Chapters She was panicking. She knew she was panicking, but knowing didn’t help – her mind and body felt wrong, not quite her own, and she didn’t have proper control. Still, one thought stood clear and cold in her mind, like the full moon shining in stark contrast to the inky sky. The thought had a compelling power over her, sending her crashing forward through the Everfree Forest, stumbling heedlessly into the night. It was the reason she couldn’t stop, though she could almost feel her blood crying out for more oxygen, and her lungs couldn’t keep up.
They’re coming.
She didn’t remember who “they” were. There seemed to be a fog on her thoughts, like the fog on her vision which caused her to smash blindly into trees. She didn’t care – it didn’t hurt, everything was numb, and they barely slowed her as she pushed frantically through the dense-growing trunks. She had tried to fly, flapping her wings hard, but like everything else they felt alien and weird and she couldn’t take off. So she ran.
She heard him call to her, then, inside her mind. It reminded her of one strange night, when she had been a little filly, and while on the very edge of sleep she'd heard her name called. It had sounded as clear as if it’d come from right next to her bed, only there was nopony there. She’d screamed and screamed until her father had come to comfort her.
He’d told her that it happened to everypony. “Sometimes,” he’d said, holding her close to his warmth as he sat on her bed, “when we are about to fall asleep, we hear sounds that aren’t there. Maybe we imagine them. Or maybe it comes from our dreams, where our friends eagerly wait for us to join them on their adventures. Maybe, in their excitement, they can’t resist calling to us before we’re ready.” She’d slept, eventually, nestled in the comfortable, protected space between her mother and father that night, and joined her dream-friends in their wonderful explorations. She’d never again feared hearing her name called, as if in welcome, at the moment she fell asleep.
But her parents were not here, now. This was no dream, and despite her dulled, hazy senses it was still too real to be a nightmare. He called in her mind; he called, not her name – which she couldn't remember – but a command.
Stop.
Her legs suddenly froze and she toppled forward, hitting the ground with a resounding crash that seemed to echo off the nearby mountains. She thrashed around, in fear and anger and hurt, but all she managed to do was destroy vegetation. Whenever she tried to stand, searing pain coursed through her mind, and eventually she stopped struggling and just lay there, waiting, tears splashing into the dirt. She felt him, felt his presence, a few moments before he faded into the moonlight from the trees at the edge of her reach. All she could see was his deeply-hooded cloak, but she knew it was him.
Return with us.
She tried to scream at him, still managing defiance, but then somehow there was fire, fire all around her, so hot the trees veritably exploded with the pressure of sap suddenly vaporised, and everything burned. But not him. He was surrounded by flame, but flame that parted and flowed over him like water around an immovable boulder. She shrank back from the heat in fear. Useless. It was useless. She saw more of them, all similarly covered, begin to gather behind him. The moon was quenched, suffocated by thick clouds, and she saw a fading image of firelight shifting over the approaching cloaked ponies, before everything went black. She did not dream.
Chapter One: Magic Shouldn't Do That...
Author's Note
The Cutie Mark Crusaders hear a story of a bizarre magical encounter in the Everfree Forest, and a cutie mark that doesn't make sense.
Chapter One: Magic Shouldn't Do That...
The call came from the edge of the cane field: “Hey mister! How about you? How’d you get your cutie mark?”
The lanky young colt cutting sugarcane paused, waiting for Scootaloo to shout the inevitable follow-up question. But it was Apple Bloom who muttered, probably thinking he couldn’t hear;
“...and what in the hay is it supposed to be , anyway?”
Turning around, he was presented with three young fillies sharing one identical frown of confusion. The awkward colt knew the look – pretty much any new pony he met wore it sooner or later and, not infrequently, it stared back out at him from mirrors, framed by his dark auburn mane. Of course, it was not surprising that the Crusaders, making their way through Ponyville’s cutie mark stories, had eventually come out to Sugar Cane Farm and now it was his turn. He mentally braced himself as he wandered over to the boundary fence on which the fillies had perched.
“Well good morning to you too, Cutie Mark Crusaders. I know you by reputation, but I’m not sure we've been properly introduced – I’m Talib Cane.” The gangly Earth Pony pronounced it tay -lub, reaching out and gravely shaking their hooves one by one, as they responded:
“Howdy doo, Talib, I'm Apple Bloom”
“Sweetie Belle. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“Name’s Scootaloo. How's it hanging?”
“It’s an honour to finally meet the Crusaders,” Talib finished. He regarded them seriously.
“Now I hear you've been pestering hardworking ponies about how they got their cutie marks. Hoping to pick up some ideas?”
“Yeah!” cried Scootaloo, “but all the town ponies are getting tired of us so we’re really scraping the bo-”
“...thought we'd try some of Ponyville’s most respected farming families!” Sweetie Belle interrupted smoothly. She’d certainly picked up some social skills from her sister – Talib had barely noticed the sharp elbow to Scootaloo’s ribs.
Apple Bloom chimed in: “But what is that cutie mark, Talib?”
He gave an uncertain grin, and dodged the question: “Why don’t you take a guess?”
Sweetie Belle squinted a little at his buff-coloured flank, “It looks like a snake! Is your special talent something to do with snakes?”
The idea seemed to excite the Crusaders, and they all started talking over one another:
“You take care of snakes!”
“Can you talk to them?”
“You can cure snake bite!”
“Do you juggle them?”
Their enthusiasm was infectious, and the colt genuinely, involuntarily grinned, even though he knew his story would disappoint them.
“Nope, snakes and I are as scared of each other as any other pony. Try again.”
“Wait!” Scootaloo interrupted, “The snake’s kinda curled around on itself like a circle… is it… eating its own tail ?”
He nodded, and Scootaloo leapt off the fence in excitement, running her scooter in little circles on the grass and beaming with approval.
“That's awesome !”
“Thanks, Scootaloo. It’s called an Ouroboros”
The fillies looked sceptical. “An Ouro-boro-what now?” Apple Bloom attempted, with difficulty.
“An Ouroboros. It’s a very old symbol.”
“But what does it mean, mister?” Sweetie Belle’s confusion was now tinged with distaste. It seemed she didn’t like snakes.
“Well, if I tell you the story, maybe you’ll figure it out. But if it’s cutie mark advice that you want, you’ve probably come to exactly the wrong pony. You still interested?”
The fillies nodded their heads in unison “Uh-huh!”
“All right then, my little ponies. Sit yourselves down and listen up,” Talib gestured towards a comfy pile of discarded cane leaves, “and get ready for the strangest story you’re likely to hear for some time. It’s been quite a while since I told anypony this.”
His mysterious introduction had certainly got their attention, and the Crusaders stared, wide-eyed, at the serious young pony as they settled in. They wondered what kind of story could go with Talib’s odd cutie mark, as he began.
Talib began his story simply.
“I was about your age, maybe a couple seasons older. We had this incredible teacher – a unicorn, Miss Scribes. Do you girls have a favourite teacher?”
“Miss Cheerilee!” came their reply, in chorus.
“Right. Well that’s how we all felt about Miss Scribes. Not only was she a good teacher, but she was kind to everypony, and had some impressive magical talent. She used to always be researching new spells. I know Twilight Sparkle has smashed the previous record, but back then Miss Scribes was the unicorn everyone ‘round here would go to with questions about magic. I remember one time, when Princess Celestia came on an official school visit, Her Majesty spent a long time talking about magic with our teacher. Once, Miss Scribes cast a spell that stopped some mean unicorn students from using their horns for months .”
Sweetie Belle spoke uncertainly: “I’ve never heard of anypony blocking somepony’s spell-casting before…”
“Neither had I, before or since. Miss Scribes was really something. Anyway, one time we went on a school trip to the Everfree Forest-” here he paused, cut off by a gasp from the Cutie Mark Crusaders.
“But… but that’s too dangerous for a school trip for young ponies!” Scootaloo stammered incredulously. Talib looked down at them – the three young fillies had involuntarily huddled closer together, casting frightened glances over to the other side of the field and the high, dark treeline beyond.
“That’s what the school board thought, but Miss Scribes argued all the stories were exaggerated and it was important for young ponies to have the experience that not every place is tamed and cultivated like Ponyville. She called a parent meeting and managed to convince most ponies to support the trip, as long as we stayed near the edge of the forest. So the very next week, we packed our panniers for a day trip and followed her into the trees.
“At first everypony was quiet – we were intimidated by the Forest’s reputation and the scary stories we’d heard. But Miss Scribes was so confident and positive, eventually we all began to relax. She showed us a side of the forest nopony had told us about: hidden glades with little pools, where if you stayed quiet long enough you’d see small, shy animals nopony could identify come for a drink or a swim; enormous, majestic trees that seemed like giants, kind and wise, and keeping old secrets; young plants struggling for light but still blooming enthusiastically, desperately, with flowers intricate and strange. She showed us the Forest could be beautiful, and that it deserved respect, but not terror.”
Talib’s voice trailed off. He’d begun shyly, but for a moment the fillies had seen him transported; his voice had become impassioned and reverent, and his descriptions had come to life in their minds. But now his expression had turned inward and unreadable.
“…Talib? What’s wrong?” Sweetie Belle sounded concerned.
“Did somepony get hurt?” Scootaloo was downright scared.
Talib saw that he was frightening the fillies. He shook it off and came back to them.
“Sorry, girls. No, nopony was hurt, though it was a near thing. We were sitting around a secluded lagoon, fascinated by the tadpoles swimming inside. Miss Scribes was telling us there were no quiet, still waters like this for tadpoles in Ponyville, so every frog we met probably grew up in the Forest.”
“Hey! I never knew that!” said Apple Bloom, impressed.
“Neither did we – most ponies have no idea how important the Forest is for all manner of critters. We were loving every minute of it. We felt so free! Everypony was wandering around the lagoon as they pleased, as long as we stayed in sight of Miss Scribes. She would walk around to all the little groups of students that had formed and answer their questions, maybe point out some things they’d missed, like a colourful moss that could make a dye for clothes, or an inconspicuous hole in the bank of the lagoon that was actually a water-rat’s burrow.
“One pony, though, got a bit carried away. A troublesome young unicorn filly named Dawn Flare…”
“Troublesome how?” interrupted Sweetie Belle, “Was she mean?”
Talib shook his head. “Nothing like that. But Dawn was a born rebel – she always did pretty much exactly as she pleased, and rules just didn’t seem to make sense to her. She used to get teased a lot because she couldn’t do much magic – spells never really worked because she would just put things together almost randomly, didn’t like instructions – but she never got angry or mean with the ponies teasing her. Always seemed to have her mind on other things.
“Anyway, Dawn loved practical jokes. She’d called over one of the other fillies to look at something, a big fish of some kind, she said. But Miss Scribes heard her and got real excited, saying she’d heard some quite beautiful, rare species had been seen nearby. Dawn opened her mouth to stop her, but it was too late. Miss Scribes stepped on the soft bank Dawn had pointed to, which collapsed and dunked our teacher in the lagoon. All the nearby ponies were horrified, including Dawn, who jumped straight in after her – though Miss Scribes surfaced and was swimming just fine, Dawn paddled over anyway and did everything she could to help. When they were both back on the bank, Dawn burst into tears and kept apologising. She seemed so traumatised and piteous that Miss Scribes obviously felt touched. She comforted Dawn, saying it was obviously an innocent prank with no malice intended, and nopony was likely to have been hurt. When she’d gotten Dawn to stop crying, Miss Scribes gently made her promise not to play any more tricks in the Everfree Forest, and Dawn agreed – although you never quite knew how long Dawn would stick to what she said.”
“Well, that’s not so bad!” Scootaloo had brightened up, “Couple of wet ponies, no big deal. But what does that have to do with your cutie mark?”
“I’m getting to that. Things soon got a lot worse.
“Everypony had gathered around, concerned for the two wet ponies. We’d been so distracted we hadn’t noticed the awful smell coming from the high trees further from the bank. But soon somepony asked about it. Miss Scribes stopped towelling off and sniffed the air – then, for a second, she froze. I don’t know if any other pony noticed it, but the brief expression I saw on her face was definitely fear. It was quickly replaced by resolve, and in a stern voice she’d never used before, she told everypony to get away from the trees immediately. We all did, even Dawn – it was completely uncharacteristic of Miss Scribes to be so severe. Everypony went close to the banks of the lagoon behind her, while our teacher glared intensely at the trees.
“The smell was getting stronger, but we were all too scared to ask what it was. It was awful, like… like leaf mould at the bottom of a compost heap, but much worse. For a long time, nopony spoke.”
The Crusaders were silent too, their eyes locked on Talib and their arms locked around each other. The story had taken a sudden turn for the spooky.
He continued abruptly, startling the fillies. “Suddenly, somepony shouted; ‘Look!’ When our eyes followed where her hoof was pointing, we could dimly make out eight glowing green eyes, slowly moving closer out of the darkness under the trees. The smell was unbearable. The shadowy forms moved into the dappled light nearer the lagoon – timberwolves! Four big timberwolves, growling and howling and stinking, advancing on us with a menace that froze everypony with terror.
“Everypony except Miss Scribes. ‘Don’t worry, class!’ she said, ‘I’ve dealt with bigger timberwolves than these before. This spell should send them running!'
“Her voice sounded strong, confident. Although we were still scared, I think everypony believed her. She stood tall and proud, her horn pointed menacingly at the timberwolves, as she started her spell.
“A pale blue light spread from her horn and the air filled with a strange buzzing, chiming noise. As she gathered power, her hooves left the ground and the air around her burst into a corona of cold fire. The timberwolves stopped and cowered in their tracks, beams of the azure light playing across their predatory features.
“And then it was over. Abruptly, the light flickered and died, the sound twisted and vanished with a whine, and the blue fire scintillating over her still-wet coat went out. Miss Scribes was back on the ground, her horn sputtering uselessly. The commanding expression was now disbelieving. As the timber wolves regained their aggression and, once more, prowled forward snarling, we saw fear finally take possession of our teacher’s features. She backed away, but then she looked back at us and stood firm with resolve, pawing the ground with her forehooves. The wolves lunged forward, Miss Scribes reared up and lashed out, and we all screamed.
“But the wolves never even touched her. A light, colours that defy description, lanced out and caught them mid-air, cocooning them. It pulsed and deformed wildly, arcing flashes of blinding power which grounded themselves in the trees, the ground, and the water of the lagoon. The timberwolves began to howl plaintively but their voices warped and weakened as their cocoons expanded, as if draining the energy that had animated branches and leaves into these vicious hunters. We all looked at Miss Scribes, but her horn was still sputtering futilely. Looking around, I finally found the source.
“Dawn was standing in a circle of multi-coloured, shifting flame. Her stance was wide and her horn high, but her expression was pained, almost panicked. She seemed not to be in control. A cutie mark had appeared on her flank - a black circle with eight colourful arrows pointing outward. The howl of the timberwolves weakened and vanished, becoming the sound of leaves rustling in the unnatural wind. Their components fell apart and tumbled to the ground, as lifeless as stones, and the light which had imprisoned them shot out in all directions, then vanished into the trees, earth and water. Dawn collapsed, weakened and unconscious, and a hush fell over us all as we looked with awe at the pile of wood which, moments before, had been coming to devour us.
“Miss Scribes was the first to recover. She went to tend to Dawn while giving the rest of us instructions, keeping us busy to prevent shock from setting in. The stronger ponies were tasked with carrying Dawn, and we gathered and packed our things and left the dimness of the Forest by the shortest route, emerging into the sun a few minutes later and returning to school. Nopony was talking much, but eventually somepony pointed at my flank and asked me how long I’d had my cutie mark. I looked back and there it was, plain as day. I must have got it around the same time as Dawn.”
The Cutie Mark Crusaders were as quiet as the ponies in the story as they processed the frightening events. Talib watched them patiently.
“But… but what does it mean ?” asked Apple Bloom in hushed tones.
“I have no idea,” replied Talib, shrugging, “all I know is it has something to do with what happened that day in the Everfree Forest. I didn’t figure out any particular talents, as far as I noticed. It was pretty obvious Dawn's special talent was something to do with her magic, but I hadn't done anything special at all.”
“But that’s not how cutie marks are supposed to work! Shouldn't it be obvious?” asked Scootaloo. “You mean that even when we get our marks, we might still be just as lost?”
“Well I doubt it,” said Talib, “A cutie mark does indeed appear when you find out what your special talent is, and for most ponies it’s obvious at the time. Maybe for me it’s just something more abstract, or I was too distracted to notice. But you’re right in that no other pony I know has a cutie mark without knowing what it means. To be honest, I’m just as confused as you three.”
Apple Bloom, Scootaloo and Sweetie Belle really did look even more confused than when they’d first seen the Ouroboros. They decided to focus on more obvious things.
“What happened to Miss Scribes? And Dawn?” asked Scootaloo.
“Miss Scribes sat us all down and told us the truth. She had no idea why her magic had not worked that day, when it had seen off a few timberwolves in the past. Similarly, she had no idea why Dawn had been able to do such powerful magic when normally she couldn’t lift a teacup. Incidentally, Dawn had recovered her senses but had no memory of the timberwolf attack, and her magic had reverted to its usual unimpressive baseline. Miss Scribes told us that, until further notice, nopony was to enter the Everfree Forest for any reason. She called another parent meeting and was honest with them, too, about what had happened. Nopony blamed her but they all agreed that school trips to the Everfree Forest were not such a good idea after all. Everypony was curious about Dawn’s powers at first, but when it never repeated itself, most decided it was a freak event, unlikely to ever be explained, and stopped spending time on it.” Except me , he added to himself. “The rest of school was pretty much normal until graduation.”
“When was that?” asked Apple Bloom.
“This afternoon, actually." Talib smiled. “In fact, if you don’t mind, I have to finish harvesting this field and then get ready.”
“Oh!” Sweetie Belle exclaimed, “Congratulations! I guess we’ll let you get back to it. Um… thanks for your story, Talib.”
“Even if it didn’t make sense?”
“Sure!” said Apple Bloom, “It’s kinda nice to know that even when they get their cutie marks, not everypony has all the answers. Makes us feel better.” She smiled at Talib. “Seeya, Talib! C’mon girls, let’s go visit Walnut Farm!” The fillies trotted back down the farm path, their resilient spirits buoyant once more.
Only Sweetie Belle hung back. “Talib,” she asked, “do you still see Dawn? Is she OK?”
“Actually I don’t. She moved to Canterlot a year or so later, I have no idea what she’s doing now. She seemed fine when she left, though.”
Sweetie Belle nodded, satisfied, and turned to follow her friends.
Talib watched them go, somewhat gloomily. It’d been a while since he’d gone over that story out loud, and it still had a kind of power over him. As he went back to cutting and stripping the sugar cane, he reflected for the millionth time on the parts he’d left out.
Chapter Two: Graduation, Schmaduation
The cane was high, strong and thick, and that meant an afternoon’s hard work harvesting before Talib could get ready for his school graduation. His parents were busy with the main field and his sister was minding the enormous copper vats where they boiled the sugary liquid down to syrup, leaving Talib alone in his reminiscing. The day was clear and hot, and the pale yellow-beige colt donned his broad, unfashionable work-hat to stave off the sunburn that so easily affected his muzzle. As he worked through the rows, cutting the cane close to the base with his grandfather’s well-worn but sharp machete, Talib let the sound of cicadas and the gentle, hot breeze calm him from the slightly traumatic storytelling. The Cutie Mark Crusaders had heard about the origin of his cutie mark, but he hadn’t told them the whole tale. His mind drifted freely into the past as his body and hooves were kept busy, working at their well-practised tasks.
It was true that Dawn had liked practical jokes. On a field trip long before the Everfree Forest the class had passed some wallowing pigs and Dawn had somehow convinced one of the Pegasi, Storm Cloud, to jump in with them, saying the mud was only hoof-deep. It wasn’t. Storm had been covered up to the withers in sticky brown mud, and the class had been helpless with laughter. Storm had not taken it well. About a week later, on lunch break, Talib had been sitting, as usual, on some shady stairs around the central quadrangle, alone except for a book while the other Earth Ponies did some pointless things with a ball. Out of the corner of his eye he’d seen Storm walk past, and something determined about her gait had made him look up. She was trailed by a couple of older Unicorns who Talib recognized as some fairly surly final-year students. He watched as they approached Dawn, who had somehow ingratiated herself into a skipping game with some Pegasus fillies. However, as the other three approached threateningly, the game had stopped and the young Pegasi had backed away uncertainly. As Talib would have. But Dawn, typically, was not cowed and faced them squarely. Nopony spoke.
Storm, however, had not come for a staring match. She nodded to the Unicorns and they’d begun a spell, a spell like nothing Talib had ever seen. Weird red-black energy had snaked out from the Unicorns’ horns to a point between them and Dawn, forming a hard-looking, oily red ball. It seemed to hesitate there like a living thing, growing for a moment, before shooting forward without warning and striking Dawn squarely in the chest, flowing over her body and obscuring it completely, shifting weirdly. Talib couldn’t believe his eyes, and neither could the gathering crowd of worried ponies. Only Storm and the two Unicorns looked on with anything other than horror. Before anypony dared approach, the coating of magic flowed back to its original position between the Unicorns, and Talib looked to Dawn. But instead of a slender pony with red-pink fur and dark blue mane, Talib had seen a pig, oinking without apparent concern. Storm, it seemed, had had her revenge, and looked on triumphantly.
But not for long. Something was wrong with the spell – a spell that such young Unicorns should never have been able to cast in the first place. The threatening red-black ball of energy had changed, and now flashed through all the colours of the rainbow, and some besides. It was growing again, much faster than before, and the Unicorns had looked on terrified and helpless as the advancing chromatic wall had engulfed first them, and then Storm, leaving more pigs in its wake. It hadn’t stopped there, expanding to fill most of the quadrangle, turning teacher, student and parent alike into oinking pigs. Talib had a vague memory of wanting to roll around in mud, but not much else. When he had regained his wits, his pony body had returned and he looked around to see Miss Scribes, enveloped in the same cold blue flame as he had later seen in the Forest, beams of light flying from her horn and turning pigs back into ponies wherever they landed. The multi-coloured sphere had evidently reached some kind of limit and fizzled out, and now she was reversing the damage. The sight was breath-taking – his teacher hovered above the central quadrangle, sapphire ribbons streaming around her, and when everypony was back to normal, her unsettling pure-white eyes turned to the Unicorns responsible, and they shrank back. But there was no escape from the tendrils of power that flew towards their horns, infusing them with an acid-blue glow and causing what looked like sapphires to grow and encrust them. The Unicorns hadn’t been able to use them for months. In the aftermath, Miss Scribes had kept a closer eye on Dawn, and was often tutoring her in her little office after school, to try to improve her magical ability. Her efforts had met with little success – Dawn, apparently, was destined for other, non-magical things. Talib knew all this because he had been eavesdropping.
Talib dragged his mind back to the present. He’d finished harvesting the field, and decided to take a quick break before stripping the cut canes of their leaves. He trotted over to the beaten-up tin water trough and plunged his muzzle in greedily – the day was at its hottest, and sweat drenched his flanks. Satisfied, his long limbs took him over to the shade of the Everfree Forest’s treeline behind the field, and he sat there munching thoughtfully on some celery supplemented with wild watercress he’d gathered from the Forest. The juicy, peppery meal refreshed him, and he lay back with his hat over his face, enjoying the shade. He could always feel a sort of presence in the Everfree Forest, more than that of plants and small creatures. Talib lifted his hat and allowed his eyes, as usual, to stray deep into the murky green. But he saw nothing unusual, shrugged and once again lowered his hat, closing his eyes and returning to his memories.
Watching his teacher reversing the pig spell in the quadrangle that day, years ago, Talib had been literally and metaphorically spellbound. He’d always been more intellectual than physical, unusual in an Earth Pony, and something about the spectacle had set his curiosity ablaze. He’d begun to read everything he could find on magical theory and casting – even though he could never hope to cast spells himself. He’d asked, begged, and found excuses to stay in Miss Scribes’s office after school, studying and listening to her lessons with Dawn. When his teacher felt he should not be allowed to stay, that he should spend more time with his family or making friends, he misbehaved during the day so she would keep him after school as punishment, or snuck up to her door and sat on the worn floorboards in the deserted hallway, listening and reading. In the face of his determination, she gave up trying to dissuade him and accepted his inevitable presence while she taught Dawn. And then, later, had come the Forest incident and his cutie mark, and his obsession had broadened, gained direction.
Standing reluctantly, Talib donned his hat again and started stripping the canes with his teeth, stacking and tying them under the simple wooden shelter nearby. They’d crush them and process the juice tomorrow – this afternoon the whole family was taking a break from the usually unshirkable harvest chores to attend his graduation. The leaves he piled and secured with a stained old canvas tarp so they could be added to the compost heaps tomorrow. The giant piles of warm, moist plant matter were his father's other children which he nurtured attentively, and would eventually break down and be added back onto the house garden and cane fields. When not checking his knots Talib worked by muscle memory, his eyes almost constantly on the trees.
His work done, Talib wandered over to the depression between fields and the squarish dam it held. He climbed its sloped earthen walls and jumped in enthusiastically, hat and all, and spent some time lying on the bottom. Letting his mind empty and his heart slow, Talib felt his confusing reverie wash off him with the sweat. After about a minute and a half holding his breath he surfaced and bobbed around on his back for a spell, letting his muscles further relax and his body cool. Thought returned, settling on his upcoming graduation. For most young ponies, tonight’s graduation would be the culmination of their studies and they’d move forward into a vocation, or career-directed studies, as if on well-oiled rails. For Talib, however, it was an escape, a sideways leap into uncharted territory – and freedom. Freedom to carry out a plan that had been growing in his mind, taking it over, ever since the Everfree Forest had planted its seeds therein.
His stomach, ignoring his angst, growled urgently and demanded something more substantial than the earlier snack. Talib climbed out of the dam and shook himself off, then trotted over to the solid, stone-walled farmhouse’s kitchen entrance. The day was so warm that by the time he got there he was nearly dry, and he entered the sunny but cooler kitchen with his usual air of reverence. Between the two of them, Mr and Mrs Cane could have supplied some of the finest restaurants in Ponyville, had they not enjoyed giving things away so much. Little gave them greater pleasure than seeing joy on the faces of some friend or family member as they received a jug of spiced mead, sugarcane- and lime-juice, a small cask of old, dark rum, or some of the myriad possible treats sweetened with the produce of the farm. The kitchen (and the cellars below) it were holy places for Talib: their sacred decorations, the cast-iron and drying items hanging everywhere; their stained-glass windows, the many-coloured things preserving in jars on shelves. He made himself a huge bowl of salad and chose a couple of extra sweets for a small plate – a firm glob of rose-flavoured, gelatinous stuff powdered with icing sugar, and a bite-sized, sweetened custard tart. His parents, each with their unusual heritage, had some family recipes shared by very few Ponyville residents.
Talib ate in the kitchen, washed up and went up to his room to change. He heard his parents and sister come in, their work also finished for the day. His plate and bowl on the drying rack informed them of his presence, and his mother shouted up to him.
“Talib! We’ll get ready and be leaving in a few minutes!”
Talib opened his door and replied “OK mom!” at a lower volume. He hated raising his voice, and especially shouting at ponies through the house.
Self-consciously but quickly, Talib donned his school blazer and checked his mane. Thick, straight, dark auburn-brown and, as usual, quite unmanageable. He did what he could to push it to one side with his hoof but stubborn tufts still pointed in whatever direction they pleased. He stared into his own eyes in the mirror, delaying the moment when he’d have to leave, and settled into the familiar frown of confusion he’d seen mimicked by the Cutie Mark Crusaders. Although he was looking forward to moving on from school, he dreaded his parents' reaction when their hopes for their scholastic son proved ill-founded. They certainly wouldn’t understand. He continued to stare at his reflection, but apparently it had no answers. He could almost see it shrug. “You’re no help,” Talib said to his other self, but it didn’t respond. Well, he was as ready as he could be, and couldn’t put this off much longer. He sighed and went downstairs, not turning back to check if the pony in the mirror had any parting advice.
The rest of Talib’s family were dressed with comparable rapidity and simplicity, and they all set off towards the school hall. The day was finally cooling off, and the breeze was changing from desiccating to refreshing. On the way, they chatted about the day’s work and, satisfied everything had been completed, his parents turned to their favourite topic of late – Talib’s plans for next year.
“Have you got replies from any of the colleges yet?” his father Melaco asked in his delightfully spiced Portugallop accent, sounding like smoked paprika given voice. Though he sounded casual, Talib knew their thoughts on the subject were anything but.
“Not yet, dad,” he replied, “but nopony is expecting them for another week or two.”
“Well, I’m sure you’ll do fine. Your marks have certainly been good enough,” continued the stocky, dark chestnut stallion. Melaco always sounded bemused when discussing his son’s academic strengths – every other pony in their family worked mainly with their hooves.
Talib nodded agreement with his father, though privately he knew precisely how many, or few, colleges were likely to accept him.
“I still don’t know why you applied to apprentice under Old Sim Timber,” his mother, Ghaliya, chimed in, “you’re far more suited for scholarship, don’t you think?”
Talib’s heart skipped a beat, as it always did when his parents mentioned Old Sim. Only Talib’s sister, Bianca knew how much he really wanted that lumberpony apprenticeship, and he’d sworn her to secrecy. Her pale blue face wore an uncomfortable expression between the curly locks of her purple mane, but she kept quiet.
“Well, it seemed sensible to have something to fall back on in case the colleges don’t work out,” said Talib, trying to sound natural.
His mother wasn’t yet convinced. She was quite tall – in fact, only slightly shorter than Talib – and her striking amber coat and forest-green mane combined with a focused presence to give her an imposing air, when she wished.
“But even if that happens,” she replied logically, “which is highly unlikely, wouldn’t you rather stay on the farm and do work you’re familiar with?”
Talib had rehearsed for this and, in fact, they’d had this conversation many times already. He repeated his usual response.
“But you know I’m quite slow on the farm. I just don’t seem to have the natural flair for the work that the rest of you do. I might as well try something different, but still nearby so I can stay at home and help out a little while I figure out what comes next.”
His parents were only slightly mollified, but exchanged a look that clearly said “let’s drop it for now”. The rest of the journey passed quickly – there was always plenty to discuss concerning the farm. They arrived at the graduation ceremony a little early, as was their habit, just as the evening was turning and Princess Luna was beginning to bring calm, quiet and shadow to the land. Talib had always loved this time of day, and that evening he slightly resented having to spend it indoors. They followed the warm light coming from the school building ahead and the sound of excited ponies.
Most ponies had already arrived at the slightly run-down but high-roofed assembly hall and were milling around, students and parents all chatting with each other about plans for next year. On their way in, the Canes paused by the photos on the wall, searching for the annual shots of Talib’s class. There they were, looking bigger and older each year. He found the final photo of Dawn before she’d left for Canterlot, taken the year after Everfree. She looked normal, happy, and he peered at her similarly odd cutie mark – a black circle, with eight arrows emerging, evenly spaced, in different colours. Just as confusing as his, it seemed.
Talib wondered where she was now. With both of them hanging around Miss Scribes so much and then getting their cutie marks together, it had probably been inevitable that they’d become friends. In fact, inevitability was the only way it was ever likely to have happened; he and Dawn had been different flavours of social pariah – he the awkward bookworm, her the unpredictable weirdo – and friend-making was not high on their list of skills. They’d been incredibly different, Talib acting the glum, quiet foil to her exuberant self-indulgence, and had never quite understood one another. Still, each was the only steady friend the other had, and Talib for one was not sure how he would have borne those years without her. When her family had moved to Canterlot, she’d quite typically neglected to consider that he might miss her, and had for all intents and purposes dropped off the face of Equestria. Talib, in his pique, had never looked her up, but looking at her photo he now found himself missing her more than he had in some time. He wanted somepony who would understand what he was doing. He wished she were here.
“C’mon, Talib!” Bianca called to him, jolting him back to the present. Talib’s family had moved on while he’d lingered, and his sister had found some of her friends. They’d been through this a few years ago and as she wandered off with them, uninterested in reliving it through her brother, Talib caught up to Melaco and Ghaliya. The three of them joined the fray and soon Talib’s parents had also met up with their friends and neighbours, the Walnut family. Their child, Kernel, had applied for a few of the same colleges as Talib, so that dominated the conversation. For Talib, it blended into the general hubbub in the too-echoing hall and he tuned it out.
Old Pa Walnut was there too, dark and wrinkled as his crop. He eyed Talib keenly.
“Here now young colt-me-lad, Old Sim tells me ye’ve asked if he wants an apprentice for next year?”
Talib groaned inwardly. He’d hoped that information wouldn’t spread too far, but of course those two curmudgeonly old stallions were of a similar vintage and probably thick as thieves.
“That’s right Pa Walnut, sir, and I really hope he does.”
“Oh ye do, eh? And why would ye be wantin’ to go and cut timber when a fine academic career awaits? It won’t wait forever, ye know.”
Talib, of course, couldn’t tell the full truth. But his parents seemed absorbed in their own conversation, and so he did tell part of it.
“I love the Forest. I really want to spend more time there, learning about it. Working with Old Sim would be the best opportunity for that.” Most ponies said 'Old Sim' when talking about him, running the two words together into one, as if it were some grand title. Perhaps it was, in a way.
“What’s so special about the Forest then, eh?” pressed the ageing stallion, prodding Talib sharply in the chest, “what’s under them trees that ye spend most o' yer spare time clompin' about, takin' notes and frownin' like yer passin' a stone?”
Talib started, shocked. How could anypony have seen him? Pa Walnut cackled at his expression.
“Heh, don’t look so surprised, me little pony. Old Sim’s been workin' that forest longer’n ye’ve been a-breathin’. If a fruit bat farts in there, he knows about it.”
Talib recovered his composure. “Well sir, I don’t exactly know what I’m looking for, to be honest. But I’m sure it’s got something to do with my cutie mark. If I ever find out what it means, it’ll be in the Everfree Forest. I’m sure of it.”
The grizzled stallion glanced at Talib’s parents chatting away and then took him aside, gently but firmly. His eyes were perceptive as he continued probing.
“Ah, yes. The mysterious Ouroboros. There’s a symbol ye don’t see around much. Though Old Sim did say it looked just like one he saw in the Forest once, so mebbe yer onto somethin’." Before Talib could interrupt, he continued. “But don’t ask me any more about it, that’s all I got out o' him. Ye’d have to ask him yersel’. Now, what about all these fancy colleges ye’ve applied for? What if ye get in? What about yer folks?” Pa Walnut’s gaze had turned piercing, and Talib had to steel himself before replying.
“I… doubt I’ll be getting into college. My parents will adjust. I really, really need to be in that forest.”
For a long moment, Pa Walnut just stared at him searchingly. He then glanced at the Canes, still absorbed in conversation, before speaking.
“Alright then, colt. I’m convinced of yer spirit, if not yer sense. I’ll put in a word for ye wit’ Old Sim.”
Talib was taken aback. “I… thank you! I don’t know what to say!”
“Ye can tell yer parents I had nothin’ to do wit’ it, for starters.” Pa Walnut winked at him conspiratorially.
“Would everypony please take their seats?” Miss Scribes herself, now vice-headpony, had magically amplified her voice from the small wooden stage so it was somehow omnipresent without being deafening. There was a minor stampede as the proud parents and nervous students hurried to the rows of benches in the audience or on the stage, respectively. The house lights dimmed.
The ceremony itself was no longer than it had to be, but that was still quite long enough for most ponies. As such affairs tended to, it consisted of long periods of boredom as every other pony’s name was called, punctuated by brief excitement for each family when their particular foal or filly received their diploma. Talib had graduated with very high marks, though he was let down a little by his somewhat narrow interests. Even though he was expecting it, it was still nerve-wracking when Miss Scribes called him to the podium to hand over his diploma. His parents beamed proudly but quietly as he trotted over to his teacher, his mind blank except for thinking his hooves sounded too loud on the wooden stage.
“It seems you’ve become quite the budding magical scholar, my little pony,” murmured Miss Scribes quietly, “and I wish you well in your studies… wherever they may be.” She too winked at Talib, and he cast a startled glance at Pa Walnut, sitting next to the Canes a few rows back in the audience. The old codger’s face was completely inscrutable, and before Talib could recover he was ushered back to his seat. Finally, the headpony wished all the students luck and their families at last could express their pride. The hall echoed to the sound of cheering and stomping while the students stood for their applause. As he watched his parents beaming up at him, Talib couldn’t help feeling like a traitor.
It was soon over, though, and all that was left were ponies milling around the hall, saying their goodbyes. Some were sad and uncertain, where friends might be moving apart for further study, others casual and confident of swift reunion, if they’d applied somewhere together. For Talib, there was no particular pony he was close to, except maybe Miss Scribes, and she was plenty busy chatting with other ponies. His parents were chatting with friends and he looked around at the other ponies, having nothing to occupy him and nopony to talk to. He was at a loss.
School had not been an easy time for Talib Cane. Spending more time in the library than the sports court, combined with his ungainly, lanky limbs, gave some of the other Earth Ponies plenty to target. The depth of cruelty of some foals and fillies is always surprising, even in retrospect, and Talib had never got over the sense of rejection. The Pegasi and Unicorns largely had their own groups, based on things Talib could not hope to share, and so it had seemed there was nowhere for him. Later, as other ponies began to find out about his interest in magic, his reputation changed from “that clumsy, bookish Earth Pony” to “that crazy, magic-obsessed Earth Pony”. He had turned further inward, to himself and to the less threatening worlds of thought and the printed word. Eventually, along with study, solitude had become a principle joy in his life.
He wouldn’t have traded his time learning about magic for anything, but a small, quiet part of him, looking around the hall and seeing the strength of affection some ponies shared, did wonder whether he might have missed something important. Miss Scribes glanced across the room and saw his slightly morose expression. She didn’t say anything, but gave him a firm, slow nod of… encouragement? I-told-you-so? Talib couldn’t be sure – maybe both.
At home, he collapsed into his low straw bed physically and emotionally exhausted but unable to sleep straight away. Doubts gnawed at his mind, a constant buzzing inner monologue.
What am I doing?
Is this a big mistake?
What if I don’t find anything?
I could spend thirty years cutting trees! For no good reason!
Maybe I shouldn’t have burned my bridges so thoroughly…
Eventually though, sleep did come, and he dreamed strange dreams of the Everfree Forest, and a confusion of wings – leathery and feathered, scaled and furred. And the Forest was a black moonscape, its trees felled and undergrowth torched, reeking harshly of smoke and death. And somewhere, underneath it all, he felt a giant heartbeat slow, slow. And he was drowning and searching desperately underwater, water which was blood, the distant heart beating with his heart, slower, and slower, and then… two hearts fell silent, and the world was flooded and remade with evil-looking light. And the voices of doubt were silent too, and he wept silently, tears falling in sleep onto his pillow.
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Chapter Three: Speed and Intrigue at the Harvest Parade
“Talib! Will you get up?” His mother was just outside his door, and judging from her annoyed tone had been there for some time. “You know we have a lot to do today. No such thing as holidays during harvest!”
Talib was dragged up into consciousness from very deep sleep, fighting the whole way. He felt like he’d been hit by a train. Sleep had come late, bringing disturbing dreams, and he could do with a couple more hours. But the chores would not wait, and neither would his mother. Going by the warm light streaming through the round window it was already after eight, and Ghaliya would be in here with a bucket of cold water if he didn’t get up soon. She’d obviously let him sleep as long as she could, but now he’d have to work hard to finish everything before dark.
He threw off the light sheets. The weatherponies had turned it cool overnight as forecast, but Talib rarely needed more than a thin cotton sheet – he was a warm sleeper. He swung his long hind legs off the bed – a straw mattress on the ground – and sat up, leaning back on his forelegs for a spell while he tried to clear off the heavy stupor. Blinking and rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Talib looked around his room and tried to focus. There wasn’t much to focus on: some drawers containing his (limited) clothes, his bed, the pale-yellow paint on sloped walls which formed part of the farmhouse roof; that was about it. He only came up to his room to sleep. His parents kept offering to buy him a more conventional bed – thick cotton mattress, a frame to raise it off the ground – but he liked the hard straw and saw no reason to spend the family’s money just because other ponies did. He stood up, still a little unsteady, and went downstairs.
His mother was in the flagstone kitchen, fixing something for the family. This would be breakfast for Talib, doubtless morning tea for every other pony who had been up since first light working. He could smell mushrooms with garlic, butter and parsley in the old black skillet and sourdough fresh from the oven. His father must have mixed up a batch of dough from the starter when they came home last night, and it had been proofing in the cool of the larder overnight, then finished first thing this morning. Sourdough was still an arcane art to Talib, though his father was helping him learn the secrets of short and long kneads, the different textures of rye and wheat flours, balancing the moisture of the mix, first rise and second rise, perfecting the baking temperature for a strong oven spring while still achieving a crunchy, thin crust – even mastering the basics took years, and Talib’s bread still often turned out dense and mouth-twistingly sour. His father’s were light but chewy, pleasantly sharp, and often included pumpkin seeds or some of the Walnut family’s produce obtained by a neighbourly trade for Pa Walnut’s favourite molasses. Talib persevered despite the difficulty, convinced there could be no more heavenly smell in Equestria than fresh-baked sourdough, and by the time he sat down his mouth was watering uncontrollably. He hadn’t eaten much the night before.
Ghaliya returned his “good morning” without turning around, and Talib sat himself down at the small wooden table, its edges worn smooth with hooves and time, where the family ate most of their meals when they weren’t entertaining. In contrast, the centre was rough with knife marks, since it performed double-duty as a food prep station when the long kitchen benches were being used to their full extent, which happened several times a season when processing a crop from their greenhouse or vegetable garden. The whole family would work, under Melaco’s direction, to slice tomatoes to be cooked into sauces, variously herbed and spiced. They’d spoon them into earthenware pots, pre-boiled to sterilise, and seal them with wax before storing them in the larder, cardboard swing-tags detailing the contents and date.
