Amidst Deception

The staid gaze of every pony in town waited on the next words to come out of Jeremiah’s muzzle. They looked to him as a fountain of knowledge, an old wise stallion, and a comfort blanket in the dire night. He stroked the broken string segments on his banjo. “I don’t know what I saw exactly, it was something that looked like your average garden variety changeling, but it was bigger, it was wiser and it could pass through into my dreams.”

A collective eyebrow rose about the congregation, they expected an enlightening prose to explain the casts of the illusive creatures, but were instead palmed off with some claptrap fantasy about a dream. Before long the behest of the crowd was advertised, broadcasted, telegraphed towards Jeremiah.

One cruel tongue concocted a damning appraisal. “These are all just the ramblings of a teetering old fool!”

The reverse echoed also in the crowd, some ponies, perhaps of malleable will, played a dangerous hand. “Dreams all have relevance, they try to tell us, warn us about things to come.”

These comments were quickly pooh-poohed by the majority, they guffawed at the insolent speak of the tree-hugging Appleoosians. Some less kind minds delivered more sabotaging critique on the intelligence of the dream-believing cretins. “Dreams have no meaning, they happen when our brains are resting and recuperating. There is no merit in the hokum these hippies peddle!”

More so and more so the insults grew harsher. Soon the tension was so palpable in the rabble that it could have snapped at the tiniest of influence. Braeburn, surprisingly, was the first voice to speak sense. He poked at the sheriff’s collar and said concisely. “We must inform the Alicorns, this could be serious.”

At this point Gillyflower and Bailey adjourned from their home-alone-escapades and joined the fearsome numbers. The father of Braeburn examined the site before he fixed his eyes on Bartlett, who stood silently. He registered the dropped shotgun and pulled an awful scowl. “Did you try to shoot my boy, Pear?”

Bartlett could do nothing but stare at his blood-stained hooves and drown in the regret he harboured. Constance was not an athlete, and she arrived at the unfolding calamity almost ten minutes after the first onlookers had turned up, her lemon gold locks dripped sweat copiously.

Gillyflower wouldn’t be patient; he threw his hat down to the side and turned his rump to the other parent. He bore his entire fragile frame on his front hooves and bucked the living daylights out of Bartlett’s jaw.

Bartlett was numbed from the atrocities that he had abetted, the kick didn’t faze him at all, but he still fell to the ground. Blood spewed from the newly formed slits in his chin and right cheek; he came to and tended to his wounds.

Gilly went to collect the gun still half-buried in the sandy bed; he grappled a hoof towards the dusted handle before being warded off by a blunt smack on the nose. Jeremiah withdrew his walking stick, now irreparable, and dropped the destroyed jigsaw into the sand next to the gun. He spit a glob of tobacco towards a pail and listened out for the resulting ping.

Patience pear followed her husband out into the clearing, she had known his intentions, but when the crowds amassed she was a deer in the headlights. She finally commanded the courage to enter the hassled scene and went to her husband’s side. She looked at his apologetic eyes and stroked a small handkerchief over his cuts.

She sniffed and ushered an assertiveness she didn’t know she had. “Your son broke my daughter’s heart, twice. Both times he was cheating on her, both times he didn’t fess up, why… he had this one tied so many times around his hoof tip that she threw down her life down for him. He is a manipulator; even a single-minded thing like the changeling couldn’t resist his false charm.”

Jeremiah noticed the rising heat and put himself between the warring factions. “Now let this lie Pears, you too Apples, we don’t want things getting any uglier do we?”

Patience snatched the gun from the ground and directed it at the sandstone muzzle of Gillyflower. She clicked back the safety and held the object steadily in her hooves. “That boy was always out of control! I saw his name written in scrawl all across the town; mares’ have this fixation with him…”

Braeburn smirked at this comment, his ego doubling in size. He swivelled his hat on his pole and remarked. “I do have a way with the mare-folk.”

His smarmy self-assuredness was not well received by the masses, it irked Patience enough for her to picot and aim the shotgun sights at him. Brae gulped down a lump which had formed in his throat. “Oh, ya’ll think I was being serious.” He choked on the very lump he had swallowed.

Patience switched her aim back and forth; she didn't deal with the situation at hand all too professionally. On one hand she knew that Braeburn had betrayed her gullible daughter, but on the other hand he had been the rarest of souls for he had for a brief few days made her feel like a princess.

Although she was in two minds about whether or not it was justifiable to execute the stallion that had barely entered adulthood, she kept still her tongue lest it elevate the matter already dire in nature.

“Don’t break my heart again." Constance sassed, perhaps the last word she would share with her ex.

Veering from paradise>

The big-strong-soul of Little-Strong-Heart sank as she stood witness to the debauchery below. She struggled to negotiate her mind around the senseless way in which the settlers conducted themselves, she refused to see it as the norm, and not all could be tarred with the same brush. Her heart, strong, jumped from her chest as a familiar hoof clasped around her shoulder.

