Short Story Collection: Other Interpretations
It was a bleak and unforgiving sunrise this morning in Bridleton, much like the one before, and the one before that. The sun does not so much shine, here, as stare balefully at the residents of the too-quiet town.
The streets are commonly empty at all hours, save for the rare ponies that dart to and fro, furtively glancing over their shoulders at anypony who might be watching.
Somepony always is.
Neighbor watches neighbor, employer watches employee, friend watches friend, all looking for the sign, the mark of the Unclean.
Too often, that mark is found. And then, the city stirs. Like a disturbed nest, the ponies assemble and demand justice, which invariably means four things:
The Unclean pony dies by drowning.
The rest of the ponies wait until sundown.
The moon rises.
The ponies return to their homes to wait once more.
I was sent to investigate a disappearance, weeks ago, and was fortunate enough to have the foresight to stop outside the town, and watch. That's when I realized the problem.
From my vantage point, I was treated to the execution of a colt who had, apparently, committed a crime.
He went under, tied to a boom, and they kept him there for ten minutes. Then somepony pulled a rope, and released his lifeless body to float downstream.
One by one, they began singing, a song of remorse and fear, of hope and worship, to the Daughter of the Night. For what, I could not guess. And then, their prayers unanswered, they filtered away to their homes.
That's when I noticed it.
As each pony passed my vantage point, I noticed their flanks. Stallion, mare, colt, and filly alike, all had identical, unremarkable flanks.
You see, nobody who lives in the town has a cutie mark.
I struggled to recall if the drowned colt had one. I could not remember. And so, I waited.
Night came in earnest, and a few days passed. That's when I saw it with my own eyes. A young filly, out to play, was bouncing a ball - counting her attempts, one after the other - until she reached a remarkable sum of two hundred.
There was a shimmer, and a change... and she screamed in terror. She had earned her mark: a red rubber ball.
That is the mark of the unclean. That is why they drown their own.
She was taken to trial. She's there now, waiting in chains.
I need to put a stop to it. I need to save her.
I've put some talc over my own mark, to disguise it, but the ruse will not last long. They will notice me. They will try to capture me. And yet, I must take the chance.
I'm going to regret this.