“Pour the tea, darling – the others will be in soon,” his mother said, slicing the bread and releasing more of the tantalising odour. She placed thick slices onto chipped everyday plates and spooned on the hot mushroom mix. Talib reached for the only ornate item currently in use – his grandfather’s dark purple-brown, unglazed earthenware teapot. He’d picked it up somewhere in his travels from the old country to Equestria, and Talib had yet to see anything else like it. Spherical, with a flared addition at the base to allow it to stand, the handles and lid were simple and functional, and of perfect workponyship – no other teapot had such an impossibly well-fitting lid or perfectly pouring, wide spout that allowed the leaves to flow through without obstructing the neck. Talib placed a strainer over the glasses to catch the large mint leaves as they dived through the steaming bridge of liquid towards the cups. The otherwise purely functional design, however, was made sublime by intricate patterns in the same unglazed clay and overlain on the whole teapot before firing. The designs were abstract and geometric with eight-fold radial symmetry, including eight evenly-spaced arrows emerging from the lid’s handle and flowing over the almost imperceptible break at the edge of the lid and the body, and continuing down to point at the base. Talib paused, confused. He’d seen this teapot, stared at its markings a thousand times, but today it was reminding him of something, nagging at the edge of his mind...
“Staring at dad’s old teapot again, love?” his mother asked. “Figured out the secret code yet?” Her voice was playful, gently teasing.
“Sorry, mom,” Talib said, “nearly finished pouring.”
“Tch, I was just joking. You’re always apologising!”
Before he could apologise for apologising, Talib’s father and sister came into the kitchen from their chores.
“Finally up I see, Talib,” his father said, “going to let us buy you a proper bed at last?”
Talib rolled his eyes and said nothing. The conversation turned, under Ghaliya’s guidance, to work plans for the day; trample the canes over the juicing mesh, separate the pulp (for paper) from the crushed, tough exterior (for weaving), turn the younger compost heaps and mix in the cane leaves. That should easily see them through till nightfall. The rest of the month would be spent harvesting and processing other fields, then tearing up some of the older fields where the cane was less productive, ploughing in some compost and replanting with a mixed crop to let them rest for a few seasons. It was going to be a busy couple of weeks, and Talib doubted he’d manage to sneak into the Forest at all.
They all got to work, and the day passed quickly. The next day was similar, and the next. A familiar rhythm moved the well-rehearsed family through the harvest dance, punctuated by visits to and from friends and neighbours. The first college rejection letter arrived about a week after Talib’s graduation, as he’d estimated. The others were not far behind. Talib had been assiduous in his self-sabotage – here a late form, there a poorly-written application – and it seemed nopony thought he’d be a positive addition to their institution. After the first letter, his parents were reassuring. After the second they were uncertain. The third left them dumbfounded and a little angry – what had Talib done wrong? After the sixth and final rejection, they were out-and-out suspicious. They grilled him about late applications, obvious mistakes on enrolment forms, and demanded explanations. Talib supplied none, but instead turned sullen and withdrawn. By the end of the two week harvest period his parents showed signs of resignation, and the tense mood at Sugar Cane Farm softened. Ghaliya and Melaco might have high expectations for their children, but no matter what happened, they would always be supportive. Talib was more grateful than he could express, but he asked forgiveness with discreet little kindnesses and his parents gave it, eventually but willingly, and the subject dropped.
. Finally, most of the hard work of the harvest was finished. The weather was still warm and the evenings mostly mild, and everypony was excitedly making final preparations for the Summer Harvest Parade. The Cane family was entering a float; a long, low wagon with four light wheels, and on the day of the parade Bianca led them to the big farm workshop for final checks. Melaco drew back the curtains and light flooded the neatly-kept space, benches lining the walls on which hung a wide variety of tools. The workshop smelled pleasantly of sawdust, with undercurrents of grease.
“Ta daaa!” Bianca sang triumphantly, whipping off the dust cover, “I give you… the Rhum Shot !” The family all grinned in appreciation. It was a perpetual project, an annual tradition – the Canes worked on it in their spare time, summer or winter: lashing together fat, dry old canes from an ancient and unproductive clump they kept around explicitly for this purpose; doing load-bearing and speed trials; decorating and streamlining, testing and honing. Bianca was the main designer and mechanic directing construction, as well as its driver – though given its speed, pilot might be more accurate – at the yearly Summer Harvest Parade. And every year Bianca made it go faster.
The wagon looked sleek and low. Its exterior was un–painted, the tough canes securely fastened with expertly–knotted ropes, strong, flexible glue and shiny steel bolts. A canvas with the Cane family crest in oil paint was tightly stretched over the hood, for extra aerodynamics. At the back was a small tray with low walls, which would carry some particularly beautiful products from the farm through the parade. These would be a contribution to the prize pool of what, for his sister, was the main event – the Soap Box Derby after the parade.
“Oh honey, it looks incredible!” Ghaliya exclaimed, impressed.
“Yeah!” affirmed Bianca, “The crest is particularly stunning, don’t you think? Thanks for painting that, dad.”
“Proud to see it there, sweetie”, Melaco preened slightly, “I’m sure it’ll make it go a little faster, too,” he winked.
The partial crest, in fact, was a hybrid; a melding of the family crests from Cane and Azhar – Ghaliya’s maiden name. A fierce-looking griffon reared up on its lion’s hind legs with its wings arched triumphantly and head thrown back, sharp beak open, gripping an evil-looking serpent in one talon and a tightly-bound faggot of sugarcane in the other. It looked amazing.
“Alright gang, let’s load her up and get going,” said Talib’s mother.
The four ponies filled the tray with hyper-sized vegetables from their garden – pumpkins, watermelon, tomatoes – as well as some bottles of the highest–quality molasses and rum from their extensive cellar, all beautifully presented in expertly-woven cane baskets made by Ghaliya. Bianca and Melaco, as the two ponies most invested in the project, harnessed up to the Rhum Shot while Talib and Ghaliya pulled the more homely cart holding the goods they hoped to sell to spectating ponies. The family locked everything up and strolled through the pleasant morning into Ponyville.
The town always looked its best on festive occasions – festooned with colourful streamers and bunting, musical ponies wandering about playing a motley assortment of tunes on an even more motley assortment of instruments, everypony in a good mood and looking forward to a day of fun and friends. Self-conscious Talib struggled a little with the crowds, but over the years he had come to realise everypony was mainly interested in their friends. He donned a demeanour of practised nonchalance like a cloak of anonymity, rendering him unremarkable despite his height. Making their way through the enjoyable chaos, the Canes reached the starting line for the parade, marked by a white line roughly painted on Ponyville’s street under a string of multi-coloured triangular flags.
Bianca shed her harness and leapt into the driver’s seat, an unstoppable grin on her face, completely in her element. Talib hoped she’d keep her hoof on the break this year as the parade rolled slowly downhill, and not get carried away like last year and decide to use it as a time trial for the race. Talib and Ghaliya uncoupled themselves from the cart to go and join the ponies lining the streets along the parade route while Melaco took their place, ready to pull the simple cart through the parade behind his daughter at a (hopefully) sedate pace. They’d all meet up at the finish in Ponyville Square to set up the food stall.
The musicians fell silent and there was a sudden stamping and cheering as the happy gathered ponies welcomed Mayor Mare to the stage – a temporary wooden construction erected near roof height at the start of the parade route.
“Welcome, everypony!” she said, eliciting further stamps from the crowd, “Welcome to the annual Summer Harvest Parade! Today, let’s celebrate another abundant harvest from our farms, and acknowledge the hard work of the Earth Ponies, Pegasi and Unicorns that makes it possible. And the floats look absolutely incredible, well done everypony! Please join me in thanking everypony for their contribution, and let the parade commence!”
Mayor Mare always had a way of making things sound slightly stuffy, but there was no faking the enthusiasm of her heartfelt speech. Pinkie Pie, up on the stage, was a perfect contrast to the Mayor’s reserve as she enthusiastically – Pinkie did everything enthusiastically – shouted, “Let’s get this party started !” An instant later there was an enormous boom as her party cannon showered the crowd with streamers and confetti. Musicians started up again and ponies left and right made plenty of noise as the floats started rolling off.
On the side lines, Talib and his mother immersed themselves in the celebratory atmosphere as float after float rolled past, showing off produce and craftsponyship from all over Ponyville and the surrounding districts. As usual, Sweet Apple Acres had put in extra effort and their fantastically sized, shiny green and red apple float, piloted by the three young Ponyville fillies and one from Manehattan, elicited particularly loud cheers from the crowd. Talib waved a hoof as they went past and the Cutie Mark Crusaders smiled in recognition as they returned the gesture. He saw the familiar expression of confusion from Babs as she looked at the mark on his flank, but when she turned and said something to her friends they just laughed and shook their heads with a dismissive, we’ll-tell-you-later wave of their hooves. Talib grinned to himself – they had probably decided he was crazy.
Ghaliya and Talib cheered madly, startling nearby ponies, as the Rhum Shot and the Cane family cart slowly rolled past. Melaco and Bianca laughed and waved, and then they were gone, coasting forward to delight the rest of the crowd along their slow route to the finish.
“Come on, Talib, let’s head down to meet them,” said his mother.
They wandered through the crowds, following the parade route, only a little behind Melaco and Bianca. Occasionally shouldering ponies aside as politely as possible, Talib and his mother met the other two after they had arrived at the parade finish in Ponyville Square. Flushed with excitement, Bianca had pulled the Rhum Shot off to the side and was stripping it down into racing mode. The goods from the tray were unloaded onto the Soap Box Derby prize table, then the tray walls and eventually the tray itself were removed and placed into the family cart, while the other three were setting up for food sales. Pieces of shelving were assembled in the homely Cane family cart and goods put in place to make it a mobile catering cart, selling refreshing ginger-and-mint sugarcane juice chilled with hail (from a hail cloud hired from Cloudsdale and delivered by a delightful wall-eyed Pegasus), crunchy-syrupy wheat pastries filled with crushed walnuts, bags of candied pecans and much more.
When it was ready, Talib jumped in the back to sell the food while Melaco harnessed up to pull him around. Bianca and Ghaliya set off to drag the Rhum Shot back up to the top of the hill for the race. It wasn’t an onerous task; Bianca had stripped the wagon down to its bare bones and transformed it into a minimalist bullet on wheels, designed for speed, the dry sugarcane an excellently flexible, strong and lightweight material. Her brother and parents had a distaste for speed more typical of earth ponies, and would cheer nervously from their food cart on the side-lines as she whizzed past; expression grim and focused, driving goggles staring straight forward and scarf whipping madly around in her slip-stream. Talib grinned to himself as he exchanged food for bits with the thronging ponies. He couldn’t wait.
Now that the parade was over, the streets became even more pressurised. During the stately progress of the parade, ponies were permitted to cross the barriers and walk across the route if they so desired. Now, however, they were completely closed off for the race, except for a few overcrowded wooden overpasses. The farming families, having shown off their choicest produce on the floats, now either roamed about selling them, like the Cane family, or had set up stationary stalls around the outermost edge of the streets, further reducing hoof-path area. There was scarcely room for the Cane’s food cart to weave through the crowds, but they managed. Business was holding up well and Talib was glad of his mother’s help when she came back from the starting line to jump in the back of the cart with him.
“How is she?” he asked, handing somepony a paper cup of cane juice.
“Nervous, of course, but she’s in with a shot this year,” his mother replied.
Talib tilted his head slightly and shrugged - that’s what she said every year. Some of the bigger families had more labour to spend on their project and would bring dedicated racers. His sister did incredibly well, designing and racing something that was both a parade float and a speed machine. But she hadn’t won yet.
“Here they come!” Melaco called back to them over the traces. A general hubbub of gasps, cheering and stomping was surging through the crowd toward them like a physical wave. Rather than struggling up to the barriers, Melaco quickly unhitched and joined them in the cart for a higher vantage point from which to watch the approaching racers, just an indistinct blur at this distance.
“There she is!” Ghaliya’s keen eyes had spotted her first. “She’s in the lead!”
Indeed she was. Bianca’s Rhum Shot was going faster than they had ever seen her racers go before, the well-oiled wheels clattering over the cobbled streets like some insanely sped-up tap dance. Talib was sure it must be an uncomfortable ride despite the thin straw cushion, but Bianca wouldn’t care – she was wholly absorbed in the experience of speed, making corners as tight as she dared without losing control, her wheel hubs just barely skimming the outer safety bales as she exited the turns. But she had competition.
Close behind, so close it looked dangerous, was Scootaloo. She must’ve jumped out of the Apple float as soon as it reached the parade finish and buzzed back up to the top on her scooter to enter the race. The contraption she was riding certainly didn’t look safe, but it sure was fast. It was like a scaled-up, more aerodynamic version of her little scooter – two wheels were set in-line and Scootaloo rode standing up, but it was also closed in on the sides by smoothly curved, lightweight wooden panels and painted a rainbow of violent, familiar primary colours. It looked a little bit like a Cutie Mark Crusaders job, but also…
“Whoo! GO SCOOTALOO!” came the enthusiastic shout from the sky. Rainbow Dash punched the air and followed the racers from above, yelling encouragement to Scootaloo. So it seemed she and the Crusaders had been secretly working on a vehicle, and a dang fast one. In Scootaloo they seemed to have found the perfect pilot – she looked focused, doubtless determined to make Rainbow Dash proud. Whenever the two-wheeler showed signs of overbalancing she’d buzz her wings and acrobatically set the vehicle true once more.
Ponies went crazy. The nervous ones gasped in fear, the highly-strung ones just plain screamed in excitement, and even Fluttershy, inconspicuous at the back of the crowd, was at least audible. Nopony had ever seen such a land-bound display of speed, and as the competitors flashed past the Cane family added their voices to the noise. After what seemed like an instant, the leading racers were out of sight, and soon the rest of the pack zoomed past, though they appeared to be positively trundling compared to Scootaloo and Bianca. Nopony could tell who had been in the lead as they had rounded the next bend and disappeared.
The Canes started making their way back down to Ponyville Square excitedly, Talib doing what business he could on the fly from the back of the cart. His mother had harnessed up next to Melaco and they weren’t hanging around – they wanted to find out who’d won. A surge of excited ponies seemed to have the same idea and Talib felt like he was on a boat, being borne along by an unusually furry tide.
When they got back down to the Square, the first three winners were already up on the podium and the announcement had finished – in third place was one of Bianca’s familiar competitors, Sea Swirl, who frequently won, but in first place was… their view was obstructed for a moment by a huge white pegasus with red eyes, and then…
It was Scootaloo!
The young Cutie Mark Crusader must have overtaken Bianca somewhere between where the Canes had lost sight of them and the finish line. Bianca’s family walked over to the podium.
“Heya Scootaloo, congratulations!” said Talib. She beamed elatedly. “Maybe a cutie mark in racing isn’t so far away, hey?”
“Thanks, Talib! That was so much fun! And congratulations to you too, Bianca – you nearly had me there!”
“Yes, well done darling!” Ghaliya said to her daughter. “On the podium again!”
Bianca smiled happily, “Thanks mom, and well done Scootaloo! That was fun! I’ve never gone that fast before, and I finally beat some of the larger families!” She turned to shake Scootaloo’s hoof with a smile. “I look forward to a rematch next year, star.”
Scootaloo nodded and grinned. “You bet!”
A multi–coloured blur of motion descended on the podium and picked up Scootaloo excitedly.
“That… was… awesome !” Rainbow Dash enthused. “Fastest darn thing I’ve ever seen on wheels!” She hugged Scootaloo violently, and the young filly returned her hug happily. Rainbow Dash broke it off to eye Bianca.
“Well, if it isn’t the fastest Earth Pony in Equestria!” she said with admiration. Rainbow Dash slapped Bianca on the back. “Better luck next year, Bianca. Scootaloo, we better watch this one! C’mon, I’m starving. Let’s take a look at our winnings! Later, racers!”
The two Pegasi rushed off, chatting excitedly. Bianca jumped off the podium and said her goodbyes to Sea Swirl, then joined her family.
“Sorry you didn’t come first, sis,” said Talib, “maybe next year.”
“Aww, that’s ok! I’m just so happy the racer performed so well. I finally beat Sea Swirl! And to be honest, I think first place meant much more to Scootaloo. Not that I won’t try my hardest to take the cup from her next year, of course.”
“Of course.” Talib didn’t really understand competitiveness, but he knew Bianca raced with good sportsponyship and there was nothing ugly in her love of a fair contest between ponies.
“OK Bianca, let’s load up the cart,” said Melaco, “time for the Rhum Shot to do some work again.
Bianca reassembled the wagon and they loaded up her second-place winnings – a sizeable share of some very delicious looking goodies.
“Looks like we’ll have to have some ponies around to share the wealth,” said Ghaliya, “we’ll never eat all this before it goes off! Now back to work, you two!” Talib and Bianca jumped back in the cart. Second place had made her a minor celebrity at the Parade, and brisk business was further aided by her irrepressible grin.
The rest of the afternoon was spent with each pony taking turns on the food cart while the other three wandered around the celebration, meeting friends and enjoying the spectacle and food. Talib hadn’t organised to meet anypony so he planned to stay with the cart the whole time, but his father wouldn’t hear of it.
“Off you go, Talib. It’s not good to be such a loner all the time. Why don’t you find some of your old classmates and catch up? I don’t want to see you back here for another hour!”
Talib wandered off aimlessly. He got up the courage to go to the Apple stand and shyly congratulate Applejack on her sister’s team winning the prize, as other ponies milled around them.
“Well shoot, Talib, that’s mighty kind o’ ya. I wondered what Rainbow Dash was doin’ with those three in the barn all summer. And well done to your sister, too! Hope she enjoys the applesauce in her winnings. Granny Smith made it herself!”
“I’m sure she will, Applejack,” said Talib before falling silent. He was always a bit tongue-tied around the energetic orange mare.
“...Anythin’ I can do ya for, sugar cube?” she asked gently, when the silence had teetered on the edge of awkwardness. “Apple fritter? Candied apple? Apple pie?”
“No thanks, Applejack. Just a plain Pink Lady apple, please.”
“Mah favourite! Comin’ right up, sweet cheeks.” Applejack fished through the display apples and found a particularly shiny, firm specimen which she passed to Talib.
“How much for that, Applejack?”
“Why, of course that’s on the house for you, Talib Cane!”
“Oh no, I couldn’t possibly...”
“Now I won’t take no for an answer. You just tell your pa to keep that apple bread comin’, y’hear?” she winked at him and Talib felt a blush starting in his neck.
Talib nodded. “Thanks, Applejack.”
“Anytime, Talib. Y’all take care now!” She waved him off, smiling fondly.
Talib returned the farewell as he walked off. He ate the apple fastidiously, savouring every bite as his heart slowed and his cheeks cooled. Something about Applejack’s warmth and simple honesty, her energy and hearty goodwill had earned her a special place in his heart. But Talib was smart enough to know his affection, however genuine, wasn’t the sort of serious, grown-up love that she would find in a stallion a few years his senior. Talib had resigned himself to cherishing his crush in secret, as no doubt did countless other young ponies across Equestria for the objects of their affection. He was content with whatever small services he could offer Applejack and her friends.
“She’s a fine young mare, that one. One of the finest,” came a knowing, gruff voice from behind him. Talib turned suddenly and was faced with a grizzled old stallion, his brown coat wrinkled and sagging a little but still clearly showing vigorous muscles underneath.
“Uh… yes, sir, she’s a real good pony,” replied Talib uncertainly, “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Talib…”
“Cane, yes, I know. I’m Sim Timbers.” Talib shook his hoof, a little intimidated.
“Pleasure to meet you sir…” essayed Talib, still munching on his apple.
“Save the pleasantries, youngster, I’m here to talk business. Pa Walnut tells me I ought to look at taking you on as an apprentice. Says you’ve got spirit. That a fact?” Old Sim was looking at him doubtfully.
“Yes, sir-”
“Don’t call me sir, colt. I told you my name.”
Talib swallowed a mouthful of apple before he choked, and tried again.
“Yes, uh… Sim. I really want to work in the Forest.”
“So I hear,” said Sim wryly, “well the work is hard, the hours are long, and the pay is terrible. What makes you think you can go the distance? I can’t spend months training you up only to have you flake out before you’re of any use.”
“Well, I am used to hard work from the family farm, and I have quite a lot of experience in the Forest-”
The rough voice cut him off again, “The Everfree Forest don’t care how many books you’ve filled with field notes. If I take you on, and you come out with me, I’ll tell you how much you know about the Forest.” Old Sim’s gaze strayed to Talib’s cutie mark, and instead of the usual expression of confusion there was instead a fleeting look of shock and recognition, quickly hidden. Talib saw it, however, and remembered himself. Bracing himself, he continued.
“More than anything, I want to figure out what my cutie mark means, and it has something to do with the Everfree Forest. If it means I get to spend more time in the Forest, you won’t find anypony more dedicated or harder working than me.” Talib took a bite out of the top of his apple, straight down into the core. He always ate the whole thing, seeds and all, only leaving the stem. He threw it away, holding Old Sim’s gaze as the older pony watched him from under a coarse chestnut mane flecked with grey.
“You always eat your apples like that?” said Old Sim slowly.
“Um… yes, I do,” said Talib uncertainly, “the flesh around the core is just as edible as the rest, and I don’t see any reason to waste it, I guess. My grandfather used to do it.”
He was subjected to another of Old Sim’s looks, measuring and distrustful, before the old stallion finally said, “Right then. You’re hired.”
The younger pony couldn’t believe his ears. The interview did not seem to have been going particularly well, but, not wanting to give Old Sim time to change his mind, Talib thanked him profusely. But of course, as Talib supposed he should have guessed by now, his elder had no stomach for such politeness.
“That’ll do, colt. Thank me when your muscles are aching for a week after felling a stand of oak. Now, let’s go find your parents and make this all official.”
They made their way through the thinning crowds toward the Cane’s food cart. Before they arrived, however, a dapper, solid-looking unicorn spotted them through the throng and planted himself in front of them, smiling broadly.
“Well now, Mr. Timbers, it’s good to see you again!” he boomed. He was formally attired in full morning dress; Talib’s eyes were drawn to the tail-coat expertly tailored for his larger frame and a glistening silk-satin top hat. He carried himself with absolute confidence. A beautifully kept moustache, midnight-blue screaming in contrast with his brick-red coat, completed the handsome look.
Old Sim was uncharacteristically subdued, scowling at the friendly larger unicorn silently.
“Have you given my offer any further consideration? As I said, we’re prepared to be quite generous.”
Old Sim bristled. “I gave you my answer, Progress. It ain’t gonna change.”
The unicorn shrugged, unphased. “No problem Mr Timbers, but on the off chance you reconsider, my door’s always open to you.” He turned his charismatic gaze toward Talib.
“Pardon my manners, young master! Mr Timbers, would you care to introduce me to this strapping young friend of yours?”
Old Sim hesitated, and Talib, for once, decided to take the initiative before the meeting turned even frostier. He couldn’t bear a confrontation.
“Good afternoon, sir, my name’s Talib Cane. I just apprenticed with Sim here today.” They shook hooves, the beefy unicorn getting by far the best of the exchange. He looked intrigued.
“Is that right? Well Talib, my name’s Progress Miller. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He caught Talib admiring his clothes – Talib’s family had no occasion for such ultra-formal attire, and he’d never seen anything like it except in old photographs. “Like the coat? I have to say, usually the tailors in these smaller towns don’t know a morning coat from a stroller, but your Miss Rarity really is quite exceptionally talented! Nothing quite like formal wear to make one carpe diem ! I highly recommend it. And of course I couldn’t come to Ponyville’s finest parade day underdressed, could I? What would the mares think?” He winked at Talib, who self-consciously glanced at his own humble working attire, as his thoughts strayed involuntarily to Applejack. He wondered…
Progress saw the glum look Talib gave his duds, and said conciliatorily, “I tell you what, young Talib. Why don’t you get along to the Carousel Boutique one of these days and tell Miss Rarity that I sent you in for the whole nine yards, and she’s to put it on my tab. She’ll have fillies swooning over you in no time.”
The generosity, as always, made Talib uncomfortable. He protested, but Progress insisted. “I won’t take no for an answer,” Talib heard for the second time that day, “consider it an apprenticeship present. Anyway, what’s the point of money if you can’t do a promising young colt a good turn, eh? I’m sure Mr Timbers wouldn’t take on just anypony to pass on his expertise. I might be working for you one day! Haha!” Again, the wink. What is it with ponies in this town and winking? Talib thought. He thanked Progress weakly, a little overwhelmed.
“That’s enough, Talib,” said Old Sim, roughly, “let’s go find your parents.” He dragged Talib away bodily as Progress waved happily at them.
“What was that about, Sim? What did he mean about an offer?” asked Talib cautiously, aware of Old Sim’s even fouler mood.
“Never you mind, colt. Just stay clear of him,” came the venomous reply. Talib couldn’t understand why Old Sim, however crotchety, would take a vicious dislike to such a charming, generous pony, but the old codger was clearly in no mood for discussion. Talib let it drop.
Eventually, they found the food cart again, where his parents were just finishing packing up as the day drew to a close.
“Talib!” his mother called as they approached, “Bianca went off with some friends, and she might not be coming home tonight. We three will take everything back ourselves.” Talib nodded.
Talib’s father peered at the stallion accompanying their son, then brightened with recognition.
“Why, Sim Timbers! Good to see you again, Sim. How’s your brother?”
“Doing fair, thanks, Melaco, still manages to come visit every few seasons. Farm doing OK?”
Talib was surprised. This was a far more courteous Sim than the one grilling him a few minutes ago. There was clearly some mutual familiarity and respect between the two older stallions, though Talib’s father was deferential to the much more senior Sim.
“Farm’s doing fine, thanks Sim. You here to steal away some of my labour?”
“I am, Melaco, if you’ll release him to me.”
Melaco regarded Talib seriously. “OK son, this is it. Once your mother and I sign you up with Sim, you’re officially apprenticed. You know what you’re getting yourself into? You sure about this? Think carefully.”
Talib looked at his parents, the concern clearly written on their faces. He was nervous, but his conviction never wavered.
“Definitely. There’s nothing I want to do more than this.”
His parents looked at him for a long time, while Sim waited patiently. Finally, after exchanging nods with Melaco, Ghaliya spoke.
“Alright Sim, we release him to you. Harvest work is pretty much all done, so he can start with you tomorrow. Look after him.” The three Canes all shook hooves with Sim to seal the deal.
“I’ll do my best, Ghaliya,” he replied, “now get along home and rest up, Talib, and come see me at first light tomorrow.”
Talib nodded and watched the weather-beaten old stallion stride away on strong limbs.
“Well, well. I don’t know what you did, but you sure impressed Old Sim,” said his father. Talib looked doubtful.
“Um… He was a bit… curt. I didn’t think we got off to a good start.” Coming from the diplomatic, understated young colt, these were quite strong words.
“Darling,” replied Ghaliya, “Old Sim has never had an apprentice, as far as we know. You must have impressed him to be taken on at all . Just give him a chance, he’s really a decent pony underneath that rough exterior. Doesn’t suffer fools gladly, is all.”
Talib grumbled something about fools and rudeness and helped his parents take everything home and unpack. He slept early and without dreams that night, and awoke before dawn, refreshed but uncertain about the day he faced, working with that grumpy old lumberpony.
Chapter Four: Hidden Depths
In the morning, Talib got quietly out of bed and crept downstairs. The dark pre-dawn air tasted fresh and cool – autumn was scheduled in the next couple of weeks, and there had been some light rain overnight. As he entered the quiet kitchen, oven still warm from bread-making the night before, Talib peered out the east windows and saw no hint of the sun yet. Good. Old Sim had told him to be there at first light, and he didn’t seem like the kind of pony who would brook tardiness. Or much else, for that matter. To save his parents some work, Talib re-kindled the fire in the oven from some desperately-glowing embers, and put a pot of water on the stove to boil for their tea. There was only time for him to throw on his pre-packed panniers and grab an apple. He slipped out and closed the door behind him, looking up into the clear sky.
The moon was still up, full and bright. That’d help him find his way to the lumberpony’s cottage, several miles around the edge of the forest. The stars were brilliant, breathtaking, hard-edged and cold. Talib had never quite been able to accept the requirement of everypony for sleep. Why sleep when there was such beauty to be enjoyed? But a requirement it was, and he usually kept regular hours. For some reason, any disruption to his routine tended to send him into a tailspin of lethargy from which it took weeks to fully recover. He had a feeling he’d need all his strength for the day’s work. And the day after that, and after that…
Talib walked peacefully along the path at the edge of the Everfree Forest, munching contentedly on his apple. Eventually he threw away the stem and pulled a slice of bread and a hard-boiled egg from a pannier, continuing his mobile meal. The Forest at his left was quiet, and Talib was enjoying the serenity as he neared Old Sim’s shack. Princess Celestia must, at that moment, have decided to begin the work of raising the sun, because he noticed a lightening of the sky toward the East, and the stars, sharp points of crystallised light, were beginning to fade. The Ponyville dawn chorus began hesitantly, a rooster here, a few larks there. It contrasted noticeably with the silence of the Forest. Talib paused uncertainly. The silence of the Forest…
The Forest was never silent.
There was always some little animal chittering, some insect chirping, birds singing and fighting, predators growling, owls hooting… but not this morning. At Talib’s left, deathly quiet created a feeling of simultaneous suction and pressure, which he turned slowly to face. Nothing moved in the trees. Not even the trees themselves were stirring in the wind, as if holding their breath, tensing their bodies, bracing for… what? He peered deep into the murk, straining his eyes and ears.
But it was another sense which moved him. A sense which made the hairs stand up all over his coat, which screamed, run! and started his hooves moving in a panicky dance, bare moments before he saw, or imagined he saw, two baleful red jewels, fell cousins to the impassive gems in the sky, pointed towards him from the blackness.
Before he could convince himself of what he’d seen he was galloping hard to Old Sim’s, which came into view at the bottom of the hill he’d just cleared. Lights were on and smoke rose from the chimney of the ramshackle little cabin, in a clearing at the edge of the forest. The giant workshop was still dark, though, so Talib made straight for the house, fear summoning a burst of speed which mere competition never had. He daren’t look back but imagined a malign presence close behind as his hooves clattered over the final few yards of cobblestone to the door, which he banged on urgently. He turned around, feeling claws swiping through the air towards his face-
But there was nothing there. No sign, either, that he had been pursued. All seemed normal. Unnerved, he kept half his gaze on the treeline of the forest until Old Sim opened the door. No ‘good morning’ from him, of course.
“Want to break the door down? I’m not deaf, colt. Well, at least you’re on time. Come in, come in,” he gestured impatiently.
Talib stepped over the threshold hurriedly, not taking his eyes off the Forest until the door was closed. He turned to Old Sim.
“Uh, Sim… did you… did you see anything out there just now?”
The old stallion eyed him cautiously, “Well, I wasn’t staring out the window pining, for you, Talib. You look like you ran halfway here… did you see something?”
Talib looked out the window. The clearing was bare. Something had caused him to panic, but if was anything more than his hyperactive imagination, there was nothing to indicate it.
“…I guess not.”
Old Sim still looked suspicious, but eventually turned and busied himself in the tiny kitchen. Talib glanced out the window again, shrugged, and tried to calm down. Maybe he was just nervous about today.
“Make yourself at home, colt,” said Old Sim with a generosity which surprised Talib, before continuing in his usual vein, “but don’t touch anything! We’ll head up to the workshop in a spell.”
Talib looked around for somewhere to sit, but no such space presented itself. The tiny cottage consisted of a kitchen, a closed door (presumably to Old Sim’s bedroom) and a small living area, all rough and simple and suggestive of someone who didn’t give a fig for appearances. Or comfort, or cleanliness, or organisation, apparently – there were a couple of stools at a small table, presumably intended for meals, but in fact used for storage. As was every other surface. You could tell how often something got used by comparing the thickness of built-up dust – Talib was certain, with some callipers and the right calibration, it’d be accurate to within a week. The crude stone walls were slapped together with mortar and the roof was slate. Maximum durability, minimum upkeep. But it wasn’t the architecture which fascinated.
The Forest seemed to have been brought into the shack. Or bits of it, at least: unusually-coloured stones of varied mineralogy; blanks of rare woods in every combination of brown, red, yellow and even purple; burls and twisted branches, hacked and finessed into even more weird shapes and designs; even the bones of various animals, some easier to identify than others. Old Sim clearly had the hoarding instincts of a very assiduous and slightly macabre magpie. The whole thing smelled musty but the pleasant aroma of cut timber will do wonders for even neglected dwellings. Surprisingly, Talib spotted a bookshelf (that was charitable; really some rough planks stacked in between relatively flat stones) with documents of various ages and sizes. He wandered over and peered at them. There were a few scholarly treatises on the Forest which he’d read many times and, surprisingly, one or two he hadn’t, and a bunch of what looked to be journals. Talib hadn’t taken Sim to be the reading type, much less the writing type. But then, ponies were full of surprises. He itched to get his hooves on the unfamiliar volumes…
“Alright Talib, that’s enough gawping around. Dump your things and let’s get to work.”
Old Sim was holding a foul-looking, cracked mug containing some stinking liquid. Talib dropped his panniers on a relatively flat mound of timber blanks and couldn’t help twisting his face in disgust as Old Sim actually drank the stuff. The old stallion noticed the expression and cackled.
“Want some? Heh, of course not. I buy this tea from Zecora every summer. Keeps these old bones moving. I’ve gotten used to the taste, by now. Come along, colt.”
Talib followed him out, the slipstream of astringent steam making his eyes sting as he blinked and thought, nope. I could never get used to that stuff.
The workshop was stupendous, easily three times as big as the already oversized one at home. A surprisingly normal-sized door – there was no way the logs came in here – in the sturdy wooden walls let them inside. Eyes adjusting to the pre-dawn gloom which the many windows were powerless to improve, Talib felt momentarily disoriented when the room turned out to only take up about a quarter of the building. A wall and another regular door partitioned off the remaining space, so Talib surveyed his immediate surroundings.
The initial impression was of neatness – not a single nail appeared to have been left out on a bench. The workshop was far better organised than the cottage, and Talib would have confidently bet a bag of bits on which space saw more of Old Sim. Benches ringed the room and skeletal furniture in various stages of assembly occupied clearly-defined spaces around the floor, like long-dead predators still jealous of their territory. The various medium-sized tools required for such work were not visible, but their location was suggested by the plain, well-made cabinets on the walls and the drawers under benches. What was visible on the walls were the larger tools, the enormous saws and axes used in felling various types and sizes of tree and for processing them into timber or rather, as Talib soon learned via a clipped correction, lumber. The smell, the inimitable loveliness of sawn timber, was romantic and heavy.
“This is incredible,” Talib enthused, “I didn’t know you made furniture as well!”
“Side business, really. Through here, colt,” gestured the lumberpony, up on two legs and noisily slurping his hot foul brew as, with his other hoof, he casually opened the door leading to the rest of the building. Talib went through.
The feeling of disorientation returned when he found himself in a long, narrow corridor with the Forest clearly visible at the open end. Confused, he looked around and realised the masses to his left and right weren’t the true walls of the building but towering, openly-spaced stacks of lumber.
“Drying shed,” said Old Sim laconically.
Those two words did little justice to the grandeur of the warehouse. As Talib had noticed, the far wall was simply not there, presumably to improve air flow. As the light improved and his pupils dilated, it appeared the wall was in fact ingeniously constructed in segments which folded, concertina-style, on sturdy runners almost flush with the flanking true walls. The lumber was stacked to dizzying heights, and Talib couldn’t understand how one pony had reached the top. However it was managed, Old Sim clearly really cared about angles. The floor of the warehouse was perfectly level. The planks were all impeccably aligned, equally spaced for air flow, meticulously sorted by size, species and grade. It looked like you could take an exact right-angle wherever you pleased. Talib glanced sideways at the old stallion – he knew Old Sim was prickly, but now it seemed he might be, well… a bit odd. Talib asked the obvious.
“They’re all so straight and even… why is that?”
Old Sim nodded, apparently at the importance of the question. “Any little imperfection, any distortion or misalignment, is reflected in the warping of the lumber as it dries – a log’s weight is more water than wood, when you drag it in. Green wood’ll season here for months, maybe years for some of the dense, thick planks. That long drying time is why I need to stockpile so much at any one time. But it’s plenty of time for poorly stacked wood to warp, and nopony who knows what they’re about will pay full price for a bent beam.”
“This warehouse is enormous,” said Talib, clearly impressed, “you can’t have put it up all by yourself.”
“Of course not, I ain’t no one-pony army. Had the whole Apple clan out here a few summers back, when I outgrew the original self-made one. Your crush, Applejack, is one of the most helpful, hardworking ponies I ever did see,” he slipped easily into reverie, “this was back when my brother was helping out for a few seasons, and production increased. Heck of a team.”
Cheeks burning that his infatuation was so easy to read, Talib decided to steer the conversation a little.
“Where’s your brother now?” he asked, uncertain if it would be thought prying, or just making friendly conversation.
“Got hisself hitched, had a foal. Now runs a timber-mill off a big plantation out West. Higher-throughput, more industrial stuff. Matter of fact, you’ll meet him later this year when he brings the clan to visit.”
He appeared to come back to the present, donning his usual gruff tone. “That’s quite enough reminiscing for one day, if you please. Let’s get to work.”
They walked back into the workshop and from the wall Old Sim selected a large saw for each pony. Returning to the warehouse, they walked over the impossibly flat rammed-earth floor to the far end. There was more space here, no geometrically perfect stacks of lumber – just an intimidating pile of variously-sized logs, a large cart stored neatly against one wall and some saw-horses against the other. They were close enough to smell the Forest more than they could see it in the dim morning, and a pleasant breeze wafted sylvan aromas freely through the opened wall. The floor here was covered in sawdust, and Talib reasoned this was where most of the heavy work was done preparing the timber.
“I sledded these logs here from the Forest yesterday. This week we’ll cut them into lumber and add them to the stacks.”
“It’s still pretty dark. Shouldn’t we bring a lantern in?” asked Talib. The older pony just looked at him, and for a while he couldn’t figure out why. Then it hit him.
“Oh.” Talib was standing in a bone-dry puddle of sawdust, surrounded by drying timber, in a wooden warehouse. Old Sim must have a mortal fear of fire.
“That’s probably rule number one,” the young colt joked hesitantly.
“Never thought it needed codifying,” Old Sim retorted.
This was not a good start. Must he feel forever awkward around other ponies, and worst of all around his new boss? Talib had half-hoped that, once in his element, Old Sim would transform into an attentive, conscientious mentor. But perhaps the rough diamond was just sandpaper all the way down. Talib decided to keep his mouth mostly shut except for work questions until he got to know his job, and his employer, a little better. At least this wasn't his first time handling a saw.
They worked all through the lightening morning, hoisting logs of various sizes onto the sawhorses or cutting them as they lay, debarking them and slicing them up. Talib never realised there were so many different ways to create planks from trunks. Fast-growing, younger trees with wide rings and which were not as susceptible to warping were “plain-sawn”; the round edges were simply cut off and the resulting square-shaped log cut into identical planks. Most logs, however, were not suitable for this method – they contained too many rings, and each one would exacerbate the butterflying effect of shrinkage as the ends warped away from the heart. These were quarter-sawn, a technique which Talib was still struggling to get the hang of after a couple of hours. The log was first sawn in half, and a wide plank taken off each. Each half was then halved again, and a plank taken off each newly-exposed face. Then the quartered logs were placed on their backs, so the right-angle was facing the warehouse roof, and cut straight down. It was a tricky business. Finally, for some particularly impressive specimens, there was rift-sawing. This turned out to be a kind of star pattern – a plank cut straight out of the middle, then another middle plank was taken from the two halves, and so on until the wedges became too thin. Edges were then sawn off square. This produced an awful lot of offcuts but also, apparently, the highest quality lumber. You could, when your supervisor was distracted with his unbearable beverage, reassemble them and look lengthwise to see the cuts making a kind of star of planks, reminding Talib a little of Dawn’s cutie mark. Then Old Sim had to go and complicate things further.
“See this here?” asked Old Sim, his hoof tracing around a darker circle towards the centre of a particularly large log, “that’s heartwood. Older, tougher, bigger trees often have a noticeably stronger and denser core, surrounded by sapwood. We cut these like so.” Deftly producing a pencil Talib hadn’t noticed from behind one ear, Old Sim marked the same star-shaped pattern on the end of the log, plus a neat square around the heartwood. They prepared several significant logs in this way. The difference between dead heartwood and living sapwood fascinated Talib but he had no further time to examine it as the sweaty, heavy work continued. During a short morning break which Talib filled with food and water rather than botany, Old Sim ran off somewhere for a while saying he had to “get something going”.
As they worked toward lunch, it became clear that nothing was wasted – Old Sim was a veritable model of thrift. Stripped bark was fragmented for sale as mulch. Some of the long pieces left over from making planks, wedge shapes, were kept for sale as skirting or other finishing trims. Odd-shaped offcuts were not thrown away but were piled haphazardly in the cart, clearly for some purpose yet to be revealed. Even the sawdust, every second day, was swept into bags and apparently later combined with fragrant resins to make incense.
At lunch, they dragged the sawhorses outside and used them as makeshift benches, soaking up the sun’s warmth in the still-crisp air while they munched down much-needed sustenance. The day was blessedly cool, given the intensity of the sweat Talib had worked up. He already felt certain muscles stiffening and was not looking forward to the inevitable aches that would intensify over the next week or two until his body adapted. Old Sim, however, didn’t seem to have any trouble leaping off the sawhorse and proclaiming it was time to get back to work.
They had got through a noticeable chunk of the pile as midday further cooled into afternoon, though there was still plenty for the rest of the week. Another short break for afternoon tea and they switched jobs to stacking the timber as afternoon contracted into evening. The riddle of the impossibly high stacks was solved when Old Sim pulled down some rope, apparently out of thin air, but in fact attached to pulleys on runners in the roof beams. With the aid of this contraption and two free-standing ladders the ponies scaled the heights of the warehouse, the weight of the lumber taken in large part by the rope. In the fading light Old Sim’s geometry was no less true, though accurate stacking was the day’s most challenging task for Talib. The older lumberpony kept switching out Talib’s choice of spacing chocks, realigning, grumbling to himself absently as he did so. His timing, however, was perfect, and just as it was getting too dark to work they had finished up, the tools were cleaned, oiled and stored, and they walked outside as the dark-blue evening became black night.
