The cool wind of late fall moaned through the swaying trees, the frozen tickle of the breeze like pins eagerly pressing into flesh as the blue violet of night concealed the forms hauling a heavy cart into the middle of a recently harvested field. The night shadowed their features in the ugly colors of a fresh bruise, distorting features and painting them of pooled blood hidden below skin. There were four shadows fading in and out of the darkness of the late year months and only the sound of the earth splitting from the bulky wheels of the wagon could be heard.
In the lead was strong silhouette, the line of which suggested femininity, but a hard, lean sort of female, the kind who knows work and toil. Behind her was a quicker shade, smaller and more nimble, rapidly lifting its short legs to match the pace of the larger ponies. A bouncing bow rested atop the smaller one, out of place amongst the others. Bringing up the rear, a thickened hulk of a pony pulled the cart. This shadow, much like the first, understood hard work, growing accustomed to hard labor, and could only be male. He easily pulled the stalwart cart, which had now begun to groan and murmur, outlined with the feeble form of an ancient, elderly pony. The shape of the spindly, fragile body shaking from the frigid winds of the deepest part of the night remained quiet as it checked the mewling bundle trapped inside the cart.
“She’s wakin’ up. Perfect. Can you feel the change happenin’?” The voice was wilted with age, brittle like the peelings of sunburned hide but full of knowledge. The wizened elder’s tone broke in question, quizzing the younger folk on the rites of the act they now undertook, knowing the days ahead were growing lean and passing on the customs before death knocked at the door.
Indeed, the others nodded and grunted their confirmation; this night was so unlike any other of the year. It seemed as if the boundaries of their world were thinning, the air around them seemingly becoming gelatinous, as if it were becoming the filling of a pie or preserves trapped inside of a jar. The group hurried, time was slipping from them and they had much to do before the moon reached the appropriate position.
When the cart reached the center of the field, the group stopped. The large pony unhooked himself from the wagon and reached in to haul the wiggling bundle from the red stained wood. The thick burlap was greasy with dying blood and the heavy stallion was eager to drop it onto the tired soil, a weak moan echoing from the sack from the impact.
The strong female came to the cart, aiding as the elderly pony eased from within to stand atop of the moving sack. “Arugh, tomharrakh mulgherestous.” The words were foreign and pregnant with a power that was not from this world. A shiver tore the group and the moon above became shrouded, as if the words themselves had drawn a velvet curtain across the night sky, leaving the group in a darkness like that of an octopus releasing its ink into the salty bowels of the sea. The air between them, already thick, felt as if it had congealed. “Quick now, the candles!”
The smallest form, her bow jiggling strangely, took a small bag from the wagon. She made a circle around the struggling form in the sack with candles, yellowed from age and streaked with an unknown substance that she took from bag. Following her, the large stallion lit them, the flames that danced upon these candles glowed the color of disease and the aroma of what hides within the muck of swamp beds, forgotten and decomposing, filled the thick air. The sickly burning flames cast flickering light across the features of the group and they circled the moving bundle, the dark crimson stains standing out amongst the burlap now.
The night went silent, not a cricket willing to chirp as the elder straddled the crawling sack. “Nubertui! Vocuauol, merghus!” With a simple look, the elder expressed the intent for the others to join the chant; it must be done to supplicate the will of the rite. This tradition had been passed down the generations from the beginning of time, when forces forgotten, their blessings coming at a price, controlled the world.
The other three joined the chorus, their voices meshing and becoming one strained prayer to the old gods. “Charis! Echitnau! Machanilobulus!” The sickly flames became the only source of light, as if the world had abandoned them to the darkest space, a place devoid of stars and comprised of only a consuming darkness. The world forgotten, the gathering continued uttering words as their voices trembled and made wretched.
The devolving voices became hoarse and devilish, only ceasing as the churning bundle issued a weak utterance.
“Please.”
The elder reached down to the slick bag and jerked it, the burlap tearing apart as if it had aged 100 years in a moment. Laying on the unseen ground, bathed in the green glow of the candles, was a small white unicorn filly, her once curled mane laying flat from the blood of a wound where her horn should have been. The stem of the horn was barely a centimeter long now and shattered remnants of the curling bone jutted like broken teeth on her crimson stained forehead.
The unicorn, Sweetie Belle, was confused and pain filled her, but her wits had returned enough to recognize those ponies surrounding her. The forms were those of her friend, Apple Bloom, and her family. The hornless unicorn shivered at the cold and tried to understand what was happening. Her head felt large and filled with wool. “Apple Bloom? Why … do I hurt so bad?”
Apple Bloom looked down, her expression pitiless, the faces of the whole Apple family watched her closely, eyes drained of emotion as if doing a regular chore. Sweetie looked from face to face in confusion; fear had not crept into her. These were her trusted friends. She had stayed with them countless times and they had always been caring and giving towards her. Her bond with Apple Bloom was stronger than that of any friend she had. She must be dreaming; it was the only answer to her dazed questions. “My … head hurts.”
Granny Smith jerked suddenly, attuned to the rite far deeper than those of the younger generation. “The time is upon us. We must complete the ritual. You know what to do, younguns. Finish the rite!”
The Apple family, to Sweetie’s horror, fell upon her. Their mouths seemed to widen much farther than capable as they bit into her soft filly flesh, tearing away chunks of meat and greedily swallowing mouthfuls at a time. Sweetie screamed as her body jerked awkwardly from the rending teeth of her friends, filling with fire and tears pouring from her eyes. After a few moments, much of the pain dissipated and left her fuzzy mind static and accepting of the nightmare she found herself within.
From all around came a throaty growl, a sound so other-worldy that even Granny Smith trembled in terror. It was here, it had watched, answering the ritual as it had every year since Granny was no more than a filly able to walk on her own. “Leave her alive, don’t bite too deeply. If she dies too early, it won’t favor us.”
The family pulled away from the mess that was Sweetie Belle. She turned her head softly and smiled to her friend, Apple Bloom. It was a smile of friendship, of closeness, and acceptance. Sweetie was far from coherent now and reacting only on instinct. The sight of her friend made her grin, droplets of red framing her small, white face. She didn’t feel the heat escaping the open sac that was her belly, her intestines bared and steaming like a turkey on Thanksgiving.
“Oh great being … we ask for another year of prosperity! We ask for heavy fruits and food enough to fill our bellies, as we have done this night in your honor! We leave our offering to you, please grant our request!” Granny spoke with words of trial and understanding.
A great howl shook the candle-encased world and suddenly the Apples found themselves standing in a circle under the bright harvest season moon in their garden field again. Sweetie belle was gone and the only remainder was the extinguished, smoking candles. They looked to each other and nodded, understanding that they would not speak of this again until after the harvest the next year. Their coats were free of the splatter that had come from Sweetie’s body but their bellies hung bloated and full. The world felt normal again and they reattached the wagon, now cleansed, to Big Macintosh and walked towards their farmhouse in the distance. As they had done so many years before, they were comfortable in the knowledge that next year’s harvest would be plentiful and they would line their pockets with the bits from the swollen, juicy apples that grew solely in their orchards.
Author's Note
And everyone just knew it would be Scootaloo.