She turned with a look of rage; she thought it was her father hedging his bets for round two. Before her stood the cupid’s arrow to her metaphysical heart, he was an intelligent, calico tinged, bull, his hairstyle was contained and sober but he was wild at heart. His name sung like a breeze and rolled of off the calf-nearly-cow’s tongue as she sang it. “Singing wind, what brings you here?”

Singing perked up to the address and bowed to the adoration. “My dear sister, how goes your day?”

The young cow would find it a task pressing to find a mate who was not her brother. She smiled warmly to him and drew his gaze down to the gathering below. He followed her instruction and glared out over the precipice, he was not as fond of the town dwelling ponies as she. He took a moment to absorb the events and patted the cow’s rump. “Looks like trouble to me; I can feel the uncertainty in the air.”

Strong-Heart was wholly against the spiritual mumbo-jumbo her family members adhered to, she did however love this brother above the others, and she let the slur slide for now.

A heavy stream of heated breath lapped against the nape of Strong-Heart’s neck, she jerked her neck around so that she faced the blaring nostrils of her father. He had a disappointed look smeared across his face; he still had no patience for his daughter’s voyeuristic tendencies. He turfed Singing-Wind to the side. “You cannot choose your own mate daughter! I have chosen for you, you will mate with the strongest and the bravest. You shall give offspring to…”

Strong-Heart cut her father’s explanation short, she knew too well the bull her father desired her to court. “I will not go near that brute! Raging-Wonderer will never have me!” The bull in question was a fierce fighter, his hair was short, his patience brief, he had the same temperament as a manticore and twice as ugly.

Thundering-Hooves took in the calm morning air and exhaled exaggeratedly. “You will do as I say or you are not welcome here.”

Little-Strong-Heart had a good head on her shoulders, she didn’t share the belief system of her brethren, she did not share the desire to procreate through incest, and she could not bear to see Singing-Wind and her father’s favourite exchanging blows. She made a quick mental note, remembering everything she would miss about the sacred lands and her homestead in the reservation.

She picked up her hoof and held it out in front of Singing-Wind. He looked quizzically back. The both of them stood in silence, as if speaking through telepathic means, until they joined hooves. With that they parted, the strongest of hearts broke that day. She wondered, hopeless and alone, down the incline to the town below.

Singing stared at his hoof in reverence of his exiled sister and lover. He sat alone on the ridge, he took over the role of observer, and soon he felt the weight of his eyelids and settled down to sleep. His slumber was interrupted by the snort of the strongest bull. Raging scraped the toe of his hoof against a flat rock which made a screeching commotion, much to Singing’s behest.

The meeker of the two climbed back to his feet and stared the brute in the blood-shot eyes. Singing blew hot air out of his nose. “Why do you trouble me Raging-Boner?”

Raging didn’t respond warmly to this attack, he flicked his front hooves back in threat of charging. “It’s Wonderer! You pansy! Still hurting because Little-Prick-Tease left you blue balled with nowhere to go?” He basely teased.

Singing soured as the words hit home. He hadn’t a rebuttal in mind, because after all, Raging was right. He had been having certain impure feelings about his younger sister, a few arousing dreams as well as the time he had seen her bathing. He knew his brother’s words to be true, that Little-Strong-Heart lead him on, never putting out. He was biding his time, taking things slow, but she just seemed far too involved with her obsession with the Appaloosa settlers to give him the pleasure he pined for and the affection he craved from her.

Little-Strong-Heart ventured down the steep escarpment, she followed the still apparent hoof-prints that Jeremiah had left. She walked a while before finding herself drowning in the crowd of onlookers; their attentions remained focused on the pit black olive monstrosity before them.

One thing made Strong-Heart stand out above the crowd however, she was a timber like hue and the ponies that enveloped her were a rich tapestry of pastel greens, purples, oranges, pinks, reds and so on and so forth. Soon a Mexican wave of rubber necking took place as ponies swivelled around to examine the alien intruder.

It was like another planet, this world so far beneath, it screamed opportunity. Little-Strong-Heart admired the visceral majesty of the town she has watched dreamily for many moons. She almost didn’t notice the unfriendly expressions which tried to ward her away. The heat of the day was partially lifted as a pail of spit flooded over Strong-Heart. She stumbled aback at the shock of the drenching and pawed a chiselled hoof through her hair. She tugged, pried, and tore the gummy tobacco globs off of her.

The custard-coated stallion backed away and set the pail back near the saloon doors. He squashed his face and spat out another load of putrid gum. He was not alone in the animal display of hatred, the settlers and wild buffalo did not get along so well. They may have agreed on a temporary ceasefire when under the eye of the famous six, but as soon as the PonyVille express rolled out, they resumed their unending turf war. The thrower of the pail swept a filly back into the safety of the crowd. “Get out of here outlander.”