Talib really ached now, and he knew it would get worse before it got better. Still, the day was over and he hadn’t made any serious screw-ups.
“Welp, you’ve still got all your hooves,” said Old Sim, damning with faint praise, “that’s a win.”
Talib just nodded, massaging his shoulders as they walked towards the cottage.
“You’ll be sore tomorrow, and worse the day after,” Old Sim confirmed, “come along and we’ll do something about that.”
Talib wasn’t sure what the muscular older pony had in mind – surely not mutual massage? His self-conscious awkwardness precluded such physical intimacy even with his parents. But Old Sim led him through the stone cottage and out the back. As they returned to the cool night air, Talib gasped in wonder. A small but beautifully arranged garden of miniature trees, maybe two dozen, greeted them with silent dignity from their simple but beautifully glazed pots. They appeared to span a range of ages, some still miniature saplings, others as gnarled, wizened, twisted and blasted as the oldest Forest king-tree. These looked far, far more ancient than Old Sim himself, and Talib asked where they’d come from.
The old forester’s thoughts turned visibly inward. “An old friend, who inherited them from a long line of ponies. It’s quite an ancient skill, they say.”
A note of sadness, even bitterness in Old Sim’s voice warned Talib against further inquiry. They moved on toward a wooden shack in the back of the garden and Old Sim directed Talib to take the pail hanging outside on the wall and fill it from the pool. The pool in question was just behind the shack, only a dozen yards across but apparently deep enough for complete immersion. Talib made a mental note to practise his breath-holding there when he got the chance. It was fed by a trickling stream that came straight out of the Forest itself, not far beyond. Filling the pail, Talib returned to the shack Old Sim had entered, who now called him inside.
As he reached for the wooden-handled door, he felt heat radiate towards his hoof. Slightly concerned, he opened it hesitantly.
“Hurry up!” snapped Old Sim, “Don’t let out the heat!”
Startled, Talib ducked inside and closed the door before he really felt it. Heat like an oven washed over him, in stark contrast to the now-sharp night air he’d just left. Eyes watering a little, he scanned the gloom for his companion. The only source of light was some embers among large stones in the centre of the earthen floor – that must have been what Old Sim was preparing when he ducked off during the morning break. The wooden walls were completely blackened with soot, and the overpowering scent of smoke was just the other side of pleasant. Finally he spotted Old Sim, perched on a high bench against the far wall of the shack. Talib hesitated.
“…what is this thing?” he enquired, uncertainly.
“Ain’t you never had a sauna before?” was the old stallion’s rejoinder. “Bring that pail here and sit down. Breathe through your mouth.”
Talib did as he was bid and Old Sim retrieved a large wooden ladle from a hook on the wall. Scooping from the bucket, he threw a glob of water onto the stones, which hissed and spat furiously until the water was gone and silence fell once more. For a while, Talib didn’t notice any change.
Then the invisible plume of steam attacked him, pummelled his skin and seared his nostrils. His abdominal muscles clenched involuntarily as he struggled to find breath, breathing cautiously through his mouth as instructed. The feeling was not pleasant, and any slight movement amplified the scalding heat. Between this and the tea, Talib wondered if Old Sim wasn’t just a bit odd, but downright masochistic.
“I’ll leave it at that for a spell. Throw some more on when you feel you can handle it.”
In here, the old pony spoke quietly for a change, his hushed tones already sounding friendlier than the sharp bark he customarily used. Talib didn’t trust his lungs to handle speaking through the steam, and kept silent. That seemed to suit Old Sim, but something about the sauna made the silence – instead of awkward, as Talib usually felt – relaxing, companionable. Contemplative. Talib began to understand the appeal, even as his pores strained to extrude as much sweat as possible. After a while, he took the initiative and threw another glob on the stones. Prepared as he was, the steam wasn’t so bad this time, and the intense heat seemed to pierce his skin and warm his muscles directly. They fought their tense fight for a while but eventually the unstoppable heat overcame them, and they went supple at last. A feeling of well-being washed over Talib as he half-closed his eyes in the warm darkness. Old Sim handed him a leafy bundle of birch twigs, and Talib looked at him questioningly.
“Whack your muscles with these for a bit. Helps with the blood flow.”
Both ponies occupied themselves slapping their coats with the branches. The effect seemed comic, but Talib kept that to himself. It was soothing his aches, and that was the main thing. Eventually though, the heat got the better of him and a tingling started in his skin.
“Sim… I feel a little light-headed.”
“That’ll happen, till you figure out your limits and get used to it,” said the old pony quietly, apparently immune to the heat, “go outside and cool off in the pool. Take your time, and come back in when you feel better.”
The young colt walked carefully to the door and slipped out quickly, mindful not to leave it open any longer than necessary. The beckoning pool was only a few yards from the sauna and he waded in gratefully. The clear water was deliciously cool and his body was completely submerged before he was even aware of the conscious desire to do so. He sank to the bottom and held his breath, but his heart was pumping so hard to deal with the excess heat he only managed a minute before surfacing. Talib drank greedily of the crystal liquid. Nothing had ever tasted sweeter. He gazed up at the beautiful stars and, his heart slowed somewhat, submerged himself again. As he lay on the bottom counting, mind empty and heart slowing, he was nearing a personal record when the tingling he’d earlier felt in his skin returned, but this time localised to his cutie mark. He ignored it for a moment, focusing on controlling his heart rate, when sudden thoughts flashed unbidden through his mind. The dream… smoke and fire, like in the sauna, but brought as a death to the Forest. Water covering him, the sounds of his heart and that other heart slowing and stopping. Wings of many kinds, and perhaps… perhaps eyes, too, like evil red jewels? The image was confused. But the final image was crystal clear, apprehended with piercing clarity; a teapot with eight arrows, and a young unicorn’s cutie mark…
He surfaced, splashing and gasping for breath, cutie mark still buzzing and crawling, the previously beatific night now appearing hostile and alien. Talib calmed his madly-dancing thoughts and sat on the bank. Composed, he decided his pursuit of personal best had deprived his brain of much-needed oxygen. There was no mistaking, however, the similarity in the symbols on his grandfather’s teapot and Dawn’s flank, he could see that now. Unable to find an explanation, Talib pushed the thought from his mind for the moment and returned to the sauna.
“Alright, Talib? You were out there for a while,” said Old Sim, throwing a couple of ladles on the stones.
“Fine thanks, Sim. Just cooling off.”
Old Sim grunted and said nothing. They sat in the heat for a while longer, Talib’s mind pleasantly blank, until he remembered something from yesterday. He plucked up the courage to ask.
“Sim… what was Progress saying yesterday about an offer?”
Old Sim’s features darkened further in the dark sauna. “Wanted me to be forepony on his logging venture, other side of the Forest.”
“You aren’t interested?”
“He’s bad news. You’d be smart to keep clear of him, too.”
The older pony fell silent threw more and more water on, as he apparently decided he’d coddled his apprentice long enough. The steam intensified and, just when Talib thought he couldn’t bear it any longer, Old Sim announced he was going to finish off in the pool, taking the pail and hanging it outside. Talib burst through the door behind him, sides heaving, and veritably jumped into the water next to the lumberpony.
They sat quietly in the water for a while.
Eventually, Talib broke the silence, “Where did you get the idea for this thing?”
“I didn’t. My pappy brought the tradition from out West, where the family’s from. We four built this sauna together, first thing we did when we followed the Apple family out here. Wouldn’t be a home without a sauna.”
“I like it,” said Talib generously, earning a wry eyebrow from the now-relaxed old stallion, “but, uh… do you know where this stream comes from? My cutie mark was tingling a while back.”
Old Sim eyed him with interest. “It springs out the ground a few miles into the Forest. Tingling, eh? Anything else happen?”
Fire and smoke, wings and eyes, water and heartbeats…
“Uh, no, not really,” said Talib unconvincingly, glancing at Old Sim’s apparently un-tingling cutie mark; a spreading oak tree.
Old Sim relented and leaned back on his elbows, muscles flexed, looking up at the stars.
“The sauna is a sacred place; it’s for relaxation, yes, but also contemplation, seeking, listening.” Talib had not expected mysticism from this salt-of-the-earth type, who continued, “every place has its spirit – your home, a sauna, even the Forest. Especially the Forest. And this pool is an extension of the Forest.”
Talib nodded, uncertain how to interpret this. It seemed Old Sim had hidden depths, but his words had remade the night for Talib; safe and beautiful once more.
“Alright colt, it’s late. Let’s see you off home.”
They left the pool and shook themselves off. Old Sim told him not to mind dripping on the floor of the cottage as they went and got his panniers. With some seedcake to serve as his dinner on the way home, Talib said his farewells and promised to be back same time next day. Old Sim merely nodded and closed the door, leaving the young colt alone with the sky and the rising moon, still full.
Walking briskly home to stave off the chill of his drying coat, Talib remembered the frightening experience of the morning and kept his distance from the Forest. But if anything was watching the still-dripping young pony, he was not aware of it, and crawled up to bed without incident. The rest of the family were already sleeping and Talib joined them happily, more exhausted than he had ever been in his life.
Chapter Five: A Plan Begun
The rest of the week continued in a similar pattern. Talib would awake before dawn, stiff and sore, and force himself to get to Old Sim’s by first light. Every day, they’d process some of the log pile into lumber –Talib’s employer wanted it done before the end of the week since, he said, letting the logs dry out could cause splitting. However, perhaps because they were making good time, perhaps out of pity for Talib’s spasming muscles, Old Sim varied the routine somewhat. The sawdust, swept into bags every second day, was kneaded together with a little tree resin and melted wax (bartered from Mrs. Walnut’s apiary) into a kind of fragrant dough. It was formed into little cones and left to dry, and when burnt as incense gave off a heavenly aroma of floral honey, sharp and fresh sap, and wood-smoke from whatever tree species happened to have dominated Old Sim’s haul that week. It was very popular in Ponyville and supplied a much-needed boost to the business.
A couple of evenings, Talib even managed to get home for dinner before dark, and the two ponies were slowly learning how best to work together – Old Sim kept his snappishness just enough under control that it didn’t spook his sensitive apprentice, and Talib tried to work hard, be conscientious and avoid asking obviously stupid or unnecessary questions. There was, however, no reappearance of the philosopher that had so surprised Talib after their first sauna, though it turned out to be a frequent ritual for Old Sim which Talib gladly adopted.
He also made a start on learning some furniture-making, soon proving quite hopeless. The more carefully he aligned and re-checked joins, the less right-angled they would end up, and Old Sim suggested he take some lumber home and practise in his spare time. “When you can at least make an angle within spitting distance of square,” the old pony grumbled after a few wasted planks, “maybe we’ll try you again. Throw these on the offcuts pile.” So for a couple of days, whenever Old Sim would take some time in the workshop to make rocking chairs or chests of drawers, Talib would continue processing logs into lumber in the warehouse. Without much enthusiasm, he took a couple of practise planks home with him each day, setting them by for when he had a moment.
Eventually, though, his employer came up with another way he might be useful. One day while Talib was cutting lumber, Old Sim came into the warehouse from the cottage hauling a small wheelbarrow with a few interesting burls and knobs. Talib stopped work and followed the older stallion as he was beckoned into the workshop.
“Here,” said Old Sim, dumping the burls with a disregard he’d never show finished lumber, “I tool around with these for bucks occasionally, but don’t seem to have the hooves for fine work. Why don’t you try carving something nice out of ‘em?”
Talib looked doubtfully at the pile. He’d never really been the creative type. “What should I make?” he asked.
“If’n I knew that, would I be asking you to try it? Work them into something nice, something a house-proud pony might want to show off on some shelves or a table.”
The younger pony was shown to the workbench, vice and a nearby drawer with some woodworking tools carefully wrapped in oilcloth. At first Talib was surprised when every tool turned out to be razor-sharp, but – thinking for a moment, as he had learned to do before asking questions – he reasoned that the less force one had to apply to the wood, the less likely one was to make some ruinous, gouging slip. Old Sim left him to it, suggesting he try his hoof for a few hours and then get back to cutting lumber. Talib selected a round, fairly regular burl to start with, about a foot across, and studied it with interest. The lumpy surface, he knew, concealed a solid sphere of bizarrely-grained wood which would need little ornament. It would suit a plain surface that could show off the irregular patterns to best effect – anything more would be gilding the lily. Talib himself didn’t particularly like useless bric-a-brac and thought of his grandfather’s teapot, the most beautiful object he could imagine. Something about the combination of sublime function and harmonious decoration…
When Old Sim came back in, wiping his brow, his apprentice was busily sanding smooth the slight depressions in eight dinner plates. Wordlessly, the old pony picked one up and blew off the wood dust while Talib continued nervously working. The plates had apparently been carved out of the same round burl. Their eating surfaces were identically concave discs, smooth as slate and extending to within an inch of the perimeter. These edges, sliced horizontally from the burl at equal thicknesses but otherwise unshaped, differed from plate to plate with the natural variations of what had been the outer surface of the burl. A single groove in each plate lined them up for stacking, whereupon the knobbly projections re-formed and the burl was effectively reconstructed to its original shape.
Talib placed the final plate on top and explained uncertainly, “I know it seems like an odd idea, and it may not be the little ornament or whatever you had in mind, but I-”
The old lumberpony held up a hoof. “They’re just swell, colt. I don’t know how you came up with the idea, but let’s take these to market this week and see if anypony is strange enough to buy them.” One corner of his mouth turned up in a faintly surprised smile, and Talib felt a still-nervous pride. The smile turned teasing, as Old Sim continued. “Looks like I might have some use for you after all. We’ll clean these up, oil them and get them varnished once they’ve dried for a bit. Now, if your artistic soul can bear it, some rougher woodwork needs your attention in the warehouse. I’ll re-sharpen the tools and join you in a minute.”
Talib obediently went back to processing the shrinking log pile.
By the end of the week the daunting log pile had dwindled and vanished, and Talib’s body was beginning to adjust to the demanding work. He’d even managed to carve a few more attractive items, and at dawn on market day these were loaded in a small cart with bags of charcoal and incense and a couple of carefully-secured items of furniture. Another cart – giant, solid and ancient – carried the driest lumber from the warehouse, and the two ponies plodded stoically into Ponyville, swapping loads occasionally and arriving a little before the day’s commerce began.
Ponies without pressing errands were beginning to finish their unhurried breakfasts and occupy the dew-fresh streets as the two lumber-ponies paid their first visit. Old Sim’s regular customer for charcoal answered at his business-like knock – a hulking, black-smudged mare of a ponysmith named Steel Trap – and greeted them cheerfully from the sauna-like heat of the forge. Her fussy, smaller husband inspected the charcoal, pronouncing it “First-class, as usual,” and earning a snort from Old Sim, before counting out the bits with a meticulous and infuriating thoroughness.
Next was the lumber itself, and Talib found himself in front of a busy wholesaler’s in the commercial district. Red-brown warehouse doors were thrown wide-open, admitting carts of new lumber like their own and emitting unburdened ponies. And noise. After the relative quiet of Old Sim’s workshop on the edge of the Forest, Talib was slightly unnerved by the shouts, as only boisterous labouring ponies can shout, and the loud thunks of planks being stacked and un-stacked. He looked at Old Sim, maybe for reassurance, and found the stallion’s brows furrowed. “Busy today,” was his laconic observation. From his tone, Talib gathered this was neither usual nor positive.
Forging onward through the doors and into the organised bedlam, Old Sim nodded in amiable recognition to the labourponies, and many of the lumberponies with whom he was evidently familiar. Several others, however, were treated to an interrogative, slightly hostile glare which Talib had not often seen from his employer. When they reached the forepony, who was gesticulating and bellowing to direct some load of lumber to the appropriate stack, Old Sim, either because he was cranky or very familiar with him, did not wait upon pleasantries.
“Wood Pile, who in the hay are all these newcomers?”
The forepony, heavy haunches displaying an appropriate cutie mark of stacked lumber, replied in a more conversational bellow without apparent offense.
“Just some new outfit operatin’ from outta town somewhere. Callin’ theyselves the Progress Group, if’n you c’n believe it.”
Old Sim’s eyes narrowed.
“Whereabouts they felling, exactly?”
“Well Sim, not too sure, exac’ly . They don’ say. But looks like they travel a ways ta get here.”
Talib followed his mentor’s gaze to one of the ponies in question. He did indeed look travel-worn, and had panniers suitable for quite a long journey. Old Sim looked grimmer than usual, but turned to the day’s business.
“Got some oak here, and some yew. About two and a half-weights of each.”
Wood Pile hesitated a moment before replying.
“Price has gone down a little, Sim. Got much more comin’ in now wit’ this Progress Group bein’ so productive. I c’n give ya two bits a span, fiver per double-width.”
Old Sim nodded tersely and signalled Talib to begin unloading into the cart of a waiting labourpony while Old Sim took payment. As Wood Pile and Old Sim walked off to the office, Talib overheard the forepony say, “Sorry, Sim. Supply n’ demand’s a mule, ain’t she?” before the two fell to chatting without apparent rancour.
Having unloaded the various planks, separated by species, grade and size, Talib loitered near the warehouse exit and, as was his wont, observed discreetly. Old Sim wasn’t the only pony put out by the drop in price, and he heard a few others complaining. The Progress Group ponies were easy to spot once you learned to look for the tell-tale marks of travel and their standoffish demeanour. He heard one of the labourponies try to make friendly conversation as she unloaded, but she got nothing beyond a few uninformative syllables until she casually asked where they were logging. The sullen lumberpony bridled further and replied it was none of her darned business.
And I thought Old Sim was rude , thought Talib. Ah, speak of the Discord …
His employer had emerged from the office smiling slightly and apparently having made some witticism, doubtless in his typically dry style, which was causing Wood Pile much mirth. Still chuckling, the rough forepony slapped Talib on the shoulders and wished him well, apprenticed as he was under the best darned lumberpony there was. Talib winced and thanked him, awkward as always at any display of friendliness or favour, and with their loads significantly lightened they exited the warehouse onto Ponyville’s relatively quiet streets.
Making their way towards the market square, the crowds were beginning to gather as vendors set up and opened their stalls. Old Sim apparently had a regular spot, near the edges of the market so customers needn’t carry their furniture as far, which nopony had dared commandeer even though they were a little late arriving. Set in the craftsponies’ section, the already-opened stalls to their left and right sold earthenware pots, stout ropes, and Mrs. Walnut was there with her beeswax candles. Across the street, Steel Trap’s husband waved at them distractedly as he talked shop with a customer, surrounded by iron and steel tools forged by his wife’s strong hooves.
Old Sim directed Talib in the assembly of some boards for their small booth, secured by some metal lock-and-key fastenings. In a few minutes they had the incense and wood carvings on display, with the heavy chest of drawers and rocking chair carefully unloaded and set up in the space either side. The carts were tucked away behind them, some incense was lit to lure in customers, and they opened their faces to the shopping ponies, Talib shyly smiling and Old Sim... well, scowling less deeply than usual, at least. Or trying.
In a short time ponies had stopped by and started buying incense. Some were clearly regular customers who greeted Old Sim with familiarity but knew not to expect much conversation, and others were apparently drawn in by the smell. Talib thought it best that he handle the new customers, and so tried to overcome his habitual withdrawal to be pleasant and engaged as they chatted with him about inconsequential matters. It was clear the garrulous shoppers of Ponyville were not just here (as Talib would have been) to buy their goods and be done, and his social skills were strained to their limits. Old Sim seemed content with the way he was handling things though, and hung about in the background unobtrusively, occasionally supplying answers to a product-related question.
Talib was gratified and surprised at the enthusiasm shown for his unusual wood-workings even though it took most of the morning to actually shift one – a large fruit bowl made from half a particularly spiky burl, supported on interlocking and strangely-twisted branches. That went for ten bits, followed later by his plate set and the other half of the fruit-bowl burl. Somewhere along the way Old Sim had got chatting with a newly-wedded couple who loved his furniture and had managed to sell them both items for their new house, insisting they accept a generous discount and some incense as a wedding gift. Again, Talib reflected on the surprises ponies could give you – he’d never imagined Old Sim had a sentimental bone in his body. The newlyweds ask that they hold the furniture till close of market, so Old Sim hung a “sold” tag on each piece and discussed making a matching partner for the rocking chair. Things had quietened down so Talib, receiving distracted permission from the older pony, wandered off to explore the markets a little.
He first paid his respects to Mrs Walnut, who inquired politely how the apprenticeship was going. Pledging to have some more wax for their incense next week, she bade him farewell as he went in search of some food. Spying the Apple family stand, Talib took a deep breath and walked over. His favourite orange-coloured mare was chatting with smiling customers in her neighbourly fashion, and as Talib approached she hit him with one of her genuine, artless smiles. It may as well have been a train, and his vision went a little blurry, but he persevered.
“Well howdy Talib! How’s tricks?”
“Swell thanks, Applejack. You?”
“Busier’n a three-legged mare in a flank-kickin’ contest, but doin’ pretty fair for all that,” was her idiosyncratic reply, “now what brings y’all to market this fine day? I thought you hated crowds.”
I do, but if the crowd contains you… Talib banished the distracting thought from his mind, instead replying, “Old Sim and I have a stall set up with the craftsponies, selling incense and such.”
“Well shucks, of course you do! I tell you what, I’ll come over later and say hello. Always got time for Old Sim,” she said, before making his day by continuing, “and you of course, Talib. Now can I get you anything?”
“What’s good, Applejack?”
“You’ll like the Golden Delicious. Later summer crop, it hasn’t been so warm, so they’re a little more tart – just the way you like them, right sugarcube?” At his nod, she handed him one and continued, “And don’t you go tryin’ to pay again. But maybe next time, think about trying one of mah apple fritters?”
Though he preferred plain apples, Talib knew she was a little proud of her reputation as a baker and made the promise. Anyway, he’d probably eat a dirt sandwich from Applejack’s hooves, and love it. Bidding farewell, he returned to Old Sim’s stall just as he was finishing the apple, to discover that all but one of his woodcrafts had sold – only a plain, round little container he’d made as lid-making practise was left on the counter.
“Seems there’s plenty of strange ponies in this town to match your strange carvings, colt,” said Old Sim drily, “made up for that business at the timber warehouse this morning, and then some.”
“What was up with that? Progress Group can’t be a coincidence – that must be that unicorn, Progress Miller, right?”
Old Sim grunted darkly and said, “I’d bet bits to bridle-spit. Tomorrow’s our rest day. I’ll make some inquiries, figure out how he’s getting all that darn lumber together.”
Just then, Lotus Blossom and Aloe from the Ponyville Day Spa arrived and Old Sim was busied organising their usual bulk order of incense. As Talib turned to scan the crowd, his heart caught in his chest when he saw Applejack headed straight for him, eying the stall appreciatively.
“Howdy partner!”
Talib swallowed. “Hello again, Applejack.”
“Nice setup y’all have here,” she stopped as she noticed his final remaining wood carving, “now ain’t this the prettiest little thing?”
Picking it up, she examined the small round container. For a first try, Talib had to admit, it was pretty passable. The outside had some lovely woodgrain which shimmered at different angles and the lid fit snugly. Not yet ready to try threads, it was a simple lift-to-open affair. Applejack seemed quite taken.
“Did you make this?” she asked.
“Um, yeah… You like it?” Talib asked, cautiously
“Sure do, Talib. It’s just the thing…” she rotated it and looked at the price underneath.
“It’s only five bits,” she said hesitantly, “but it’d really just be a self-indulgence-”
Talib interjected, “Oh, Applejack, of course you don’t have to pay for that.” He repeated her words from a week ago, “What are neighbours for?”
It can come out of my wages , he thought privately.
“Talib! That’s mighty kind o’ ya. Ah don’t know…” Applejack was clearly tempted.
Like a wrinkly harbinger of doom, Old Sim descended on the scene.
“Applejack! Good to see you. Admiring young Talib’s hoofwork?”
“Ah am, Sim.”
“Well you’re not the only pony. I sold that piece not five minutes ago – she should be back to pick it up any minute now. Excuse me while I wrap it.”
“Oh!” Applejack replied, “Of course.” She handed the container back to Old Sim cheerfully, but Talib’s heart sank. It was obvious she’d been close to accepting it.
After a pleasant exchange of news, Applejack promised to convey Old Sim’s regards to Granny Smith and departed. Old Sim didn’t notice the dejected look on Talib’s face, or at any rate didn’t comment. As the market came to a close a little after noon, they packed up and headed back to the workshop, a profitable trip behind them.
“Well, that’s about it for today, colt. We’ll unload and the afternoon’s yours,” said Old Sim as they drew near the Forest. Talib had been even quieter than usual the whole way, dwelling on a single thought.
“Actually Sim, I had a favour to ask,” he said timidly.
The older pony glanced sideways at his charge, dragging his cart beside him, but merely replied, “Mm?”
“Could I use the workshop for some wood carving this afternoon?”
“Well… I don’t see why not. Just look after the tools. But get home to your parents before dinner, hear? They’ll be missing you.”
The young colt gave his promise, and after they’d unpacked and Sim had retired to his cottage to do who-knew-what, Talib entered the quiet of the workshop and busied himself for a few hours, whittling and carving, sanding and polishing until, finally satisfied, he applied a light coat of varnish and set the item to dry overnight. He then returned home to the Cane farm, the journey looking strange and unfamiliar during sunup, and the family rejoiced to have their son home and alert during daylight hours instead of dopey and exhausted for a half-hour over dinner before going straight to bed. They sat down to tea in the kitchen, afternoon light slanting through the windows, and gossiped happily about their week. Before dinner, Talib and the girls retired to the study while Melaco sang his way lustily through preparations in the kitchen. His only slightly off-key melody, some jaunty thing he’d picked up as a foal from his mother, was familiar to them all and a mood of utterly relaxed contentment followed the tune into the study.
While his mother and sister sat reading in deep armchairs, respectively occupied with the latest sugarcane-breeder’s newsletter and a dense mechanic’s manual, Talib had pulled up a firmly-upholstered chair at the writing desk. On the capacious, dark wooden surface he arranged some paper and a book simply called Plants of the Everfree Forest . Really, for what should be quite a broad topic, it was a slim volume – another symptom, he reflected glumly, of ponies’ general disinterest in anything that couldn’t be farmed. Checking his mother and sister were busy with their own readings, he opened the book and removed the densely-written notepaper hidden between the pages. Now that he had a good opportunity to spend regular time in the Forest, Talib was eager to begin his experiments.
All those years ago, when he and Dawn had got their cutie marks, Talib’s magical obsession had broadened. The Everfree Forest, somehow, held the key. He couldn’t explain it, but he knew intuitively that something about the Forest had caused the failure of Miss Scribe’s magic, and the growth in power of Dawn’s, and so his reading list had suddenly and dramatically lengthened. But nothing in any of the books he had read could explain what had happened, and he had read everything he could find in Ponyville. He’d even taken trips to Canterlot, on his school holidays – just another lone, studious young pony on the train, with his head in a book – and read innumerable public-access documents on magic, becoming very familiar with Canterlot’s many libraries big and small, famous and obscure. They’d been interesting, but had not shed any further light on the Forest’s relationship, if any, with pony magic. After asking once, he’d been informed that it was impossible for the Royal Archives to be opened (to a nopony such as he, the bureaucrat had implied) so he hadn’t pushed his luck. Besides, he wasn’t optimistic he’d find anything in there, either – it seemed the idea of some kind of link between pony magic and the Forest was original to Talib.
Where books had remained silent, he had decided, experience must speak. Slowly, secretly, Talib had begun to explore the Forest. Whenever he could, he told some little lie about going to a friend’s, or (more believably) the library, and had snuck off into the greenery, against his parents’ explicit instructions. At first he’d not been sure what he was looking for, or how to find it, so he’d focused on familiarising himself with the terrain. As he’d expanded his mental map wider and deeper into the Forest, his attention had shifted to the environment and its inhabitants. Some more close calls with timberwolves taught him the value of stealth as well as caution, and moving like this he was often able to observe many of the shyest creatures, which most ponies frightened off with their careless clomping about. But nothing he’d found had explained his cutie mark.
He examined the plans he’d been drawing up and refining for the last few years as he learned more about the Everfree Forest: transplant experiments, growing Forest plants and farm crops in each others’ environment. The experiments had first suggested themselves to him in vague form some years earlier, when he’d been idly thumbing through one of Ghaliya’s crop breeding texts left on the table. Different plants, he read, flourished in different environments. One could do test plantings in a multitude of environments (or treatments) – sun, water, soil, wind and so forth – and record their performance, their productivity. The Everfree Forest was never far from his mind and so the idea of doing the same with Forest plants had suggested itself immediately. For thoroughness, reciprocal plantings of crop plants into the Forest seemed only sensible. With this setup, perhaps he could begin to make some headway in understanding the effect of the Forest on pony magic. He was no Unicorn, but he still had his Earth Pony magic. He just hoped it would be affected in the same way.
He traced the details on the page in from of him. Take some Forest seeds and seedlings, put them in disused corners of Sugarcane Farm fields. Do the same with farm crop plants in the Forest. Make some mixed plantings, in each location, of Forest and farm plants. Use different plants. Transplant the soil, too, for some plots. Record growth data. Randomize and replicate the whole thing. It was a lot of work, too much to run all at once, especially given how little spare time Old Sim was leaving him. He’d only be able to maintain a limited subset of plots at any given time, but could stagger the experiment, planting a new plot every time he retired a finished one. So what does my timeline look like…?
He continued sketching and scribbling, filling pages with numbers and diagrams and schematics and flowcharts until his frown felt permanently etched into his fog-filled skull. He stretched and leaned back in his seat, staring past the shelves of books and to the dimming sky through the high round window as he reflected glumly. It seemed his experiments were likely to take more of his time than he’d hoped. At this rate, he’d never get enough sleep. But any less rigorous experimental design and he wouldn’t be able to trust his results.
A solution presented itself to him, clear and unbidden from the hind-quarters of his mind, but he dismissed it out of hand and tried to think of another way. He didn’t want to lie to his parents any more than necessary. Melaco called them in to dinner but Talib was preoccupied throughout as he slurped down the delicious, pleasantly-spiced carrot soup with (of course) crunchy-crusted sourdough rolls. Afterwards though, as he and Bianca dried their hooves from the washing up, he finally accepted the necessity of this addendum to his plan. If he didn’t follow through, come hell or high water, it defeated the whole point of apprenticing with Old Sim in the first place.
As his family relaxed before getting ready for bed, Talib slipped outside into the night and walked over to the workshop. The creak of the door sounded as loud as an Ursa Major’s roar to his guilty ears, but nopony came out to ask him what he was doing. He lit a lantern and found his object: the pile of neatly-stacked practise planks, given by Old Sim in the hopes of improving his furniture-making skills, was exactly where they had been accumulating over the week in an unoccupied corner of the room. Hanging the lantern on a high nail Talib examined them, measuring and thinking, and again became absorbed in sketching and planning, this time a project of a rather different nature.
Chapter Six: Snooping and Meddling
The next morning, being his rest day, Talib treated himself to a relative sleep-in, rising with first light instead of before it. He shared a leisurely breakfast of poached eggs on toast with his family, continuing his modest self-indulgence with a rare cup of black coffee, before they all split off about their various errands for the day. Talib walked briskly over to Old Sim’s and knocked on the cottage door; there being no answer he then tried the workshop, entering and retrieving his now-dry carving from the previous afternoon. There was no sign of his mentor. Talib shrugged and went in to Ponyville. A light rain freshened the morning as he made the journey, and Talib waved greetings to Rainbow Dash and some other Pegasi busily wrangling the grey clouds above. It being necessary for their crop, the Cane farm had somehow finagled a special dispensation to receive hotter, sunnier weather than most of the surrounding area and this had given Talib an appreciation for cool, rainy days. They soothed his somewhat anxious nature and gave him a sense of peace and calm. Eschewing raincoat or galoshes, he tramped happily through the weather, anticipating a busy but pleasant day.
Heading through the drizzle-quietened streets, Talib made his way straight for Golden Oak library. The enormous, ancient tree was throwing down occasional but monstrous drops of water, consolidated on their journey through its canopy, and one smacked Talib right on the forehead as he trotted up and knocked on the door. It felt more like a hailstone.
“Coming!” came the preoccupied cry from inside.
After a surprisingly long wait, Twilight Sparkle herself opened the door, her Alicorn wings resting against her side as she continued giving some instructions to Spike and Owlowiscious.
“…and please find a reference work on traditional garments for such occasions.” She turned to look at the visitor and raised her head in recognition. “Oh, hello, Talib! How are you?”
“Pretty fair thanks, Twilight, pretty fair.”
“How’d your college applications go?”
“Oh, I uh… chose to apprentice under Old Sim instead,” he said, adding, at her uncomprehending look, “the old lumberpony out on the edge of the Everfree Forest?”
Twilight looked surprised, and a little disappointment tinged her voice as she said, “Oh, I thought maybe it was some magical scholar I hadn’t heard of. But your studies! Shouldn’t you be working away on some research project in a Canterlot archive somewhere?”
Used to the advice, Talib took no offence and just said simply, “I can spend more time in the Forest this way. Which brings me to my errand here today.”
Twilight just waited, looking at him pleasantly. Talib always felt a little more at ease around this other awkward, bookish pony, but right now her lack of social finesse was causing him some inconvenience. Another fat drop of rain bonked onto his skull as he reflected on the irony; perhaps this was what it was like for others, expecting awareness of social conventions from him. After the silence had gone on a little too long, Talib finally gave up and spoke.
“Um, Twilight? It’s raining out, might I come in?”
Her eyes widened in alarm, “Of course! Sorry, I didn’t think. Come in, come in!”
Passing under the peaked eaves, the tall young colt looked around the book-lined room and saw Spike and Owlowiscious busily searching the shelves for a text like the one Twilight had requested. He dried off with a towel left hanging thoughtfully on the coat hook as she closed the door behind him, having gazed appreciatively at the rain for a while.
“Don’t you just love rainy days?” she enthused, “Such a perfect excuse to stay in and read!”
“I do,” smiled Talib, “but I prefer to be out in the weather, myself.”
Twilight considered this, and shook her head. “Nope. My books would get wet.” She shrugged. “Takes all sorts, I suppose.”
“About books. I was hoping you could help me find something.”
“What’s that? You’ve already read everything we have on magic theory and history of the Forest, not that there’s much on the latter”
“True,” said Talib, always amazed at her perfect recollection of what everypony had and hadn’t read, “I’m interested in more applied topics today. Do you have anything on edible plants and fungi in the Forest?”
“Huh. I’m not sure… although, thinking about it, your best source might not be a book, but a pony. Or rather, a zebra.”
Talib nodded understanding. That was definitely a good idea, he’d have to seek out Zecora at some point. Just then, Spike shouted, “Found it, Twilight!” and jumped down from the ladder clutching a slim volume in his claws. If dragons could have special talents, Spike’s had to be his uncanny ability to always find exactly the right book. He handed it to Twilight – on the cover was a stylised young mare, elegantly dressed for dancing.
“Thanks, Spike! Now, see if you can find anything on edible plants and fungi of the Forest.”
Spike’s face twisted in distaste. “Euch. Okay, Twilight. Let’s go, Owlowiscious.”
Twilight gestured Talib into an armchair while he waited, and shouted upstairs, “Rarity! Found it!”
Talib winced, partly at the indoor shouting, partly at the revelation that there were more ponies present than he’d thought. Rarity occasionally took a big-sisterly concern at his lack of social involvement, and once or twice he’d overhead her and Bianca conspiring together on ways to help him “break in”. Thankfully, nothing had come of it. Yet.
Miss Unicorn herself soon appeared at the staircase and descended gracefully.
“Twilight, you know it’s uncouth to holler through the house so,” Talib nodded agreement even as he reclined deeper into the armchair, trying to blend in with its pattern, “but anyhow I’ve assessed your outfits and you simply must have a new gown for Spring Dance. You’ve quite a gap in your wardrobe, you know! Your Gala outfit is far too formal.”
Twilight acquiesced, delivering herself to her more knowledgeable friend’s expertise, and handed Rarity the book.
“Here’s what we’ve found so far.”
Rarity donned her spectacles and flipped the pages thoughtfully.
“Hmm, some of these are rather nice… why don’t you choose a few that you like, and I’ll update them for this year’s fashions?”
Twilight nodded as Owlowiscious flew over to Talib, carrying a similarly thin book with Spike jogging behind him.
“Here you are, Talib – Everfree Forest Edibles.”
His cover blown, Talib hastily grabbed the book and stuffed it in his weatherproof waxed-canvas pannier, giving his thanks to everyone and heading for the door-
“Talib Cane, you stop right there!” The indignant cry froze him in his tracks, and he sheepishly turned to face an upset Rarity, staring commandingly at him over her half-moon glasses.
“Now, don’t you think it’d be a little hurtful to leave without even acknowledging somepony?”
Impressive, thought Talib, she’s managed to give me social advice, guilt me into following it and avoid explicitly bossing me around, in one sentence .
“Sorry Rarity. It really is very nice to see you,” he extemporised hastily, “I guess I just got caught up in my excitement to read this book. How are you?”
A failing often displayed by her friend Twilight, Rarity could hardly chastise Talib very severely for it. She sighed, rolled her eyes, and settled her expression into a pleasant smile.
“I’m well thank you Talib, but very busy of course. I’m trying ,” she looked at Twilight doubtfully, “to make sure all my friends are suitably attired for the Spring Dance in a few seasons but of course the orders will just keep rolling in. Which reminds me.”
She rounded on him with determination.
“I am going to make you clothes for morning dress.”
Talib’s mind worked furiously, trying to figure out what she meant. Suddenly it came to him – Progress Miller’s apprenticeship gift! Talib had forgotten all about it. Had Progress really mentioned it to Rarity?
“It’s nice to know that someponies still appreciate the elegance of formalwear. Progress told me you were most taken with his outfit at the Summer Harvest Parade and has commissioned a similar set for yourself, as a gift. I believe you were aware of this?”
He nodded. He remembered the brief, self-conscious moment when he’d thought perhaps Applejack might admire him if he were as dashingly attired as Progress had been, but it had only been a temporary weakness. He knew that wasn’t the sort of thing Applejack valued. Neither did he, come to think of it. But there appeared no escape now, and he resigned himself to discomfort in the name of politeness, as usual.
“Well, it just so happens I have my tape with me,” said Rarity. Of course she does . “Now come over here and let me take your measurements!”
Talib dared not disobey. Rarity valued generosity highly, of course, and was also clearly flattered by the esteem in which Progress held her art and her talent. Then there was the fact that, when sporting her wares, he’d be a walking advertisement for her tailoring skills – his unusually long frame and limbs did not comfortably bear clothes bought ready-made, to his parents’ exasperation – so this was a smart commission for her. Talib tolerated the tape being whisked about his body and struck ridiculous poses as instructed while Rarity jotted notes and Twilight and Spike giggled surreptitiously at his discomfort. He used the time to be thankful it was only magical pseudo-hooves going anywhere near his body, and uncharitably pondering whether Rarity’s enthusiasm was also due, in part, to a big-sisterly desire to play dress-ups with a helpless younger-brother type…
Measurements taken, Talib hoped they were done but she produced a sketch pad and forced him to choose some of the details of the garment himself. He allowed his choices to be subtly and not-so-subtly guided by her hints about what she thought would suit him best, settling on dark-grey pants striped with lighter-grey, and a plain while shirt with turn-down collar. A waistcoat and tie (grey and silver, respectively – all very formal) would match the plain black morning-coat and complete the ensemble. He promised to swing by the Carousel Boutique the following weekend for the first fitting.
“And do you have something for the Spring Dance yourself, Talib, or shall we discuss it when we do the fitting?” inquired Rarity.
“Oh, I’m not going to the Dance,” said Talib, not thinking.
Oh, no…
Rarity looked offended, “Not going ? But everypony goes, after they graduate! What about your friends? And isn’t there somepony, some young filly you’d like to tread the boards with?”
An image of Applejack, elegantly dressed (for a change) and held close under warm stars as they danced to beautiful strings…
“Uh no, not really. Nope. I don’t particularly like crowds, you see,” he began to babble, “and it goes on a mite late for me. I need to get to bed soon after sundown, and uh…”
Everypony, plus Spike and Owlowiscious, was staring at him.
“Anyway, I’m sure I’ll have work to do…”
Applejack…
“Um, actually,” he said, more nervous by the second as he pulled a small box from his pannier, “could you give this to Applejack, please?” He’d nearly forgotten earlier, when fleeing for the door.
Twilight magically grabbed the plain brown cardboard box with her transparent purple aura and exclaimed, “Ooh! What’s this?” Her unthinking curiosity getting the better of her, she opened it, much to Rarity’s horror at the faux pas and Talib’s entirely different and deeper horror.
“Twilight! That’s very rude! What if it’s…” her voice trailed off a little, seeing the beautiful item rise from its container, “…private?”
A perfect, glossy wooden apple, complete with stem and a single thin wooden leaf, hovered in the air in front of the small gathering. It had been carved whole from a small burl and, were its warm wooden hues changed to red, would have looked perfectly edible.
“Oh, Talib… it’s lovely ,” said Rarity, her own blue glow carefully taking it from Twilight’s magic. Noticing the near-invisible seam around its circumference, Rarity opened it, revealing the container’s hollowed-out core. The two halves slotted together again perfectly, a single groove (similar to the ones on his plate set) lining them up so the grain was unbroken. Rarity gave him a quizzical but knowing look as she returned the object to its box.
“This is for Applejack?”
“Uhhhh…” he gulped, “yeah. She liked a similar piece we’d already sold, so…” his blush spread visibly under his creamy-yellow coat, all the way up to his forehead.
“We’ll make sure she gets it, Talib,” said Twilight reassuringly, “sorry for opening it.”
Rarity just looked thoughtful. Worse, he mentally corrected himself, that’s definitely a scheming expression.
Assuring Twilight it was alright, Talib said his hasty farewells and left, retreating in the direction of home as the rain cooled his burning cheeks. He probably only imagined the giggles issuing from the library window behind him.
