There are many stories, stretched over many times, from many places in which tell of a hero or heroine who started from humble beginnings, being chosen for a task of dire consequence, and rose over arduous tasks and events that would stop them from fulfilling destiny. And among these countless tales few quite match the circumstances of this story, passed down many generations to I, who have now decided to take it to the parchment with quill in order that it may not be lost to us of this realm. So what you unfurl before yourself is not a child of mine but a grand venture upon which generations have mused to refine its meaning and lesson. But I warn you, this neither is something which you would expect in this modern era, nor would your culture necessarily approve of your reading, as the characters in this epic would fall to those of pigtails and freckles; convention nor mine own gaiety brought me to write thus accordingly, but merely the respect and responsibility of being the bearer of such an archaic torch.
In a land far from Equestria (of which I am sure many of you know a great deal of), in fact a land far across the waters and skies that border that magical kingdom, in a time older than that of the regal two, (not to say that they did not exist, for they did, but not in the same way they do know), far older than you can fathom, there lived an Earth pony. He was a very plain earth pony at that, he worked on a very plain farm, planting very plain carrots and turnips (for back in those days the apple was something that only the very rich could afford, apart from the orchard gardeners themselves, who weren't as poor as they made out to be), and he had very plain ambitions: To own his family's farm one day, to settle down with a mare and sire many foals to help him on the farm and one day carry on as he returned to his namesake. But for now all he could do was plow the fields, weed the crops, feed the fowl and livestock, and dream about one day owning his parent's farm. But at only two and twenty years, he had many a harvest to go before that dream was to be realized.
Yet Oakhoof did a certain thing every green-corn moon that wasn't what you would say is plain, considering all the other things he did. Peculiarly enough, just as sun began to set, Oakhoof would venture out to the edge of the homestead, were there was a gentle sloping hill of soft green grass which bordered a murmuring brook which wound its way through pebbles and rocks, down drops and a slight cliff, to end by a crystalline pond which seemed to reflect the very soul of the full moon giving the water a gossamer look which continued down a small tributary, merely a trickle, into the depths of an emerald forest that held a soft wafting fragrance of life built upon decay. Here Oakhoof would lie down and stare at the moon and stars, merely appreciating the serenenity and beauty of this world and its surroundings. He would often wonder about the moon; how it got there, why it rose and fell in an eternal dance with the sun, and why, like an eye, it would blink (A very slow blink at that). Sometimes he stared at it for such a length sometimes he thought he would see movement upon it, a twinkle at times, other times a shadow, and yet other times he thought he would see a face, but as soon as he saw it and tried to focus he would lose it, and once again stare at the soft disc in the infinite sky.
When the sun's last ray's finally vanished, and it was truly night, Oakhoof would bow his head till the grass brushed his nose and close his eyes and listen, for when he was merely a colt himself, a band of traveling bards graced his village and recited a poem which he forever remembered:
Amidst the stars and vigilant orb
which guide the dreams of whom repose,
lays truth for minds to bear
sprung from which the earth hath prose
sought but found by no mare.
Yet foal or fool that ventures thus
Shall find design in beauty's lus'
And Gaia then to them shall truss
From which they shall absorb.
He memorized that poem as if his life depended on it, though he didn't come to understand it till many seasons later. So as he closed his eyes, he would force active thought from his mind and focus in on the load of sensory information which would assault him. The warm breeze rippled the hair on his fur coat and tousled his mane. The distant croaks of frogs by the pond compounded with the rustling of the trees as the wind fluttered by. The smell of sod, life, and decay came to fill his snout with, what was to him, a heavenly aroma. But on this specific night, a night with a full moon, he would even shut all of these sensory inputs out, look past them into what seemed to be a void. He would lie there in a blanket of the expanse paying no attention to all the details around him. Staying this way, he would wait for many hours frozen, save for the methodic expansion and compression of his chest as he breathed.
