The pickax struck at the earth and bounced off, throwing up bits of dirt as it did so. The dented ground split further as the metal tip poked into it again. Larger clumps were thrown up as the tip of the ax pulled away. Another strike made the slopes of the pit shudder, as though the earth was jolting with sharp pain. Finally, with a groan, the filly braced her teeth, raised the ax, let gravity throw it down, and struck something hard.
The pink filly dropped the wooden handle with relief and massaged her teeth with the back of her hoof. This was her first time digging in the trench, and however sturdy an earth pony's body could be, she was still on the threshold between tender youth and rugged maturity. Nearby were her two sisters, both of whom continued to wield their digging tools in their mouths. The filly stopped to watch for a while, her ears flicking back and forth. Each strike prompted a groan of effort.
Pinkamena Diane Pie looked at each sister, one grey, one bluish-grey. She looked down at the brown earth, then at the grey walls of the trench through which her father had dug his way for thirteen days. She looked up at the ever-present cloud, which was grey and showed no sign of brightening up. Finally, and with no smile on her face, she looked at the sliver of grey in the pit she'd dug.
"Dad!" she yelled. "I found one!"
A noise stopped. On the higher ground, the creak of wooden axles briefly came back as somepony sighed and fiddled with a harness. Hoofsteps approached the lip, and a face with large sideburns looked down at her. His jaw skewed, shifting the stick of hay he held between his teeth.
He merely nodded. It was a businesslike nod that said, "Yes, you did," before its owner wrote it down in his memory for when he was off-duty.
A moment later, he disappeared. Pinkamena tried to smile, but it seemed too much for the meagre achievement and she soon let it slip away. Her sisters continued working, either having found no rocks or feeling no need to shout it out to the rooftops. Following their example, Pinkamena took up her pickax and leaned back for another swing.
It's not that I find it boring, she thought while the blade struck. I just found my first rock. Dad always said rocks were important, and now I'm a big filly 'cause I found my first rock, didn't I Mr Picky?
Mr Picky struck the earth again, shattering a layer of compacted mud that had hardened over the rock. It had no mouth, it said nothing, and yet Pinkamena thought the words up for it. Somehow, she knew what it would say.
Yes, you did, Little Pinkie, she thought. And a mighty fine rock it is too.
All three fillies, for a brief moment, groaned at the same time and struck the ground at the same time. They all noticed it, and Pinkamena held the pickax between her teeth and looked at the other two, but they chose to ignore it, and kept digging. Ears drooping, she turned back and aimed the next blow.
Do you think it could be my biggest ever rock? she thought. The blow rebounded enough to make her stagger and she nearly fell onto her rump. She steadied herself through her stumpy legs. Sorry. I'm not hurting you, am I?
Not at all. I'm a tough pickax.
Once more, she lined up for a strike. The stage in her mind was set up for the unseen performance, but she was still feeling the shudder of the strike and didn't feel ready to act Mr Picky's part until it subsided like applause. Before her, an egg-shaped pebble was emerging from the depths of the earth. Although she shifted left or right to see if it had a silver sheen on it, there was no sheen, and it was not silver, and she waved the hope of instant fortune goodbye.
Yes. I think it could be the biggest ever rock anypony has ever found. Why, it could be the biggest rock in the whole world.
She struck the earth again, then paused to let her gums have a rest. Too much strain was paining her neck muscles as well. It doesn't look very big.
Oh, no, this is just a bit of it. It's the lump you see on some lumpy rocks, and this is one of the hugest lumps I've seen. There has to be an even bigger rock hidden under it, right?
Pinkamena frowned at the ax head. But Inkie said that doesn't mean anything because I can't see it. She says if you can't see it, you can't tell it's there.
You can't see me speaking, but you can tell I'm here. That makes sense, doesn't it?
Inkie wasn't the name she was supposed to use. Inkamena Lily Pie was the right name, and Blinkamena Marie Pie was the right name to use, and Pinkamena Diane Pie. Not Inkie, not Blinkie, and definitely never Pinkie. She stopped using them at the table, and she would not start using them here.
Pinkamena scraped her hooves against the dirt. They were itching. Sweat was clogging up her pink fur, so she paused to roll on her back in the dirt. She'd barely started when one sister coughed meaningfully. Pinkamena took the hint and went back onto all fours, turning pinker still.
She looked back at the pebble. It'll be tricky to pull out the ground if it's super big, won't it?
Oh, that's OK, said Picky. Just ask the family to help when you're getting too tired.
I can't wait until they see it! They're going to be so happy.
She pulled back, and a stabbing pain split through her weakened gums. A cry of pain leaped out of her mouth, pushing Mr Picky aside. There was a crack of rock splitting, but Pinkamena didn't hear it through the flash of red and the horrible feeling between her teeth. The ground hit her rump, and she curled her spine as though trying to smother her lips with her own weight.