Earlier that morning, before Talib had even got to the cottage and wondered where Old Sim might be, the object of his eventual curiosity was already on his way through the rain to Ponyville. Outwardly, the irascible, well-muscled old stallion appeared to be sporting his usual grumpy demeanour. However, for those who could read the signs – his brother, and these days Talib was learning, too – the determined glint in his eyes suggested he was on a mission to cause somepony trouble. And looking forward to it.
Arriving at the sparsely-populated outskirts of the town, where farmland transitioned into residence and commerce, the old lumberpony adjusted course slightly, making for the Town Square and the Ponyville Town Council buildings which overlooked it. Normally, apart from renewing his logging permit every year, Old Sim had as little to do with the hopeless Council ponies as possible. Apart from Mayor Mare they were, in his characteristically cynical opinion, the worst kind of bureaucrats – part-time and amateurish, but drawn to the roles for the supposed prestige they conferred. Today, however, he would grit his teeth and suffer fools. They had something he needed.
A pleasant, burbling little stream bordered half of Ponyville Town Square (which was, in fact, circular) and Old Sim crossed the simple hoofbridge as he entered. Not for the first time, he reflected wryly on the unimaginative, inappropriate name; the first Ponyville Town Council had apparently entirely lacked a sense of irony when they’d given it, but it hadn’t taken long for the playful townsfolk to begin calling it Ponyville’s Squared Circle. The current Council still showed no indication of getting the joke.
Old Sim skirted the impressive town hall and reached the far side of the Square. The Ponyville Council Offices occupied the largest building in the Square, a three-storey affair which, apart from its size, more or less blended in with the surrounding architecture. The building was divided into two wings; the left, blockish and unexciting, contained most of the archives and paper-shufflers, and was not generally open to the public. This was connected via a flyway, permitting ponies to pass underneath, to the rightmost, public wing; a pleasant, homey-style building with a small tower (where school trips got a good view of the Square as they were lectured), and which provided the interface between government and citizen.
Old Sim arrived, as was his custom, barely five minutes after the offices had opened, while they were still quiet. The aptly-named waiting room, unoccupied as yet, held some sofas and pot plants as well as a service desk where a single pony sat, lazily flicking through the morning’s Ponyville Express. Old Sim approached the desk but the preoccupied electric-blue Pegasus, a too-young filly perhaps getting some work experience between semesters, did not look up. Old Sim’s eyes narrowed in annoyance.
“I need access to the licenses and permits registry,” he barked roughly. The young Pegasus leaning back on her chair was startled out of her wits, overbalanced and fell backwards. She scrambled up, hooves heaving her back above the desk, but the baleful glare which greeted her made her wish she’d stayed under.
“Ah, right, um…” she stammered, flustered, “everypony’s in a meeting right now. Perhaps you could wait?” She gestured hopefully to the couches with an uncertain smile.
Old Sim placed a hoof to his forehead. Meetings , he thought darkly. The Council ponies loved Meetings, it seemed. He imagined them capitalising the word like that, very official-looking. A really good Meeting could last them most of the day, whereas actual Work had a disappointing tendency to get finished, and then there was the next bit of Work to do. A pointless cycle, it doubtless seemed to them – much better to have Meetings, where work could be planned and discussed and debated and revised and budgeted endlessly, without ever having to move forward. He snorted derisively. No, he would not wait.
“Look, my little pony,” he began, sounding weary but quarrelsome, “this here’s my one rest day all week, and if you think I’m going to spend it on that couch waiting the Council’s pleasure you’ve got another think coming. I’ve been coming here for my logging permit since before you were a thought, and if you want me to go up to their Meeting and tell Councillor Filthy Rich that their work-experience filly kept me waiting for no good reason, I’ll gladly do so.” Hopefully, he’d struck the right balance of genuine threat and pain-in-the-rump attitude…
The frightened Pegasus looked at him hesitantly, clearly swayed. Now for the honey.
“Now, I don’t mean to come in here and bluster at you,” he continued in a conciliatory tone, “but I’m a real busy working pony and I’ve done this dozens of times before. Why don’t you do me a good turn so we don’t have to bother the Councillor, and you can get back to reading your newspaper?”
She thought, frowning, for a moment, then shrugged and nodded. Whether she just wanted him out of her mane or was genuinely worried about his apparent familiarity with the Council, he didn’t care. She closed the outer door and flipped the “back in five” sign forward, then led him through a rear door, up some stairs and over the flyway into the dim, dusty records room. High, shelved walls, covered in diamond-shaped pigeonholes in dark wood, repeated off into the invisible depths. In the ravines between the cliff-like shelves, clerk-ponies worked in oases of light at simple desks, shuttling all manner of documents in all directions via Pegasus assistant. It was a busy time of year, with everypony reporting their harvest yields and incomes for tax, sending weather requests for the next growing season and so forth. Despite the activity, the sound was kept to a barely-audible susurration.
Some clerks had looked up at the visitor, and Old Sim nodded recognition to a couple of the permit-clerks he knew. Seeing he was familiar with the room, the filly left him to go back to her desk and newspaper, hopefully away from pushy old stallions. Picking up one of the special fire-safe lanterns he headed straight for the logging permits, grabbing a ladder on the way and rolling it on its rails beside him till he reached the correct section. A column of pigeonholes, arranged alphabetically from floor to ceiling, ran A to P, and the one to its right Q to Z. This meant his target, Progress Group, was at the very top of the column to his left. He sighed, not enjoying heights, lined up the ladder and began the climb.
On the way, he passed “T” to his right and shook his head in disbelief to see the number of permits bearing his name. There were more than fifty, and once you included the ones for his father and brother they numbered somewhat over a hundred. The permits were hard evidence of the seemingly-impossible amount of time behind him, but like most ponies working the land Old Sim had no qualms about accepting his mortality. Life, he had learned, was inextricably bound to death like light and dark, day and night; two necessary sides of the same coin. He chuckled softly to himself. He sounded like Glade-
No. He would not think of her.
He looked down, using his nervousness at height to dispel the tumultuous thoughts, gripped the ladder hard and climbed on. Finally reaching P, he carefully rifled through the pigeonholes till he found Progress Group. He unrolled the scroll and skipped through the usual stipulations about acceptable felling rates to the number he sought.
How many acres had Progress bought a permit for?
The family were seated in the kitchen, waiting for lunch, when Talib walked in from the rain. Melaco fetched him a towel and some hot tea while Ghaliya got up to check on the roast vegetables. Bianca, less domestic, rounded on him without greeting, almost like Old Sim would have.
“What’s this Rarity tells me about you not going to the Dance?” she demanded, smacking her hoof on a courier scroll on the table. Talib could see a few lines in Rarity’s elegant hand, but the quality stationery was definitely Twilight’s.
News travels too darned fast, he lamented, when the overly-efficient Owlowiscious is involved . Mentally cursing all fleet-winged creatures and the tactical advantage they gave scheming mares, he already felt himself starting to shut off and withdraw.
“I’m not planning to go,” he said, shrugging and outwardly flippant.
“You have to go,” said his sister simply, “it’s your first year after graduation. Everypony goes then.” Talib stayed quiet.
“Everypony will be there, honey,” said Ghaliya, standing up from the oven in a warm waft of pumpkin and eggplant, “it’ll be exceedingly strange if you aren’t. Ponies will notice and talk.” She looked sideways at her nodding husband and daughter, apparently unsure how to phrase her next line. “Many already think you feel too good for them, I hear.”
Talib was shocked. How could anypony get it so wrong?
“That’s ridiculous. I’m just uncomfortable with lots of ponies around!”
“You go to Summer Harvest Parade, don’t you?” Bianca said. He glared at her.
“That’s different. Everypony’s too busy and distracted to bother about me, there. At the Dance, they’ll all feel like they need to come corner me and chat about the graduation. I-” he cut himself off, recognising the pattern. Argument would get him nowhere. A better tactic was to go sideways – play for time, let them think they had him coming round, and just… not show up, or something. Not making his case, but deceiving them while quietly sabotaging their goals. Like he’d done with the college applications. And work he had planned for tonight, come to think of it… this was in danger of becoming an unattractive personality flaw, it seemed.
But I don’t see another way to-
To what? To get his way? He shook his head and sighed. Moral philosophy could wait. Right now, he needed to get them off the subject. Semi-feigned exasperation should do it.
“OK! I’ll ask around, see who anyone else is going, and then we’ll see. Alright?”
Sensing victory, his parents smiled. His father looked particularly relieved.
“They’ll all be going, Talib, you’ll see.” He switched into jocular mode, trying to wash out the bad taste of the disagreement, “Anyway, who wants food?”
They set to eating and only Talib’s sister still regarded him with suspicion, but she kept her thoughts to herself. He had a feeling this was not the last he’d be hearing on the subject. Conversation turned to other matters, though, and Talib eventually brought out his cover story for the evening’s plans.
“I’ve been thinking about my work hours,” he started vaguely, watching his parents’ reactions. No alarm bells yet. “It seems silly to have such long days and a long walk to and from work. Old Sim’s offered to put me up in his living room, and I think I might just take him up on it, now and again.”
His parents looked surprised, as he’d expected.
“Oh,” said Ghaliya, “I suppose that makes sense… we’d miss you, though.”
“You barely see me except on my day off. I’m rarely in the house while you’re awake. And,” he continued, pressing his case, “I’d still come home if I finish early enough to see everyone. It’s just for those days where I’d get home after you’re all in bed.”
Melaco looked reluctant, but clearly saw the sense in the idea.
“Alright, son – but try to be home when you can, hear?”
Talib nodded casually, hiding his elation. After lunch, he excused himself by saying he was going to go practise some furniture-making through the afternoon and then stay the night at Old Sim’s. Nearly… half true , he thought. Leaving Melaco and Bianca to wash up, he went outside, noticing the weather turned surprisingly warm and clear, then walked to the workshop and let himself in. Stacking the practise planks and some tools in the Canes’ smallest cart, the young colt swiped his auburn mane away from his eyes and waved to his family through the kitchen window before heading off, ostensibly, towards Old Sim’s. As soon as he was out of sight, however, he took a sharp left onto a Forest trail he knew well, and let the welcoming trees take him into their cool green world.
“Look Sim, I’m not calling you a liar,” said Filthy Rich with infuriating patience, “I’m just saying they passed inspection.” Sim snorted again, an expressive action imbued with a depth of feeling all his own. Filthy Rich leaned back out of the blast zone.
Sim had nearly fallen off his ladder when he’d seen the zoning on the permit. If it had been a small number, as he’d expected, things would have been simple. A few back-of-the-envelope calculations would have convinced the Council that there was no way Progress could extract so much lumber while keeping to permissible harvest limits. But the opposite was true; the area covered by the permit was stupendous, gratuitous, unbelievable. With such an expanse, it was theoretically possible to produce as much lumber as Sim had seen going through the red-brown doors on Wood Pile’s warehouse, and still be within regulations. But Sim still didn’t believe it, though it’d taken him a while to match reason to intuition. When it had dawned on him, sensibly back on terra firma, his breath had caught in his throat. Progress might be fairly accused of audacity, but certainly not stupidity. Especially if, as it now appeared, he’d hoodwinked the inspectors. Old Sim had busted in and interrupted the Meeting immediately, to the surprise of the Council.
“It’s the speed , don’t you see?” said Old Sim, circling some figures he’d written on scrap paper, “Regular harvesting takes a lot of time – you’ve got to cruise the area, survey and mark suitable trees, prepare a centralised staging ground, plan haulage routes, and all that before you set steel to trunk. Even then you’ve got lumberponies cutting widely-distributed trees, which is much slower than clear-felling.” He stared at the councillors earnestly. “To do that over such an enormous area, and produce lumber as quickly as I’ve seen, well it just ain’t feasible.”
The councillors looked doubtful, eleven of them arrayed around a plain rectangular table in the unremarkable meeting room. Old Sim had never bothered learning most of their names. One elderly unicorn mare, a blowhard busy-body named Blythe Booke, shook her indigo mane.
“But we’ve seen that Progress Group employs a great many lumberponies,” she replied, “he must simply have enough to achieve what you claim is impossible. Whatever your commercial dispute with Progress Group, there is no evidence they’re doing anything wrong.”
Commercial dispute! Old Sim was getting ever more frustrated. These idiot councillors just aren’t going to take me seriously, he thought. One last try.
“I didn’t say it was impossible,” he said, struggling gamely for civility, “I said it wasn’t feasible. Employing the number of ponies needed, even at minimum wage, would make the whole venture operate at a loss. And nopony would work that far out for minimum wage. These numbers don’t add up and that’s just a fact, entirely separate from any commercial competition between us.” He glared at Blythe challengingly, but his forbidding temper and age held no sway with the equally formidable and elderly unicorn.
“And I said the inspectors found that the work was being carried out to exemplary standards,” she retorted, “which is more than we can say for someponies.” She looked peeved.
It took Old Sim a while to follow her implication. “Not this again!” he exclaimed. His patience, thin to start with and kept only by heroic effort, was finally lost. “I’m not felling trees for charcoal, I’m using off-cuts!” This was an old argument, hinging on archaic and unclear regulations, over which he’d butted heads with the Council for twenty-odd years. As a result, Old Sim was something of an equus non grata at these meetings. His irritable outbursts, such as this one, did little to help his case.
Filthy Rich stepped in placatingly, heading off another shouting match. “Sim, what can I say? The inspectors went out there, had a look around, and saw nothing amiss.”
“They can’t have seen the whole area,” countered Sim.
“Of course, it’s massive.”
“And I’m willing to bet Progress gave them the personal treatment.”
“I believe he did.”
“Then send them again,” concluded Old Sim, “And this time, tell them not to be guided around like puppies on a leash!”
Filthy Rich, though sympathetic, was running out of patience himself. He was a busy pony, with a business to run, and Sim’s hasty calculations just hadn’t convinced. He glanced at his fob watch. Time to bring this to an end . He started listing obstacles, tapping his hoof along the table as he did so.
“It’s at least a three week round-trip around to the other side of the Everfree Forest, and none of our inspectors are Pegasi. Even if they were, you know Pegasi don’t like to fly over it on account of the… odd weather. Among other things. The inspectors have to see it with their own eyes. It’s just not something we can do spur-of-the-moment,” he took a breath, “but I tell you what, Sim. You write this up properly, make your case as clear as possible, and we’ll consider your report in detail at the next fortnightly meeting, OK?”
Old Sim looked at them, his anger replaced with disbelief, and simply walked out.
How long has it been? Talib wondered as a sense of peace settled on him, a month? Too long. A scent of humus and, in this part of the Everfree Forest, pine needles beguiled his nostrils and he flared them widely, drinking the scent like a liquor. Without realising it, he slowly started changing: his apologetic stoop straightened and he walked his full, impressive height; his ears came alive, pivoting lazily but unceasingly this way and that, recognising a bird call here, a small rustling body in the undergrowth there; his eyes relaxed from their full-sun squint and adjusted to the green-filtered light, seeking out familiar landmarks. This part of the Forest was very well known to him, and he was home.
He struck off on a side path, deeper into the Forest, deftly manoeuvring his small cart along the trail. Occasionally, a particularly large stone or a water-cut furrow forced him to unhitch and guide it through by hoof, but generally the trail was well-cleared. He’d been the one keeping it so, following it frequently to its destination, as he did now, to seek solitude and contemplation. His relaxed, alert state was now tinged with excitement as he drew near, the sound of trickling water locking his ears forward.
The sound had expanded to include the deep hiss of a small waterfall when he cleared the dense trees and emerged joyfully into the small glade. A little hummock, carpeted with moss and clover, crouched beside a brook as though for a drink. The top was quite flat except for two sizeable boulders which met to form a small alcove, which Talib had marked for his lean-to. The waterfall was of a similar scale, barely two feet high, and clear water flowed over variously-sized stones, polished smooth and round by time and friction, and thinly covered with brown algae upon which tiny fish browsed. The scene was perfect.
Hauling his load to the flat-topped hummock, Talib unloaded everything and laid out the planks. He grabbed his plans for the rude shanty, drawn up in haste last night, and contemplated them laid flat on a board, making small revisions now that he was in the context of the glade. As satisfied as he’d ever be, he hammered together a couple of small sawhorses from the pre-cut beams he’d brought and got to work. Through the afternoon and into the evening the usually-quiet retreat was filled with the sounds of sawing and hammering as Talib assembled a rough shelter. By the time the light had faded enough to need a lantern in the still-warm evening, he was done. He stood back and surveyed his work.
From each of the two flat-walled boulders projected a very rough wooden wall, and these joined more or less at right angles to enclose the alcove, a space just large enough for the tall colt to lie down. Each wooden wall also supported boards for half the roof, which met in the middle. Entry and exit was by the simplest means imaginable: the two wooden walls were simply lifted and separated at the join, pivoting on sunken posts as he dragged them over the earth, and when closed were fastened with steel hook-and-eyelet fittings. In the back corner, where the two ancient boulders had ground each other to a perfectly impassable seam, Talib placed a wooden chest onto some offcuts so it was slightly elevated off the ground. Anything inside, he reasoned, should be mostly protected from the damp and wind. The whole inexpert thing was completely unlovely, draughty and wretched, but it would protect Talib from the worst of the weather, and anyway it was by no means his long-term solution.
Talib had realised, looking at the timeframe for his experiments, that to make it work he simply had to find a way of spending more time in the Forest. The only place he seemed able to save time was the significant round-trip, around two to three hours, from Sugarcane Farm to Old Sim’s cottage. He’d have to start sleeping in the Forest. He’d spent quite a few nights, over the last few years of exploration, camping out in the Forest for up to a week at a time but always sleeping and travelling light, and such deprivation was not practical on a regular basis. He’d needed someplace secure, comfortable and practical as a base from which to carry out the Everfree Forest component of his experiments.
Talib placed his tools, paper and other valuables inside the chest and went out to sit on the cart and eat his packed dinner. He watched through the gap in the trees as the day’s fire retreated at last even from the clouds, leaving only cool blue-black void around silvery tufts. Spending evenings in the Forest certainly had its advantages. Of course, his current hovel was merely temporary, while he worked on the permanent, larger cabin. He envisioned something small but cosy, with a frame of stout beams and clad in overlapping wooden shingles to keep the weather out. There were a lot more details to sort out, but would have to wait for another day.
Sighing contentedly, he stood and stacked the leftover beams and boards near the boulder, placing the empty cart upside down on top of them, before going to bathe and drink in the brook. The shallow water was ice-cold and his heart quickly pumped warm blood away from his extremities to his core; managing to submerge by lying dead flat, he held his breath and deliberately slowed his pulse as the gentle current passed through his coat and over his skin. Talib couldn’t remember ever passing up the opportunity to practise holding his breath underwater, but had no particular goal in doing so. He seemed to remember it beginning with Bianca as a competition between siblings, but it had become habit. On a good day, he was getting on towards two minutes.
Unfortunately, the frantic early beating of his heart, shocked at the cold water, had stolen some of his reserves and he was well shy of a personal best when he came up for air. He scrubbed and relaxed a bit more, numb to the cold now, before emerging on the far bank and looking up again at the dark, as he loved to do. The evening’s washed-clean sky was pure and deep between luminous clouds, and like a still, clear liquid it slaked some kind of thirst in Talib. He tore his gaze away and fossicked in the undergrowth for bedding, tearing off some ferns and other soft plants. He’d sleep in the open comfortably tonight, but he had observed signs that autumn’s chill might arrive in the Forest on its own schedule, a little earlier than planned for Ponyville, and he’d doubtless need the shelter in a few weeks. As he picked a last green fan from the ground covering, something unusual caught his eye in the crook of an exposed tree root nearby. Getting closer, he could see that around the root – which was lifted up clear of the soil – some very strong, very thin twine had been wrapped. Talib undid the expert knot curiously and lifted it to his lantern for a better look. The other end had been tied in a loop with a sliding knot and Talib, when the realisation struck him, dropped it in horror.
Fashioned with an art born of long practise, the simple object at his hooves was a hunter’s snare.
Chapter Seven: Sharing the Darkness
For a few nights after discovering the snare, Talib had slept in his lean-to, and uneasily; the one-eyed sleep of a prey animal in the territory of a predator. Equestria was for the most part devoid of large carnivores, and whenever ponies did encounter such unwelcome animals they inspired unease and mistrust. He now wished he’d had more thought for security and bought some heavy bolts for his makeshift “door”, even though he doubted they’d be effective in such a ramshackle construction. But, for all his nerves, there was no further sign of the hunter – whoever they were.
The camp in the forest had, at least, fulfilled its role and drastically reduced his commute to Old Sim’s cottage. Instead of a brisk half-trot of around an hour from Sugarcane Farm, he now only had to stroll for less than half that time through pleasant Forest trails. At work, yawning and stupid from tense half-sleep the morning after his discovery, Talib was informed they would spend the week felling trees in the Everfree Forest. Though tempted to further reduce his travelling and suggest Old Sim meet him in the Forest every morning, Talib thought it prudent not to reveal his changed lodgings just yet – he’d no idea how the old pony would take it. He seemed to value family remarkably highly, for a bachelor stallion. Talib supposed it was a case of advice being easier to give than to follow.
So, on that first morning of the new week, Old Sim marched him with determination into the trees, their burdens surprisingly light. No saws or axes, no heavy carts or sleds slowed their advance; only victuals stocked their saddlebags, except Talib had brought his “Everfree Forest Edibles”, as yet unread, on the off chance he got some time to forage for wild food. To these negligible loads Old Sim had added only, for each pony, some kind of long flat tool with a wooden handle sticking out of a canvas scabbard. On hefting it Talib surmised, from long familiarity cutting sugarcane, they were large machetes, though their use in this unfamiliar context he could not guess. Certainly no tree of useful size would fall to their blows. But as they walked further from the open, sunny clearing where Old Sim had his cottage, the lumber-pony became uncharacteristically talkative.
“Now listen up, colt. You handled the timber-processing alright,” he looked Talib up and down, sideways, as they walked, “for an academic. But now comes the hard part. You’ll be learning at this for as long as you’re practicing silviculture, mark my words. I still am.”
“Silviculture?” Talib had not heard the phrase before.
“Aye. Simple meaning of it is, you can’t just cut down any tree you please.”
The younger pony nodded in agreement. “OK, that’s pretty obvious, otherwise there’d be no difference between this and clear-felling. But... why , exactly, if that’s not too obvious a question? And how do you know which trees to cut?”
Old Sim considered for a while before replying, “Well, to the second question, I’ll just say; watch and learn. We’ll cruise the area today, marking trees for felling, and just you mind what kind of trees we choose.” The machetes suddenly made sense to Talib – he supposed chalk might run off in the rain, and anyway it would just have been another consumable to replace. “As for why, that’s deeper. We want to fell the right trees to maintain a steady supply of similar trees over the years, and without placing too strong a mark on the Forest. Different animals and trees interact with each other in different ways, so for example if we take too many of one type, it’ll hurt the critters and such that rely on them most. And then there’s flow-on effects from that. Best to tread lightly.”
Talib felt he might be overstating his influence. “But you take so little, surely it doesn’t make all that much difference?” The grizzled old stallion looked at him sharply, and then away up into the canopy as they walked, his sure hooves never once faltering. His apprentice was reminded how long Old Sim had lived and worked here - several of Talib’s lifetimes.
“You still don’t really know the Forest, for all your reading and traipsing about. Everything affects everything, even in some small, distant way. Whenever something changes, something else will exploit the new situation. Those effects become more noticeable when they stretch through space – and time. I might not have been taking much, but I’ve been doing it since before your time, or your father’s. And though the amount may be tiny compared to the overall size of the Everfree Forest, remember any community, however large, is still made up of individuals. There’s been many, many individual animals and plants who’ve been advantaged, and disadvantaged, by the trees I’ve taken.”
Old Sim sounded grave, like he bore the weight of every single life he’d harmed. Talib was transfixed. The transformation from no-nonsense working pony to hoary old sage was natural and convincing – so which was the real Sim Timber? And where in Equestria had this version come from? Talib hadn’t had the courage to ask much about Old Sim’s history, except to learn that his father, Spruce “Pappy” Timber, had been the one who had taught his son the trade. Had Pappy Timber been some kind of mystic?
Old Sim wasn’t done. “It’s not the same Forest it would have been without me. Nopony may cross the same river twice.”
Talib shook his head uncertainly. “I’ve never heard that phrase before.”
“Some famous dead pony said it,” Old Sim waved a forehoof in characteristic irreverence for authority, “means to say that, moment to moment, the river is not really the same river, not in the way we think. The water is different, differently distributed, having come from somewhere else – we construct the river in our minds, and say it is the same thing which we perceived a moment ago, but can’t reconcile ourselves with the fundamental changeability which is the nature of things. Including the Forest. When I cut down a tree this is, in a very important sense, no longer the same forest.”
Talib nodded dumbly, not quite comprehending. Such metaphysics had, so far, held little interest for him. Old Sim had completely ambushed him with it.
“I hadn’t realised logging was such a philosophical activity,” he said with levity.
Old Sim regarded him carefully, alert to any signs of mockery. Talib, however, projected nothing but innocent humour, clearly intended to disarm a conversation he was not following. Old Sim shook his head, despairing a little of his student.
“Everything worth doing is, once you scratch the surface. Or should be, if you’re bothered to do it right.”
They fell silent as they walked, Talib considering this oblique rebuke. Clearly Old Sim thought the subject was a serious one, for all that it seemed to Talib like overly conceptual hoof-waving. Talib was used to more solid lines of thought – this is observed, which can be explained by this underlying mechanism. The abstract nature of Old Sim’s musings was quite alien to his analytical mind but he struggled valiantly nonetheless. This occupied him so thoroughly he barely noticed when they walked into a middling-sized clearing and Old Sim stopped, pulling out a rough hoof-drawn map and began tracing their week on it.
This would be their staging ground, it seemed. The experienced lumberpony, protégé in tow, would apparently “cruise” the area he had demarcated on the paper, marking with their machetes the most suitable trees for felling. That accomplished, they’d return with axes, saws and low, flat-trayed carts and begin felling, “skimming” the fallen trees to the staging ground and stacking them in the large carts. At the end of each day they’d return to Old Sim’s workshop and unload. Eventually, this would result in a log pile like the one they’d processed the preceding week.
The first couple of days, however, were exclusively dedicated to cruising and marking trees. Talib slowly got a feel for the eligible types; there were considerations of size, age, and straightness of trunk, but more difficult to grasp were the contextual considerations. The amount of canopy removed, the presence of local species able to exploit the space created, and the local species abundance of a potential mark needed to be assessed. It required extensive knowledge and experience which, for all his ramblings, he’d not yet accrued. Talib had no time to glance at Everfree Forest Edibles as he’d hoped.
In the evenings he’d return to his hut and use the time, as well as his pre-dawn lantern-light routine, to prepare the ground for his cabin and experiments. Continuing the pretence of furniture-making practise, Talib regularly lifted dry planks and beams from the warehouse for the construction. To ease his conscience, he reasoned that, whether he made a wardrobe or a cabin, he was still getting the basic carpentry experience which Old Sim had suggested, so he was following the spirit of his mentor’s words, if not the precise meaning. And indeed, as the foundations took shape, he was improving – his joins were now tolerably square and some introductory books on the subject were very helpful. On the second evening he returned to Old Sim’s workshop with the old lumberpony and asked to restart his furniture-making practise; with his mentor looking on, providing instruction and answering his questions, the secret, nascent cabin had a chance of becoming almost comfortable. Before heading back to his camp, Talib also made it a habit to noodle away at his woodworking for a while so they’d have another selection to sell come market day.
Preparations for his experiments, too, were coming along nicely. He’d taken some crop seeds, which would not be missed, from Sugarcane Farm and begun transplanting them into a few plots he’d managed to set up in the environments around his Forest shanty. Similarly, he found time to plant Forest seeds or seedlings into a couple of plots at Sugarcane Farm. He imagined his parents’ growing bafflement at the increasing takeover of their unused corners of land. Probably he could explain it as some kind of agricultural experiment – another half-truth. As one plot matured and he collected results, he’d strip out the growth and re-plant with the next treatment in his regime. Every day he’d plant a couple of new plots, hoping to have a full cohort established before Autumn began in earnest. Surveying his notes, the task ahead seemed daunting, but taking it one day at a time should see him make the steady progress he’d sketched in his experimental timeline.
His preparations gave him one concerning experience, however. One evening while out quietly sitting near one of his experimental plots, writing notes and thinking, Talib had been treated to a very rare sight indeed – a Greater Everfree Warbler. The odd-looking, jowly bird had perched in some trees across from him, just for a moment, before it had sensed his presence, perhaps hearing his sharp intake of breath. The chronically-shy species had dived off deeper into the Forest and vanished. After recovering from his surprise, Talib grew worried – to his knowledge the bird was never, never seen in this part of the Forest, but was confined to a range far to the East; towards Progress’s logging camp. It would not generally travel this far into unfamiliar territory, away from the Honeysuckle Orchid whose nectar it drank, unless... unless driven out, he though, one way or another . Talib’s brow furrowed.
After a couple of days, enough trees had been marked for them to begin felling. Swinging an axe or dragging a saw through the wood, pulling alternately as a team, four cuts – top, bottom, back and felling – were made in a trunk to remove a wedge from each side, which nearly met in the middle. Old Sim, well-practised after decades of toil, could apparently make a tree fall wherever he pleased, whereas Talib had to look lively and be ready to leap out of the way if the tons of solid oak or yew began to tip menacingly in his direction. The cry of Timber! which Talib had imagined to be just stereotype was, Old Sim assured him, deadly serious business, and never neglected. The old stallion’s usually level voice was raised to an impressive volume. After the echoes of the stupendous crash had died away, they’d approach and strip the small branches and slice everything else up into manageable lengths, before ponyhandling them onto the cart and returning to the staging ground. Every evening an unbelievably heavy cartload of logs would be dragged, the two ponies hitched side by side and panting with effort, back to the workshop and unloaded.
The work was exhausting. Although Talib’s body had begun to adjust to the cutting and stacking of lumber over the previous week, he was now pulling much heavier loads and, it seemed, torturing an entirely new collection of muscles. The sauna continued to be a balm and a comfort, the steam exerting an almost magical healing influence over his pained flesh. Mornings were difficult, but Talib forced himself to rise by lantern-light day after day, before dawn, as his experiments and cabin slowly continued to take shape. For the latter, he’d levelled off an area at the top of the little hillock in his secret glade and put down sturdy timber sleepers for the foundations. The soil on the elevated hillock seemed well-drained, so Talib reasoned that damp rot wouldn’t be a problem. On top of these were slightly less massive beams, fitted crosswise into place, which would support the floating floorboards he’d ultimately install.
First, though, hopefully in the next week or two, the four skeletal walls would be going up; a grid of solid beams similar to the floor supports, reinforced with diagonal lengths. Boards would be nailed in place on top of these, angled and overlapped slightly to allow rain to run off. The timber-shingled roof was certainly going to be a challenge, but Talib had high hopes of getting it on before the first serious downpour. If persistent rain threatened to damp and spoil the interior he could always cart in a load of straw thatching from Sugarcane Farm as a stopgap – once he had the roof beams up. Some days the project seemed absurdly ambitious, but piece by piece the cabin began to come together.
Talib worked with sense of urgency beyond his concern for mere weather, however. Despite his fatigue he did not spare himself a single moment, not even to read the Edibles . Since discovering the snare nearby he had very real concerns that its owner, passing nearby to check it, could hardly fail to notice his little camp. If he could help it, Talib had no desire to leave himself exposed to... carnivores , he thought, the hairs of his nape standing rigidly upright. While wandering between experimental plots he often felt a tingling on the back of his head, and he could not be sure if it was mere paranoia or some crude version of Pinkie Sense telling him he was being watched. Once or twice when checking an experiment in the Forest he’d come across some odd scuff-marks on the ground nearby. They didn’t appear to be a trail per se , since they did not arrive from or lead anywhere, but something had definitely disturbed the ground nearby and then... obscured its footprints? Talib wouldn’t have noticed them at all if he hadn’t been paying close attention to the environment in which he was situating his experiments, to ensure the replicates were in similar locations. Unsure what to make of it and seeing no way of investigating, all he could do was ignore them for the present, and keep his ears up.
With a couple of days of work left until market day, Old Sim told him to pack some overnight gear as they’d be camping in the Forest – though he didn’t say why. Talib did so, slightly annoyed at being kept away from his cabin and experiments, but there was no way he could either sneak off or come clean to the old lumberpony. Talib wasn’t sure how Old Sim would interpret his side-projects; he wasn’t going to take the risk that his employer would decide Talib had too much time on his hands and give him more work.
That day, their routine was different; as well as the one large logging sled, Old Sim loaded up a smaller cart and filled it with the offcuts from timber-making. Without needing to ask, understanding dawned on Talib: they were going to make charcoal. On their now-familiar route to the staging ground, Old Sim explained the arcane procedure; how aerated, fiercely-burning fuel was used to heat other wood, starved of oxygen, over several days until it formed charcoal. When they reached the clearing, a little before mid-morning, they piled the offcuts into a sizeable dome, with a cylindrical gap forming a sort of chimney right down the middle. Talib helped Old Sim load well-consolidated turf in a thick layer over the top, and the old stallion then climbed right over the thing and dropped a fiercely-burning brand down the chimney. The spry old hoof leapt nimbly onto the ground and began circling the pile, removing a few clods of soil around the base to permit air to be sucked through into the chimney.
There followed a delicate dance of adding and removing turf to control the combustion; too cold, and charcoal would not form at all, too hot and most of the wood simply became ash. After observing and fiddling for a couple of hours Sim finally seemed satisfied and they went off felling more trees. Every time they dragged a fresh log to the staging ground Old Sim would check the charcoal pyre with concern, making adjustments as necessary. Like a fussing mare with a foal , Talib thought to himself; and indeed the pyre needed almost as much attention, as he discovered that night when told they’d be sleeping in shifts, taking turns to mind the combustion.
Not previously having had much opportunity, Talib tried to stay awake during his shifts, in between tending the charcoal, by finally flipping through Everfree Forest Edibles . It proved to be a well-written guide, and Talib mentally chided himself for not thinking to broaden his reading before now. For each entry, ordered by a simple morphological classification, the author provided quality drawings, a list of common and scientific names, where and when it might be found, which bits were edible and with what preparation, and finally a guide to similar-looking but inedible or poisonous species. There was an impressive amount of information; doubtless the result of a lifetime’s dedicated study, and Talib wondered why the apparently eminent botanist had not chosen to put their name to their work.
The palatability of some entries was common knowledge, like the watercress he habitually gathered; a few more, Talib knew about from his more extended reading on Forest plants. Most of the book, however, was filled with plants he either didn’t know were edible, or didn’t know at all. Fungi were another matter, being more difficult to identify and to distinguish the food species from the poisonous. Talib studied the volume closely, taking notes by firelight on the paper he generally carried, and tentatively identified a few species he’d seen growing near his shack. He then rose and rooted around the undergrowth surrounding the clearing, discovering a type of grass called ropeweed which he’d never tried. He tasted a few blades - they weren’t as sweet as meadowgrass, but had a slight sour note which was not altogether unpleasant.
His shift had trickled away while reading, and he gratefully went to wake Old Sim, placing the book nearby. His employer was fast asleep and snoring uproariously in a way which reminded Talib of their sawing earlier in the day. The old lumberpony fought hard against wakefulness, but determined prods with Talib’s forehoof finally roused him and, snorting and yawning, he rose from his sleeping roll to take his shift. His bleary, wrinkled eyes, casting around as if looking for something to blame for being forced open, instead lit upon the book lying nearby. They widened in surprise.
“Well clip my mane and call me Bristly. Where in Equestria did you dig up that old thing?”
Talib was surprised. “Uh, Golden Oak Library… you know it?”
“Ought to. My pappy wrote it. Never much cared for wild food, myself.”
If he’d been surprised before, Talib was downright shocked now. His imagined reclusive but erudite botanist was Spruce “Pappy” Timber? How could that be?
“But… but there’s a lifetime – or several – of scholarship gone into that book! How could your pappy possibly have found the time for all that research, when he had to work full-time?”
“Heh. And look after two growing colts. Well, he may have had some help.”
“Help? From who? Who knows that much about the Forest? And why did they publish anonymously?”
Old Sim’s expression shut down suddenly at Talib’s probing. “Never you mind. Go to sleep, I’ll wake you at morning.”
Reluctantly, Talib did so. His mind was alive with questions and sleep did not come easily, but he knew better than to push Old Sim. If he didn’t want to talk, continuing to press the tight-lipped stallion would not end well. The last scene Talib saw that night was Old Sim, sitting quietly by the pyre and leafing through the Edibles, alternately smiling faintly and staring off into the trees, wistfully.
Next morning it was Talib’s turn to attempt to ignore the hoof pawing at his shoulder. But Old Sim, not famed for his patience, quickly escalated to half-serious kicks and Talib climbed the last few levels of consciousness rapidly, before the muscly old stallion really put his back into it. After a quick breakfast from his pannier, supplemented with some ropeweed, they left the pyre to mind itself and went back to felling. A little before lunch, Talib and Old Sim were just approaching a marked tree when they were diverted by a frantic scurrying in the underbrush. The noise was not unusual – small, flighty animals were often heard fleeing as the ponies stomped about – but this thrashing, rather than retreating rapidly away from them, was going nowhere. Quietly, they went to investigate.
Nearing the noise, Old Sim gestured for Talib to push aside the ferns, and he did so with trepidation. The two ponies caught their breath in shock. A small ferret of some kind Talib was unfamiliar with was struggling, unsuccessfully, to free itself from a snare like the one Talib had seen near his cabin. Lacking Fluttershy’s famous skill of animal communication, Old Sim immobilised the piteous creature gently but firmly with a practiced hoof. Deprived of any opportunity for struggle or escape, the ferret went completely limp, allowing Talib to work at untying the loop of cord which had tightened about its middle. A visible depression was left in the animal’s flank but no serious or lasting harm appeared done. At a nod from his protégé, Old Sim released it and watched it sprint off frantically through the undergrowth. He turned, expression dark, to Talib.
“Do you know what that was?” he said.
“You mean the ferrety thing, or the snare?”
“Both. You can recognise a snare, I see. The ‘ferrety thing’ were an Eastern Grey Ferret, and he was a long way from home.”
Talib thought he knew where this was going.
“Let me guess, they’re never found this far West? Usually found around where Progress Group have their logging zone?”
Old Sim nodded, and Talib read the question in his expression. He explained about the displaced Greater Warbler he’d seen earlier and shared his concerns about it being seen outside its home range. Old Sim nodded slowly, unhappy to be right this once.
“I knew it. There’s no way Progress Group’s logging within regulations, just like I told those darned Councillors.” He then recounted to Talib his adventures in the wondrous land of Ponyville bureaucracy on the preceding rest day and shook his head in disgust. “There’s just no talking sense into them.”
Talib had never seen his employer at a loss. The effect was jarring, like seeing a train take a sharp left off the tracks.
“We could go out to the logging camp ourselves, snoop around, take some photos for evidence?” he suggested. But Old Sim shook his head.
“It’s too darn dangerous to short-cut through the Forest, and a long journey to go around. I’ve done the math, and we can’t spare the labour. With Progress Group undercutting me on prices, we can’t afford to lose darn near a month of production – I’d be lucky to make the fee for my next permit, and then we’d both be out of a job.”
“Well then,” persisted Talib, “maybe all we can do is keep trying to convince the Council to send back the inspectors.”
Old Sim looked highly sceptical, but Talib persevered, the threat to the Forest making him uncharacteristically forthright.
“There’s more and more evidence Progress is logging far in excess of the sustainable yield, maybe even clearfelling. We can’t just stand by and let that happen. It’s the Council’s job to investigate and enforce these laws – all we have to do is give them reason to follow up,” he smiled humourlessly, “with vigour. You should write that report.”
“I can’t turn a phrase to save my life,” said the rough-talking old salt, “and anyhow, they weren’t genuinely interested. They just said that to get my pain-in-the-rump self out the door.”
Talib thought he saw an opening, there. “Well, they had some success, then.”
Old Sim’s eyebrows shot up in surprise at this back-talk, then lowered into a glower, not entirely directed at Talib. Hah, thought the young colt, had a feeling there was a button there . Telling Old Sim he’d let the Council get the better of him was a trigger only slightly less obvious than the sun in the sky. Old Sim’s fierce expression eventually turned thoughtful as he processed the new perspective.
“Maybe you’re right, colt. Maybe I wanted to be rid of them just as bad…” he turned to Talib, smiling gleefully, and slugged him on the shoulder with jubilant violence. “Hah! You’re right. They wanted a report, we’ll give them a report, oh yes! We’ll give them the worst darned pain-in-the-rump report they ever did read.”
“…we?” Talib asked with concern. He hoped against hope that Old Sim was using the royal “we”.
“You’re neck-deep in this too now, colt, and you’re going to have to hold your nose and swim just like me,” barked Old Sim, giving Talib a sudden, horrible image of doing his breath-holding practise in something rather less pure than forest water, “I have all the figures and such up here,” he tapped his skull with a hoof, “but when I try to pull it out my noggin I just don’t talk the same language as them committee types. You know, book-learned and house-trained.” He spat expertly and squared off against the younger pony. “But you, you’re just the kind of over-educated son of a mare as could get through to them, maybe. When I read your letter of application I had flashbacks to some Council correspondence, and no mistake. I’ll give you the arguments, you just make them sound fancy,” he instructed as optimism and cynicism passed over his face, “and maybe, just maybe, we might get through to the bureaucrats.”
Talib fought down the urge to gallop into the trees and hide, his determination evaporating as the circle of responsibility widened to include himself.
“But… I’m just some nopony who was in the wrong place! I don’t know the first thing about local government!”
Old Sim’s expression had hardened into something flinty and sharp, and it was pointed right at him.
“Well, who else, then? You’re here, and you know what’s at stake, and that’s a small club right now. Like it or not,” he continued sternly, losing patience with his timid young charge, “that means you’re involved – worse, you’re responsible . You’re faced with a problem you couldn’t have foreseen, the stakes are high, and so what if you don’t have the ideal skill set to solve it? How many ponies throughout history did, do you think?”
