, then plunged his claws into the soil at the tree's base. Dirt fountained as he disappeared into the earth. The dying tree shuddered, tipped, and then lurched sideways as Excadrill popped up on the opposite side, the root mass cradled like a trophy in his arms.
Clods of soil fell in heavy clumps. Roots hung limp and dry.
"Good," David said. "Pile the dead ones along the fence. We'll decide later if they're firewood or just good for the compost heap."
Excadrill chirped in satisfaction and trundled off with the tangle of roots and dead wood held above his head.
He moved on to the next tree.
This one was better. Leaves were pale but not washed-out. A spray of tiny Oran berries clung near the top, their colour still developing but definitely there. The outer bark was rough but intact; when he scored it lightly with his thumbnail, a thin line of green showed beneath.
"Keep," he said. He tilted his head backward. "Gliscor, you want to play surgeon?"
Gliscor dropped from above in a lazy swoop and latched onto a higher branch with his tail-stinger, hanging upside down. He extended one claw and gingerly pinched off a dry, obviously dead twig, dropping it with a little flick of disdain.
"Glis," he said smugly.
"Anything that snaps like that, get rid of it," David said. "Leave anything flexible. And do not decapitate an entire side of the tree because it annoys you."
Gliscor's grin only widened. Still, he moved with surprising precision, clipping dead twigs and small limbs and letting them rain down around David's boots.
They fell into a rhythm.
David walked the row tree by tree, checking trunks and branches, calling it as he saw it. "Dead. Excadrill. Keep. Gliscor, trim. Maybe—mark that one, Nidoking."
Nidoking stomped along behind, using a blunt claw to scratch crude symbols into spare bits of wood. He jabbed them into the earth near each tree: an X for dead, a circle for keep, a rough question mark for "get a second opinion later." He also used his bulk to break up compacted earth in rings around the base of the trees that were staying, claws tearing shallow furrows to let water in.
Between the trunks, the weeds fell layer by layer. Some, David tore out by hand, roots and all, cursing quietly when thistles bit through his gloves. Others, Nidoking shouldered through, flattening them so Excadrill could get under and lift them out. Any vine that had wormed itself around trunks or branches, trying to strangle the trees, Gliscor hunted down with surprising viciousness, shredding it into harmless pieces.
Swampert waited on the edge of the row, heavy arms folded, until David gestured him over to a cluster of particularly thirsty-looking trees. Then he dug a shallow trench with his hands, moving earth like a backhoe, and let water pool along it in a slow, controlled stream from a barrel they'd rolled down from the house.
Flygon soared lazy circuits above them, the soft thrum of her wings almost hypnotic. Every so often, she dipped lower to whistle something to David, angling her head toward a patch of trees that looked especially battered by last season's storms, or a sagging section of fence where something larger than Rattata had been squeezing through.
Krookodile lounged on the far side of the orchard under a relatively healthy tree, hatched eyes half-lidded, tail tip twitching. A bold Rattata that strayed too close to the wrong trunk got a slow, toothy grin and a low growl for its trouble and decided the wild grass near the stream looked better after all.
The work was heavier than anything David had done in years.
In a battle, effort was explosive: sharp bursts of movement, tension, release. Even long matches were measured in concentrated minutes, not hours. Here, every decision felt like it weighed as much as a cinderblock, and the results wouldn't be visible for days or weeks.
Pull the wrong limb, and you crippled a tree that might have recovered. Leave rot, and it spreads. Water too much, roots drowned. Water too little, leaves die.
He had to remind himself, over and over, that he wasn't going to get everything perfect on day one.
By the time he reached the fourth tree in the second row, his back was a tight band of protest, and his arms felt heavier than Nidoking's tail.
He straightened, rolling his shoulders until they crackled, and almost tripped over Excadrill, who had popped up right at his feet again.
"Warn me when you do that," David said, taking a step back.
Excadrill pointed with one claw toward the far edge of the row, eyes narrowed.
"What is it?" David shaded his eyes against the afternoon glare.
The orchard floor rippled where the grass grew thickest. At first, it was just movement, blades parting, springs bending. Then he caught glimpses: rounded ears, grey-brown fur, whiskers. Rattata. Four of them. No—five, the smallest, half-hidden behind a thicker tree root.