Then, ever so slightly, as if he was chasing the cusp of a dream, a nebulous tail that he knew was there but could not see; he would begin to hear something. It was a whisper, or so he could tell, but it never seemed to say anything, being just a murmur. At first he had become excited and would immediately lose it, awakening back to his grassy knoll, but as the seasons repeated he learned to get closer and closer to the whisper, inching his way. He felt so very close, as if he could just reach out and grab it, and the one time he did try, he caught nothing but grass. But finally he had learned to let it come to him, as it seemed to get louder and louder as he surrendered his bodily senses. Frustration was the answer though, as no matter how close it got, it never became clear nor louder than a whisper. And yet he came back annually, never once missing a chance to do this, as he wanted more than anything (except for his normal aspirations of course) to hear what the voice had to say.
So as Oakhoof made his way to this spot one evening before a full moon, a noise of rustling leaves and breaking twigs (as his path led him through the walnut grove) caused him to stop and turn around. Looking about him, he saw no sign of anybody, and so continued to trek up his path again. It had recently rained and the smell of the dirt and plants lay heavy in the air while the moist dirt stuck to the bottom of his hooves. The trees, it seemed to him, were extra green for this time of the year, no doubt a correlation to the amount of rain they had received in the past month, a little over a third of a cubit (nearly six inches for us); the last it had rained like that, with the little brook turning into a rather large creek, was back when Cedarwood had just been born.
Continuing through the grove, shadows splaying down the pony's flank as he moved through them, Oakhoof began to go over all of his prior experiences on top of his knoll, reminding himself of all the nuances that he must use in order to maintain his contact for as long as possible. Even having done this for well over ten years, it was every bit as challenging as the first time he had attempted it. Deep in his thoughts, Oakhoof walked past the edge of the copse into the connecting grass field that was bathed in the orange light of the setting sun, and once again a noise came from behind him. Stopping, he looked behind him and saw nothing once more, except for the grove he had come out of and the hoof tracks that, he reckoned, led right back to the livestock pen. As he was quite engrossed in his thoughts, he absent-mindedly dismissed the noise as merely red squirrels playing in the trees and possibly eating the yet ripe nuts. So turning his head back around, and with a swish of a tail as he swatted flies, Oakhoof began to trot forward up a gradual slope.
Breaking from his thoughts a moment later, as he finished going over everything that he had learned, he began to look about him and take in the scenery. The grass, like the larger foliage, was a deeper shade of green then usual and likewise a good bit taller, reaching up to near his barrel. The sun, on the edge of the horizon, made shadows which ran the length of the highest oak trees, and also seemed to give an amber filter to the world. The air was still and humid, causing even this light walk to make sweat start to mat his fur. Dragonflies and other insects flew from grass-blade to grass-blade as if they could never figure out which one was the most comfortable, or being the fact that there was a sea of such grass, that they had to try all to decide. Birds called in the distance, and the buzzing noise of the cicadas was starting to give way to the softer noise of the frogs.
Finally reaching the top of the hill, Oakhoof stopped to watch the last few seconds as the sun sunk below the emerald tree line to his left, casting the underside of the clouds from a rusty pink to a pale gray. The sky changed from the golden amber hue to a pale bluish gray that signified the onset of night. Looking off to his right, Oakhoof focused on where a small brook broke from the tree line, and, aiming his body to it, began again, picking up into a pace so as to make it to his spot before twilight turned to dusk.
Making it to his spot, Oakhoof laid his stocky build upon the earth, flattening the tall grass underneath him and further compressing the moist loam, leaving a small depression where he lay. Giving a huff and a slight neigh, he relaxed his muscles and began to loosen up after a strenuous day in the fields. Closing his Dartmouth green eyes, he breathed deep and let out a sigh, opening them again to stare out from his spot unto the brook which could be heard lazily moving along. So watching the brook and listening to the ambiance, waiting for the moon to take dominance in the sky, Oakhoof began to think of his family and his village. Laying on the outskirts of the small village, it would take him at least thirty minutes to get there with a brisk canter and nearly an hour when taking the cart laden with an assortment of foods to sell and barter with. But despite the time it took to arrive, he very much enjoyed the time he spent there, spending time at the local inn and tavern conversing to the other farmers and shopkeepers. At times, if he was lucky, he would arrive and the whole tavern would be seated about a traveler or tradesmen listening to their sometimes, more often than not, rather exaggerated tales of adventure. These visitors brought what little color the rather insipid place had, beside the occasional wedding, death, fight, or special event (which were so sparsely spread out you would think that everything moved at a pace equivalent to a snail). But that wasn't to say Oakhoof thought his village boring, there was always the summer and winter solstice celebrations plus the Vernal-equinox rejuvenation (that would be our Winter Wrap-up), yet he did wish for more at times despite his father saying "If this town gets too darn excited it'll fall over." Whenever his father would say this his mother would roll her eyes and retort "If this town doesn't get excited it will fall over."