Talib had shrunk back a little at this onslaught. Yet another surprise from Old Sim – a bit parental lecture, a bit drill-sergeant, and totally unexpected. Previously, Talib had thought Old Sim was just a social misfit like himself, living in disgruntled hermitude because he was too abrasive to make his way with other ponies. Now he doubted the solitude could be anything other than a seriously-considered choice, but what might have led him to it, Talib could not guess.
Seeing he’d shocked the younger pony, Old Sim softened his gaze and changed tack. “Those Council ponies mostly have no idea what they’re doing either, you know. They just muddle through, somehow. Our enemy isn’t all that wily.”
Talib shook his head, gathering his wits again. “Our enemy, if we have one, is surely Progress Miller, not the Council. And he doesn’t seem like somepony who just muddles though.”
“You’re right there, colt,” said Old Sim thoughtfully, “we’ll push the Council on this but we better keep our eyes skinned and our lips sealed. Progress Group won’t be well pleased if they scent us on the breeze.”
“You think they could be dangerous?”
“I don’t trust that darned unicorn as far as I can spit,” although, Talib reflected, from what he’d seen, that was a fair distance, “I know the type – he’s the Pony with the Plan, and Celestia help anyone who gets in his way. He’d probably go after my logging permit, or try to, as a first step. We just better watch our backs.”
The snare was another matter. Talib mentioned the other one he’d seen, days before, which had shocked him so.
“And when have you been spending all this time in the Forest, eh?” Old Sim peered at him perceptively.
Talib tried to look innocent and ignored the question, countering with one of his own.
“Who could have set those snares?”
“Well, no pony is like to be setting them and that’s for sure, being herbivores and all. Once in a blue moon we get griffon trappers passing through on their way somewhere or other, catching what food they can as they travel. Since we’ve only seen snares in the last few days, that’s my bet.” Old Sim spat again, more viciously this time. “Griffons. That’s all we need right now. If’n I was on the Council, I’d round up a militia and run those darned…” he trailed off into a mutter, full of dark imprecations and curses. It seemed Old Sim was even less kindly disposed towards griffons than were most ponies.
A griffon! That could explain the scuffmarks near some of his experimental plots – a griffon wouldn’t leave tracks leading up and away, they’d just land somewhere and then fly off. Talib looked around nervously. Griffons were supposedly quite civilised and reasonable, but they were still omnivorous predators and gave ponies the creeps. When they visited Equestria, they were not generally… warmly received, despite the cordial-but-cautious relationship between Equestria and the Griffon Empire. The distances being what they were, however, such visits were generally rare and not many ponies had actually seen one, as it were, in the flesh. Talib resolved to reinforce the “doors” of his lean-to that evening, and continue to avoid sleeping in the open for a while.
They got on with their work, Talib now even more subdued than usual and his eyes and ears flicking frequently to the surrounding trees. But the next couple of days passed without incident, and finally they dismantled the spent charcoal pyre and hauled everything back to the warehouse, taking several trips. That night, after gratefully yielding himself to the ministrations of the sauna, Talib returned at last to his neglected cabin and did a little work before turning in, including adding a few more sturdy planks to the two wooden walls of his hovel. For all the good it’d do, he thought grimly.
Chapter Eight: In the Stone, Hope
Something has gone wrong. We don't seem to have an archived copy of that chapter. Chapter Nine: Old Stories
Author's Note
Another week over, Old Sim shares something special with the Cane family and the reminisce about Talib's larger-than-life grandfather, the formidable Baba Azhar.
Chapter Nine: Old Stories
Finally, the week’s toil was nearly over. Market day had come around again and the two lumberponies were up before dawn, as usual, and loading up the carts with their goods. Talib’s parents surprised them with a visit, and Old Sim gave them a quick tour of the workshop and warehouse, particularly pointing out his woodwork, which delighted them. It was the end of Talib’s first fortnight and, as tradition demanded, his first pay would be going to his parents. They invited Old Sim around for a late lunch after market to celebrate, and he accepted with carefully-controlled pleasure, probably struggling for restraint at the thought of a feast prepared by the two Cane parents.
Carts loaded and parents farewelled, Sim and Talib made the familiar journey in to Ponyville, and the day soon settled into a rhythm familiar to Talib from the previous week. This time, however, Wood Pile informed them that lumber prices were stable, since Progress Group’s output had not changed much – Talib had sensed a slight tension from Old Sim on the way to the warehouse, and had been dreading his response if prices dropped again. They set up in the market and soon incense was flying off the shelf. Talib’s idiosyncratic wood carvings again proved a source of fascination to the bright-eyed and sociable market-goers of Ponyville, and the week’s products were all sold. Talib was appreciative of Old Sim’s wisdom in pursuing these side-lines; the charcoal, incense, furniture and now wood carvings were all helping to balance the drop in lumber prices.
This time, when Talib went off to find some food, he actively avoided the Apple stand since he was having second thoughts about his gift. He knew, of course, that Applejack, though perhaps fond of him, would not be his Very Special Somepony – she was a mature businesspony, and he was some young colt fresh out of school, his judgement addled by his first foal-crush. If he was honest with himself, he didn’t really even know her that well – they’d exchanged a few words during casual encounters, but that was about it. He knew his affection, though sincere and certainly real enough, was nevertheless shallow and not based on a real understanding of who she was, but mostly directed at some idea in his head. She deserved better, and Talib, already habitually self-conscious, felt truly embarrassed at the lack of tact he’d displayed by making and giving her his carving. Thankfully, Applejack did not seek out the Timber stand either, perhaps because she was too busy. Or perhaps, thought Talib, because she’s having similar thoughts .
Market day wound down uneventfully, and the unladen ponies returned to Old Sim’s cottage, the early afternoon sun still warm but the air cool, and dropped off the carts at the workshop. The lumberpony locked up and headed back towards the cottage, gesturing Talib to follow. As they went through the bonsai garden, Talib dawdled a little to study the fascinating dwarf trees. He wondered if they had been started by the enigmatic Pappy Timbers, but some of them were older even than that. Talib wondered where they could have come from, but was interrupted by Old Sim calling to him impatiently, and he hurried inside the rough stone cottage.
He walked right into a calculating stare from his mentor, as if Old Sim was trying to come to some decision. Ambushed, Talib shifted uncomfortably and looked away. His employer’s eyes narrowed, and his question surprised the young colt.
“Talib. Can I trust you?” His expression was deadly serious.
Talib could not guess where this was going. His instinct was, as usual, to formulate some carefully-worded reply that would discourage any further social entanglement, without outright saying “no”, but something stopped him. First, Old Sim was not given to that kind of subtlety, and would either press for a definite answer, or decide that one had been given. That kind of black-or-white thinking was foreign to Talib but he knew that if his employer decided Talib could not be trusted, he would be swiftly out of a job. Second, it was a serious question asked earnestly, and deserved a considered, honest reply. What’s got into me? Talib wondered. The glib half-truths normally came to his tongue faster than thought. Well, whatever Old Sim wanted to bring him into, Talib would go along for the ride. He nodded firmly to the old stallion.
Old Sim had noted the careful consideration, but still wasn’t satisfied.
“I want your word you will not tell a soul what I am about to show you.”
Talib, more perplexed than ever, gave his word. His mentor went to the front door and peered suspiciously all around and across the open grassland toward Ponyville, before shutting and locking it. He then went to the rear door and did the same, closing all the curtains in the cottage for good measure. Only a fraction of the bright day now reached them from outside, and the piles of bric-a-brac turned from distinct items into consolidated shadows on which the mind could project strange-looking, imagined beings. In the gloom, Old Sim went to a perfectly ordinary-looking floorboard, produced a thin blade from who-knew-where and carefully prised it open.
Talib could tell there was a space underneath, but how wide and deep it was impossible to see in the murky half-light. Old Sim reached in, apparently not needing to see his target, and produced a small bag of bits which he tossed to Talib.
“There’s your pay, Talib.”
Talib nodded. “Thank you, Sim.” It seemed a lot of secrecy for an apprentice’s fortnightly wages. Talib knew Old Sim didn’t keep many bits on hand – each week he deposited their takings into the perfectly respectable First Ponyville Bank. Whatever he was so paranoid about under there, bits weren’t it.
Talib’s suspicions were confirmed when Old Sim reached back into the inky space and carefully, reverently extracted a medium-sized bottle of amber glass. He blew the dust off it and rubbed it with a forelimb, peering at the hoof-written label. Nodding, Old Sim pushed some clutter aside from a table and set the bottle down. He replaced the floorboard and opened up the cottage again, dispelling the sudden, weird tension which had formed.
“What is it?” Talib asked, uncertain if Old Sim’s mystery-charade would extend as far as leaving the thing nameless.
Old Sim, however, picked the bottle up gently and examined it in the light before turning to Talib.
“Birch beer.”
Talib opened his mouth uncertainly, not sure if some comment was expected.
“I’ve never heard of it,” he said, deciding on truthfulness again.
“I’d wager that almost nopony ‘round here has, if they’ve forgotten my pappy. Even back in Trottingham it was a family secret. Pappy brought the recipe with him, and he’d learnt it from his pappy. In the springtime, when the birch sap rises, maybe I’ll teach you, too. My brother, Huon, doesn’t have a birch tree for miles, out on his pine plantation.”
It took a while for the significance of this to sink in for Talib. Old Sim had no children – and nopony to pass the recipe on to. With his brother unable to keep up the tradition it would die with Old Sim, unless he found somepony he could trust to carry it on. Apparently, he was considering Talib for that role. He might not give much show of affection, but it seemed Old Sim thought of Talib as more than just an apprentice. Talib became keenly aware of something that should have been obvious sooner: he was not just learning a trade. He was entering somepony’s life, and would be the custodian of Old Sim’s memory long after the old stallion was gone. Having tried, for most of his life, to avoid involvement in other ponies’ lives, but simultaneously craving their acceptance and approval, Talib was overwhelmed with conflicting emotions. It felt like breaking the water’s surface into the noise and light of the air, after holding his breath for an eternity on the bottom of a lake. He could not speak.
Old Sim watched the struggle play out on his apprentice’s face. Whether he followed it or not, his craggy features broke into a surprisingly beautiful smile.
“Come on, colt. Time for lunch.”
The walk to Sugarcane Farm passed quickly in the still-warm sunlight, though Old Sim remarked they were due for a colder change any week now as Autumn reached them on the weather schedule. Talib hadn’t been back to the farm for a week, having sent a note to his parents pleading overwork and claiming he’d be sleeping at Sim’s, and as they passed through the open gate and up the path to the kitchen entrance a sense of familiar ease came over him. They ducked into the flagstone kitchen, warmed by the oven, just as Ghaliya and Melaco were putting the finishing touches on the celebratory lunch. Seeing him, they cried out in delight and he went over to where they were working, tangled up in aprons and oven mitts, and nuzzled them affectionately. They extricated themselves from their preparations, wiping their hooves on tea towels, as Old Sim stepped forward and shook their hooves. As Talib’s parents returned to the food, chatting with Old Sim, Talib asked where Bianca was.
“She’s in the workshop, of course,” said Melaco with a grin.
Excusing himself, Talib went back outside to find her. The workshop’s large double-doors were thrown open to make maximum use of the daylight, but despite the illumination, when Talib first walked in all he could see was the Rhum Shot , tools and work-sheets spread haphazardly on the floor around it. Looking closer, he saw two familiar pale blue hind-limbs sticking out from under the racer.
“Hi, Bianca.”
Though startled, his older sister had learnt the hard way not to make sudden movements while working under the speed cart. She carefully slid out, spattered with machine oil and gripping a wrench in her teeth, and revealed a happy grin.
“Talid!” she managed around the wrench, before spitting it out onto the work sheet.
She stood up and, covered in grease, made to gingerly shake his hoof but he pushed closer and nuzzled her fondly, not caring if his coat got stained. Initially surprised, she relaxed and returned his affections, then stepped back and looked at him.
“What’s got into you?” she asked.
Talib shrugged, knowing what she meant – in his habitual reserve, he normally would have accepted the hoofshake. Bianca examined him more closely.
“You’re looking well,” she said, noticing the extra muscle he was beginning to put on, “but tired.” The bags under his eyes, the result of his unceasing dawn and dusk work on the cabin and experiments, were obvious. Her expression turned fierce, protective, “Old Sim hasn’t been over-working you, has he?”
“Well, a bit,” Talib flexed and stretched, feeling the now-background soreness, “but that’s not the reason.” He told Bianca about his cabin and the experiments he was setting up, leaving out the bit about the snares. Since they were young the Cane children had shared a close confidence, growing up on the somewhat lonely farm without a neighbourhood of other children to play with. Although Bianca, unlike Talib, was socially confident and popular, she’d maintained an attitude of protective affection towards her sometimes-vulnerable younger sibling. He knew he could usually trust her with his plans, but if she thought he was in danger she might feel compelled to tell their parents.
However, just because she’d keep his confidence didn’t mean she approved. Bianca shook her head slowly, despairingly, as she rehashed an old argument. “I’ll never understand why you’re so obsessed with this. It’s not healthy, you spending so much time on your own, or with just that crotchety old grump for company.”
Talib bristled at this disdain for Old Sim. “Actually, he’s not that bad. I’m learning a lot, and we usually get along pretty well. You’d be surprised at some of the stuff he says; there’s a lot more to him than most ponies think. I guess because he keeps to himself they only see the obvious things, like how he’s so gruff when you first talk to him.”
“That’s just the way ponies are,” said Bianca, “when they see him being curt, and without the chance to get to know him, some will give him the benefit of the doubt but a lot will just dismiss him as some rude old recluse. And who can blame them, if that’s all he ever shows them?” Talib began to protest, but Bianca interrupted, “I’m not saying it’s ideal. It’s just the way things are, and if he doesn’t like it, he needs to make some changes.” She looked craftily at Talib, saying, “The same thing happens with you, you know.”
“What do you mean?” he said, cautiously.
“All you ever show other ponies is some apologetic, awkward young colt who doesn’t think he’s worthy of anypony’s notice and has no interest in them anyway. Maybe not deliberately, but still – most ponies won’t bother looking any further, that’s all they’ll ever know about you. Not that you should care too much what these one-off acquaintances think, but the point is it pushes ponies away, makes them disinclined to get to know you better in the first place. That’s not helping you any, and the longer you leave it like that, the more opportunities you’ll miss.”
For the second time that day, Talib went even quieter than usual. He’d heard some of this advice before, of course, but never spoken by his sister with such fervour. Something was clearly on her mind, and his thought was confirmed when she continued with an awkward segue.
“Speaking of sociability, have you decided whether you’re going to the Spring Dance yet?”
Talib sighed. Of course. He was not going to engage with this one, and reached for his best laconic Big McIntosh impression.
“Nope.”
Bianca persevered. “You mean nope you haven’t decided, or nope you’re not going?”
“Haven’t decided.”
She looked at him, clearly frustrated, but shrugged and let the matter drop. What the hay? thought Talib, that was way too easy. Something was definitely up, but he decided to let sleeping dogs lie. Undoubtedly, he’d find out soon enough. He suggested they go in, and helped Bianca clean up the workshop before returning to the kitchen. Their parents and Old Sim made a cosy picture, all sitting around the small wooden table, sharing mint tea and chatting in the mid-afternoon light. They looked up when Talib and Bianca entered.
“Well, now that the mechanic and the lumberpony have joined us, I suppose we can go in for lunch,” said Melaco with humour.
“That reminds me,” said Talib, finally taking off his pannier and resting it out of the way in a corner, “this is for you.” He pulled out the small bag of bits Old Sim had given him, his first ever pay, and placed it on the table in front of his parents with ceremony, finishing with an ironic bow that didn’t quite come off.
“Thank you Talib,” said Ghaliya, “your father and I are very proud of you.” She said this whole-heartedly, and if there was still some lingering disappointment over his apparent choice of career, it did not show. “And thank you, Sim, for taking him under your wing like this. We know you’ve never wanted an apprentice before.”
There was a question in those thanks, though it was unclear whether Ghaliya was asking it overtly. The ambiguity, at least, was no accident – subtlety was a highly developed art with Talib’s mother. Either way, Old Sim spotted it. By way of reply, he turned to Talib.
“Do you know why I accepted you as an apprentice, Talib?”
“No,” replied Talib, “though I had wondered.”
“It was the apple.”
The shame of his unsolicited and oh-so-obvious present to Applejack surged immediately to the front of Talib’s mind, kicking his ears flat and making his heart skip a beat. But that had been after he’d been apprenticed. His brow furrowed as he thought hard, to that day in the market when he’d been taken on.
“The apple I was eating?”
Old Sim nodded, not explaining any further, and Talib’s family looked confused. Talib remembered Old Sim asking him whether he always ate the whole thing, core and all. When he’d said yes, he’d been hired. What in Equestria was the significance of that?
“A good reference from Pa Walnut didn’t hurt, neither,” Old Sim added, somewhat alleviating the Canes’ confusion. But he said no more, and that, apparently, was the explanation they’d have to be satisfied with. Breaking the silence, Ghaliya again suggested they go through for lunch.
The Canes’ dining room was only used when, as now, they had guests. In the spacious but otherwise functional farmhouse, it was the one area, apart from the front entrance, where attention had been given to formality as well as comfort. The ponies entered through the back way, from the kitchen, but the front opened onto the entry room of the house at the front door – even less frequently used than the dining room itself – where visiting ponies who had travelled far, such as Melaco’s parents, could make use of coat racks and umbrella stands and be relieved of luggage. Melaco and Ghaliya ushered them to their seats at the table and then returned to the kitchen to bring in the food. Old Sim looked around appreciatively at the timber panelling, a cream-coloured wood, which replaced the plaster seen throughout the rest of the house. The rectangular table could seat ten at a squeeze, and today they necessarily only occupied one end of it. Old Sim had been honoured with the seat at the head of the table, and then cajoled and bullied into accepting it.
“It’s been a long time since I was in here,” he said reflectively, “never did find out what kind of wood that was.” Unable to resist, he got up and examined the vibrant, shimmering grain on the walls. “Your grandda said it were here when they bought the place, off’ve some fool pony who’d come out here, spent up big, and decided real quick it weren’t for them.”
Talib sat up. “You knew my grandfather?” he asked.
“Everypony knew Talib Azhar, colt. I just happened to live closer than most.”
Talib’s grandfather, after whom the younger had been named, had already been old when he’d had Ghaliya, and had died when his grandson was only a couple of years into school. Talib had precious few memories of him, but recalled a massive presence, a towering personality compressed into a regular-sized pony body. Memories of his grandfather were always linked to the stories he loved to tell: incredible, endless, interlinked stories of far-off places and times, strange beings and miraculous events; deep mysteries at the heart of the world. And poetry, and songs in unfamiliar languages. Several years after he’d died, the indomitable Grandmother Azhar, still relatively young, had re-married and moved to Fillydelphia where she coordinated fieldwork at an agricultural college.
Before Talib could ask more, Ghaliya entered with a large dish, having caught the last of this exchange.
“Oh, Sim,” she said lightly, “you’re just as bad as Talib for understatement. You and baba were fast friends!”
Old Sim shrugged, then nodded, “Aye, we were, at that.” He returned to his seat.
Ghaliya put the dish on the table and, on cue, Talib’s mouth starting watering. The dish had several sections, and encouraged sharing: in one section, glossy black olives; in another, zesty humus and in the third the smoky, savoury eggplant dip called baba ghanoush. Melaco entered with a large basket of flatbread and a bowl of tabbouleh - a simple but delicious salad of cracked wheat, parsley, tomato, onion and lemon. They all passed around some bread and started digging in.
Talib took advantage his home-turf confidence. “How did you meet my grandfather?” he inquired of Old Sim.
The burly brown stallion looked up from his salad reluctantly. “He met pappy and me in the Forest one time, when I was out working as a young colt,” he said simply.
“Mmm,” murmured Ghaliya around a mouthful of bread and humus, “he used to love the Forest.” Talib’s ears twitched, interested.
“Aye, he did.” Talib expected it to end there, but Old Sim, either comfortable in the presence of a family he’d known since a colt, or feeling the social obligation of the occasion, came out of his shell a little. “He used to wander through the Forest all the time before you came along, Ghaliya. Sometimes be gone for days at a time. I walked with him for a day on occasion, just when he’d stay near to Ponyville. I’d be looking mainly at the trees but Baba Azhar noticed everything. He’d be composing in his head as we walked, tales and poems and songs, and would share the scraps as they came to him. By the end of the day he’d have a huge amount of prose and verse kicking around. One day I listened to him compose, from dawn to dusk, an entire thirty verse re-telling of the history of Ponyville, and I never saw him write a bit of it down. Quite a feat.” He brooded for a moment. “It was a strange tale, though, more fantasy than history. The Apple family bit was there, of course, but he went back further, much further, and added some fairy-tale about an ancient city, founded long ago in the Everfree Forest, and its destruction.”
Talib felt excitement rising in his chest. “Well, there are ruins in the Forest, right?”
“The Ancient Castle of the Royal Pony Sisters, sure, most ponies know about that. But a city?” Old Sim shook his head. “Nope. Somepony would have found it.”
Talib persevered. “Pa Walnut said you’d found some ruins, though…” he hesitated, “…with an Ouroboros on them?”
“Oh he did, did he?” Old Sim frowned, “Well, I found a pile of rubble, sure. And there was some kind of circle carved somewhere there. But it was too worn to make out, and it sure weren’t no city. Your grandaddy’s story was just that – a story.”
Bianca smiled at the memory, sipping her sour cherry juice poured from the carafe on the table. She’d been a little older than Talib, and had clearer recollections of their grandfather. “Yes, I remember with his stories you could never quite tell what was fact and what was fiction. He was never one to let the truth get in the way of a good tale.”
“He described it to me differently, once,” said Ghaliya, turning her gaze to the distant words of past decades, “that the story was its own truth, a way to a different kind of comprehension, less cerebral and closer to the bone. You could provide ponies with the facts, he said, and they’d still understand less than if you got them to feel, to experience their way to knowledge through a good story.” Talib shifted doubtfully at this, but his mother didn’t notice. “You’re wrong about one thing though, Sim – he wrote everything down. We still have all his books and notes. But he only wrote in Griffon.”
Old Sim’s expression, previously contented as he munched on some bread and olives, darkened at this. “I don’t know why he persisted with that foul tongue.”
Ghaliya smiled to show she was not offended. “He always said it was a versatile language. He could make it guttural and harsh or lyrical and melodic as he pleased. I think there was some nostalgia and sentiment in it for him, as well. He always said his years in the Griffon Empire were the most… interesting of his long life.” She sighed with regret, “I wish I’d learnt it, now. At the time I hadn’t the slightest interest.”
“His stories put me off griffons permanently,” said Old Sim, “with their bloodthirsty combat sports and their political skullduggery.” Talib got the feeling he would have spat if he hadn’t been indoors.
“But also their honour, their loyalty and their rich artistic traditions,” countered Ghaliya, still smiling.
Old Sim merely grunted. “Do you still have his oud?” he eventually asked, referring to the guitar-like instrument at which Baba Azhar had been an acknowledged master.
“I do,” replied Ghaliya, “though I don’t measure up to baba, of course. Talib plays, too,” she said, gesturing to her son. Talib and the others had been sitting back, busily eating and enjoying the reminiscences of the two ponies who had been closest to the imposing Baba Azhar. Talib started at, he feared, being volunteered for a demonstration later.
“I only dabble, really,” he said, truthfully.
“It’s funny,” said Melaco, finally chiming in, “except for your fascination with the Forest-” Talib gulped and looked guiltily at Old Sim, hoping his parents still believed his research largely theoretical, “you and your grandfather were so different. You’re so reserved and bookish, while Azhar was larger than life; a teller of tales, a singer of songs, a drifter and I hear, in his younger days, a bit of a rogue. It’s remarkable your grandmother ever got him to settle down on the farm, when he wandered out here to see the Zap Apple trees.” He looked fondly at Ghaliya, before adding, “Though perhaps I can understand that last part.”
She tutted at him but couldn’t help smiling, and Old Sim looked on approvingly. Their children, however, rolled their eyes. The conversation had seen the end of the entrees so Ghaliya and Melaco brought in the mains: steamed rice made fragrant with saffron and cashews; squash and cabbage, stuffed with pine nuts and herbs and cooked in tomato, all served with plain yoghurt and pickles. Even though he was inside, Old Sim looked around suspiciously before getting up and retrieving the bottle of birch beer from his pannier, left in the kitchen, and placing it on the table.
“Oh, Sim,” said Melaco when he noticed, “you didn’t have to bring anything.”
“What is it?” asked Bianca.
“Birch beer,” was the old lumberpony’s smug reply.
Melaco’s eyes widened in delight and Ghaliya smiled knowingly.
“Well…” she said wonderingly, “I haven’t had birch beer since – since the last Spring Dance when your pappy was still making it! I hadn’t realised you’d been keeping it up.”
“Been keeping my hoof in,” he said, slyly.
Old Sim did the honours, removing the cork carefully so it didn’t pop and cause the brew to froth over, then pouring a small glass for everypony present. That was it; the bottle held no more. He put it aside for later re-use.
“To what shall we toast?” asked Melaco, eyes twinkling as he raised his glass.
“To fond family memories,” said Old Sim seriously, and Melaco nodded. Their glasses and eyes all made contact, and everypony repeated the toast in chorus before drinking.
Melaco, Ghaliya and Old Sim sighed and smacked their lips in pleasurable familiarity at the taste, but Bianca and Talib were bowled over by the unexpectedly minty flavour. After that followed a more herbal note, and the overall sensation was quite light and refreshing.
“This is amazing!” said Talib, “why don’t you sell it at the market? I know the season’s short and production must be limited, but that doesn’t stop the Apple family with their cider.”
Old Sim shook his head. “Can’t. Birch beer’s for bringing ponies together, never for profit, so it can be given but not sold. Pappy used to give it away, at the Spring Dance.”
“Why?” asked Talib simply, pressing his luck and earning a sharp look from his employer.
“Because, Talib,” he said, testily, “that’s the way it is. Some ponies say it’d be bad luck. Personally, I figure it’s to keep production down, since tapping the sap is so hard on the trees, so we don’t straight up run out of birch like they did in Trottingham. And it’s just a nice sentiment, having something that ponies can do for the pleasure it brings them and theirs, without bringing money into it.”
Talib nodded understanding – except for his lapse when Progress offered him the clothes, he’d never much cared for the material pleasures money could buy. He thought back over the last fortnight; certainly, the best moments had been relaxing in the sauna, or becoming absorbed in some woodwork project and seeing the delight on ponies’ faces at the market when they saw it. The actual handing over of bits was pretty much an afterthought, for him. He thought further.
“Like your bonsai,” he said to Old Sim.
The old stallion, surprised, peered at him. “How d’you figure?”
“Well, it’s not like you sell them, or even like anypony else knows about them, so it’s not to boost your reputation as a tree-whisperer or anything. They’re just there to give pleasure to you, and anypony who happens to come visit. I sure like them.”
Old Sim said nothing for a while, his face bearing the marks of old pain. “Somepony knows about them,” he said quietly.
Together with the look of sorrow on his face, it was obviously not a remark designed to encourage inquiry. It seemed like he’d had the words forced out of him, however awkward they sounded; it was as if not saying them would have violated some secret trust. He broke the moment, and turned to Talib.
“You like the bonsai?” he asked, and Talib nodded. “Well, colt, how’d you like to learn to care for them, a bit?” Not wanting to appear too soft, perhaps, his question came out a bit rougher-sounding than intended, and it took Talib a while to realise it wasn’t rhetorical.
“Sure!” replied the young colt, eagerly.
Old Sim merely nodded once, then looked down and returned to the business of eating. But after a short moment he seemed to remember something, and looked seriously at Talib’s parents.
“There’s something else I’ve asked for Talib’s help with,” he said carefully, “but now that I think on it, I better run it by you two first. With your leave, I’ve asked your son to help me in a dispute with another logging company.”
He then explained the suspicions he and Talib shared about Progress Group’s apparently excessive logging activities, and the reasons for their beliefs. Melaco and Ghaliya listened attentively, asking for clarification or explanation now and then. When Old Sim had finished, they looked at each other, and Melaco asked a single question.
“Is it dangerous?”
Old Sim exhaled slowly, weighing the question in his mind.
“I won’t lie to you folks. You know I feel Talib’s partly in my care as well now, and I don’t take that lightly. I’ve only met Progress Miller a couple times, but I reckon I’ve got his number – he’s no pony to be trifled with. He’s apparently well-resourced, though from what or who I can’t guess, and he ain’t no fool. If’n I were in his bad books, I certainly wouldn’t go walking down any dark alleys.” He took a breath. “But . But if we do everything above-board and through the Council, he couldn’t do much without leaving his stamp on it. And attention, and scrutiny, is something he’s like to avoid. The Council might be useless chaff-chewers, but they are in the spotlight and as long as they’re involved and everything’s above-board, I think we’ll be fine. It’s a risk, to be sure, but given what’s at stake, I think it ought to be done.”
Ghaliya placed her hoof on top of Melaco’s, and turned to Talib.
“Talib? Have you thought about this?”
Again, Talib saw an opportunity to be rid of the entanglement. A subtle phrase, designed to sow doubt in his parents’ minds about whether he would be safe, or capable…
No, he thought, angry at his cowardice, this isn’t some little white lie so I can spend a night in the Forest. This is important.
Oh, replied another voice in the babble of his conscience, so we’ll lie to get into danger, but not out of it? Don’t pretend this is about doing right by them.
The truth, it seemed, was just another useful strategy to get his own way, and right now, getting to the bottom of this was more important to him than sparing his parents worry.
Shut up, said most of him, I’m tired of you all.
“More than I’d like,” he said aloud, emphatically, “I can’t speak on the figures, of course, but something’s going on in the Forest. Something…” he thought of the displaced animals, and his dreams, and red eyes glaring at him from the murk, “not right . We don’t have much evidence right now, but I have a feeling this is a lot bigger than some over-quota logging. I think it’s necessary.”
Old Sim looked surprised; since Talib hadn’t seen fit to share his disturbing experiences with the grounded old stallion, as far as he knew this was just about some over-quota logging. For a moment Talib felt like coming clean, about everything; about his fears, about his time in the Forest, everything. But his parents had enough on their plate, and it was simpler, right now, just to let it lie. Or just more convenient - it came to the same end.
I told you to shut up.
His parents looked at Talib and Old Sim for a long time, and then at each other. Ghaliya broke the silence.
“Alright. Thank you for asking us, Sim. How can we help?”
Old Sim shook his head. “Well, nothing’s happened yet. Talib and I need to write this report for the Council, and then we’ll see. We’ll keep our eyes peeled in the Forest, but for now all we can ask you to do is keep your ears to the ground and let us know if you hear any news about Progress Group.”
The Canes all nodded, and everyone continued eating, the mood having turned sombre as the afternoon turned to evening and the light began to fade. Unable to recover their previously easy conversation, Melaco made a suggestion.
“I tell you what, why don’t we let all this-” he swept his hoof around the table, suggesting both the food and the atmosphere, “settle for a spell before dessert? Talib, show Sim into the study and you two can make a start on that report. Your mother and I will clear up and join you – Bianca, would you make the tea?”
Everypony agreed heartily, glad of some action to short-circuit their brooding. Old Sim, never one to follow meekly, remembered the way to the study and was ahead of Talib before he could rise. They left the gentle clatter of plates and cutlery for the hush of the study, where the large round windows let in rosy sunset on the bookshelves, arm-chairs and writing desk. Old Sim browsed the shelves for a while as Talib readied some paper and pencils to hash out a plan, and Talib heard him murmur softly as he read some of the spines. Suddenly he grunted in surprise and Talib turned to see him paused with his hoof tracing the gold letters on a collection of similar-looking books. Or perhaps symbols – they were written in Griffon, and Talib wasn’t sure how the script worked. Old Sim pulled one out and leafed through it, but he apparently found nothing legible and returned it to the shelf with a shrug before joining Talib at the desk.
They worked through the evening, Talib struggling to turn Old Sim’s intuitive knowledge of logging speed, tree distribution, probable yields and so forth into concrete numbers on the page. This would form the bulk of the report, with their observations about displaced animals as an appendix. They barely noticed Bianca bringing in the mint tea but drank it absently. Only when dessert was served, rose-flavour rice starch jelly on little plates right there in the study, did they break. By that time lanterns were lit and night had well and truly fallen, and Talib was finally feeling like he was starting to come to grips with the figures, and with the assumptions, estimates and projections which gave them meaning. Over dessert the Canes suggested Old Sim stay the night rather than walking back to his cottage, and he accepted after a brief hesitation. Soon after, they all bunked down, columns of digits still dancing around in Talib’s head, as yet un-choreographed and chaotic. Eventually, instead of neat columns, they flowed together into a coiled snake, made of numbers and larger than the world, eating its own tail and slowly rotating in an infinite black abyss.
Chapter Ten: Suitable Violence
Morning had broken the egg of the sun, and its light had spread like radiant yolk over Equestria by the time Talib awoke on the rest day, groggy and stupid from gorging on desperately-needed sleep. He had intended to be up before dawn to continue working on his cabin and experiments but his body had rebelled, and had tarried with sweet slumber till long after they were supposed to have parted ways. There was much to do, so Talib hurried downstairs for a quick breakfast (discovering that Old Sim, of course, was long gone) before heading off to the Carousel Boutique. A light rain was scheduled in Ponyville and Talib anxiously studied the sky over the Forest – over there, at least, no rain clouds appeared to threaten his unfinished cabin.
Talib had plenty of time along the way to reflect on this gift from Progress Miller. If Old Sim was right, and the impressively-built unicorn really was irresponsibly harming the Forest, Talib was not inclined to accept the morning dress for fear of hypocrisy. On the other hoof, rejecting the gift caused all sorts of problems. For one thing, it would hurt Rarity; materially, since she’d lose some income and a chance for a little advertisement of her skills, and emotionally, since she’d already made the darned things and it was no fault of hers that Talib’s sartorial patron might secretly be an unscrupulous profiteer. Which, incidentally, was far from obvious – although Old Sim’s numbers certainly made a serious argument, it wasn’t iron-clad. Talib had only met Progress once but he’d seemed amiable, positively beaming with good-will, and generous. Then again, in these last two weeks it seemed everypony he thought he’d known had revealed some unexpected depths, and Talib was even less inclined to judge by book-covers than usual. If Progress Miller was not just a driven businesspony, but also even half as ruthless as Old Sim suspected, refusing the gift might tip their hoof. As the Boutique’s tent-like spire of fetching pink and blue loomed over him, Talib tried not to consider the potential consequences. Something about Progress suggested a pony not given to half-measures.
Before he reached the door a sudden noise, a gentle but sinister tearing of the air, swooped towards him from the Boutique’s spire. Talib tried to look up at the strange sound but a clawed hand descended on the back of his skull a moment before the full, significant weight of his assailant bore him roughly to the ground. Struggling vainly in panic against the expert restraint of powerful talons, Talib could only see a confusion of feathers and fur above the dirt which now occupied most of his view.
“What isss your business here?” hissed a calm but menacing voice, the words carried on sour breath.
Talib still stubbornly struggled to turn his head but failed, the feeling of powerlessness churning into hot, futile rage in his stomach. Struggling to speak through the emotions constricting his throat, he spluttered out, “Rarity asked me to come for a fitting!”
The weight was slowly released, his attacker keeping control until the very last instant, and Talib scrambled to his feet, eyes burning. But when he whirled, glaring, to face his ambusher, his thumping heart stopped stone cold. Just out of easy kicking distance, wicked beak half-open and sharp, stood a burly, rough-looking griffon. His stance was relaxed but Talib had no doubt that the least show of violence from the pony would elicit an extremely swift, competent and unpleasant reaction, especially given that Talib had never been in a fight in his life. He gritted his teeth and slowed his breathing as the griffon looked back at him steadily, not a trace of emotion appearing in the sharp golden eyes. A transparent film, the nictitating membrane, flashed unsettlingly over them every few seconds. The young colt dusted himself off, trying to feign composure.
“I have an appointment for a fitting with Rarity. What in Equestria do you think you’re doing?”
This finally caused some change in the griffon’s features – though they were largely alien to Talib, he could recognise amusement when he saw it. Without answering, the looming predator moved to the door of the Boutique and knocked twice, sharply, with his bony knuckles. After a short delay it opened to reveal Rarity, pins gripped in her teeth, clearly interrupted in mid-fashion. Talib could tell she was on edge with the giant carnivore present but, ever the professional, she spoke with as much civility as if he were a regular – in both senses of the word – customer.
“Yes, Mujeer,” she asked, remembering and pronouncing the name with courteous ease, “may I help?”
The giant griffon, still silent, merely stepped aside and indicated Talib with a frighteningly graceful sweep of his claw. The young pony stood there looking slightly misused, still recovering from his roughing-up.
“Talib! Oh, you’re here quite early. Come in, darling!”
Talib looked uncertainly at the griffon but apparently, now that Talib had been vetted by Rarity, he was no longer of interest. Mujeer coiled his dense but elastic lion’s haunches and launched heavily into the air, his wings parting to reveal a long scar running through feathers and fur down his back. Their powerful strokes carried him back up to the top of Rarity’s tower where he perched observantly, his eagle’s eyes searching but otherwise immobile as a statue.
No wonder I didn’t see him coming, thought Talib, he probably picked me out ten minutes ago. If this was Talib’s observer in the forest, he might as well start sleeping in the open again. The cabin was nowhere near finished and his flimsy lean-to would last about two seconds against Mujeer.
Rarity followed his gaze. “Oh, sorry about Mujeer,” she said, leading Talib inside. She took advantage of the eagle-headed creature’s unremarkable hearing to lower her voice and add, “he will insist on checking everypony that comes to visit today, unfortunately. Happily, I don’t have too many clients scheduled.”
As he followed her inside, Talib’s whirling mind tried to make sense of things. “But wha-” he began, before a booming, familiar voice from within the Boutique interrupted him.
“Ho, Talib! What a happy coincidence! Are you here for your morning dress?”
Talib froze momentarily, then with great effort assembled a hasty smile and forced himself to turn nonchalantly. Progress Miller was standing, cog-shaped cutie mark showing and half-dressed in black tie but still imposing, in the centre of the Carousel Boutique and somehow managed to make the spacious floor room seem a trifle cramped. To be sure, part of the effect was his imposing size and musculature, but a goodly part of it was sheer force of personality. It was like Shining Armour’s protection spell they’d passed through when the Cane family had gone to the public wedding events in Canterlot, but instead of a protection field, Progress projected hearty, good-natured authority.
Rarity returned to her client, making minor adjustments to the new outfit, and answered for Talib.
“That’s right. Talib, why don’t you take a seat and I’ll be with you shortly? We’re nearly done here, Progress.”
“Good morning, Progress,” said Talib tightly, remaining standing, “how are you?”
“Oh, pretty fair thank you Talib, pretty fair. I hope Mujeer didn’t give you any bother on the way in?”
Talib hesitated, unsure how to answer. Progress, swiftly and correctly interpreting his caution, didn’t wait for a reply.
“Oh dear. He can be quite… efficient, I’m afraid – of course, it’s one of the chief reasons I hired him, admirable quality, but he is not much given to conversation.”
“He’s your… employee?” asked Talib, unsure how to respond.
“Well, I suppose he is, though I doubt he’d enjoy the term. Griffons tend to bring their honour to even the most mercantile of transactions. Put simply, he is my bodyguard.”
Talib looked the bulky pony up and down, doubtfully, and Progress laughed, causing Rarity to frown slightly at the stretching of fabric under her pins. Unsurprisingly, he had a deep, rolling laugh.
“I shall take your scepticism as a compliment, young Talib. Unfortunately, however,” he continued, suddenly serious, “it seems I may have enemies far more dangerous than one pony, however strong, can hope to face alone.”
At Talib’s surprised expression, Progress elaborated. “A fortnight ago, after the Summer Harvest Parade where we first met, some saboteurs burned and smashed an alarming amount of my logging camp while my, hah, employees, were asleep. The reports only reached me here in Ponyville the day after. By the time the workers had woken up and rushed down to the site, I was told, the vandals had vanished, leaving no trails to follow.” Progress’s jaw clenched, his genial disposition fading momentarily and his eyes narrowing as if they would burn through the walls and seek out the culprits. Talib was reminded of Old Sim’s caution: He’s the Pony with the Plan, and heaven help anypony who gets in his way. Talib tried to set aside his rising sympathy and think of Progress as an enemy. It wasn’t easy.
“We contacted the local authorities, of course,” he continued, “but we’re quite isolated out there so they restricted themselves to sniffing out malcontents here in Ponyville who might know something about it. No luck so far.” He turned his charismatic gaze to Talib, like a bright beam of guilt-inducing magic. Talib shrank a little inwardly but managed to keep his expression neutral. “You wouldn’t have heard about anything of that sort, would you?”
Talib swallowed hard. “No, I haven’t,” he replied, truthfully.
“Well, keep your ears to the ground for me, eh?”
Talib, not seeing how else he could respond, nodded. And anyway, if there were ponies smashing and burning at the work site, somepony could get hurt. For all that he was worried about the Forest, violence of any kind seemed… extreme, to Talib. He would have few qualms turning in such reckless ponies.
“So, Talib… how’s your report coming along?” asked Progress without warning, looking casually at some detail on his jacket sleeve. For the second time that hour Talib felt ambushed and had the wind knocked out of him.
“Uhh… what report?” he stuttered, though he knew very well he was only working on one report which would interest Progress.
Progress looked up, skewering Talib with a friendly intensity. “The one for the Council,” he said helpfully as Rarity worked fastidiously around him.
Talib felt a strange, distant calm come over him, and was reminded of the ferret in the snare. When it had been completely immobilised by Old Sim’s hoof, it had stopped struggling.
Seeing the change, Progress explained. “I’m friendly with a few ponies on the Council, you see, and so they mentioned it to me.”
Light-headed, Talib dropped all useless pretence.