They froze when they saw him. One sat upright, clutching a shrivelled Cheri berry in its paws, cheeks bulging. Its eyes locked onto his. It didn't bolt.
David squinted past them.
The bark on the nearest young tree was gnawed at the base, revealing bite marks on pale, vulnerable wood beneath. Higher up, half a ring of shallow chew marks ringed the trunk where someone had been trying out their teeth. Fallen berries were scattered around in various states of disembowelment.
'Of course,' he thought. 'No fence, no human presence, plenty of food at chewing height. Why wouldn't they set up shop here?'
He let out a slow breath through his nose.
"Alright," he said softly. "Let's handle this before it becomes a habit."
Krookodile's tail flicked. The big croc lifted his head and started a slow, ground-hugging approach, eyes narrowing. Overhead, Flygon's circling tightened, the hum of her wings lowering in pitch. Gliscor shifted his grip on a higher branch, hanging upside down so he had a clear view.
David raised a hand.
"Easy," he called. "We're not doing a wipe-out. We're setting boundaries."
He walked toward the little cluster of Rattata at a measured pace, boots whispering through the grass. They tensed, weight shifting, ready to scatter. One squeaked sharply at the others, tail lashing. Still, they held their ground longer than he expected.
Nearer, he could see ribs under patchy fur, the shine dulled from their coats. One had an old, white scar across its flank; another had a torn ear. Wild didn't mean thriving.
He stopped a few meters away and crouched, ignoring the way his knees complained.
"Hey," he said, because it felt less strange than staying silent. "Look, I get it. Nobody's been here to say no for a while."
Six tiny eyes stared back, beads of wary blackness. The smallest Rattata's paws trembled around its berry, juice already matting its whiskers.
"This was my grandfather's orchard," David went on quietly. "Before that, his father's. It's mine now. If you strip the bark, those trees die. If the trees die, there are no berries. Not for me. Not for you. Not for anyone."
One of the bigger Rattata bared its teeth, letting out a high-pitched chitter. The berry in its paws squished, pink juice running down its forelegs.
David sighed.
"Yeah," he said. "Didn't think we were going to talk our way through this."
He lifted his hand and snapped his fingers twice.
Flygon dropped, the air pressure changing with her descent. She landed beside him, tail curling protectively around his legs.
"Sand Tomb," David said. "Gentle. Corral, don't crush."
Flygon trilled, her wings beating a little harder. The ground trembled as she slammed the tip of her tail into the earth. Loose soil and dust surged up around the Rattata in a low ring, swirling into a shallow, spinning wall that penned them in without touching them.
The Rattata panicked, scrabbling at the walls, bouncing off each other.
"Easy," David said sharply. "Nobody's getting hurt. We're just…having a conversation."
He stepped through the edge of the swirling sand, dust stinging against his bare forearms. Inside, the Rattata huddled together, panting, whiskers quivering. One made a desperate feint toward his boots, teeth bared.
Krookodile's shadow slid over it an instant later.
"Krook," Krookodile growled, the sound low and vibrating.
The Rattata froze mid-lunge, eyes going impossibly wide as they took in the rows of teeth and the sheer size of the predator in front of them. It stumbled backward, nearly tripping over the smaller one.
David let them all see Krookodile. Let them smell him. Then he crouched again.
"Here's the deal," he said, voice calm. "You've got plenty of wild grass and fallen seeds along the outer edge." He angled his head toward the rough, unmowed boundary where the field gave way to brush. "You chew bark off my trees, or eat berries off branches, and you're going to have a very bad time. You stick to the edges, to the stuff I throw you, we can coexist. Got it?"
They didn't exactly understand the words. But Pokémon didn't need language to grasp territory or intent. They understood tone. They understood 'this is mine,' and 'that is yours,' and the presence of something at the top of the food chain saying, 'No.'
He straightened and nodded to Flygon.
"Open it. Slow."
Her wings hummed. The sand slackened, walls breaking apart in a controlled fall, settling around tiny paws instead of collapsing. For half a heartbeat, all four Rattata froze, waiting for teeth or claws.