Chuckling to himself, Oakhoof focused once again to the sound of the brook and caught sight of it this time from the smooth reflections of the moon's rays as it danced upon the moving water. Stretching his neck, Oakhoof peered up at the full moon above him. Its beams of light spilled upon the grass and trees giving them a softness and glow that reminded Oakhoof of being in a dream unable to focus on anything. Breathing in the humid air, he began his ritualistic stare at the disc in the sky, admiring the distinctive patterns of dark grey against its lighter colored surface. His eyes drifted to the amalgamation of stars that twinkled and shone in the night, some brighter than others, some slightly different in colors, and others that seemed too big to be stars. All of this against the backdrop of the black night sky brought serenity upon him that made him feel complete but yet utterly insignificant in the scale of the heavens.
Suddenly a loud rustling noise off to his rear left broke his glazed stare at the sky. He sat there stolid for a second waiting for the following noise that he knew would come. He was rewarded, for merely after a handful of seconds, a small muffled "oof" came from just below the cusp of the knoll. Ruling out red squirrels, partially because of the time of night, and mainly because red squirrels didn't speak, Oakhoof softly, yet in his deep voice, said "My little pony, whatever are you doing out here?"
At first no response came, save for the croaking of the frogs and the sound of cascading water, so then Oakhoof addressed the noise again, "Cedarwood my sister, I know you are there." Still no answer came, so Oakhoof gave an impatient snort.
A silhouette, framed in the moonlight and no taller than Oakhoof's elbow, crept up to the edge of the knoll in response. It hesitated for a second before slowly making its way to him. As the silhouette came within two cubits of the earthpony, details could be made out verifying that it was in fact Cedarwood.
"Well?" questioned Oakhoof, "are you going to answer me? What are you doing out here?"
"uhhh… well… I was just…" replied the small pony.
"Look at me in the eye my sister; there is no need to hide unless you have been doing something you shouldn't have or is that the case?" Oakhoof asked looking down upon the top of his little sister's mane.
Looking up to meet her brother's green eyes, Cedarwood tried to respond, but it ended sounding like a stifled cough.
"Little one," Oakhoof calmly crooned, "there is no need to be scared. I am not mad at you."
"Well," started Cedarwood, "you go out every full moon, and I was just curious."
Smiling to himself, Oakhoof lowered his head and said "Well, I reckon that is all right. Come rest with me."
The dark mass moved up to him and moved to underneath his head. Sitting down, Cedarwood nestled herself between Oakhoof's front legs while sidling up against his breast. Squirming for a second before settling, Cedarwood looked up at the stars and asked, "Big Brother, what are you doing?"
Oakhoof brushed his nose against Cedarwood's mane and snorted, tickling her, then answered, "I am enjoying the fruits of this world and of the heavens."
Looking about her in confusion, Cedarwood then asked, "Fruits? What fruits? I don't see any apples."
Snickering, her brother replied saying, "Oh you little filly, I mean I am observing the great expanse and enjoying the weather we are having."
"Oh," she said as they both stared into the moon, which at that moment had drifted into a cloud, thereby lining it with a silver light.
There they sat for a while staring at the sky, watching for shooting stars and making patterns within the stars themselves, enjoying the warmth of the air and the sounds of nature. Finally the moon broke from the clouds overhead and shone bright upon the land, again giving everything a soft lining. In response to the moon, a howl sounded in the distance.