“Oh, not bad… we haven’t really written much yet,” he said with a sort of dazed detachment.
Progress nodded. “So you have been roped in as well. Let me guess, Simon-” Talib had never heard anypony use Old Sim’s full name – “has some fervent but largely intuitive belief about my logging rates and you, with your more analytical approach, are struggling to make the numbers actually add up with rigour on paper. Tell me I’m wrong.”
Talib wondered how much Progress knew about his “more analytical approach”. Where in Equestria does this pony get all his information? Whatever the source, it was accurate.
“That about sums it up,” said Talib.
Progress shook his head, a little sadly. “Simon Timbers is, I know, an excellent lumberpony. One of the old guard. But I’d wager he has no head for figures, and he certainly wouldn’t be up on the new, more efficient methods we’ve developed,” his expression brightened, and he favoured Talib with a generous beam, “but you are the future, yes? Young and open-minded, and full of ideas, perhaps?” Talib made twisty expression at this summation, not quite seeing it, but Progress persevered, “I tell you what, once you’ve picked up your morning dress-” he said, reminding Talib of the gift… deliberately? “-a request, a favour between friends. Why don’t you swing by my Ponyville office and I’ll have my manager run through the numbers with you, maybe explain some of the modern techniques we’re using. I’m sure you’d find it quite interesting.”
The “request” sounded sincere enough, but Talib had serious misgivings. “Um, well I have some errands to run this afternoon, and really Old Sim should be there too, since he’s the one coming up with the figures…” he said uncertainly, not wanting to refuse outright.
The hulking, charming unicorn’s eyes creased into a smile which, for once, was not entirely convincing.
Just then, Rarity chimed in.
“All done, Mr. Miller! This will look absolutely fabulous for the Spring Dance. You’ll have the mares simply fawning over you!”
Progress winked at Talib as he was relieved of the dinner jacket and other formal trimmings.
“Thank you again, Miss Unicorn. As always, my delight over your work cannot be adequately expressed,” he said, passing her a cheque. Rarity scanned it casually and, judging from her double-take, that particular expression of his delight was not entirely inadequate. He turned back to Talib. “May I expect the pleasure of your company at the Dance, young master Cane?”
Rarity frowned. “We’re trying to convince him to attend, though without much luck so far. He hasn’t even got an outfit, yet.”
“Oh?” asked Progress, raising an eyebrow.
“I don’t really like crowds,” managed Talib, weakly.
Rarity, anticipating this remark, had her retort ready. Her eyelids half-closed, and an enticing tone transformed her voice.
“Applejack will be there,” she said.
Talib, mortified, looked at Progress. The large unicorn said nothing, but his ears flicked and Talib could practically see him making a mental note of the tidbit and filing it away. Talib passed rapidly through panic and damage control; now the barn was well and truly ablaze and he was in full-blown crisis management.
“Well, of course everypony will be there,” he said, parroting the mares’ earlier argument while shrugging with a nonchalance he did not feel, “but that’s just the problem. I’d really rather just avoid the crush of ponies, to be honest. I’m not really a herd animal.” A flat-out denial of his affection for Applejack, he reasoned, would just draw Rarity out further on the subject. With any luck, if Talib more or less ignored it Progress might think it was nothing significant, maybe just an awkward and unfounded remark by a notorious social engineer.
Progress, however, winked obviously at Rarity and joined the fray. “Miss Unicorn, allow me,” he said smoothly. “Talib, I have a proposition. You said you’re busy today, but pay me a visit at my Ponyville office next weekend. Bring the esteemed Mr. Timbers, if you wish. I’ll personally go over our business model with you both, and try to lay to rest any concerns you may have. Furthermore, we can discuss the dance, and Applejack, stallion-to-stallion, and see if there might be some way we can make another addition to your wardrobe so you may go to the Spring Dance looking your most dashing. You never know, I might even have something useful to say on the subject of courtship. What do you say?”
“Oh, Talib, do!” said Rarity, clearly hoping that a masculine argument might have more sway with him. Talib was trapped. He fervently wished he had some pressing engagement, some urgent and, above all, time consuming task for next rest day which would render a visit to the Progress Group office impossible. Despite his manic inner extemporising, he drew a blank. All he could do was co-opt the same delaying tactics he’d used on his family about the Dance.
“Weeell…” he began, as if considering his schedule, “I have a lot on that day. But I’ll certainly try.”
Progress nodded at him firmly, satisfied. “That’s all I ask, Talib.” Rarity, having finished packing away his suit, handed him a neat, elegant package. “Thank you again, Miss Unicorn. Talib, come outside and I’ll introduce you properly to Mujeer.”
With that commanding tone, there was clearly no wriggling out of it. Rarity opened the door for them and Progress bowed elegantly, his well-muscled frame moving under perfect command.
“Miss Unicorn, a delight, as always.”
Her rapturous smile was all the answer he needed, and Talib followed him out into the bright Equestria day, having to resist the urge to flee back inside when he again heard the ominous swooping noise. Mujeer touched down a little distance away with the peculiar dull thump of a heavy weight landing gently, and stood with his eagle’s head cocked to one side, perhaps awaiting orders.
“Mujeer,” said Progress formally, “this is my friend Talib Cane of Sugarcane Farm. Talib, Mujeer, my bodyguard, of the Griffon Empire.”
Talib, too nervous to offer his hoof, was relieved when the frightening carnivore instead touched the sharp talons of his right claw to his feathered breast, his forehead and then his beak, before sweeping them, palm-up, in Talib’s direction. Unsure of the significance of the gesture, or the appropriate response, Talib merely nodded gravely.
“Talib may pass without inconvenience, Mujeer,” said Progress simply.
Again, sharp golden eyes treated him to an impersonal appraisal.
“I shallll know you next time, Talib,” the griffon rasped. Instead of pronouncing it “Tay-lub” like the Ponyville ponies, Mujeer pronounced it “Tha-leeb”. Like much else this past hour, Talib wasn’t sure how to interpret the griffon’s ambiguous comment, but Progress nodded and turned back to the tall colt.
“Well, Talib my young friend, I hope to see you next rest day. I’ll be in the office all day, but after that I have to return to overseeing the logging camp. Remember me to Simon.”
Talib, nodded mutely and watched Progress Miller walk off. Mujeer gave him a final glance before turning to walk beside his employer.
He went back inside the Carousel Boutique and breathed a sigh of relief. Rarity had laid out the partly-finished items for his morning dress ensemble – pants, shirt, waistcoat, tailcoat and tie – and the preliminary fitting went swiftly under her expert guidance. The fit was almost perfect, though Rarity hadn’t considered the extra muscle he’d be putting on with the lumberpony work and so decided to let it out in a few strategic places to allow for his continued growth. A final fitting of the finished garments would not be possible for several weeks, and she promised to send him a note. Talib thanked her profusely and took his leave.
Going about his second errand of the day, Talib returned to the Golden Oak Library. When he entered, he discovered Twilight and Spike were out on some business or other, leaving Owlowiscious to hold the fort.
“Morning, Owlowiscious,” said Talib, “don’t suppose you have any other books by Spruce Timbers?”
“Who?” replied the owl, inscrutably.
“Spruce Timbers. He’s sometimes called Pappy Timbers in his later life.”
“Who.” Talib was about to get some paper or something to write it down when Owlowiscious flapped over to a nearby shelf. Following, Talib could see the section contained all authors with surnames beginning with ‘T’. After a thorough search, no further works by the mysterious Pappy Timbers were forthcoming.
“Oh, well,” he said, disappointed but not much surprised. “There is one other thing…” Talib thought of his most recent run-in with Progress Miller. If the formidable unicorn had friends on the Council, it would be imprudent to rely solely on the bona fides of its members. Knowledge, at least, did not pick sides.
“Do you have anything on the regulations governing Ponyville Council?”
“Who.”
“You know, Ponyville Coun-” Talib stopped and shook his head, simply waiting. Owlowiscious flew over to a section headed “Reserve” and gestured with a claw to a shelf containing a series of identical-looking volumes. Talib examined them and groaned. The shelf contained the Council records going back to its founding, in Granny Smith’s day. Flipping through a few, it seemed everything was simply lumped together in chronological order: the regulations set by Canterlot which governed their powers, Council-authored documents such as their constitution, changes of sitting members and every Council ordinance ever passed. When a regulation had been updated it was just re-inserted at that point in the timeline with the modifications. The system, or lack thereof, was a nightmare.
Since they were in the Reserve section, Talib was not able to borrow them and so would have to study them right here. He had no time for a close reading today but could at least familiarise himself with the layout and note some sections of particular relevance for when he had more time. He set himself up at a little reading table nearby with paper and pencil, and started taking volumes off the shelf a few at a time, skimming through the pages and searching for promising-looking headers and key words. After an hour or so he’d covered a few pages with references to likely-sounding sections, including their page and volume numbers, but had not yet surveyed even half of the volumes on the shelf.
I seem to have a fondness for daunting tasks, recently, he thought ruefully, rubbing his eyes and face. He packed up, thanked Owlowiscious and headed back into the Everfree Forest.
The day had turned humid and oppressive, and rainclouds had set up their dark camp above Ponyville, mustering courage for an attack. For once, Everfree shared Ponyville’s weather, and it felt more like a steamy jungle as Talib walked quietly deeper into its trees and vines. His head was whirling with his encounter with Progress Miller, and he sought the peace of his little camp. He arrived just as a light drizzle, almost a mist, filled the previously clear air with tepid, miniscule droplets. Checking his nascent cabin, he was satisfied that the light moisture was unlikely to warp the well-seasoned wood, but made a mental note to “borrow” some large oilcloths from Sugarcane Farm, before going to check on his shanty. Everything appeared as he had left it, and he foraged for some lunch, Everfree Forest Edibles in hoof, pulling up several items he’d never tried before.
He sat with his rear hooves in the delicate little stream as he ate, masticating and digesting the events of the day so far along with his meal. Nothing about Progress’s conduct had been particularly threatening or improper, but Talib couldn’t shake his suspicions. When Progress had called him “friend”, something had rung false. And his casual reminder of the gift, and his broad hinting at a second one, had been too closely tied to his request, effectively, that Talib show him their report. At the end of the day, after all the evidence and logic had been pursued, it still seemed to come down to trust. And, like Old Sim, Talib didn’t trust Progress as far as he could spit. He wasn’t used to evaluating things on trust, but there was just no quantifying the vaguely unpleasant sensation he felt in Progress’s company, or his faith in Old Sim’s gruff but honest goodwill. Thinking about his relationship with Old Sim, Talib realised how rare it was for him to have somepony he felt he could trust, outside of his family. An overwhelming desire settled on Talib to do right by the old stallion, to help him with this complaint and be worthy of reciprocal trust.
Thinking about the morning dress he felt a little dirty, a little… bought . But some of his arguments for swallowing his misgivings and accepting it were still valid. Although apparently Talib could not hope to conceal their work on the report, Progress still seemed to think that Talib might be brought round. Refusing the gift would swiftly destroy the option of diplomacy for Progress, leaving only coercion and antagonism as his remaining tactics. Talib wanted to delay that as long as possible. He thought of Applejack and shuddered with the knowledge that Progress hadn’t been fooled one iota by his feigned indifference. There was a lever he’d rather Progress not have access to. The dang unicorn seemed to know enough already. Where had he got his intelligence? He’d known about Talib’s academic leanings – had he talked to somepony at the school? How in Equestria could he have passed that off as a casual inquiry? Or perhaps Mujeer had broken in and snooped at the records. Talib shook his head. That seemed a little overt, a little unsubtle. Progress was no thug, and Mujeer was definitely more bodyguard than cat-burglar.
Thinking on his enemy’s – as he now thought of Progress – subtlety, Talib felt a little fear turn his mouth dry and his lunch tasteless. Had it been a coincidence, as Progress had claimed, that their paths had crossed at the Carousel Boutique? Or was everything planned, down to the timing of Progress’s appointment with Rarity? Perhaps he’d known about Talib’s appointment, and had Mujeer spy on him from the sky, ready to alert Progress when Talib started making his way to the Boutique. He looked up at the clouds apprehensively, but saw only dark grey vapours. If Progress had known Talib was coming, then Mujeer’s casual assault was not spontaneous and took on a more sinister significance, perhaps as a demonstration. A warning. One thing, however, didn’t quite make sense. Why would Mujeer be setting snares in the Forest, and hanging around observing Talib’s experiments? Progress had said nothing of those , and Talib was growing more certain that the formidable Mr. Miller would not have lost any opportunity to further impress – or intimidate – Talib with how well-informed he was. If Mujeer had followed Talib from Sugarcane Farm to the Carousel Boutique, it was possible they did not yet know about his little Forest camp. The dense trees would preclude any aerial observation, and following him through the paths without being observed, Talib knew, was nigh-on impossible, with the young pony’s excellent hearing, alertness for tracks, and quiet step. So the hunter was still a mystery, and Mujeer was probably kept busy guarding Progress Miller.
That was another thing. What was Talib to make of the attack on Progress’s logging camp? In his paranoia, Talib had thought for a while it might have been a fiction, but if so Progress gained nothing obvious from it. And when he’d asked Talib if he’d heard anything, his inquiry had been genuine, even fervent. Who in Equestria would do such a thing, endangering pony lives and causing such destruction? And how had they vanished so completely, without even tracks, when Talib was quite confident the Progress Group employees would have gone through the Forest with a fine-toothed comb? Another mystery. The Everfree Forest seemed to sprout them like weeds.
His lunch was long-finished by now as Talib sat there, thoughts spinning. To clear his head, he held his breath and plunged viciously into the deepest part of the little stream, managing to get completely submerged. At first he struggled to empty his mind but, after a minute or so, was more or less successful. Only one stubborn thought refused to pass gracefully away like the rest; Progress’s comment about the sabotage having happened on the night after the Summer Harvest Parade, when they’d first met. Talib couldn’t remember anything significant about that night, except that he’d awoken before it had ended, and walked through its fading hours on his way to Old Sim’s…
Flaming rubies in the Forest, and black dread possessing his hooves…
Talib nearly gasped but clenched his throat tightly shut. He waited as long as he could before surfacing and exhaled slowly, having lost count. Holding his breath underwater was normally relaxing, like the sauna. But recently it seemed something from his subconscious had taken up residence in the pools and streams of the Forest, waiting to ambush him as he lay there, mind open and receptive. He forced himself to try again, and no further images leapt into his mind’s eye. Somewhat relieved, he shook off, donned his panniers once more, and headed into the warm afternoon mist, towards Zecora’s hut.
Chapter Eleven: Ask the Zebra
The oppressive humidity was beginning to clear, ushered away by a breeze that was surprisingly chilly by contrast. Talib was reminded that autumn was due to begin the following week, and made a mental note to check his experiment timeline to ensure his plots would be sufficiently established before the cool weather and weakening sunlight precluded further germinations. As he walked stealthily deeper into the Forest his ears and nose grew more alert. Despite his many, many hours here, Talib never grew blasé about the Everfree Forest’s dangers. He’d had enough narrow scrapes – with timberwolves, manticores, cockatrices, and even stranger creatures – that a kind of hyper-alertness came over him when he ventured in much further than his camp. But that wasn’t what was causing his hooves to move along reluctantly.
Talib and Zecora had bumped into one another a few times on his explorations in the Forest. At first, fear of the unknown had frightened him a little, like most others in Ponyville, and he’d tried to avoid her. Even after she turned out to be friendly and had expressed interest in his studies of the Forest, he’d not taken her up on her standing invitation that he come and visit her hut one day, due to his social discomfort. Now, though, his curiosity about Everfree Forest Edibles, and the concerning things he’d seen, made the visit seem necessary. He walked with resignation through the Forest towards her hut, arriving at the gnarled, spreading old giant after a couple of hours of tense travel. He’d never identified the species but it looked like some kind of banyan tree, with its buttress roots snaking out of the trunk like organic walls. Somehow the thing was still alive around Zecora’s abode, and the roughly-fashioned windows and doors gave the disturbing impression of forming a face. Talib approached with some trepidation.
Reaching the door, he took a deep breath and knocked. In the sudden silence he realised he’d been hearing some soft, husky chanting, so soft he hadn’t consciously noticed it till it stopped. A little while later the door opened and Zecora’s striking light-on-dark striped grey head poked out inquisitively, expression turning surprised when she saw the buff-coloured young colt at the threshold.
“Well, well! My eyes I thought deceived,
But yes, a Cane I have received!
Come in, colt, and have some tea,
I’m glad at last you visit me.”
There was no denying it, her exotic accent combined with the rhyming couplets were quite jarring. Nopony ever seemed to have asked why she insisted on speaking in verse, and Talib wasn’t about to be the first.
“Thanks very much, Zecora,” he said, too embarrassed to address the gentle rebuke in her words, as she ushered him in to sit at a little round table made from a tree stump. Zecora busied herself among her unbelievable collection of botanicals, talking half to herself as she considered.
“Now, young colt, what takes your fancy?
Feeling tired, or maybe antsy?
Peppermint to buck you up,
Or lemongrass - a peaceful cup?”
“Lemongrass please, Zecora,” replied Talib.
The well-built zebra smiled knowingly, crushing some dried stalks into a cast-iron teapot and ladling in hot water from a small cauldron, already shimmering at the boil.
“To overcome your social fear
I guessed that worry brought you here.
But firstly Talib, let’s begin
With simple chat – how have you been?”
As the tea was steeping, Talib briefly recounted some of the events since his graduation, while Zecora tended the larger cauldron she’d apparently been busy with when he’d arrived. The lemongrass infusion was ready by the time he finished catching her up, and she stopped fussing over the fire to come and pour the fresh, fragrant liquor of lemongrass into wooden mugs. She sat opposite him and looked at him perceptively.
“In you, I know, questions abound.
Has your work some answers found?
After all, you gave up much
To live in that small wooden hutch.”
“Well,” Talib began uncertainly, “my experimental plots are still too young to inform even preliminary guesswork, though if the treatment differences are going to be obvious then I should start to see that next week. But I am learning other things. For instance,” he said, extracting Everfree Forest Edibles from his pannier and hoofing it to her, “have you seen this before?”
Zecora’s eyes answered his question when they lit up with apparently familiar pleasure, and she started flicking through pages approvingly.
“Twilight found it for me in the Golden Oak Library. It’s the strangest thing – Old Sim tells me his pappy, Spruce Timber, wrote it. But that can’t be, can it? Look how much work, how much knowledge went into that! How could a first-generation Ponyville lumberpony have the time, the experience, to write it? Old Sim said something about Pappy Timber having had some help. Do you have any idea where this knowledge might have come from?”
Zecora froze, just for an instant, and then forced herself to relax and look Talib in the eyes. It reminded him of his reaction to hearing Progress’s voice in the Carousel Boutique – the instinctive tension of somepony who had just been found out. Talib couldn’t believe it.
“Zecora… did you write this?”
The zebra looked at him crookedly for a moment before bursting into a sudden, heartfelt belly laugh.
“Oh, Talib! Often Canes are sweet,
But your manners melt, I see, with heat.
I might be from afar, but, say,
How old you think I am, today?”
Talib slapped a hoof to his forehead. “Of course,” he said with chagrin, “I wasn’t thinking. This book must have been written when you were just a filly. I’m sorry.” Her amused smile didn’t deter him, however, and he pressed forward.
“But you seemed to know something about it, right?”
Zecora’s smile faded, and she looked quietly at him for some time. Years of avoiding confrontation were trying to drag his eyes away from hers, down to the floor, but somehow he forced himself to hold her gaze, uncomfortable though it might be. Eventually she spoke.
“Some things, young colt, I cannot tell,
And silence unexplained as well.
All I dare, though it sounds weak:
In Spruce’s journal you should seek.”
Talib remembered the unmarked volumes on Old Sim’s shelf. It seemed he was going to have to make a rather personal request of the old stallion. He had no idea what was in there, or if Old Sim had any reason to keep it private. He’d have to go in blind. Thinking of Old Sim reminded Talib of their concerns over Progress Group’s logging, and the displaced animals they’d seen.
“There’s something else,” he said after a thoughtful sip on the steaming tea, “Old Sim and I have seen some animals recently which shouldn’t be in this part of the Forest. We’re worried that they’re being pushed out of their normal range by over-logging – have you seen anything like that?”
The normally serene expression on Zecora’s face grew dark as her statuesque features were drawn into a strangely regal glower. She indicated the cauldron as she explained.
“Something, I knew, could not be right;
I see some strange creatures at night.
I wished to go and find the cause,
But am restrained by nature’s laws.
Some plants grow just in this month’s rain,
Without them I cannot treat pain.
In Ponyville they wait for this
Nurse Redheart seeks its calming kiss.”
Talib nodded understanding. Since the Ponyville ponies had overcome their fear, Zecora had proved to be an invaluable zebra to know. From her hut to the town flowed a steady stream of medical treatments, herbal luxuries and deep wisdom (dressed in the reassuringly homely garb of common sense), and many ponies could not now imagine life without her. Though she had no answers for him, at least he could add her anecdotal testimony to the report. Hopefully the Council valued her opinion as much as did the rest of Ponyville.
As Zecora cleared the tea and returned to her cauldron, she regained her usual fey, inscrutable expression; quite arresting on a zebra of her stature. Somehow, she always managed to project a deliciously contradictory aura of slightly mischievous, mysterious calm. Talib watched the stately zebra move assuredly around the fire, checking the heat, sniffing the concoction and adding a few careful measures of this or that, all the while wearing her enigmatic smile. Now that he had spent more time around Zecora, her rhyming couplets no longer sounded strange to his ears, but musical. He began to feel perhaps in danger of developing another infatuation, as doomed and futile as his crush on AppleJack. What was it with him and older mares?Oh, Celestia, please don’t let me have a type, he thought desperately.
“Umm, also,” he said hastily, hitting the emergency brakes on that train of thought, “we’ve seen some snares, and Old Sim thinks there might be a griffon hunter passing through. I wondered if you’d seen them, too.” He paused in confusion, realising he’d also just rhymed. Zecora nodded, apparently not having noticed.
“Indeed I have, and Sim is wise;
The griffon cause I, too, surmise.
They journey through from time to time,
But setting snares is not a crime.
Though griffons have a taste for meat,
I promise: you, they will not eat.”
Talib was only slightly reassured, but saw that Zecora was even less concerned about the hunter than was Old Sim. Then again, he thought sarcastically, neither of them had the brilliant idea to live in a flimsy shanty in the woods . Still, although he wasn’t about to start sleeping out under the stars again, at least it seemed he was unlikely to become someone’s midnight snack.
But then he remembered that first morning with Old Sim, when something had terrified him from within the forest. Something he’d barely seen, if he’d seen it at all, and couldn’t explain. Ever since, he hadn’t been able to shake the feeling that something malevolent was waiting, deep in the Forest. He was not looking forward to the twilight walk home, as the day turned further towards evening. Better not delay it any further.
“OK, Zecora, thanks for everything. It was really nice to see you,” he said, rising from the table. But when he looked at her he felt a jolt – she was watching him, sharply.
“Talib Cane, I saw you, now,
Troubling thoughts showed on your brow
Something dark scares you, it’s clear-
Won’t you share with me your fear?”
Talib sat down again, slowly. He gazed out the window into the Everfree Forest, for a long time saying nothing, and Zecora just watched him quietly, stirring her cauldron and waiting. The day’s light was beginning to fade, and even though the sun was still up the plants of the Forest had begun to look different, putting on their weird evening clothes in preparation for the coming night. Though he knew, logically, that the longer he delayed, the darker would be his eventual journey home, he was loath to quit the safe, warm light of Zecora’s hut. Eventually, he gave up the struggle and indulged his uncharacteristic agoraphobia, sinking further into his seat as he stared out, unseeing, into the gathering dark.
“Zecora…” he said, slowly, not looking at her, “this may seem like an obvious question, but have you ever seen something in the Forest… something you couldn’t explain?”
The zebra just nodded, drawing him out with her silence.
“I don’t just mean some animal or plant you don’t recognise. A couple of weeks ago, I… I saw something.” He took a deep breath, forging onward. “Or at least, I think I did. I can’t be sure. It was just before dawn, while I was walking beside the Forest on my way to my first day with Old Sim. I noticed everything in the Forest go quiet.” He looked at the zebra now, half-noticing her raised eyebrow in recognition of the strangeness of this fact, but in his mind he still saw the blackness of the Forest trees that morning, two weeks ago. “Everything, Zecora. And when I looked, when I tried to see what it was…” he shuddered, “I think I saw eyes. Two eyes, glowing red and huge, though I couldn’t tell how close they were, exactly. And I don’t want to think about it. The next thing I knew, my hooves were moving practically by themselves and I was sprinting for Old Sim’s cabin. I never looked back, and he never saw anything, either.”
He came back to the present, looking around the glowing, sturdy cabin to reassure himself. “I’ve never felt fear like that before, Zecora, fear that went straight for my hooves.”
The zebra nodded, understanding implicit in her gesture, and Talib, encouraged, went on.
“There’s more. I spoke with Progress Miller today. He told me that, on the same night, some ponies came and sabotaged his logging operation. At least, he assumes it was ponies. His workers, from their camp, didn’t see anything, and never found any trails.” He looked away from the zebra, focusing now on the fire. This was harder than he’d thought, sharing fears which he’d kept half-hidden even from himself. Saying them aloud, however, seemed to make them tangible, somehow both more and less threatening. He plunged forward, into the strangest, most difficult revelation.
“Then there are the dreams.”
Zecora’s head tilted inquisitively.
“The night of my graduation, I’d been thinking about the Forest, and whether I was really being smart to give up formal studies to go off and run my experiments. I had this dream… it was pretty confused. But it was about the Forest, and there were wings – all different kinds of wings. And fire, and wholesale destruction of the Forest, and water, and blood, and a heartbeat… I don’t know. I was looking for something really urgently, underwater, but I was drowning, and then… and then the heart stopped beating, and everything went black.” He shook his head, re-focusing on the room and on Zecora. “Now, sometimes, when I go underwater, I see it again. And the eyes.” He fell silent at last, spent.
Zecora, too, now looked at the fire, thinking. The faint crackling and occasional pops marked the time, contrasting with the chirps and calls outside as birds began their evening combat for roosting space among the boughs and leaves of the thick canopy. The sun, Talib realised, must be nearing the horizon, and now there was no avoiding a walk home through the benighted Forest. Well, it would not be his first.
Zecora’s voice startled him out of his reverie.
“The truths behind your tale aren’t certain,
You’ve seen only a moving curtain.
What lies in wait behind, who knows?
Perhaps only the wind which blows.
But still it seems there might be something
More to this. I do know one thing;
These dreams you have, confusing sights
May yet be your best guiding lights.”
Talib considered her words. When you got right down to it he really did have nothing firm to back up his suspicions – that was why they were still suspicions, he supposed. And yet the more he considered the strange experiences of the last few weeks, the more convinced he was that something was going on. It was similar to his mistrust of Progress Miller, and his faith in Old Sim – not something he could be certain about, or put a number on. And yet, with a different kind of certainty, he’d bet quite a lot on these intuitions.
“Thanks, Zecora,” he said, looking again out the window, “I’d better be getting back now, I think.”
Zecora followed his gaze.
“Oh! I had not thought the time so late,
I’ll make a bed, if you will wait?”
Tempted though he was, there might still be time to get a little more work done on his cabin before turning in.
“No thanks, I’ll be OK.”
“Well, walk with care my pony friend,
And please make this visit a trend.
Just one more thing will I inquire;
Will we meet by the Spring Dance fire?”
“Not you, too!” Talib groaned. “Augh, my sister’s got every pony trying to convince me to go to that thing. What’s so crazy about wanting to read, or work instead?”
Zecora raised an eyebrow in amusement.
“Bianca hasn’t got to me,
I simply hoped the Canes would be
Attending, all, though I may guess
The cause of your social distress.
Talib wasn’t sure where this was going, and gave Zecora guarded frown.
“Do you recall one summer day,
The Forest trees could hear you say,
You’d never want another friend,
They all turn cruel in the end?
Well, I was there, though keeping quiet,
I thought to help, but dared not try it.
Still Ponyville was scared of me,
I didn’t want to make you flee.
But do not worry, I shan’t tell,
I know the feeling very well.
You mustn’t let rejection make
You bitter, for your own dear sake.
If ponies in the past have been
Unfriendly, then it does not mean
The best response is pulling back
From all ponies; or, down the track,
You will find yourself alone,
And things get bad when on your own.
Though many joys can come while lonely,
The best are with another pony.”
Talib had never heard Zecora speak for so long. Her amusement had faded into a serious candour while talking, and it was obvious she spoke from experience. Having seen Dawn being teased at school, he knew he wasn’t a unique case. He wanted to ask more, but felt uncomfortable prying. Still, he didn’t get to see Zecora that often. He steeled himself to make the most of the opportunity.
“What were your school days like, Zecora?” he asked. She smiled.
“They ended well, though at the start,
Teasing me was like an art.
I used to have an awful stutter,
Not one phrase that I could utter.
But verses helped, and over time
The zebras grew used to my rhyme.
Some thought it strange, but I was brave
And built respect on that I gave.”
She looked him full in the eyes before speaking her final two lines.
“The hardest thing, as we all live
Is also highest; to forgive.”
For a while he stayed quiet, struck by what she had said. Eventually, he rose and grabbed his pannier.
“Thanks again, Zecora,” he said, trying to master the emotional spectrum refracting and reflecting through his mind, “I’ll think about it.”
The zebra nodded to him, smiling faintly as he ducked outside into the evening and began walking softly back to his camp. The door closed behind him, shutting him off from her companionable presence and leaving him once more alone in the impersonal Forest, accompanied only by the unsettling inhabitants of his imagination. He hoped.
The half-moon drew the gaze, fixed, as it was, low in the sky – like it had been fired from some catapult and lodged in the weird solid of the celestial dome. A band of cloud flowed beneath it; a misty river across the horizon, the elusive forms moving in darkness until passing near the luminous orb. Their complex shapes were, for a time, lent definition and radiance before retreating away into the obscuring blackness: fantastic images still half-sensed by the mind when the eye could no longer make them out. As Talib passed silently over half-seen Forest trails, ears and eyes twitching, the effect was of being transported to an alien land, made of familiar sights turned strange.
When talking about his fears with Zecora, so soon before he must go out, vulnerable, into the night, he’d dreaded a kind of sympathetic magic; some vague old superstition that naming a thing would summon it. But he reached his camp without incident, while the evening was still young, and hauled the makeshift door-walls of his shanty apart, throwing moonlight onto the meagre sleeping space nestled into the seam between boulders. There was still a little time to work on his cabin before bed, and so Talib opened his chest to retrieve the lantern and tools, before grabbing some hefty beams from their makeshift storage under the upended cart. The floor beams were all hammered and bolted into place by now, and he’d decided to try and get the upright frame for one of the walls finished before hitting the hay – or rather, the bracken.
The young night was breezy, and Talib listened to the trees hissing and rustling, punctuated by his hammering and sawing. It was a strangely close atmosphere, where the ambient white noise shrank his perception till it covered only the little clearing in which he worked. No night-bird’s call, no insect’s chirp reached his sensitive ears through the aural foam; only the too-loud noises of his tools. Moon-light and lantern-light combined to reveal the skeletal structure he was assembling.
His little bubble and busy hooves freed his mind and encouraged introspection, and he reflected on his visit to Zecora. On the subject of the griffon she’d had nothing remarkable to say, but she’d clearly known something about the author – or, it now seemed probable, authors – of Everfree Forest Edibles . Why hadn’t she been able to say outright what she knew? Talib couldn’t even begin to guess and, though he knew she probably had her reasons, he still felt a little mistrustful and resentful at being kept in the dark. Her suggestion that he read Pappy Timber’s journal was of uncertain help, since he had no idea whether Old Sim might allow him to read it. He’d ask tomorrow. Still, there had been some solid outcomes: it was useful to have her observations to add to their report, and her encouragement that he attend to his dreams, if a little vague, agreed with his own instincts. As yet, however, he could not make head nor tail of them.
He hoisted another vertical beam into place, slotting it into the join he’d cut in the supporting floor beam, before bolting them together securely. A diagonal beam, like those he’d installed in all right-angle joins throughout the structure, reinforced the squares. He hammered a temporary nail lightly into the vertical beam and hung the lantern, brightening the silvery moonlit colour of the wood into something closer to its natural warmth. The wind continued its heavy sighing through the canopy. From the mysteries of the Forest, Talib allowed his thoughts to turn to the Spring Dance. The concept of spending hours surrounded by ponies, yet made alone by his discomfort, did not appeal. He’d have nopony to talk to except his family and a few acquaintances, and would spend the evening hugging the edges of the firelight and trying to avoid being forced into awkward conversations, while thinking all the while of his cabin and experiments.
But… but almost everypony he talked to wanted to see him there, it seemed. Some, probably, were just reacting without thinking, and would have been equally shocked at any other pony not going. But Talib was pretty sure some of them had genuinely wanted him to be there with them, to spend time with him. Very well. But why did the rest of Ponyville have to be there? If they wanted to catch up, why didn’t they just… catch up, somewhere quieter, where they could focus on each other? He didn’t see the point of doing it around a whole bunch of other ponies he barely, if at all, knew. Talib shook his head, decided. He still wasn’t going.
Zecora’s last words to him kept running through his mind, however. Even after he hammered in the last nail, after he packed everything up, retreated to his lean-to and blew out the lantern, the thought kept him from sleep. If he was honest with himself, in moments of rare self-awareness, it wasn’t as simple as he made out. He wasn’t just uncomfortable around ponies; subconsciously, he realised, he was expecting them to reject him, as had so many ponies in school. Pre-emptively, he was judging all ponies as hostile. When he’d been with Zecora, their similarities – a touch of the outsider, the quiet recluse – had allowed him to drop his guard and stop worrying about what she thought of him. A flash of insight told Talib that in doing so he had, without realizing it, made a friend. His first in years, since Dawn Flare had left for Canterlot.
He turned over on the bracken, unable to settle. Talib realized he’d had a nameless, dull ache in his chest as far back as he could remember, noticeable by its absence while he was with Zecora. He marvelled at how he hadn’t noticed it before, how it had become such a constant part of his being. It was like he’d adapted so well to a painful limb that he’d forgotten he was limping through life at half speed. Talib prodded the sensation, trying to identify it. The touching scenes of affection between ponies at graduation flashed into his mind, and suddenly he grasped it.
He was lonely.
Chapter Twelve: What is it with Griffons?
Somehow, one hoof in front of the other, Talib managed to keep walking along the faint, scrubby path. The Everfree Forest hummed softly to him, settling down into its evening quiet as the sun’s light followed its source, retreating away over the horizon. This time of year the colder evenings were relatively silent, as insects died off and birds went dormant. But the Forest never truly slept, and there were still things browsing, foraging, and hunting. Talib plodded onward to his next experimental plot, trying to stay alert but senses dull and sluggish.
It had been an exhausting few days. He and Old Sim had been processing their haul from the previous week – with two ponies sledding, Old Sim had increased his take and there seemed to be a mountain of logs to get through. At least my muscles have stopped burning, he thought, and it was true. His body was adapting, he was putting on bulk, and the hard physical labour was becoming easier to handle. That wasn’t the source of his fatigue.
As he’d become more assured and comfortable during the day’s lumberpony work, the other demands on his time had grown more and more insistent. The previous evening he and Old Sim had sat long by the fire, hammering their report for the Council into shape. Long silences defined by the scratching of quills on paper were occasionally broken by Talib to ask for clarifications. He’d needed fewer and fewer over the last few days. As the night drew on and grew deep, Old Sim finally drew a breath and forced it out slowly.
“That’ll do for tonight, colt,” he’d said, stretching his wiry frame, “reckon we’re on track to give this to the Council next rest day.”
Talib had paused, chewing his quill thoughtfully. “Mmm,” he nodded, “I think I understand all of the numbers and reasoning now. I can get it all tidied up by myself over the next few days.” He yawned and shook his head. “I better be off home, I think.”
Old Sim had helped Talib pack his things and saw him to the door. He watched the younger pony walk out into the night for a moment, then called to him.
“Talib.”
Talib turned around, an inquiring expression on his face. Old Sim was silent for a moment.
“Thanks,” he finally said.
Talib looked down, embarrassed, then looked up, straightened, and smiled, before turning and walking off down the path. He’d kept walking towards Sugarcane Farm until hearing Old Sim’s door close, then looked back and turned right into the darkened Everfree Forest.
But his nights weren’t ending there. Talib had also managed to complete the frames for his cabin walls and was ready to move onto the roofing beams. Whatever additional time he managed to scrounge up for his experiments inevitably came from the dark hours, stolen from sleep, and it was beginning to tell. Talib hadn’t seen his family for a while. But things were getting very, very interesting.
He arrived at his next plot and bent low eagerly, grasping the lantern in his teeth as he examined the young seedlings and saplings. Just like the others. It was just a preliminary impression, not obvious, but Talib was beginning to see a pattern.
The Forest plants were rambunctious as always – growing scraggly, disordered and… violent , for lack of a better word, racing to out-grow and shadow each other. Selfish, they put all their energy into tough stem, leaf and seed, producing precious little in the way of succulent fruit or flesh for hungry ponies to enjoy. But the crop plants, taken as seed or sapling from the farm, were what held Talib’s interest. At Sugarcane Farm the cane grew straight and regimented, the cabbages plump and compact, the carrots deep and fat and sweet. But here in the Forest, Talib’s Earth Pony growth magic didn’t seem to be producing its usual orderly results, and the normally co-operative crops seemed to have gone feral. The cause, as yet, was not obvious, but it was still exciting. Perhaps after harvesting his plots and examining the data itself a cause might be suggested. Maybe one of the Forest plants had some kind of magic-dampening effect.
If that were the case, thought Talib, perhaps I could distil the effect, create some kind of anti-magic solution…
His excited theorising came to a crashing halt when he glanced down and saw the scuff marks in the dirt around the plot.
Talib froze, feeling his skin tighten in fear and a shiver flicker over his coat. His sleeping ears shot suddenly upright and his nostrils flared, scanning the air for signs of danger. He slowly turned around, surveying the trees. There was no sign, however, that whatever had left the marks was still around. Talib crouched down lower and sniffed them carefully. His sensitive nostrils confirmed it – griffon. It was the same complex, slightly rank odour that had assailed him when tackled by Mujeer, but different; less musky, spicier. He couldn’t put his hoof on it, but he was confident it wasn’t Mujeer’s scent.
Great, he thought. At least Mujeer had been the devil he knew. He sighed, almost too tired to care, and headed home – as he had begun to consider his little shack. Arriving soon after, he dragged open the walls and looked longingly at the pile of bracken, but shook his head wearily. He still had to write up his observations from this evening, so Talib opened the chest and pulled out his notes and a pencil, then used the chest lid as a makeshift desk. He scribbled a few lines in his rough style and sighed with fatigue, drawing a deep breath in the hopes it would energize him. Instead it distracted him, as he smelled the griffon’s scent still stuck to his hooves. It was unnerving. He huffed with frustration and got up to go wash in the creek, then returned and forced himself to sit back down and keep writing. But the faint smell was still there.
“Argh! ” Talib leapt up, throwing his pencil down on the floor. Would the wretched smell cling to him forever? He sniffed his hooves and frowned, confused. It wasn’t there, nor was it on his coat. And, in fact, he hadn’t noticed it outside, washing himself. He followed the train of thought to its logical conclusion.
The griffon had been inside.
He looked around carefully, hyper-alert now, searching for anything missing or out of place, finding nothing. But his gaze drifted, as if drawn, to the only object of interest in the little room: his storage chest. Cautiously, he re-opened it and sniffed inside. The barely-perceptible smell was definitely stronger within, and he sorted carefully through all his possessions. Nothing appeared missing or out of place, and Talib was starting to wonder if he was imagining it. But as he was returning a sheet of paper to the chest, something caught his eye as it passed in front of the lantern. He paused, and slowly moved it back, and froze when he saw it. A few tiny pinpricks of light showed through where the paper had been punctured, as though by sharp claws.
He sagged back onto the ground, feeling helpless. A griffon had broken in and rifled through his notes, and had it not been for his delicate nose and the experience with Mujeer he never would have known. The illusion of safety and refuge conjured up by his shack had been destroyed, and rather than sleep in the ruins he dragged the bracken outside and camped under the stars, protected from the cold by a thin woollen blanket. He wasn’t sure if it was a defiance or surrender.
Next day dawned, and Talib woke to the dawn chorus with insipid grey light revealing the new day in the Everfree Forest. He lay there for a moment, felling like a heavy sludge was pressing down and into his mind, when he realised he was supposed to be at Old Sim’s for work by now. Flailing his hooves, he stuttered upright and quickly gathered his things, racing off to Old Sim’s cottage and arriving as the older pony was just opening up the workshop. Talib galloped up to him, trying to catch his breath and apologize at the same time.
“Sorry...” he gasped, “…Sim. Don’t know,” gulp “how that happened!”
Old Sim didn’t answer or look at him immediately, going about the business of preparing the workshop. Talib leant against the wall as he recuperated. The silence drew on, and Talib tried to come up with some plausible excuse. He opened his mouth, but was immediately cut off by Old Sim.
“Don’t bother, colt.”
Talib’s stomach lurched. Something was wrong.
“You slept in, right?”
There was no fooling the wily old stallion, it seemed, and Talib nodded. But why was he so angry?
“Where did you go last night?” said Old Sim, “And don’t say Sugarcane Farm. I saw you sneak off into the Forest.”
“Oh,” said Talib, heart in his throat.
“I’m guessing your parents don’t know?”
Talib shook his head. Old Sim just looked at him for a while.
“What are you doing in there?” he asked, exasperated.
Talib hesitated. Old Sim was clearly upset about being lied to, even if by omission. He drew a breath and told the older pony about his cabin, and his experiments. The older pony listened without expression or interruption until Talib’s story wound down.
“This explains a bunch,” said Old Sim, sighing. “No wonder you’ve been so tired lately.”
Talib looked at him uncertainly, trying to read his expression.
“Will you tell my parents?”