She shrieked at the top of her lungs. Tools hit the ground nearby as her sisters turned to look. The creak of axles stopped again, and she thought she heard a voice reply. Pinkamena covered her eyes, hoping the pain would go away, would stop tormenting her, and would cease if she gritted her teeth and concentrated. Even through her narrowed eyes and the slight watery blur, she saw the shadow over her. A hoof touched her on the withers.
"What's the matter?" said a gruff voice.
"Hurt... tooth..."
He shushed her, but it was a gentle sound, and though his voice was as gravelly as the pit, it soothed her. It was all the noise he made. Pinkamena steeled herself against the pain, which ebbed and flowed but never quite went away. She sensed her sisters were nearby, watching. Later, she heard the tap of pickaxes, and knew her father had wordlessly shooed them away.
A careless hoof guided her chin up and she opened her mouth. The greying eyes of her father peered in, and ran a critical gaze along the rows of molars and incisors. Again, his jaw skewed, shifting his hay stick. He let her go, and the tense muscles in his shoulders relaxed.
It occurred to her a moment later that she didn't know what had happened to Mr Picky. When the pain ceased, she looked around for her tool. Her father, seeing this development, backed off. What little concern had been in his eyes now faded down now that it looked like the worst was over. Then he was as stoic as usual and walked back the way he came, up the slope towards higher ground, leaving Pinkamena to look over the soil for her pickax.
Her heart sank when she saw it. Mr Picky was lying on his side next to the pebble. At least he was fine. The pebble she'd uncovered was split clean into two. Pinkamena looked up at her fellow sisters. Inkie was still axing away, but Blinkie had abandoned her heavy tool and gone down to a chisel to cut around a little stone of her own. She hadn't split hers. Blinkie would never split hers.
Pinkamena sighed and picked up Mr Picky. I'm sorry, she thought. I wrecked our first rock.
There will be more, Mr Picky said gruffly. He always sounded a little gruff after Pinkamena had spoken to her father. She thought her father's voice was very sensible-sounding, and it rubbed off on whatever she was doing. You had to be sensible when extracting the rocks. There was no room for messing about. Accidents were bad enough when they just happened in the line of work.
But... I think I... I think I hurt Mr Rock, she thought. The two halves of the pebble looked horribly painful, like a broken leg. I didn't want to hurt him. It was an accident! I'd never do that to my friend!
Friend? said the rock. Us? An' there ain't been weirder, know what I'm sayin'?
Inkie had once come back from a visit to the nearby town speaking like that. She said she'd gotten it off a visitor from the east - a big, burly stallion who'd frightened her at first - but her parents had pursed their lips until she stopped affecting the accent. It was too late by then. Pinkie had tried it on for size for a week, and even Blinkie had whispered some of the more unfamiliar phrases when only her sisters were around.
Sure I can talk, sweet cakes. An' I hope your tooth is OK. As for me, well, it was an accident, right? said the rock. Least now I have two of me to talk to, and it don't hurt that much. Forget about it. The name's Rock Buddyson, kiddo.
I'm sorry that I hurt you, said Mr Picky. Pinkamena moved him aside slightly, as though the pickax was looking away in shame. It also allowed her to pick a new spot to dig.
Ah, me and my brother, we'll get over it. We rocks are tough, renowned for it, right? 'Sides, the boss, Ms Pinkie here, needs whole rocks, the real deal, the right stuff. Ain't that right, Ms Pinkie?
Yes I do. Thank you for being so nice! Pinkamena began striking the earth, wincing with each blow. And maybe I'll find a gem instead of a boring old rock. I mean... She looked at the rock guiltily. Not that rocks are bad. You're a nice rock, but not a rich rock. If I find a gem, Blinkie says I can sell it and make a lot of money, and then we could buy a bigger hut and some new toys and not have to work so hard.
Pinkamena felt her heart shudder at the lie. Her parents would never accept it. A hut was where they lived, and a hut was where they'd stay. They didn't need fancy things; just a quiet life and a farm to dig for rocks. Everything had to be simple, and quiet, in their little corner of the world. Even Inkie, who liked to run to nearby farm houses and talk with strange ponies, would always run back home before sunset.
Pinkie wished she could go with her, but she was pink, and the family didn't trust such an unusual colour.
Pink was different. Her parents didn't treat her any differently from her more conventionally coloured siblings, of course. She woke up at the same time as they did, she was learning to dig her first trench at the same age they learned, and she was given her hugs and kisses at bedtime. Nevertheless, she was pink. Pink did not fit in. Pink was a strange thing, even a slightly unwanted thing, in the little world of grey and brown. Ponies kept their eyes on her in case she did something odd. Even her mother and father paused if she chatted away out loud.
So she chatted away where nopony could hear her.
The little filly sighed with the pickax still in her mouth, and while she hacked away at the soil, she made a little colourful world of her own, a private fire lit to keep away the night.