"Is that a horswolf Brother?" asked Cedarwood, pressing up closer to Oakhoof's body.
"No little one, there is no such things as a horswolf, it was merely the call of a gloom wolf as she misses her children."
"Really?" Cedarwood asked, "Where did they go?"
"They grew up," Oakhoof replied. "They left her care because it was their time of leaving and their responsibility to start a family of their own."
Cedarwood accepted this and settled back down, laying her head against her brother's neck. And once again both passed into silence, observing the surroundings and gazing at the sky. Then, taking advantage of the quite, Oakhoof closed his eyes and bowed his head, concentrating on the sounds of the wilderness. He would focus on a single noise, the frogs, the brook, the ambiance, eliminating it from conscious thought then focusing on another sound, attempting to remove it as well. But before he could get anywhere close to eliminating all the sounds, Cedarwood piped up and simply stated, "I can see her sometimes."
Opening his eyes and letting all the noises rush back into his active mind, Oakhoof asked, "What little one?"
"In my dreams," she absent-mindedly continued "I can see her in my dreams. Sometimes she lies down beside me and we will talk, or sometimes she will give me wings and we will fly together. But it's not every night, it only happens when the moon is new, and even then it's sometimes."
"Who my dear sister?" came Oakhoof's inquisitive reply. "Who visits you?"
"Her," was the simple response he got and looking down at her, he saw Cedarwood staring up. Following her gaze, he stared straight up and deep into the fullness of the moon.
"The moon Cedar? Is that whom you see?"
"No, not the moon," she replied as if Oakhoof had said a joke, "the pony in the moon."
Oakhoof merely snorted in mild surprise, he didn't think anybody else stared at the moon and saw a face.
"It's true! I see her!" said Cedarwood defensively, mistaking his snort to be one of disbelief. "She is kind and wise, and fun! She is slightly different from a regular pony though, if you look in her eyes you can see kindness and sincerity, but you can see a pain in there that makes me feel bad for her, like there is no one to love her."
Interested, Oakhoof continued by asking, "Are you sure she is barren of love little one? Do you not love her?"
"Yes, I guess I do." Cedarwood said slowly, "but it looks like what ma did after mama died, but different."
"Then when you see her next, tell her you love her."
Trying to stifle a yawn Cedarwood replied, "That is a good idea Oak, I will do that."
Chuckling to himself, Oakwood then said, "Come little one, it is time to go back to the house, no doubt ma is wondering where you are by now."
And without resistance from Cedarwood, both ponies stood and stretched, glanced one last time at the moon and turned about to retrace the steps they made before night. Slightly crestfallen that he didn't get to hear the voice again, Oakhoof was quite happy he was able to share that time with his sister. Realizing this, and taking into consideration her story, he then decided that at the next full moon he would tell little Cedarwood of the voice and how to hear it.
Author's Note
Hello readers,
Thank you so much for taking a moment to read this story. I would be even more in your debt if you left a comment pointing out any flaws or things I can approve on, as it is a writer's job to revise and grow. I don't know if I need to give credit or not, but I will anyways: the world of My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic is owned by Hasbro and all characters thereby created by them are such. I hope you enjoyed chapter I.
It was the evening before the summer solstice celebration, and everyone on the farm was busy. Aspenzeal, Oakhoof’s mother, was trotting up and down the cellar stairs, bringing out preserves and jams to take to the celebration, while keeping an eye on the rhubarb pie that was baking in the oven. Hickorystick, Cedarwood’s father, was out back gathering the rest of the goose eggs and bailing the eating hay for the community stew that was made every solstice. Oakhoof himself was out tending to the fields, weeding the last of the carrots and turnips patches, while Cedarwood was in the house keeping an eye on the pie while also preparing the rest of the edibles; egg and potato salad, hay gravy and mashed potatoes, and other foods. So busy, they all did not notice the lone pony making its way up the dirt road to their farm.
Turning up the dusty cartway to the barn, the pony slowed his pace down to a mere walk. He cut through the grass and came to stop by a worn brass bell on the porch. Looking at the solid oak door, he grabbed the knocker and gave three hard raps.