Old Sim considered this at length, eyeing Talib sharply and rubbing his chin. The coarse hair made a scritch-scratch noise. Talib waited uncertainly.
“If they flat-out ask, I’ll have to. I have a responsibility,” he finally replied. “But until such time, I’m going to imagine they already know. I won’t bring it up.”
Talib sagged with relief.
“But you have to tell them as soon as possible,” continued the older pony harshly. “At some point, you’re going to have to have the courage of your convictions.”
They began work, and the subject dropped.
While Talib was working hard to try to bury Old Sim's disappointment under sawdust, another pony had him in mind as she walked through the crisp, breezy morning towards the Carousel Boutique. Bianca Cane's light blue coat danced shyly as the autumn winds played their music on Ponyville's many trees, but her introspective mood did not admit such external stimuli. Her brother had said he'd consider going to the Spring Dance, but she didn't believe him for a moment. She loved Talib, but she knew him; he could be deceitful when threatened with inconvenience. And going to the Spring Dance was more than an inconvenience for the withdrawn young colt.
Bianca’s thoughts turned, as usual, to the Rhum Shot . Though she’d almost won the Derby, and had a few modifications that gave her confidence for next year, something was still missing. She glanced back at her cutie mark, a stylised gust of wind, and relived the hazy memories of the day, when she’d been a young filly, that it had appeared. She’d been sat on a cart, she couldn’t remember where or why, when it had somehow slipped its chocks and careened down a steep hill, accelerating to an unbelievable speed, her panicking father sprinting after her but being rapidly out-distanced. But she hadn’t been scared. Instead of shrieking and cowering, she’d stood up, eyes alight, and whooped for joy to see the landscape whip past, the wind pushing her purple mane almost straight back out behind her.
It’d ended badly; the unstable cart’s speed wobbles had worsened until it had pitched sideways, tipping her unceremoniously out onto the dirt and, to her father’s everlasting chagrin, breaking a forelimb. But even then, in the brief second or two of flight before the pain, she’d been elated. All her life she’d wanted to re-capture that sense of freedom, of joy. Nothing since had quite scratched the itch, though the Rhum Shot had come close. But the racing cart, and chasing the trophy down the track of the Soap Box Derby, were just means to an end, and Bianca had begun to feel it was time to move on. She wanted more.
She needed to go faster.
She’d come pretty far for a self-taught engineer-mechanic, but it felt like time to get serious. And the way to do that was an engineering degree. Though Bianca wasn’t quite the academic that Talib was, her graduating marks, at least in the relevant subjects, were not the problem. Family, however, was. There was no engineering degree offered in Ponyville, which meant leaving town altogether, at least for a few years. Her parents were fair-minded and Bianca worked Sugarcane Farm for a wage, but it was unlikely that any hired replacement would work as hard. Fundamentally, despite her mother’s acute business sense, the farm was probably not that profitable except as a family affair. Her parents might struggle. Then, of course, there was the entirely more difficult problem of her brother. Though the pursuit of speed caused Bianca to be almost reckless with her body, she flirted with no such risks when it came to her family.
Bianca sighed and tilted her head back to look at the sky. To her complete lack of surprise, no helpful Pegasus had written the answers up there. Hopefully Rarity would have some ideas.
Bianca arrived at the Carousel Boutique just as the door was opened, and two ponies emerged. For a moment, she thought she was seeing things – there appeared to be two Rarities, one a Unicorn, the other a Pegasus – before she noticed the slight difference in colouring, and the Pegasus’s different cutie mark: a bunch of purple grapes. She carried a brown dress bag.
“I’m sure it’ll suit you marvellously , Sugar Grape, our colouring is so similar.”
“Thank you so much, Rarity! Are you sure I can’t offer you anything?”
“Oh, please ,” said Rarity, “the adjustments were the work of mere minutes . Seeing you looking your best at the Spring Dance is all the payment I need!”
Sugar Grape smiled broadly. “You’re the best. Don’t be surprised if a bottle of wine shows up on your doorstep one of these days.” She cantered off happily.
Rarity, beaming at this, noticed her new visitor and brightened even further.
“Bianca, darling!” she cried, “Just the pony I wanted to see! Are you stopping?”
Bianca nodded. “Sure, Rarity, if you have the time. It’d be nice to chat.”
“Well then, come in and let’s have some tea.”
Bianca followed Rarity through the lavender-coloured door and into the magenta fitting room, hung everywhere with cloth and mirrors. A little wrought-iron table, painted sky blue, with two chairs had been set up and Bianca saw the remnants of Rarity’s tea with Sugar Grape. Rarity magically picked up the teapot and Sugar Grape’s teacup and disappeared into the kitchen.
“The pot’s gone cold. Back in a moment!” she sang as she left.
Bianca sat down and looked around. Over the years, she’d learned to estimate Rarity’s business turnover by the number of clothes-horses in use, and almost all of them were dressed up. All manner of dresses and a few suits, in various stages from basic pinning to final adjustments, were on display.
“Business good?” she inquired as Rarity returned with a fresh cup and brew. The unicorn rolled her eyes.
“You wouldn’t believe it. It’s always a busy time of year, but it’s been quite a profitable one for Ponyville and ponies just aren’t content to make do with altered, hoof-me-down dresses. Of course, I shouldn’t complain, but it seems every pony simply must have a new outfit for this year’s Spring Dance, and they’re all worried about leaving it too late. Still, I’m glad to have the clients, of course.”
“What’s creating all these wealthy ponies all of a sudden?” asked Bianca.
“Oh darling, don’t you pay attention to these things?” asked Rarity, a little despairing. “Well, firstly, of course, it’s been a bumper year for our farms, as you saw at the Parade; combined with a bit of a parasprite problem in Fillydelphia and some other agricultural towns, many here have made a killing off that.” The businessmare deftly poured the tea as she continued. “Then there’s the recent drop in the price of lumber and charcoal – everypony uses those, but the reduced costs haven’t yet trickled through to their pricing, so profits are up. I believe we have Progress Group to thank for that. Sugar?”
Bianca caught herself staring, astonished, at her old school friend. She remembered how easy it was to underestimate her.
“Um, one please.”
“I should have thought Talib would have at least mentioned the part about Progress?”
“Progress who?” said Bianca, stirring the sugar into her tea.
“Oh, sorry, darling. Progress Miller is a businesspony, fairly recently arrived. He runs a rather large timber operation – Progress Group, as I believe I mentioned – on the far side of the Everfree Forest. Such a dashing, generous gentlecolt. He’s become quite the patron of my boutique, commissioning some extremely quality pieces. He seems to have taken a shine to Talib, too, making him an apprenticeship present of a full morning dress outfit,” she gestured to a clothes horse in full formal dress, “that’s it over there.”
Bianca was surprised. “Talib hasn’t mentioned him.”
“I don’t believe they’re particularly well acquainted. And you know Talib, skittish young thing, plays things close to the chest. It’s taking him a while to warm to Progress.”
Bianca sighed. “That’s my brother. Actually,” she continued, seizing the segue, “I was hoping you might have some ideas about him. I’ve been thinking.” She paused, uncertain.
“About what, dear?” said Rarity, encouragingly.
“About college.”
“Oh, Bianca… engineering? Leaving home?”
Bianca just nodded.
“You’re worried about what would happen to Talib if you leave Ponyville,” said Rarity. It wasn’t a question.
“I know it’s not my responsibility to make friends for my brother. But without anypony to push him, what if he just stays the way he is? He says he’s fine, he might even believe it. But I don’t.”
“Well of course not, darling!” said Rarity forcefully, “It’s not natural. Ponies are herd animals, social creatures, and if you don’t have some friends, something is wrong, or will be, even if you don’t realise.”
“You know he’s not planning to go to the Spring Dance?”
Rarity rolled her eyes.
“Ugh, , I know, that’s why I wanted to speak with you. I bumped into him at the Golden Oak Library and he let it slip. I tried to convince him later, when he was here for a fitting, by reminding him Applejack would be there,” she said with a strange emphasis, “but he denied any interest. Of course, I didn’t believe him for a moment. I wonder if he felt embarrassed because Progress Miller was with us?”
“Why should he feel embarrassed?” asked Bianca, “Or care if Applejack is go-” she froze, unbelieving.
“He couldn’t,” she said.
Rarity smiled coyly. “He could.”
“He doesn’t!”
“He does ,” sang the unicorn gleefully, “didn’t he tell you?”
“He’s smarter than that,” said Talib’s big sister, “barely.” An evil expression came over her face. “Oh, I’m looking forward to that conversation.”
Rarity just sat a moment, stirring her tea and looking thoughtful.
“Maybe hold off on your sisterly torment,” she said slowly, “just for a little while.”
Bianca raised an eyebrow.
“I’ve been thinking. We may,” said Rarity, “get him to the Spring Dance after all.”
That evening, Old Sim showed Talib around the bonsai garden some more, walking around with a watering-can and giving each plant a light spray.
“These small pots can dry out mighty quick, so give ‘em a splash twice a day if it’s warm. Draw the water from the pool behind the sauna.”
Talib nodded. The two-dozen odd miniature trees seemed to span all ages, sizes and varieties: gnarled oaks and junipers contrasted nicely with smooth-trunked silver beech. Caring for them was much simpler than Talib had imagined – for now, he was just to make sure the soil was kept moist. Later, Old Sim would go through trimming and re-potting. Talib wondered again where the beautiful trees had come from, and their mysterious origins somehow reminded him of his conversation with Zecora.
“Sim,” he began hesitantly, earning a quirked eyebrow from the old stallion, “could I read your father’s journal? I’m curious about his experiences early on, learning about the Forest.”
Old Sim’s face darkened.
“I don’t mean to pry,” continued Talib hastily, “it’s just that there’s so much I don’t understand-”
“That’s private.” Old Sim had cut him off sharply, visibly struggling to keep his voice level. Talib saw the warning signs and could tell this was not up for discussion. He deflated and didn’t press the issue, but it was too late; Old Sim had turned withdrawn and even more surly than usual. They finished up watering the bonsai, Talib worked on some wood carving for a while, then walked home.
Entering the Everfree Forest without pretence now, Talib walked through the dimming, dappled light, the confusion of leaves and branches mirroring his own feelings. He’d been, for once, hoping he’d found somepony to open up to, and had thought the older pony seemed to be warming to him. But Old Sim had shut him out, like so many others before. Well, he thought, that’s just fine with me. I don’t need him to like me. As long as he pays my wage and keeps me near the Forest I don’t care. But Talib was reminded of Zecora’s words, and a small, un-acknowledged part of him knew he wasn’t taking this well.
And then, suddenly, it was as if the blade had always been there, at his throat.
He froze completely, even holding his breath, mind gone suddenly blank. He realized there was also a set of sharp talons which were weaving themselves into his mane and pricking delicately into either side of his neck. So unobtrusively had the attack occurred that his body had skipped fight-or-flight and gone straight for catatonia. He felt strangely calm, and why shouldn’t he? There was absolutely nothing he could do.
His assailant paused a moment to ensure his helplessness had fully sunk in, and Talib’s mind began to work again, almost independently of his will. He was, for once, unhappy to be proved right – he smelled a griffon, alright, but not Mujeer. The scent was less piercing, and masked by layers of Forest odours. Whoever it was, they either lived here or had spent much effort masking their scent. Or both. Out of the corner of his eyes, Talib could vaguely make out a slighter, more slender shape than Mujeer, but when he cautiously began to look back for a better view, the claws on either side of his neck dug in sharply, just short of drawing blood. He snapped his vision frontwards again.
“What are you doing here in the Forest?” asked a soft voice in his ear. Talib was again reminded of Mujeer, but this was different. Mujeer had been brutish and rough, throwing him to the ground. This griffon implied . The threat was of violence, but violence with finesse. All thoughts of deception deserted his brain.
“I’m a lumberpony, I cut down trees,” he said distantly, still staring straight forward.
“You don’t say,” purred the sardonic, un-accented voice, “but what else , young Talib? What else ?”
“I…” Talib carefully tried to swallow around the blade, “I’m conducting some experiments on the Everfree Forest plants, and their effects on pony magic.”
“Indeed. Why?”
“Because… it’s interesting?” said Talib nervously.
The shape behind him moved fluidly, soundlessly, but the blade and the claws were so steady they were like the only fixed points in the universe. A griffon came into view, prowling around to stand in front and a little beside him: a lean, taughtly-muscled bundle of agile carnivory; a vision in snow-white feathers and tawny-gold fur. Talib realised it was female. She was magnificent, beautiful. And terrifying. He trembled slightly, and she felt it.
“That’s good, Talib,” she said, “that fear shows me you’re taking this seriously. I had begun to think perhaps you were joking with me.”
“I can’t really see the funny side,” he replied fervently, but the griffoness nevertheless looked amused.
“A matter of perspective, I imagine,” she said, eyes still smiling, “now, this is very important. What is your relationship with Progress Miller?”
Talib’s eyes widened in surprise. Why does she want to know? Come to think of it, he wondered, confused, what is my relationship with Progress?
“Thinking time is lying time,” said the griffon, pushing the blade slightly harder into his skin. “Just say the first thing that comes into your head and go from there.”
“I guess we’re… enemies, of a sort,” he started hastily, and the pressure from the weapon lessened.
“What sort, exactly?”
“Well, we’re business rivals…” he began to shake his head at this idea, then hastily reconsidered, “no, that’s not important. He’s doing something to the Everfree Forest. I don’t know what, exactly, he’s felling too many trees but it feels like there’s something more going on. I don’t know what.”
The griffon looked at him with interest. “But he seems to be grooming you for something, no?”
“How do you- never mind,” Talib interrupted himself before his curiosity could aggravate the griffoness, “I suppose he is. I get the feeling he really is a generous pony, but yes he’s been offering me things and trying to get information from me. I can’t tell if it’s malicious.”
“Take a guess.”
Talib looked into her liquid amber eyes. “I think so. I don’t trust him. I can’t explain it.”
“You have accepted his gifts?”
“Some. I don’t want him to know I don’t trust him. He scares me, to be honest.”
“Smart,” she said, “and cautious. You may be of some use, Talib Cane.” Her impersonal appraisal and cultivated voice, flowing smooth as oil, made a chill run up his spine. “I’m going to release you now. Don’t run.”
“Would there be any point?” he asked sullenly.
“Now don’t sulk,” she said, eyes dancing in amusement again as she put away the knife and let go his neck, “bitterness does not become you. I had to figure you out a little better before we could talk. You are a strange pony, Talib Cane.”
“Oh, insults now?” he said, anger finally catching up with him, “I almost preferred Mujeer.”
Her eyes turned hard and she clacked her beak sharply, twice. “Then you are ignorant,” she said, now matching Talib’s anger. They glared at each other for a time.
“This is no good,” she finally said, softening, “let’s start again. My name is Hayfa Karima, currently of the Everfree Forest.” She repeated the gesture Mujeer had used; a claw touched to her breast, then forehead and beak, finally swept towards Talib, palm-up. He jumped slightly as the claw approached him, and she laughed.
“Oh dear. I seem to have rather over-done it. Fear not, I am at your service, Talib,” she bowed gracefully, a little mockingly, and waited. “Won’t you introduce yourself?”
“You seem to know who I am,” he replied.
“But it is good manners to observe the forms.”
Talib wanted to say something about the manners of holding a knife to somepony’s throat, but bit his tongue. Instead he returned her bow.
“Talib Cane, of Sugarcane Farm,” he said, cautiously.
“A pleasure to meet you,” said Hayfa, sounding genuine now.
“Oh no,” said Talib sarcastically, “the pleasure is all mine.”
This earned him a snort of laughter from the griffoness. “You know, holding a grudge is a most griffon-like trait. So be it.” She looked at him for a time, attaining that effortless stillness which seemed second nature to most predators. Talib soon grew tired of it.
“Was there something you wanted?” he asked. Other than to put the fear of Celestia into me?
A brief pause. “Indeed. I have begun to think we may have certain goals in common. But these are matters better discussed in comfort and privacy – may we continue at your camp?”
Talib hesitated, but then realized that, of course, she knew where he lived already. He sighed and nodded.
“Lead the way, my friend,” she said, generously.
They walked in relative silence through the evening Forest, Hayfa moving like a cat. Even when straining his ears, Talib was barely able to hear her. He tried to ask questions but she clacked her beak and told him to wait, constantly looking around as if expecting to be attacked at any moment. She was worse even than Talib, when he went deep into the Forest – Talib always tried to remain alert to predators, but Hayfa acted as if expecting malice .
When they arrived she demanded tea as essential to the discussion, so Talib brewed some of his store: dried mulberry leaves and hibiscus flowers from his parents’ garden. Hayfa perched on top of his incomplete cabin, observing the darkening tree line.
Keeping watch, thought Talib, feeling more sure in his suspicions, very military.
The older Royal Guards, those few who had seen active service, were the same. On his occasional trips into Canterlot he’d learned to pick them out even when they were off-duty: backs to the wall, facing the door, always scanning the crowd. He couldn’t accurately guess griffon ages but Hayfa was young, maybe not much older than Talib, but it seemed she’d already seen some heavy action.
“Tea’s ready,” he called.
She flew down lightly and gestured towards his rough shelter.
“May I?”
“Haven’t you already?” he countered.
“Still sparring, are we? I’m just trying to be polite. Not your strong suit, is it?”
He sighed, and shrugged. “Be my guest.”
The dancing eyes again, then she turned, planted her legs and dragged the walls open wide, flexing the muscles in her back and instinctively flapping her wings for extra pull. Talib stared. Compared to Mujeer she was positively slender, but densely-packed muscle stood out as she heaved. Hayfa went inside, settling in on the bracken with her back to the boulders. He passed her the tea and, at her gesture, sat nervously at the far edge of the bracken. She raised the wooden cup in salute and sipped carefully, and Talib did the same. The floral, honeyed note of the hibiscus contrasted pleasantly with the pungent mulberry leaf.
Hayfa spoke first. “So, Talib. Tell me more about your experiments. I’m intrigued.”
“I know. You seem to have already indulged your curiosity,” he gestured towards his storage chest, “I apologize if my notes were unhelpful.”
“Forgive me,” she said with a courtly elegance that surprised him, but seemed to come naturally to her, “I was interested, but couldn’t make sense of them. I’m not much of a botanist. Would you humour me?”
Talib rolled his eyes, defeated. It seemed Hayfa was determined to make small talk before revealing her true purpose. And, for what it was worth, when not holding a knife to his throat she actually seemed rather a pleasant conversationalist. He recounted the change in Miss Scribes’ and Dawn Flare’s magic in the Forest, his theory that the plants had something to do with it, and his experiments using his Earth Pony growth magic. Hayfa listened intently until he finished.
“And when do you expect to finish?” she asked, clearly interested.
“Not for a few weeks yet, probably.”
She nodded. Talib ventured a question.
“So what brought you to the Everfree Forest?” he asked, if only because why have you been stalking me? seemed a little blunt. Hayfa paused, sipping some tea before answering.
“It’s a long story.”
“I’m not busy,” lied Talib, looking longingly at his unfinished cabin.
“By which I mean I’d rather not discuss it.”
“Oh.” He searched for something to say. “Well… may I ask how long you’ve been in the Forest?”
“Only a few weeks, really. I’m still learning my way around.”
“You don’t find it too dangerous?”
“It is, isn’t it?” she said cheerfully, as if agreeing with a compliment, “I like it. It’s good practise.” for what? thought Talib. He didn’t ask.
“Well, I’m glad you’re enjoying it,” he said instead, keeping up the polite charade, “hunting and such. Will you be moving on soon? I believe most griffons are just passing through on their way to richer prospects.”
“Most griffons, yes,” she replied, “not I.” No such luck, Talib thought. “Your Progress Miller has piqued my interest,” she said cautiously, sipping tea and looking at Talib over the cup. A change in her tone suggested that they were finally getting to the real business at hand.
“He’s an interesting pony,” said Talib.
“Indeed,” Hayfa said again. It was apparently an idiosyncratic phrase of hers, perhaps a direct translation from some word in Griffon. He was surprised – her speech was otherwise highly cultivated. “I’ve read your report,” she continued, without a trace of embarrassment, “it’s quite compelling.”
“Have you noticed displaced animals as well?” asked Talib eagerly, but Hayfa shook her head.
“I wouldn’t recognize them if I saw them – I’m ignorant of their usual home ranges.” Talib deflated. “But there is something else.”
He looked at her expectantly, but she seemed to be brooding; staring out of the shelter into the darkened trees, tea momentarily forgotten. Presently she gathered herself.
“I think… the Everfree Forest grows angry.”
Talib felt his heart skip a beat as he, too, turned his head to stare at the trees, imagining them watching, listening. More sensible ponies, like the Ponyville Council perhaps, would have dismissed Hayfa’s assertion immediately as fanciful nonsense. Not Talib. He’d spent enough time here to know that the various components of the Forest added up to something greater than the sum of their parts; it was, in a sense, a being in its own right. He’d already noticed it had… moods , indefinable but tangible, calm or ominous. Or wrathful. He turned back to Hayfa.
“What… what makes you say that?”
She dragged her eyes away from the night-blackened greenery to look at Talib.
“I’m aware the Everfree Forest has always contained creatures both dangerous and strange,” she began, “but have they always acted with intelligence? With co-ordination and purpose?”
Talib reflected on his many near scrapes. “The animals have always been opportunists, not… directed , as you seem to be suggesting. That is… odd.”
“Have the trees themselves always been fractious and violent?”
He started, and Hayfa saw the concern in his eyes. “Only once, to my knowledge,” he said, “when the Tree of Harmony was compromised.” Shaken, he took a draught of tea to steady his hooves. “I knew something was wrong. But how did you know this was unusual? You’re new to the Forest.”
“I could feel it. I’ve… experienced this feeling before,” she said, expression unreadable.
“When?” asked Talib.
Hayfa drank more tea. “It’s a long story,” she finally said.
This time, Talib didn’t press. “Why haven’t I noticed these things?” he said, instead. “Why didn’t Zecora mention them?”
“For now, they are confined to a deep area of the forest far to the East.”
“That’s towards Progress Group’s logging camp!” exclaimed Talib.
Hayfa nodded. “Indeed. But it is spreading. I suspect you will experience them soon enough.”
Talib shivered, glancing at the trees again. “What the buck is going on here?” he whispered.
Hayfa took a deep breath and let it out noisily, breaking the tension. “I cannot help but feel it has something to do with Progress’s actions, but those are hidden from us. We must ensure your report is successful.”
Talib nodded. “I agree, of course,” he said, “but I think there’s something else going on, too. Have you been over to his camp?”
Hayfa shook her head. “It’s too far, and too dangerous. I may be stealthy, but I’m still learning about the Forest – and even stealth is no protection against some ambush predators. My hearing and smell are only average, and in the dense trees my eyes aren’t much use.”
Talib nodded. “Progress said his camp has been sabotaged, that ponies unknown had burned and smashed some of his equipment one night. They were never seen. I don’t suppose you’ve noticed anypony else wandering around the Forest?”
“Only you and Zecora,” said Hayfa. She smiled with her eyes. “I do not suspect either of you.”
“Indeed,” he said, subconsciously picking up her mannerism, “this sounded like the work of many. But then they just vanished, not even leaving tracks.”
Hayfa sighed. “Another mysterious player in our little game, it would seem.”
“Our game?” asked Talib. “Why are you so invested in this, anyway?”
Hayfa sipped her tea and looked at him coyly.
“Don’t tell me,” he said, “it’s a long story.”
Dancing eyes. “Indeed.”
Chapter Thirteen: Charmed, I'm Sure
“Drat,” said Talib, “empty again.”
On a cool, unsettled autumn day before market, Talib was watering the elegantly-arranged bonsai as Old Sim had shown him, but couldn’t seem to get the dosage quite right. He kept running out of water just before he reached the final miniature tree; a relatively young – only about a decade old – juniper set back towards the cottage, away from the Forest pool where Talib filled the watering can, behind the sauna. It was only a couple of minutes’ work to walk over, fill up and walk back, but today it seemed irksome and unnecessary. The gusty weather was, for some reason, making him irritable and he glared angrily at the blameless, pretty little tree, casting around for some alternative.
Success: Talib’s eyes came to rest on Old Sim’s solar still, which he used for purifying water. The simple contraption contained a wide, shallow reservoir, with a bucket suspended above. The whole thing was enclosed in glass, the roof an inverted cone, so that as the sun evaporated water from the reservoir, condensation ran down the cone into the bucket. Old Sim would take the distilled water and repeat the procedure a few times, ensuring no impurities remained to interfere with the delicate alchemy of a lacquer, or with the temperamental natural fermentation of birch sap. Talib removed the bucket and tipped a little into the juniper’s electric-blue glazed pot. He hung up the watering can and went inside.
Old Sim was there, frying up some thick circles of potato. Talib had never seen anypony fry potatoes like that, but though he enjoyed good food Old Sim had precious little patience for cooking. Everything he ate seemed to be consumed either raw or just roughly chopped and fried, then usually smothered with cheese. Without his physically demanding work Talib was pretty sure he’d quickly find himself getting stuck in doorframes. The old pony, also made restless by the weather, looked up sharply and Talib felt a flush of guilt chase away the undignified but amusing image, worrying for an illogical moment that his employer had heard him thinking.
“That’s you done, then,” said Old Sim, rhetorically.
“Yep,” responded Talib, “I’ll finish off some woodworking pieces for market tomorrow and head off.”
Old Sim nodded, looking back at his pan and tossing the potatoes around expertly. Talib could see a large hunk of cheese on the chopping board next to him, ready.
“So the report’s done, then?”
“All the calculations and arguments put forward, arranged, explained, summarized, concluded and signed,” said Talib. “The Ponyville Council would have to be wilfully negligent, dishonest or ignorant to dismiss it.”
“Hah!” scoffed Old Sim, “you describe them perfectly. ‘It’s difficult to get a pony to understand something when their livelihood depends upon them not understanding it’.” He shook his head and the potatoes, making them spit in the pan, perhaps because he couldn't himself spit on the floor. “Then again, nothing ventured, nothing gained. We couldn’t very well have done otherwise.”
“There’s also an appendix covering the displaced species.”
“Good. That’s unlikely to be as convincing but it’s good to be thorough. Well, we’ll drop it in their laps after market tomorrow and see if it makes them jump.”
Talib grinned. “I’m looking forward to it.”
Old Sim looked at him crookedly, but then broke into a small smirk of his own. “So am I, colt, so am I. Get along now.”
Later that evening, Talib found himself halfway up a ladder against his nascent cabin, trying to ponyhandle roofing joists into place. Even with the Everfree weather’s unpredictable behaviour he knew the autumn rains could not be far away, and the thought was a near-constant pressure at the back of his mind. Now the grey clouds, delinquent cousins to summer’s blameless white fluff, came more often to hover threateningly, as they did this evening. They further reduced his already-shortened working light, and Talib was going through a lot of lamp oil these days.
Having just awkwardly wrestled a beam into its seating, Talib wiped his sweating brow and morosely contemplated the remaining pile, evidence of his slow progress. He got off the ladder, wandered over and half-heartedly kicked one. A familiar voice from the edge of his little glade made him jump guiltily.
“Finally found a manageable foe, I see.”
He looked up and saw Hayfa walking towards him, the usual faint amusement evident on her face. She finds me quite entertaining, it seems, he thought, a little bitterly. Good for her.
“I’m just thinking about how long this is going to take me,” he said out loud, too intimidated to goad her. “I’m worried about the rains.”
Hayfa reached the little stream, which was almost icy this time of year. She coiled up on all fours and leapt nimbly across, landing with fluid grace. Talib hadn’t seen her for a few days, since their difficult first meeting, and as he watched her approach he marvelled at the perfect control she seemed to have in every action – a sharp contrast with his ungainly movements. She examined the cabin and pile of beams critically, arms crossed and head tilted.
“I could lend a claw, if you like,” she offered, easily.
“Uh… sure,” said Talib, surprised, “I’d appreciate that, actually.”
He quickly ascertained that although she claimed to have fashioned innumerable rough shelters and animal traps, Hayfa had no experience with proper carpentry. But the work wasn’t complicated and her intuitive physicality made her a quick study, and soon they were lifting beams and securing them into place with passable coordination, things going immeasurably quicker now that Talib didn’t have to manoeuvre each length one end at a time. For a while they spoke only of the task at hand, but as they settled into a rhythm Hayfa was able to spare some attention for other matters.
“So, Talib Cane,” she pronounced it ta-leeb , like Mujeer, “tomorrow you submit the report, yes?”
He grunted as they lifted a heavy beam in concert, then nodded. “Yup.” They carefully lowered it into the pre-cut join. “Actually,” he said when it was placed, “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that.”
Hayfa quirked an eyebrow.
“You’ve seen some disturbances in the Forest. I’d like to add your observations to the appendix we’ve written on displaced animals.”
Hayfa shrugged. “As you wish.”
“The thing is,” Talib continued, “this is an official statement. You’d need to sign it, and be willing to affirm it in person, if asked. Would you do that?”
The usually lithe griffoness tensed slightly, giving Talib a suspicious look. “Is it really necessary?”
Talib returned her disconcerting gaze, somehow. “It may be,” he said. “I don’t mean to pressure you, but you could provide testimony which nopony else can – not even Zecora has been as deep into the Everfree Forest as you seem to have, recently. The report would be much weaker without it.”
“The Ponyville ponies would never accept the word of a griffon,” she returned, clearly reticent.
“I think they would,” he said, “some of them. And anyway, that doesn’t absolve you of your responsibilities.” He remembered Old Sim’s dressing-down, feeling slightly hypocritical about now being on the other end of the harangue. I said yes though, didn’t I? he thought. You can wrestle with personal integrity later. The Forest needs her. “You said you want to help. Well, this is how.”
Hayfa tilted her head and donned her detached, slightly amused impression once more. Talib realized suddenly that it was a kind of mask – her concern had been a glimpse through briefly clear waters, right to the bottom, but now something in there had flicked its tail and muddied them once more. She was opaque.
“You sound like a griffon,” she said, “such as the poet described: ‘craving the cold embrace of duty’s chains.’ But duty is a selfish mistress, young Talib, as I have learned.”
He wasn’t sure what to say, so he just waited.
Eventually she laughed, light but mocking. “I see my cynicism has confused you. You’re quite the innocent, aren’t you? A precious rarity. Very well,” she said ironically, grandly, “I will join you in bondage. Pass me my chains! But not too tight: I have some conditions.”
Her performance rang of the theatre to Talib, and sat strangely alongside what he guessed of her military training. He put the enigma to one side for the moment. “What conditions?” he asked.
“I will sign, and if necessary speak and be known, under a different name.”
Talib knew better, by now, than to ask why. He shrugged. “What name?”
She thought for a moment, then chuckled. “Yes. How fitting. Jahel will do rather nicely."
“Hey!” Talib and Old Sim ignored the distant shouting, indistinct among the general noise of market stalls being dismantled, until it was repeated a few yards closer. “Hey, uh… excuse me!”
Now Talib looked up, a display shelf in his teeth, ears swivelling to find the noise as Old Sim worked on unheeding beside him. The crowds had mostly cleared away but the air was even more full of noise than at the height of market sales; the clattering of carts, wood and metal on Ponyville’s smooth cobbles made difficult the task of triangulating the source. Eventually, some way off, a hoof was stuck in the air and waved at him; following the pale grey-white limb, Talib found it attached to a unicorn mare with a fuchsia-red mane with lavender streaks, looking right at him. She smiled and came closer, picking her way carefully through the scattered flotsam and jetsam of commerce.
“Hey! You’re new here, right?” she asked, without preamble, when close enough for conversation.
“Uh, sure,” replied Talib uncertainly, “I mean, I’ve only been working here with Sim for a few weeks.” The stallion in question merely grunted, ignoring their visitor, and kept working. Talib looked at her again. Her hair was huge, smooth and glossy, swept in a single wave down past her shoulder where it ended in a single luscious curl. Her tail was similar, tied at the base with a sky-blue bow, and her cutie mark was of a silver crescent moon with three black stars around its lower curve.
“That’s great!” she said, happily.
“It, uh… it is?” replied Talib.
“Sure! We’re always looking to meet new friends. A few of us from the market are going for hayshakes at the café afterwards – why don’t you come along? It’s a regular thing.”
“Oh,” said Talib. Automatically, he started thinking of excuses to dodge the social situation, before realizing he didn’t have to. “I actually have a couple of errands to run this afternoon,” he said, “Sim and I are going to talk to Ponyville Council about something.”
“No problem,” said the unicorn, “we’ll be there for a while. It’s a standing offer, just drop by if you get time.” She looked at Talib, then over to Old Sim – busy lifting planks into the back of their cart, as if the other two ponies didn’t exist – then back at Talib with a knowing, sly expression.
“You two. Peas in a pod, huh?”
Talib gave her a confused look. She turned to face Old Sim, still glancing mischievously at Talib out of the corner of her eyes.
“So, Mr. Timbers, invitation’s still open. We ever going to convince you to come hang out with us?”
“Sim,” he said, laconically.
“Right, sorry, Old Sim ,” she said with a teasing smile. He looked up sharply at the gentle mockery. “You should bring your apprentice here. I know it sounds crazy, but you two might even have fun.”
“We’re busy, Moondancer.” So that’s her name. “Some other time.”
She rolled her eyes, despairing. “Sure, sure,” she said skeptically, disappointment evident in her voice. A change came over her; she’d been excited, playful, but now her eyes were downcast and her shoulders drooped as she slowly turned away.
Talib felt bad for her. She’d just been trying to be welcoming, and, he realized suddenly, they’d given her nothing but distance.
“Moondancer,” he called. She turned around.
“It was nice to meet you. I’m Talib Cane.” He held out a hoof and Moondancer took it, brightening.
“Oh, I know! Didn’t I do the proper introductions? Typical. I’m Moondancer,” she said, mock-formal. She was smiling again, and Talib returned it.
“I can’t haul both carts, Talib,” said Old Sim gruffly, behind him. Talib started and hastily went to harness up. Moondancer stifled a giggle, but the mirth spilled through in her expression. Talib himself grinned foolishly as she waved goodbye and wandered off.
Blam!
Old Sim slammed shut the door to the Ponyville Council offices as they left, making Talib jump and several ponies look over in curiosity as they crossed the town square. The look on the old stallion’s chestnut-brown face as he turned back to the town square was a potent mixture of contempt and anger, and though Talib desperately wanted to break the fuming silence, he could tell it was better than whatever Old Sim would replace it with. The day had turned quickly cool, the first real cold spell of early autumn, and a sharp, fresh wind blew over their coats, chilling Talib’s nostrils but utterly failing to cool Old Sim’s rage. Rather, the hard grey sky and sudden deterioration in the weather gave a sense of approaching calamity. They stood there in silence for a while, Talib unsure of what to say or do. The whispering of the cold wind was the only sound, though Talib could swear that every now and then he could hear the grinding of Old Sim’s teeth. He desperately wanted to get away.
“I think I’ll go home,” he finally said, looking up at the clouds so as to avoid Old Sim’s gaze. But there was no response, not even the ferocious muttering which had followed behind Talib down the stairs from the Ponyville Council Chambers as they’d been leaving, after delivering the report.
Now Talib looked at his mentor, who had also lifted his head to glare at the sky. There was no indication Talib had been heard. He cleared his throat carefully, causing Old Sim to look down sharply.
“Eh?” was the lumberpony’s snappish response. Before Talib could reply, he continued, more softly. “Mmm. You do that. You can bring back the cart after rest day.” He sounded preoccupied.
Talib hesitated. He’d seen Old Sim angry, cranky, grumpy, even sarcastic. It was just his nature. And quiet, of course. But not this kind of quiet. Frustration, anger, hopelessness and defeat were playing merry but subtle hell with Old Sim’s expressions. Although it was frightening, Talib wasn’t sure he should just leave the old pony alone.
“Well now, look at you two.” Talib looked over at the wrinkled old earth pony who had just walked out of the shadow cast by the flyway behind them. It was Pa Walnut, a wry expression on his black-brown face, looking at them measuredly as they turned to face him. “I ain’t never realized the fellin’ business was so bad. Whatsa matter boys, trees started standin’ back up?”
“Mr. Walnut”, said Talib, glad of the distraction. “What brings you in to town after market?”
“Knockin’ heads,” replied Pa Walnut, tilting his own head towards the offices, “gotta clear up some to-do about our stallholder’s license. Council says our fees are late, but I paid ‘em a ways back. Probably they just lost the paperwork, like always.” He shook his head, a brief moment of silence as he drew breath mid-rant. “I told ‘em, but they ain’t believed me. Welp, I’ll make ‘em dance a different dance when I shows ‘em my receipt. Time-wasters, all of ‘em.”
Talib nodded, sighing in shared frustration. “We hear you.”
Pa Walnut’s expression lightened from grumbling into commiseration. “Oh, I get it. You too, eh? What’s the council gone and done to you this time, Sim?”
Talib winced.
They’d arrived at the offices five minutes before their appointment, as was Old Sim’s habit, and parked their carts outside just as the weather had begun to turn. At the time, Talib had felt the excitement he always did when rain was approaching. He hadn’t realised it was an omen.
The council-ponies were busy, of course. A Meeting had gone over time, to nopony’s surprise. Sim’s expression was already tight at the prospect of dealing with the council, and this rudeness had not helped. Things were off to a bad start. Talib was too shy to talk to the electric-blue pegasus behind the counter, but her and Old Sim had seemed to dislike one another from previous acquaintance so Talib had been forced to do the talking. She suggested they leave the report for her to pass on but of course that was out of the question. No way were Talib and Old Sim going to risk it getting lost or forgotten, like so much other paperwork seemed to. He had said they would wait. Talib carefully removed the leather pannier carrying the precious report and sat with it cradled delicately in his lap.
And wait they had. By the time half an hour had passed on the blue- and white-striped sofa, Talib felt he knew every visible inch of the square, smallish room. Old Sim, hogging the only available copy of the Ponyville Express and looking up at the clock every so often to huff pointedly, was clearly in no mood for conversation, as usual. The creamy-yellow pine walls, probably installed while Granny Smith was still a filly, held at most five minutes’ interest, even to a lumberpony; the ornate rug, a gift from Ponyville’s sister city in the Griffon Empire, only slightly more. If he weren’t so timid, Talib probably could have passed some time chatting with Philomena, the bored-looking young pegasus mare behind the desk; as it was, he only dared shoot occasional quick glances in her direction.
Finally, Old Sim had snapped. Getting up and sharply motioning Talib to follow, he stormed right past the protesting receptionist, Talib trailing behind giving her apologetic looks, and up the stairs to the Council chambers. The heavy, dark timber door was both decorative and functional: ornate designs covered its soundproof core. Old Sim had opened it directly, not deigning to knock, and strode right in. After the impressive door, the interior of the room was surprisingly plain; cream-painted plaster walls and simple, functional chairs surrounded a battle-worn but cheap rectangular table bearing multiple hoof-prints from heated discussions. The twelve council-ponies had been sitting around it, piles of paper scattered haphazardly in front of them, looking up in surprise at the intrusion.
“Mr. Timbers,” began Blythe Booke indignantly, “I thought we’d made ourselves clear after your rudeness last time. You cannot simply barge-”
“Sim,” he said, cutting the old mare off mid-chastisement. “I told you, call me Sim.” Blythe’s eyes narrowed and her clenching jaw was visible even through her aged jowls. Looks like she’s considering a few other names, thought Talib, lurking uncertainly against the rear wall. The receptionist hurried through the door and past him, cotton-candy pink mane streaming behind her.
“Sorry, councillors,” she said, “I had asked them to wait, but-”
“It’s alright, Ms. Buster,” said Filthy Rich, extending a calming hoof, “they had an appointment. We just ran a little over, here, and lost track of time.” Talib predicted Old Sim’s disparaging snort only an instant before the older pony obliged, with force. Philomena shot Talib a scornful look on her way back down to her post, but it was nothing compared to the look Blythe Booke was aiming at them.
“Well Sim, since you’re here,” continued Filthy Rich, “let’s have a look at this report.”
Talib had stepped forward and carefully placed the report on the table. Running into dozens of pages plus appendices, the product of their recent late-night hard work was carefully bound in serious grey canvas since it’d hopefully be getting a lot of use, and later stored in the Golden Oak Library archives. He was rather proud of it.
Filthy Rich hoofed through a few pages thoughtfully, then closed it and slid it down the table among the piles of paper.
“That looks quite thorough,” he said, adjusting his trademark red tie. “We’ll put it on the itinerary of upcoming items.”
Old Sim’s eyebrows furrowed. “You’re not going to look at it now?” he asked, carefully. Talib tensed.
“I’m afraid not. We’re already overtime so we’re pushing some things back to next meeting.”
“Oh, don’t worry Mr. Timbers,” Blythe had said, faintly gloating, “you’re in the queue. We’ll get to it.”
“Let me show you out,” said Filthy Rich hastily, gesturing towards the door.
That was when the muttering had started.
“Hoo boy,” crowed Pa Walnut, “I don’t envy you folks.”
Old Sim had calmed somewhat. While Talib had recounted the story, Old Sim had been free to huff and scoff and cuss to his heart’s content. Venting his frustration to an old comrade like Pa Walnut seemed to soothe him, and dispelled the dangerous quiet that had been worrying Talib.
“So…” continued Pa Walnut, thoughtfully, “this business with Progress Group – it’s the real deal, eh? You’re sure they’re over-loggin’?”
Old Sim just looked at his friend. “Would I be putting myself through this if I weren’t?”
“Well no, Sim,” Pa Walnut replied, “I don’t suppose you would be. Say, it won’t take me long to finish my business here,” he continued, nodding towards the council office, “why don’t we grab a bite after and you can loop me in? Seems like it’d be good to have some friends hitched up and pullin’ beside you.”
Old Sim shook his head. “I’ve wasted enough time jawin’ for today,” he said stonily, “I best head back and finish up my chores. Talib here can bring you up to speed, if you like. He’s got that darn report by memory. I’ve had a bellyful of it, for now.”
With this, he nodded his goodbyes and walked determinedly away. Pa Walnut watched him go, and spoke quietly to Talib, standing beside him.