The littlest buffalo cow, with the biggest and strongest of hearts shrank in the poisoned reception she had received. It was not what she hoped it would have been. Her hopeful demeanour was replaced with a quivering lip. She could not return to her people, and now her dreamed utopia was unveiled, she did not want to stick around any longer.

Back at the head of the congregation stood the Pears and the Apples and Jeremiah Thicket right in the thick of it. Being the voice of reason was a task often leant to the most level headed, and not Braeburn and his curious, one-eyed partner. But once more the adolescent stallion saw something that the others did not. He bore his athletic build on his rear hooves and peered over to the chocolate coloured stranger. “Hey, I know you, Little-small-something.”

“My name is Little… No, my name is Desert Rose.”  Jeremiah heard the familiar tone and made a path back through the attending masses. He wasted no time in scolding the ignorant, racist comments spewing around the group. He had to ignore them for now, he reached the familiar face he had seen high upon the cliff’s edge and bowed in respect.

“Desert Rose, I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure.” He winked. Rose blinked continually as she recognised the wizened stallion, the one she had seen brutalised at the front door of the buffalo family dwelling. She was overjoyed to see him. Rose carried a warm impression as she ripped a grin through her face in seeing the one she thought to be dead. “Mr Thicket!”

 Jeremiah took a moment to take in the unfolding drama; he gazed on over her to the lonely precipice and smiled in understanding.

“I kinda thought you’d bit the dust.” She said as she combed back her hair.

The dramatic feature however was about to have an encore, the gun-toting mare, patience, shook the gun around in fury “Y’all forgetting something?”

 Jeremiah could have slapped himself about the face for being so short-sighted. He made his way back through the staring faces, Rose close in tow. He presumed his own fate a foregone conclusion, no way would this situation be resolved without the death of another, and that other would most likely be him. Although he knew the stakes, Jeremiah resumed his role as law-keeper and threw himself in front of the gun just as it fired.

Whether it was a kneejerk reaction or a calculated decision, they would never know. She flipped the muzzle around to her skull and pressed her hoof on the trigger. Gilly was the first to notice what was wrong, he was close enough. As a last ditched attempt to save her he pushed the gun’s barrel away. If things happened the way he desired the buckshot would have missed the meek features and structure of Patience, only he was seconds out, the buckshot penetrated the side of her head and sent her down into the dirt. Bartlett Pear’s eyes opened widely, his breath baited, as his love toppled over.

He skipped over a couple of the stages of grief and immediately started for Gillyflower Apple’s throat. Gilly didn’t pre-empt the strike which thusly connected to his sand-stone muzzle.

Little-Strong… Desert Rose rushed to the elder’s side, she cradled his head like he had done with the banjo, and he was cold, silent. He wouldn’t have lived much longer, she said in her head; it comforted her in the bereavement.  Rose’s gaze levitated upwards until it rested on the brawling stallions.

The fight was uncoordinated and clumsy, the yellower stallion fought like a mare. The other, of grey coat, was like a berserker, his hooves thrashed wildly upon the body of the yellow one.

Braeburn kept his distance from his father, he had been thrown out after all, and he crept over to a teary eyed Constance and made himself known. “Connie? I uhh, I know this must be tough for you.”

His ill-thought out attempt at condolence was ended by a raw hoof across his muzzle. If looks could kill, the story of Brae would fit in a few chapters, from start to untimely death, she stared the Lothario down “You don’t touch me! I am not your pudding pop! Now get yourself from my sight else I reload that thing.”

Braeburn gulped as he caught sight of the shotgun, still clasped in the shivering hooves of Patience Pear. Desert Rose evaluated the scene, her eyes bled sorrow as she counted the dead, and she addressed the masses. “Three have died today! A kind old stallion, a mare I never knew and… and…”

Rose now saw the changeling shell smeared across the sanded ground. She tilted her head to further inspect the image, it didn’t improve. She felt fully immersed in the gaze of the Appleoosians; they didn’t seem to understand what was happening either.

She curiously poked a hoof into the shrivelled dark leg of the body; it shed away, just as the skin had done before, only, now the bone was dust as well. She examined her hoof, small shavings of the dead clung to her. Rose cemented the image in her mind before she spoke. “My father told me about these things. He said it was a curse brought on by your greed. I have seen them also in my dreams”

The quietened crowd burst back in to life at the mention of dreams. The believers and the critics rattled out their opinions, no facts were used, for the changelings were still a mystery shrouded in shadows. One confident voice shouted above the rest. “Oh please, change the fucking record.”

Rose recoiled, she peered up to the precipice and the time she had spent watching and then looked and listened at the cruelty and wished she would have just mated with her brute of a brother. At least she wouldn’t have to destroy the blissful ignorance she had deceived herself with; at least she would be cared for.

The day was growing mature, legions of the crowd dispersed back to their humdrum existences; Bartlett and Gillyflower ended their fight in a draw and returned to their respective homes. They hadn't set the most sterling of example.