Being that Aspenzeal was in the cellar, Cedarwood had to scramble down from the wooden footstool and trot to the door. Opening it up revealed a large pony standing directly in the sunlight, making Cedarwood squint and wonder who the large shadow was. A smell drifted in through the open door and immediately Cedarwood yelled out in delight “Pineneedle!” Throwing her hooves around the pony’s neck, she wrestled him into a big hug before saying “Come in, come in!”
Drawn by the noise, Aspenzeal, having come up from the cellar, came out of the kitchen asking “Cedar darling, who is it?” Her question was answered the minute the large earth pony stepped into the common area.
“Oh Pineneedle, its you dear! It is mighty fine to see you.”
“The pleasure is mine as always Ms.Aspen, and it is good to see you too little Cedar.” Pineneedle placed the younger pony back on the ground and ruffled the top of her mane with his hoof. “If you’d please ma’am,” drawled Pineneedle, “I would be looking for your son.”
“Why I do believe he is out in the fields finishing up, if you would like to wait for him I could get you a wonderful glass of carrot juice.”
“Thank you very much, but if its all the same to you ma’am, I’d go on out and help him finish up.”
Aspenzeal smiled saying “Of course dear,” then looking at Cedarwood, “why don’t you show Pineneedle here to Oakhoof, all of the jars are up so I can take care of the rest.”
“Yes ma.” Cedarwood turned to Pineneedle, “Come on, follow me!”
Both ponies went out the way Pineneedle had come in, then trotting around the house and herb garden in the back and making their way to the left of the Pecan grove where they could see a small outline of Oakhoof. As they made their way, Cedarwood began badgering Pineneedle with questions of how he had been, how his farm was doing, and other questions thus. You see, Pineneedle’s family was a good friend of the Wiseforest family and the two were naught but five miles separated.
Finally the two ponies came into range of Oakhoof and quickened their trot to quickly close the distance. They came to rest before the tan colored pony and watched as he pulled up one last weed with his teeth before righting himself and affixing his eyes on the two. Spitting out the weed into the cart to his rear, Oakhoof addressed the two ponies.
“Thank you my dear sister, if you would, go ahead and start picking some of the ripe carrots over yonder for tomorrow.”
“How many do I need to pull?” She replied.
“Enough for the Community stew, so I reckon twenty or so.” and with a nod, Cedarwood swung herself around and lightly bounced over to an adjoining field.
“She has gotten bigger since the last I’ve seen her, which was last Winter solstice if memory serves me right.”
Turning his head to Pineneedle, Oakhoof softly replied, “Yes she seems to grow as fast as alfalfa these days, before long she will start helping Pa with the livestock and then I reckon I will not be able to call her ‘little one’ any longer. But till then I may continue to call her so.”
Both ponies passed into silence for a minute watching Cedarwood pull up a carrot and stack it in a pile before she pulled another one. Oakhoof broke the silence through a lighthearted inquiry, “Pineneedle my friend, it has been too long. How have you been?”
“No worse for wear than last month. The crops have been sprouting like Cedarwood because of all this rain we’ve got, and the livestock don’t mind too much, in fact, since the grass been growing so much, miss Gretta has been putting out so much milk we had to give some away.”
“Yes, yes,” chuckled Oakhoof, “We got some of Gretta’s milk and I must say it has been extra creamy this year, it makes outstanding butter.”
Just then Cedarwood came bouncing back saying “Brother, I picked the carrots.”
“Thank you, now just grab that saddlebag by the cart and place them in there.” Oakhoof said thoughtfully. “After you do that go on up and take them to ma; we will follow shortly. Pineneedle, come and walk with me.”
Hooking himself up to the cart, Oakhoof stepped off down the row to the dirt path between the vegetable patches. He turned onto it and started towards the barn. Waiting for Pineneedle to come abreast of him, Oakhoof slowed down till they were side by side.
“Pineneedle, how long have we known each other?”
“Well lets see Oakhoof, I do reckon it has been since birth, but my first memory was that time me and you got caught sneaking around ol’ Gretta’s milk house after we spilled a jug o’ her milk. I thought that whipin’ would never end; coulda sworn my cutie mark was a switch after that.”