Then, like arrows loosed from the same bow, they bolted.
Not through the cleared rows, not toward the farmhouse, but sideways—into the taller wild grass that fringed the orchard, where no neat trunk lines divided their path. The smallest paused at the boundary, glanced back once, nose twitching, then vanished.
David waited until the grass stopped moving.
Krookodile snorted, flicking a little clump of earth with his claw, clearly disappointed there hadn't been an actual chase.
"We're not exterminating everything that breathes," David reminded him. "We're trying to grow an orchard, not a battlefield."
Krookodile dug one claw into the soil and, with exaggerated care, drew a line in the dirt along the edge of the nearest tree row where the wild grass began.
Gliscor swooped down, landed beside the line, and added a little arrow at one end, as if signing it.
"Very artistic," David said dryly. "Alright. Back to trees. We'll see if they got the message over the next few days."
The afternoon dragged and blurred and, somehow, sped by all at once.
They didn't transform the entire orchard. Not even close. But they made a visible change.
Whole stretches of waist-high weeds disappeared, leaving bare soil and root circles around trunks, ready for future mulch. Gliscor's relentless snipping and David's more careful cuts opened the tree canopies, letting light reach lower leaves. Dead berry trees went to the growing pile by the fence, roots exposed, their absence making the gaps in the lines obvious.
In some places, Excadrill's tunnels let David feel the soil with his feet—firm but not rock-hard, still living. In others, his boots sank into softness where too much water had gathered and stayed, or rang against stubborn patches where the ground had compacted under neglect.
By the time the sun sagged toward the western hills and shadows lengthened between the rows, David's shirt clung damply to his back. His gloves, once stiff and dry, were dark and supple with sweat and dirt. Every time he straightened, his spine popped like a string of distant firecrackers.
He misjudged a step at one point, thinking he'd cleared a shallow trench only to find it deeper than expected. His boot caught the edge; he pitched forward and landed with a graceless thump on his backside, breath woofing out.
Gliscor made a chittering sound from a branch overhead that was absolutely laughter.
"Don't start," David said, pointing vaguely upward without getting up. "You start mimicking that fall in front of anyone else, and I'm feeding you nothing but Rawst peels for a week."
Gliscor only grinned wider, tail swaying.
By the time he called it, the sky had faded from harsh blue to a gentler, evening wash. The first hints of orange smudged the horizon. The air cooled, bringing with it a faint sweetness as a few healthier berry trees released more of their scent.
"Enough," he said at last, voice hoarse. "That's it for today. Anymore and we'll start making mistakes."
Nidoking straightened from where he'd been scraping around a trunk, joints audibly cracking. Excadrill popped up beside him, shaking dirt from his claws with a satisfied hiss. Swampert lumbered out of a shallow trench he'd widened and sloshed once, flinging a sheet of muddy water that barely missed David's boots.
Flygon glided down from above, landing lightly near the path back to the house. Krookodile yawned wide enough to show every tooth, then pushed himself to his feet. Gliscor detached from its branch and glided down to hover behind David like a mischievous shadow.
They trudged up toward the farmhouse in an uneven line, boots and claws and tails scuffing the earth.
From the porch, the orchard looked…different. Still a mess, still more wild than ordered—but now there were clearings. Gaps where dead trees had been removed. Lines where light could reach the lower canopy. Piles of branches and trunks waiting to be cut, burned, or repurposed.
It looked, for the first time, less like a graveyard and more like something that might be coaxed back into life.
David dropped onto the bottom step with a groan, ignoring the way the wood creaked under him. Swampert settled with a heavy thump in the yard. Flygon perched on the roofline like some odd weathervane. Nidoking and Krookodile sprawled side by side, drawing idle patterns in the dust with their claws. Excadrill positioned himself right where the step met the ground and leaned back, content. Gliscor hung from the porch beam directly above David's head.
For a few long moments, none of them moved much.
He listened to their breathing, the faint rustle of leaves, the distant murmur of the thin stream below. Somewhere, a flock of Starly argued in a tree. Farther off, he heard a wagon on the road, the creak of wheels, and the clop of hooves.