Both farmhands chuckled to each other at the recalled times since passed. Then Oakhoof started up again, “Pineneedle, you remember that one winter solstice when that band of bards came through?”
“Of course,” Pineneedle replied, “It’s only happened once in my lifetime, plus you’d go on and on about it for the longest afterwards.”
“And do you remember the poem they sang to me my friend?”
Laughing, Pineneedle asked, “Which one was that? They sung a’many of ‘em Oakhoof, and I don’t remember near any of ‘em.”
So Oakhoof recited the poem which he had heard as a colt. When he was finished Pineneedle had a perplexed face and questioned, saying “Well I be darned, that is more backwards than milking a mule, what in tarnations does it all mean.”
“Well that’s it,” replied Oakhoof amused, “I asked the bard who chanted it that same question, and all he told me was ‘To give a pony an apple is a sin when he can instead make the tree bear fruit.’ I then asked him what he meant by that and he started to laugh. I felt rather embarrassed by the ordeal, but the bard merely looked down at me and said ‘My son, if you wish to pick fruit of the tree of knowledge, then you must reach it, as it will not fall for equines.’ Saying that the bard reached into his saddle bag and pulled out a leather-bound book nearly as big as I was, and then merely said ‘I give you the seed, may you eat of its fruit.’ With that, and being distracted as I recall, the bard stood up and walked into the shadows of the building, and I don’t ever remember seeing him again, though there were many folk around.”
Here Oakhoof paused in order to unhitch himself from the cart as they had arrived at the side of the barn, where there was a pile of dried weeds and grasses. With a grunt he tipped the cart backwards, dumping the contents into that pile. After making sure all the weeds had fallen out of the cart, he brought it back level and hitched himself back up and began to walk into the barn itself.
Finding the corner where the rest of the equipment was neatly stowed, Oakhoof unhitched himself for the last time that day and placed the cart where it belonged. Then he began a round of the barn making sure everything was in proper order.
Here he continued, “But when I got home that night, I opened up the book and inside I was met with script I could not understand. Black scratches on the parchment were made in ink and as mysterious as the pony who gave it to me. Once every few pages I would see a mark that was like the ones Pa would make in a book when he would count his bits from market. And in fact, that was what they were, numbers, though at the time I thought them to be money that had been counted.”
“My ignorance of the book and its symbols continued for a few seasons, but my desire to understand it was so overwhelming that one year when I went into the village I took my book and went over to the Tavern; I know, not the best place for a young pony to be, but I was desperate to learn how to read the book. So I walked right in and up to the wooden counter where Mr. Barley stood, much to the amusement of him and the patrons, as I had this larger book strapped to my back, I said ‘I wanna know what ‘em scrath’s mean... sir.’ Well Mr.Barley looked down at me and started laughing. He was laughing so hard, he couldn’t breathe and began to cough.”
“I was feeling very flustered at being the center of such noise and attention, but that also was what brought Mr.Barley’s wife over. She looked at me and then glared at her husband, which eventually stopped his laughing. She then said, ‘Shame on you Mr.Barley, the young colt only wants to learn how to read, something, I must remind you, that needs your dire attention; how do you expect to run a tavern if you don't know how to read most things. Shame.’ He did reply, saying ‘Sugarcube, I can read what I need to, not much use in them books when all I do is sell brew and mess.’Mrs.Sugarcube then turned her attention to me, directing me over to a quieter part of the building and inquired why I wanted to read, among other things. Eventually I convinced her to teach me how to read and it was decided that once a week I would go into town, on my time mind you, and get reading lessons.”
“Well a season and half passed before I was able to start reading the book, but even then more than half of the words were still hidden to me and a great deal were also hidden to Mrs. Sugarcube. But I continued to learn and by the third season of my lessons I could read all that Mrs. Sugarcube could, though maybe not as proficiently. Then a hoof-full of years back, that caravan came through and I was lucky enough to acquire myself a dictionary, which is a book of words and their meanings; though let me tell you, I had to give a hoof and my mane to get it, but it was worth it. Regardless, I have been studying that ever since, and I have met if not exceeded Mrs. Sugarcube herself, but still there are words which the dictionary has not revealed to me.”
By now, the two ponies had reached the back porch. Cleaning their hooves, they stepped in through the door and were met with the smell of sugar and pecans, no doubt baked in a pie. They walked into the kitchen, where the smells were most unbearable for the two who just realized their stomachs were growling. In the kitchen were the three other ponies, Hickorystick, Aspenzeal, and Cedarwood.
Upon the larger ponies’ entrance, Aspenzeal looked up from her baking and said, “There is some Carrot juice as well as some nut and berry bread on the table boys; help yourselves.”
With a quick thanks, both ponies trotted to the table and sequentially began consuming the food and drink. Across from them was Hickorystick who was carving a block of wood, though from its current state the two could not figure out what its was to look like finished.
Pausing and looking up, Hickorystick said with a nod, “Pineneedle. How is the farm?”
Swallowing, Hickorystick replied, “Doing much better than last year, thanks to this rain.”
“Yes, Gretta’s milk is proof to that. I reckon you will be bringing some of it tomorrow.”
“Yes’ir.”replied Pineneedle in between draughts.
Hickorystick grunted and then refocused on his block of wood, carefully shaving off pieces and blowing them on the floor.
Oakhoof and Pineneedle finished eating and stood on all fours. Pineneedle then asked, “Say Oakhoof, show me this book of yours.”
That comment lit the kitchen up into mild excitement: Hickorystick snorted in mild contempt, Cedarwood bounced up and down saying “I wanna see it!”, and Aspenzeal replied to both “You can see it when your done here and Hickory just because you can’t read it doesn't mean its useless, you know very well that your son has tried to teach you how to, but you refuse to learn.”
Hickorystick’s reply was him mumbling something about farmers ain’t having time for foolishness.
“Yet you have time for your wood don’t you dear?” came Aspenzeal’s retort.
Once again all she got was another snort.
“You are as stubborn as a mule Hickory, whatever are we to do with you!”
At this he looked up from his carvings then at his wife said, “Just leave the ol’ Stick in the mud to peace.”
This roused a chuckle out of everyone in the room, and caused Cedarwood to drop a carrot as a result. Oakhoof picked it up and placed it back on the counter, then continued out into the main room to where his book was. Pulling it down from its place he set it on the surface and blew the dust off the cover. Pineneedle snorted from the dust, looked at the title which read A History of Arcane Thaumaturgy and then inquired “Say, what do it read on the front?”
“ A History of...Well ,” replied Oakhoof, “I don’t quite know myself, it wasn’t in the dictionary and Mrs.Sugarcube doesn’t know either, but if I had to guess I would say it was a name of some sort, and if I had to try and pronounce it, I reckon it would sound like Arekane Thawmawturgee or something like that. Its been a mystery for the longest, and I hope I figure it out before my time.”
“Well what's in it then? Is it farming secrets or some journal from a king of the olden days?”
“Pineneedle, your imagination is as active as ever; neither, they are parables.”
“Say what?” Pineneedle seemed genuinely baffled.
“A parable is a story that teaches a lesson without directly telling you what the lesson is.”
“Oh, so like them stories ma would tell me before I went to sleep when I was a youngin’.”
“Well,” said Oakhoof, “not exactly, but close enough.”
“Well go on,” Pineneedle looked rather excited, “read one of them parabells.”
“Parables, and allright I will.”
So Oakhoof began to read to Pineneedle, stopping when Pineneedle asked what a word meant, and when Oakhoof felt he needed to explain sayings and names. And there they stood for the rest of the parable, two friends, sharing something together.
Author's Note
Hello readers, this is my second chapter, and it wont be my last, I will probably revise Chapter one a bit and move some things around. Give me a review and a like, or dislike, depending on how you felt. My Little Pony Friendship is Magic is created and owned by Hasbro, so with deductive reasoning skills one can determine that therefore all characters and places created by them are theirs and not mine. Chapter III is in the Works but not done yet. Thanks for stopping by.