He thought, abruptly, of the League again. Of how, after a day of battling, he'd collapse onto some sleek sofa in a private room, ice packs on bruises, replays on a big screen, coaches leaning over him with commentary. Of reporters waiting for a quote outside.
Here, his only "commentary" was the memory of how a branch had felt under his hand—alive or dead—as he'd cut it. The only audience for today's work was six tired Pokémon and a yard full of scuffed dirt.
And yet, the tightness that had lived between his shoulders for years felt…looser.
His gaze drifted to the road that led back into town.
Mayor Elson had told him to come by the office. Yesterday, that had sounded like another obligation to dodge, another conversation where he'd be politely asked to take on things he didn't know how to handle.
Now, after a day of marriage counselling between berry trees and weeds, the idea of someone who actually understood crop loans and equipment prices felt less like a burden and more like a lifeline.
"You're not going to be able to do this alone for long," he muttered to himself. "You're good, Ryder, but you're not 'single-handedly rebuild an agricultural operation' good."
Swampert made a low, approving rumble, as if to say, at least he was finally admitting it.
David smirked faintly. "Tomorrow," he said, more firmly. "We start on the next section. Then I go see Elson. Find out what help I can get."
Flygon gave a soft, encouraging trill from the roof. Gliscor shifted his grip, tail swaying like a lazy pendulum.
The sky shifted to deeper oranges and purples. The first stars winked on, faint pinpricks in the fading blue.
He groaned and pushed himself back to his feet.
"Come on," he said. "Let's get everyone fed. Then I'm going to lie down and see how many body parts complain in the morning."
Krookodile snorted. Excadrill chittered, interpreting what he took to be sympathy. Gliscor dropped to the porch and followed him inside on clawed feet.
The farmhouse felt a little less empty that evening. Maybe it was just the new scuffs on the floor, or Swampert's heavy breathing from where he lay half-in, half-out of the back door, or the way Krookodile tried and failed to curl neatly onto a rug that had definitely not been designed for his body shape.
While they ate, David glanced once at his Pokétch on the counter.
No new messages.
He hesitated, then picked it up anyway and walked to the back door. The last of the light made the orchard into a patchwork of shadow and glow—some trees still silhouettes; others edged in gold where branches had been opened up.
He framed the shot, so the nearest cleared row showed, dead trunks stacked near the fence, his team's hulking shapes just visible in the foreground. The picture came out grainy in the low light, imperfect.
He attached it to a new message.
-Made it through Day One, he typed, then snorted and backspaced. That had been earlier. He tried again. Day Two: berry trees 1, weeds 0 (barely). Still alive. Field looks slightly less tragic.-
He sent it before he could overthink.
He didn't expect an answer right away—Cynthia's schedule was usually outlined in something between stone and iron—but three dots appeared almost immediately.
-You really like sending me pictures of dirt lately, came the reply.-
He huffed, a sound closer to a laugh than anything he'd managed at the funeral.
-It's premium dirt,- he typed back. -Hand-cleared by a former Champion and six extremely judgmental co-workers.-
There was a pause. Then:
-I see the trees. They look…better than I expected.-
Pride flickered, small and warm.
-We bullied some Rattata into accepting tenants' rights instead of full ownership, he added. Progress.-
Three dots blinked, stopped, blinked again.
-Remind me never to let you negotiate my contracts, she wrote. But…good job, Ryder.-
He stared at the words for a second longer than he meant to, then set the device down and turned back to the living room, where Swampert was gently nudging the coffee table an inch at a time in what was either boredom or an attempt at interior decorating.
"Hey," David called. "Stop that. You break it, we're eating dinner on the floor for a month."
Swampert gave him a look that clearly said, 'You're already halfway to that, human,' but stopped pushing.
They finished the day with full bellies and aching muscles, the sounds of a house and yard full of living things instead of stale silence.
Outside, under the clear night sky, the first few rows of Stonebrook's berry orchard stood a little tidier than they had when the sun rose. Dead wood removed, old wounds opened to air, space made for new light.
It wasn't much.
But it was the first step toward turning a neglected grove back into a working orchard.
One row cleared, one Rattata problem confronted, one quiet decision made to ask for help.
One more small victory on a very long, very different kind of road.
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