“He’s a good pony, really,” said Pa Walnut, “and he weren’t always so standoffish. I just don’t think he really sees what he’s doin’, pushin’ everypony away all the time.”
“What… what happened to him?” asked Talib.
“Don’t rightly know,” replied Pa Walnut, absently, still staring after his friend, “but there was a mare, a long time ago, when we was young together…” he snapped back to himself, and looked sharply at Talib, who scrambled to replace his curious expression with nonchalance. “Not my place to say. Don’t you go askin’ him, either, or he’ll know I let slip.” Talib tried to look earnest and obliging as Pa Walnut looked back at Old Sim, just before he rounded a corner and disappeared.
“Just… just look after him, y’hear?”
Talib nodded, surprised. Me look after Old Sim? he thought. How exactly do you propose I do that? But out loud, he only said he’d do what he could.
Pa Walnut brightened. “Well now, young pony-me-colt, what are you up to this chilly afternoon? Goin’ somewhere to warm up with a very special somepony, I hope?” He elbowed Talib suggestively in the ribs.
Talib rolled his eyes. “Oh sure,” he said, sarcastically.
“Well,” said Pa Walnut, once again looking out after where Old Sim had vanished, “it’s a cold day. Best warmth is good company, they say.”
Unbidden, Moondancer’s cheeky smile played across Talib’s mind.
The three-lobed clover sign was brightly visible in the dimming afternoon, lit as it was by a lantern hung nearby. The clouds were deepening and maturing, bringing an early dusk. Talib walked towards the café, looking for a place to stow his cart. The café’s proprietor and maître d’, Savoir Fare, took his position as owner of Ponyville’s swankiest establishment seriously, and anypony parking their unsightly working cart outside L’Ash Tombée was likely to receive a decidedly cool welcome, customer or no.
None of the outdoor tables were in use on such a cool day, and the comfy piles of hay which served as seats had been raked up and put away somewhere in case of rain. Talib walked around the right hoof side of the cream, forest and pink-coloured building to its rear and parked the cart near the servants’ entrance.
Back around the front, he took a deep breath to steady his nerves before opening the door. A faint ding sounded from the small silver door-bell and Talib faced the dreaded moment, when entering a room, in which most ponies look up at the newcomer. Their expressions were all a blur as he tried not to be intimidated by the sudden attention and the sense of being judged. Awkwardly, he adjusted his posture and kept his expression neutral, so they wouldn’t know he was nervous. But then, his neutral expression, he thought, was a little too forced. Surely they could tell, they could see he was uncomfortable-
“Talib!” somepony shouted, “Hey, Talib! Back here!”
Talib, like most other ponies, looked over at the noise. Moondancer was standing up from a table with six or seven ponies at the rear of the café, gesturing him over. Savoir Fare, halfway over to Talib with a menu in his hoof, stopped and nodded, then returned to taking somepony’s order. The tense moment broke, and Talib headed down the back to Moondancer’s group. Now that everypony’s attention was elsewhere, he relaxed enough to take in the interior of the L’Ash Tombée , which he’d never seen. The ground floor was fairly packed with tables, some round, some long, but most empty. The threat of wet weather had sent most ponies home as soon as they finished their errands, and Savoir Fare was the only waiter weaving his way between the low wooden stools. Wrought-iron chandeliers hung on old, stout ropes from the ceiling, and their multitude of bright candles contrasted with the thickening grey outdoors and gave the room a warm, welcoming ambiance, made personal by the gentle hubbub of ponies talking.
“So glad you came!” said the lively unicorn when he got closer, while the others continued to chat among themselves. “I thought you were forever doomed to copy Old Sim’s antisocial ways.”
Talib shrugged and smiled drily. “Well, maybe there’s hope for me yet.”
“Maybe,” replied Moondancer, before clopping her hooves together loudly for attention. “Alright everypony, this here’s Talib.” A hearty chorus of welcome rose from the small group. A few were vaguely familiar; Talib recognized Barber Groomsby, with his carefully-maintained moustache, and received a familiar nod. “Why don’t you introduce yourself, Talib?” said Moondancer.
Talib swallowed, but the ring of easy smiles, plus Moondancer’s reassuring hoof on his shoulder, helped him on.
“I’m Talib Cane, from Sugarcane Farm out near the Forest. Moondancer saw me at market a few times and invited me along,” he finished, carefully proving his legitimacy. There followed a round of introductions which Talib, terrible with names and slightly overwhelmed, promptly forgot. A seat was found, a hay shake was ordered for him – ignoring his protests that he wasn’t thirsty – and the friendly ponies started questioning the new arrival.
“So, Talib,” said a pink pegasus with a blue mane, who Talib seemed to remember being introduced as Firefly, “you selling molasses and such at the markets?”
“Uh, nope,” said Talib, “actually I apprenticed with Old Sim a few weeks ago, I’m there with him.”
“Oh!” said a teal mare with wavy brown hair, “you’re the pony who does those wood carvings!”
Talib nodded. “That’s me,” he said, wondering how in Equestria anypony had heard about them.
“My cousin loves them,” she said, “seems like every week now she’s gushing about some new bowl or such that you made. They must be very pretty. I haven’t had time to see them, myself, since I’m busy at my own stall.”
Talib wasn’t sure what to say, and there was an awkward pause. “Well, um,” he eventually ventured, “maybe I’ll come over and say hi next market day, and bring one of my carvings.”
“Oh,” the garrulous earth pony said, brightly, “would you? Sometimes it’s a shame not to be able to walk around enjoying the market.”
“Sure,” said Talib, warming up, “how can I find you?”
“Just look for Moondancer and I at the “Charms and Cures” stand. We’re usually somewhere near the centre.”
“What do you sell there?”
“Oh, this and that. I mainly sell herbal remedies and such. Moondancer sells these little trinkets she makes,” she said, holding up a small pendant from around her neck. It was simple, just a plain horizontal silver bar on a chain, and set in the centre was a raw chip of some kind of stone.
Moondancer, having heard her name, leaned over. “Topaz,” she said, her expression fey, “for luck.” Talib couldn’t tell if she was being serious.
After their initial interest in the newcomer, the group of friends eased back into relaxed, free-flowing conversation, forgetting the gathering cold and dark outside. Talib, absorbed in the general noise, was able to sit back and let the talk wash over him, keeping mostly out of it. And yet he didn’t feel excluded; he joined in quietly with the laughter, he leaned forward to hear somepony’s story better. The occasional friendly look or knowing wink thrown his way showed that he didn’t need to talk to be part of the moment.
Besides, Moondancer talked enough for three ponies. The exuberant unicorn babbled away happily, energetically, engaging in a nimble back-and-forth with various ponies around the table. Talib could only look on in amazement, unable to imagine taking that much unselfconscious delight in conversation.
“Oh hey,” she said, more suddenly than usual, “anypony want a good oak coffee table? I just got a new one, so I’m giving it away.”
Talib was surprised. “For free?” he asked, almost involuntarily. A coffee table, well-made and of solid timber, was not a cheap item.
“Sure, why not? It cost me a bunch, a few years ago, but the price of furniture has dropped so much recently it almost seems silly asking anything for it, when a pony could just go buy a new one so cheap.”
Nopony showed any interest, but just looked around the table at each other.
“Oh,” said Moondancer, crestfallen, “I guess… I guess I’ll just throw it out? Seems like a waste, but I can’t just hang onto it forever.”
Talib was faintly scandalized. He knew how much work went into something even as simple as a coffee table, if it was done right. He knew how many slow-growing oak trees there were in the Forest that could provide quality lumber for such furniture – it wasn’t all that many. Doing everything by hoof, he knew how much such a piece would be worth. The influx of cheap lumber from Progress Group must be having a stronger trickle-down effect than he’d realized.
“I’ll take it,” he said, “if you’re going to throw it out.”
“Oh, great!” said Moondancer. “You have your cart with you, right? We could go and get it this evening, if you’re free.”
“Sure,” said Talib. Where the heck am I going to put it? he wondered, privately.
Everypony started looking at the clock and making vague time-to-go noises, and the group broke up. At the entrance, a couple of them cornered him and extracted a promise that he would return. They ventured outdoors, now grown blustery and dim. Moondancer lived in a quiet alley not far from the café, and it didn’t take long to get there, their hooves and the iron-shod cart wheels clopping and clattering over the smooth cobbles, the noise bouncing off the deserted streets but somewhat lost in the groaning wind. Along the way, the two ponies chatted about nothing in particular.
“So what do you think of the Friends for Profit?” asked Moondancer.
Talib blinked. “The what?”
Moondancer gave a small, dismissive laugh. “That’s what we call ourselves. Pretentious, isn’t it? I forget where it came from. Before my time. The idea is that most of us are at the markets to make a profit, but that friendship profits us, too.” She rolled her eyes at the awkward attempt at humour. “I’ll bet whoever came up with it thought they were pretty clever. The whole thing smacks of some stiff, book-smart pony trying their hoof at being funny.”
Talib, trying to think of a way to build on the joke, suddenly stopped himself. Moondancer looked at him as they walked side-by-side through the greying, empty streets.
“So?” she pressed, “did you have fun?”
“Yeah,” said Talib quickly. He paused and realized it was more than a politeness; he actually had enjoyed himself. “Yes,” he said firmly, more considered. “I really did.”
“Good,” said Moondancer, “I told Firefly you did. She was worried, because you didn’t say much. But I figured anypony working with Old Sim for more than a day couldn’t be much of a talker.”
Talib nodded, appreciating.
“They’re a good bunch,” said Moondancer, earnestly, “they’ve helped me through some tough times. Especially Remedy.”
Talib looked at her quizzically.
“Remedy Petal,” explained Moondancer, “my partner at the stall?”
“Oh, of course,” said Talib, remembering the teal-and-brown earth pony mare with the floral cutie mark, “I don’t think I’ve seen it.”
“I’m hurt,” Moondancer said, pouting.
“I mean,” Talib said quickly, explaining himself, “I don’t go wandering around the markets much, so there’s a lot I haven’t seen. The crowds-”
“Hey, it was a joke” interrupted Moondancer, holding up her hooves, placating. Talib grinned sheepishly, hoping she would stop looking at him like he was simple. “We’re pretty small, and usually right in the middle,” Moondancer continued. She gestured grandly at an imaginary sign. “‘Charms and Cures’, we call it, rather inventively.”
Talib was reminded of Old Sim’s hideous tea, the one he got from Zecora which supposedly helped his joints. It helped Talib’s joints too – they moved a lot more easily, as long as it was away from the smell. He ventured this observation to Moondancer, who laughed low and clear.
“Oh, no. That’s Zecora’s stuff. It actually works . Remedy’s concoctions are the complete opposite – they just smell nice and cost a lot. And she never really claimed they give anypony more than a pleasantly relaxed feeling, but it seems like that’s all that the customers are looking for anyway.”
Talib nodded. “Seems like a waste of bits to me, but I guess I can see how some ponies would feel it was worth it.” Moondancer nodded agreement, her glossy lavender and fuchsia hair bouncing delicately. “So what about the other half – your charms?” Talib asked.
“I’m flattered you find that I have any,” replied Moondancer ironically, giving an ornate bow.
Talib flushed at the deliberate misinterpretation. “I mean…” he stammered, earning an amused flick of the mouth from Moondancer, “um, I mean, tell me more about the enchanted pendants you sell.”
“Objects of great power and danger, my young friend,” Moondancer said, theatrically, and Talib looked at her with eyebrows earnestly raised. “Nah,” she continued, “they’re not all Alicorn Amulets. I just make pretty little bits of jewellery and put a little magic in them.”
“What kind of magic?” asked Talib.
“Curses, hexes, spells, auras, charms, enchantments, whatever you want to call them. I’m a little bit of a witch, I suppose.”
“Do they, um…” began Talib, but trailed off.
“Go ahead, ask,” said Moondancer, smiling knowingly.
Talib paused, searching for polite phrasing. Finding none, he pushed on. “Do they work?”
He could see Moondancer preparing what was doubtless another mysterious ambiguity, but then she abruptly dropped the act and shrugged. “Sometimes, I think. So ponies say. I’m not sure.” She stopped in front of a narrow terrace-style house, outwardly identical to its neighbours. Dark, heavy old timber beams framed the whitewashed plaster, and a heavily-thatched roof completed the classic Ponyville style. No inner lights promised warmth on this cold, humourless evening. It seemed Moondancer lived alone.
Inside, Moondancer lit a lantern and skirted the narrow staircase on her way through to the living area, which seemed to double as a workshop. A thick woollen rug, dark brown and patchy, was laid out under an erstwhile workbench on which was heaped a disorganized multitude of tools and trinkets – hammers, pliers, files, wires of various metals and alloys, beads, stones, gems, glue – all the accoutrements of a small-scale jewellery workshop. Even the fireplace was modified into a miniature furnace for smelting, casting and shaping the soft precious metals. Opposite the bench, the room was further cramped by a large desk covered with feathers, bones, an infinite variety of containers, incense, dried mushrooms and many unidentifiable, vaguely organic-looking chunks. Talib assumed that was where the enchantments were concocted. In the still-dark room, with a howling wind outside, the room gave and eldritch and slightly sinister impression, totally at odds with Moondancer’s personality.
Moondancer herself, however, completely dispelled the gloom, drifting about and lighting candles while easy talk bubbled from her lips. She lit a small candelabrum and placed it on a plain, sturdy low table, of the exact style which Talib had imagined.
“So this is it,” she said, “still want it?”
Talib nodded. Maybe I can put it in my cabin.
You mean the one without a floor or a roof?
Shut up
“Alright. I’ll help you take it out to your cart – it’s quite heavy.”
He thanked Moondancer and they ponyhandled the solid old thing outside. The thick clouds had obscured the transition into night and the complete darkness had been allowed to grow in secret. It now took unopposed possession of Ponyville, and Talib stood quietly facing it, measuring it, while Moondancer wiped a hoof across her brow.
“It got dark fast, huh?” she said.
Though he knew what she meant, Talib didn’t quite agree. He’d been aware of the change taking place, as he always was; feeling the intensity of the moment, the flow of energy as one realm was passed off for another. He often wondered whether there was more to the Princesses’ involvement than just the shuffling of celestial bodies. Did they feel the change they wrought on Equestria? Did they themselves carry out the transmutation he felt, by which the whole nature of the world seemed altered?
“Do you have far to go?” asked Moondancer.
Talib shook free of his reverie, looking back at the self-proclaimed witch.
“Not really,” he said, “Sugarcane Farm’s pretty much on the closest edge of the Everfree Forest to Ponyville.”
“Still,” she said, likewise looking up at the invisible, blackened clouds as they breathed a chill over her coat, “I wouldn’t want to be walking out tonight.” She paused, then suddenly told him to wait and rushed back into the house. Talib could hear her hooves clattering up the stairs – to the upstairs bedroom, he assumed – and then back down towards him, the low thump-thump turning abruptly into a clack as she exited onto the cobbles, her heavy, lush mane and tail barely displaced from their full-bodied hang. In her mouth she carefully gripped a necklace, one of her charms. She levitated it with her magic, a deep red-fuschia aura, and it floated towards Talib.
“You should take this, for protection.”
Talib examined the item. A simple, practical steel chain was passed through a ring of some bright metal – silver, presumably – which was unbroken except where it passed through a small sphere of green jade.
“I can’t take this,” he protested.
“But you must,” said Moondancer, “or I’ll worry. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”
Talib realized he was in the hoofs of a master manipulator. He battled on gamely, anyway.
“It looks far too valuable! I’ve got something free from you tonight already. At least let me pay for it.”
Moondancer looked offended. “I’ll do nothing of the sort. Would you deny me the pleasure of giving a gift to a friend?”
Just like that? Talib thought, taken by surprise, She’s decided we’re friends? Do I have to decide now, as well?
Could it be that easy?
“Well,” he said shyly, hesitantly, “at least allow me the same pleasure. I’d like to give you a wood carving when I bring them to show Remedy.”
Moondancer’s face lit up in a smile, without a hint of her usual cheeky, teasing air. After a moment, however, it turned shrewd. “Hmm. Well, if you give it to Remedy instead, so she can pass it on to her adoring cousin, I’ll accept. Do we have a deal?”
Talib was confused, until he realized. Making Remedy’s cousin happy would make Remedy happy, which would make her friend Moondancer happy. And that, thought Talib, would make me happy. Accustomed to fragile solitary pleasures which could be shattered by company, it seemed a strange thing, this shared kind of happiness. It was greater when spread among more. Talib saw now that the bonds between ponies were not just gaps in armour. They were conduits. Strength ebbed and flowed through the web as ponies pushed and pulled, gave and took.
Moondancer was giving him an odd look, and Talib realized he hadn’t answered. “Deal,” he said, firmly, shaking her hoof and donning the necklace. He examined it again, holding it up to the light thrown out from Moondancer’s open doorframe.
“What does it do?” he asked.
“What do any of them do?” she replied cryptically, self-parodying. Talib rolled his eyes and laughed, and Moondancer joined in. The wave of laughter crested and retreated, beaching a strange expression on Moondancer’s face. “But… you’ll wear it?”
Talib nodded, still examining the item. He shrugged and hung it around his neck, then looked at Moondancer thoughtfully, opening his mouth, then pausing and closing it. She tilted her head, encouraging, and he re-started.
“So, I have a kind of project going on right now that involves magic,” he said, unwilling to volunteer more details, “and I was wondering… is it possible to measure magic?”
Moondancer’s eyes widened in surprise. Thankfully, she didn’t react like his schoolmates; no incredulous, vaguely horrified “But you’re an earth pony!”
“Well…” she said, looking up and away, “I actually have no idea. Strange, it’s such a basic notion. What exactly are you trying to do?”
Talib relented and explained about his experiments. “I need something, I don’t know, some mechanism or whatever, to put next to my plants and measure the ambient magic flow. I was going to ask Twilight, but then I thought about you enchanting those pendants…” he broke off and took a breath, not sure if he was making sense. Moondancer was looking at him, her face open and easy, so he pushed on. “I have this strong feeling that the Everfree Forest somehow… dampens, or changes, pony magic. But without putting numbers on it, it’ll always just be an idea. I’ll never know-” he stopped, throat tightened, strangely affected by the thought.
“Never know what?” asked Moondancer, gently.
Talib looked up at the invisible ceiling of cloud, and his mind seemed to populate the heavens with their soft, varied forms. But from here, he thought, it could just as well be a void.
“What I’m… what I’m for ,” he said absently, still looking up.
Moondancer’s eyes softened. “Well, I wouldn’t bother going to see Twilight. She’s super-powerful, alright, but this isn’t her style. And I enchant objects, but not like this. This would require somepony with magic more intricate, mechanistic, someone used to working with devices…” she trailed off, thinking. “A shame the Flim-Flam brothers aren’t in town – but then, you’d never really know if they’d sold you a pup.” Suddenly, she struck the cobbles sharply with a hoof, as if a bolt of inspiration had caused a nerve to misfire. “Of course!” crowed Moondancer, “oh, dear. Oh, I’m not sure how that will go, but it’s really the only way.”
Talib was lost. “What do you mean?” he asked.
Moondancer’s gleeful, impish look had returned, and now it was directed at Talib. He dreaded to ask again, but she spared him the suspense.
“You need,” she said, “to talk to Trixie.”
Chapter Fourteen: Black, Silver, Red
Something has gone wrong. We don't seem to have an archived copy of that chapter. Chapter Fifteen: Violence Under Giants
Whack.
Talib winced and rubbed his forehead gingerly, seeing his own, personal stars in addition to those which hung in the pre-dawn sky. He had already been seriously bruised by the stone Hayfa had tossed at him (or rather, his bedroom window) days ago – an event he suspected she still remembered with mirth. Now she was taking every opportunity to maintain and extend the bruising using the improvised combat staves they had manufactured from stout Everfree branches. This equated to roughly once every few minutes, twice a day, as they practised drills and sparring around the glade encampment which they now shared. Between this and his physically demanding job, Talib had never known such a symphony of aches and bruises.
“Good,” she nodded, “that was much faster.”
“Not fast enough,” he said, ruefully, casting a resentful look at his trainer. Lithe, wiry, toned, lean; tightly-woven muscles coating a compact frame. Her coat, fur and feathers, were always somehow kept neat and clean, even during training, but never adorned. He wondered about that, her complete lack of mementos. In the face of her capable, efficient movements, Talib felt lumbering and awkward, though he knew the lumberpony work had made him stronger and heavier than her.
“The pain will motivate your forelimbs to block more quickly,” she said, justifying her focus on his already-bruised forehead. “Once your muscles know you can do that, overall speed will follow.”
Talib shrugged, then nodded. Hayfa regarded him for a moment, then planted her staff on the earth. “That will do for this morning,” she said. “It may not feel like it, but you’re progressing quickly.”
“I wonder if the staff is really best,” Talib mused aloud. “It’s rather long and unwieldy.”
“It is the best for you, at least at this stage,” Hayfa replied. “Every weapon, natural or manufactured, has its use. Talons,” she continued, flexing her wicked claws, “are for piercing, for grasping and rending. Hooves like those on a heavy earth pony such as yourself can dent steel and shatter bone. Blades are for slicing, daggers for stabbing.”
“And the staff?” queried Talib.
“For the poor, the untrained, and the desperate,” she said wryly. Talib deflated, but Hayfa smiled and continued in her barely-accented, formal way. “A staff or spear is the perfect beginner’s weapon. The learner cannot easily injure themselves, and everything dangerous happens at the other end. One is forced to learn to use both… hooves, in your case, which develops ambidexterity. It also has excellent defensive possibilities. Precision, furthermore, is not required, as it would be with a foil or épée.”
“A what?”
Hayfa smirked. “A stylized sword used in regulated duels by noble griffons to defend their honour, by which synergy it attains the pinnacle of the ridiculous.”
Talib digested this insight into Griffon society, then shrugged again. “I still don’t really understand the point,” he said, looking away from Hayfa and towards the reddening morning sky, “it’s not like I’m going to beat Progress out of the Forest with a stick. I don’t think violence could ever help, really. I never have.”
Hayfa regarded him sharply. “Indeed, you are commendably peaceful,” she said, her tone belying the apparent compliment. “At first I imagined you were unique in your naïveté, Talib, but I know now that, for some reason, Ponyville has more than its share of overgrown, wide-eyed children. I imagine Progress would find that most admirable. And dragons, as we know, are renowned for their commitment to nonviolence. Rational discussion would be certain to carry the day.” Talib looked back at her disdainful expression, then down at the ground. And what could you or I do against a dragon? he thought, but kept it to himself as she continued. “I don’t know why Ponyville is so uniquely susceptible to this delusion – the rest of Equestria certainly knows that while peace has its place, so does conflict.”
He seemed to have struck a nerve with Hayfa – at last – but couldn’t help protesting. “We haven’t had a war in hundreds of years!”
“You haven’t needed to, which proves my point in a roundabout way. But nopony else denies their occasional necessity. I’ve met Princess Celestia – under her regal poise and charm lies a grim ruthlessness. Under the Ancient Castle of the Royal Pony Sisters lie hundreds of suits of pony armour, battle-tarnished full plate. You see only the surface, the peaceful status quo , and so you see nothing.”
“You’ve met the Princess ?”
Hayfa started, as though caught out. She looked at him slowly before replying, as though she could will him to forget.
“Perhaps I have, briefly. A lifetime ago.”
But you’re so young, not much older than me…
Talib bit back the words, knowing he was on dangerous ground. Instead, he gestured to the cabin, changing the subject.
“There’s still some time before I have to leave for work,” he said, “shall we get more of the boarding done?” Hayfa nodded, and they set to work.
He had to admit, four… appendages… were better than two. Since Hayfa had moved in, early in the week, things were moving much faster. The shingling had been finished in a couple of evening sessions after work, meaning the roof was now weatherproofed. Now, once these boards had been hammered onto the wall frames, the worst of the weather would be effectively excluded and they could move in. Sleeping on a couple of loosely-arranged, temporary floorboards was still more attractive than the cramped shanty they’d squeezed into these past few nights, even if it would be a bit draughty. Hayfa kept herself busy during the day: hunting, butchering and preparing the various resulting products for eventual trade. There was no market for them in Ponyville, of course, but some roving traders or hunters, such as other griffons or the odd outcast diamond dog, weren’t squeamish herbivores and she could potentially make a tidy profit. Talib only knew this because, curious, he’d asked what she did all day, and quickly regretted it – thankfully, she kept her drying and tanning tacks, her jerky and bone carvings, out of site beyond the treeline. After the evening combat practice, the herbivorous pony and the omnivorous griffoness still shared vegetable-based meals, and Talib didn’t look too closely to check if she slipped anything… extra into her own bowl.
They had spent a couple of companionable if quiet evenings together, working on the cabin or checking Talib’s experiments, where the plants had nearly reached full growth. He was already taking some measurements in case something happened – like, say, dragonfire – and a rough analysis had further confirmed his earlier impressions: on average, the Forest plots were more “wild”, for lack of a better word, than the farm plots, irrespective of their species composition. They bore smaller and less palatable fruit, in greater numbers, than the plants in what Talib was beginning to consider the “domesticated” context. This was true regardless of the provenance of the plants: Everfree Forest or Sugarcane Farm individuals, growth location was more important than species or source. He even suspected that the effect was stronger on those plots deeper in the Everfree Forest, though he would not know for sure until he analysed the data from mature, harvested plants. The result was puzzling – the only explanation he could think of was that it was something to do with the soil. With any luck, between the magic-ometers (or whatever Trixie ended up calling them) and the complete growth data, something would suggest itself.
They spoke little as they worked, hammering long, broad boards onto the sturdy wooden frame. The slight tilt of the boards, the bottom edge of one overlapping with the top edge of the one immediately below it, should keep the rain out even in one of the Forest’s periodic gales. Although the boards were rough and un-sanded, a coat of cheap paint should protect them from absorbing too much moisture and warping in the humid summers. The interior was still a hazardous maze of floor-beams without a floor, but altogether Talib was quite proud of the progress he’d – they’d – made.
Eventually the sun began to fulfil the promise of the rosy sky, and peeked over the distant treetops visible from the raised hummock on which the nascent cottage stood. They packed up and went their separate ways, Talib with his pannier to the deep staging-ground, and Hayfa with her long knife into the cool shadows of the Forest.
Things were strange this deep in the Forest. Talib had been this far, occasionally, when out camping, but had never stumbled across such enormous trees. The whole area seemed somehow more secluded, undisturbed, and more than ever he had the sense of being in another world, far more distant from Ponyville than the few hours’ travel would suggest. Talib could see, however, why Sim wanted to come out here; the trees here might be healthy and monstrous, but their complete dominance meant that little else was afforded the opportunity for growth, with the exception of dense, ground-covering ferns. There was no vertical heterogeneity like elsewhere in the Everfree – just the canopy, far above, and then the ferns. Very occasionally a giant lay prone, rotted out from the dead, defenceless heartwood so that only the sapwood had remained until finally it buckled under its own weight, coming down with unthinkable noise and taking a neighbour or two with it. Only there was any variety evident, as younger trees desperately scrambled up into the open space, veritably gasping for light. Only one would ultimately be successful, taking its place among gargantuan peers and shading out all less-developed competitors. The silence was as of some sacred space – the silence of a place where giants ruled unchallenged, and the unending monotony of massive vertical shapes seemed to hold up the entirety of the world.
Talib and Sim only had time to bring down a few of these wooden behemoths; trimming them, loading them onto the logging wheel and skidding them back to the staging ground would take the remainder of the day. The logging wheel was a simple and startlingly-proportioned contraption; two reinforced wheels, twice as tall as even Talib, were linked by an axle from which hung a loop of sturdy iron chain. This would be slipped under one end of the trunk, and then tightened by a steel ratchet to lift it. From the axle a long wooden “tongue” projected forward; on either side the two lumberponies would harness up and drag their otherwise-impossible load. Though both were stout, work-hardened earth ponies by now, Talib knew his muscles would be complaining all weekend. Time being of the essence, Sim selected a target and they fell to work quickly. Rather than axes, Talib was finally getting to see the point of the ten-foot felling saw which had until now hung menacingly on Sim’s workshop wall; after an initial cut, each pony grabbed an end in their teeth and they began dragging the thin, flexible blade backwards and forwards through the tree. The amulet Moondancer had given him swung slightly behind the rhythm of his saw-strokes, bouncing lightly off his sternum. The work was more complicated than Talib was used to; specially-designed teeth on the saw were required to keep the incision (or “kerf”) free from clogging sawdust, but they still had to ensure each stroke was carried through to completion in order to eject as much as possible. At one point the weight of the tree began to close the kerf around the saw blade, and dragging it became even more difficult; some timber wedges hammered in behind the saw and periodically tapped in even further soon freed the blade.
Eventually the final, felling cut was complete: with a deafening, tearing crackling the giant was toppled. The ground shook violently as it impacted, but Sim was attacking smaller branches with his axe even before the echoes had died away. Talib, for himself, felt a melancholy, sudden and unexpected, wash over him as he looked at the magnificent life they had brought low. He tried to see the bigger picture, like Sim: now that the space was open, many more lives could have their chance. But it was difficult to keep things in perspective, looking up at the now-visible sky that was like a raw wound in the canopy. He caught Sim looking at him and hastened to work before the flinty stallion could formulate some sarcastic rebuke.
With the first intimidating trunk hanging under the steel axle of the logging wheel, the rest of the trees began to look less formidable, and they broke for lunch. Talib had brought along Everfree Forest Edibles and the two ponies fossicked through the undergrowth while nibbling on fresh sourdough, tart cherries and candied walnuts which Talib’s family had considerately dropped off at Sim’s cottage the preceding evening. Looking at the book, Talib wanted to try his luck again by asking about Pappy Timbers and the mysterious “help” he’d had in acquiring this improbable horticultural wisdom, but the hoary old stallion peering at his father’s book seemed even more snappish than usual. Talib wasn’t sure whether it was to do with his brother’s visit, or if Sim, like Talib, was finding this deep-Everfree experience a little spooky.
The answers certainly lay in Spruce Timbers’ journal, but Sim had made it clear that was off-limits. Must be some interesting family skeletons buried in those pages, thought Talib, and Old Sim’s not the type to let somepony dig them up, that’s for sure. I guess the only way would be to try to sneak a look without him knowing.
Not that I would.
In any case, he’s always at the cottage or out working with me.
Except... Except tomorrow, Talib realized, slowly. He’ll be out all day with the relatives, tomorrow. A pony could easily slip inside and read undisturbed for a few hours, at least. That’d be long enough to shed light on this mystery, for sure...
Not that I would.
“So,” said Talib, nonchalantly, “what’s on the agenda for tomorrow?”
“You’ll need to use the large, lance-tooth saw for cross-cutting these things,” began the old lumberpony absent-mindedly, without looking at Talib, “Don’t worry if you don’t finish one by day’s end. As for a rip-saw, best grab the-”
“Ah,” interrupted Talib, “I meant with Huon and his family.”
Sim shrugged. “I’m sure Huon will set the agenda as soon as they arrive in the morning. Like always.”
Talib glanced at him sideways, trying to tell if Sim’s indifference was genuine. He seemed more prickly whenever Huon was mentioned, and Talib was curious. Suddenly the older pony stopped and stamped the ground impatiently.
“This is going nowhere,” he said, referring to their empty food-baskets, “nothing grows under here but ferns and fungus, and I don’t see any fungus worth eating. Let’s split up and get out from under this canopy. You take the book, and I’ll meet you back at the staging-ground in twenty minutes.” Talib nodded, and Sim smirked. “Biggest haul gets drinks paid for at dinner on market day.”
The wiry, buff-coloured colt tossed his auburn mane and grinned. “You’re on.”
Sim muttered and grumbled to himself quietly as he foraged in the undergrowth. Not far from the staging ground, he’d broken clear of the looming stand and into some younger, more heterogeneous growth. In truth, he’d known it was there from previous visits – his mental map of the Everfree Forest was far more comprehensive than he’d let on to Talib. Just as well, or he’d never have taken the bet . Sim flicked a grin from the corner of his moth, a rare display of mirth. Even holding the Everfree Forest Edibles , Talib would never outpace his mentor. Sim had memorized the book years ago anyway, having been out with his pappy, Spruce Timbers, during much of its writing. Sim didn’t care to continue down that particular Memory Lane, however, and so he forcefully turned his thoughts back to his immediate problems.
They were not vegetation-related. Sim’s hooves and mouth browsed absently but effectively among the autumn-freshened ground cover, set on autopilot by his eyes and nose. Frequently he would deposit some edible root, flower, or fungus into the basket hanging at his side. No, his problem was family. Talib had – probably without knowing it, well-meaning kid that he was – exacerbated Sim’s agitation over Huon’s impending visit, and Sim had been glad of the excuse for some silence when he’d seen the colt had brought the Edibles . Huon always got Sim’s goat, and not just because he was a know-it-all. Huon had money, and a successful business – about which Sim cared not one iota – but he also had something Sim desperately felt the lack of, even if he would only half-admit it to himself, and never to others.
Family.
It must be this time with Talib, re-awakening his old loss and longing for companionship, because there she was again, like a spectre in Sim’s mind, never far from the surface. Glade . He allowed himself the loveliness of her name, but not much more, not her face – even after all these years, the painful wound had never quite achieved the numbness of true scar tissue. Instead it lingered, red and brown and flaky like a rusted-on bolthead, screwed in deep...
Snap .
Just like that, Sim was back in the present; looking around sharply for the origin of the noise, he silently cursed himself for dropping his guard. No matter how familiar, the Forest was always dangerous, and never predictable. He stealthily flattened himself against the cool, slightly moist ground, only ears and eyes protruding above the bracken. Something had snapped that twig. Scanning the surrounding vegetation, he fought to control the imagination which tried to turn trees and shrubs into rockadiles and cockatrices – depending on what was really out there, panic and flight might be worse than immobility. With any luck , Sim thought doubtfully, it’s just a harmless leaf-hog, far from home . He waited, frozen, for long minutes, tense but patient and assessing each movement the cold breeze generated, each rustling that ensued. Nothing approached, and the sun-dappled, taught silence began to seem less desolate, the shapes and shadows less hostile.
Just as he was about to rise, a rank, foetid odour faintly wafted past his nostrils. There was no mistaking that smell.
Timberwolf , he thought. Gotta find Talib , he realized urgently. Well, they’d sniff me out eventually anyway...
Sim began to creep stealthily back towards the staging ground, hoping Talib would be there by now. He moved as swiftly as he dared, half-crouched and avoiding any crunchy, dry undergrowth, all the while seeking nervously the origin of that stench, hoping it wasn’t too close.
Sooner than he’d hoped, a howl, some distance behind him, sent sparkling, electric spasms up his back and the spry old work-pony broke abruptly into a gallop. He had to put some distance between himself and that horrible, ghoulish song as quickly as possible – for now the pack was summoned, they would follow their quarry’s scent-trail quickly. His only hope was to regroup with Talib and flee or face them together. That is , he thought desperately, assuming they haven’t already found him .
Talib, over on the other side of the staging ground, raised his head sharply at the noise, ears triangulating rapidly in surprise. He’d been unable to find an end to the huge trunks that felt, by now, like one of those monotonous dreams where walking produces no real movement whatsoever. Landmarks for navigation had been hard to discern, but some carefully-memorized irregularities had provided enough orientation. That was all pointless now, however, as his sensitive hearing identified and located the howl of a timberwolf somewhere back towards the staging ground. Automatically, he crouched and froze, remembering his first experience where he and Dawn had received their cutie-marks, and the several close calls over subsequent years. Then he realized.
Sim .
This time, there was no Dawn Flare to somehow save the teacher he cared about. Still not sure what he was doing, Talib started sprinting towards the staging ground. Somewhere along the way, he realized he’d snatched up a stout old branch, gripped hard in his teeth as he ran.
Sim grimaced in pain, backing up against the logging wheel. At least they couldn’t get him from behind, like that. The smallest timberwolf, the one he’d just dealt a solid blow to the teeth, rose groggily to its feet, recovering quickly. Sim used the moment to check the blood flowing from his flank – a claw, a sharp fragment of wood, had connected somewhere near his guts and left painful splinters. Thankfully it seemed shallow, the blow only winding him. Never once did Sim take his gaze off the menacing beast as he braced himself for the next lunge, which would be at his throat.
But the timberwolf didn’t attack. Worse, the menacing beast waited , as its three larger pack-mates approached to surround the old lumberpony. A part of him was still thinking analytically, and marvelled at this co-ordinated, tactical behaviour; abnormal in these half-mindless creatures of animated, dead matter. There could be only one explanation.
Oh, Glade , though Sim, sadly, what have they got you doing now? But the ring of sharpened wooden teeth was tightening around him, and there was no time for such thoughts. He braced his rear hooves against the sturdy frame of the logging wheel, to gain a little extra force when that next lunge came…
Just then a movement behind the timberwolves caught his eye, and Sim watched, amazed, as he saw Talib enter the small clearing of their staging-ground at a dead sprint, a thick, gnarly branch in his mouth. The timberwolves, focused on Sim, didn’t hear Talib coming until it was too late: just as they began to turn in surprise, Talib reared up on his hindquarters for the last couple of steps and swung the branch hard at one of the wolves, connecting with the side of its head and causing it to disintegrate with a moaning, desperate howl that faded into the trees along with the eerie green light that had animated it. Sim took advantage of the confusion and galloped abruptly at the wolf between him and Talib, hooves thundering over the spongy ground. Talib understood and attacked from the other side, keeping the wolf’s attention until Sim barrelled into it from behind, knocking it prone. Talib dove on top of its midsection to immobilise the creature while Sim pitched forward to deliver a blow with his hind hooves, an explosive kick which focused all the power of a hard-working earth pony. The timberwolf flew to pieces, wooden parts clattering and clunking loosely on the soil.
Sim turned back to face the grinning Talib just in time to see a huge yew-wood paw connect with the young colt’s temple, sending him flying. Sim started to run to Talib’s aid but found himself held at bay by the largest timberwolf, whose quiet confidence was infinitely more worrying than the snarling bravado of the smaller specimens. Talib had landed heavily on his side and was weakly trying to stand before the second wolf reached him. He’d lost his staff, and had only his shaky hooves with which to heave himself upright, but he managed it in time to make the approaching wolf pause, assessing the threat instead of diving blindly for the jugular. Sim furiously tried to think of a way to get around the alpha and come to Talib’s aid, but nothing came to mind. He slowly stepped sideways, trying to circle around, but the alpha crept ever closer, watching for a moment of inattention. Out of the corner of his eye, Sim could see Talib using his front hooves to fend off snapping, testing bites from the smaller timberwolf, and even get a couple of solid jabs in. But he was doing no real harm, and whatever adrenaline surge he’d been riding was slowly being overwhelmed by his head wound. The impatient beast finally leapt forward. With a clumsy swiftness clearly born of desperation, Talib dodged to the side and tried to turn for a counter-attack but the timberwolf had grabbed his pannier strap, and used it to drag the quickly-fading young pony to the ground. A heavy forepaw was placed on Talib’s flank as he struggled helplessly, and the wolf tore the pannier off the colt completely, tossing it aside and exposing Talib’s flank and cutie mark. There was no more time. Sim, hoping for the element of surprise, bolted straight at the startled alpha in a desperate attempt to get to Talib. Looking through his immediate opponent to where Talib lay prone, Sim could see that the smaller wolf had a triumphant, blood-crazed look in its emerald eyes as its foul-smelling maw opened wide and closed in on Talib’s neck.
Chapter Sixteen: Aftermath
Talib, still dazed from his head wound and exhausted by the ensuing struggle, thought of nothing in particular as he watched the rotting, splintered teeth descend, with a detached feeling of acceptance. However, before they could open his throat, a low, eerie whistle ululated suddenly through the clearing. It seemed to come from everywhere, as if projected directly into his mind, and the timberwolf paused, tilting its head as though listening. Talib's own head lolled weakly sideways to look back at Sim and the alpha – both had stopped; the alpha looking attentive, Sim, confused and cautious. Talib started when his attacker suddenly began to move again, but the timberwolf merely padded calmly off into the Forest as if Sim and Talib didn't exist, creaking slightly. The alpha followed, glancing back briefly as if regretting not being able to finish the job, its green eyes turning Talib’s blood cold. The two ponies watched their retreat with amazement, Talib straining to track their progress until they disappeared entirely among the subtly-menacing trees. He heard Sim call his name and gallop to his side, but couldn't take his eyes off the wolves, as though entranced, even as his vision was narrowing as his consciousness failed. Just before they vanished, he caught a glimpse of something else – a flicker of something supple and grey, a swirling of cloth or weird fog, he couldn't tell. His now-meagre tunnels of sight collapsed into blackness.
Talib's parents stared at Sim, stunned into silence, trying to come to terms with what they'd heard. He looked appalling – exhausted, shaken, and with a thick bandage wrapping the torn, lacerated skin of his stomach. Talib, however, looked worse. With silent coordination, they simultaneously turned to look at the young colt, Sim wincing as he did so. A broad swathe of bandages obscured half of Talib’s face as he lay in bed, still too groggy and confused to move around, half-aware. Sim had insisted Talib lie in the cart to be carried home; Talib, protesting at first, had relented when he'd nearly collapsed trying to stand. On the way he'd gradually become increasingly incoherent, and by the time Sim had turned up at Sugarcane Farm, gasping with exertion and calling loudly for his charge's family, the lemon-beige colt had been largely unintelligible. His family had been horrified but, pragmatic farming types that they were, swiftly began organizing his care, showing the stolid good sense that their injured son did not seem to have inherited. Bianca, the swiftest and fittest runner, had been dispatched to Ponyville Hospital for Nurse Snowheart. Sim desperately hoped they would return soon. Talib's skull did not feel fractured, but he'd had a brief seizure while drifting in and out of consciousness, and that couldn't be good. Now all they could do was watch and wait, and hope that the young colt's condition stabilized. They didn't dare move him.
Sim turned his morose gaze back to the Canes. “Ghaliya, Melaco. I'm-”
“This timberwolf attack,” interrupted Ghaliya in a hard, flat voice, cutting off his apology, “it was… unusual?”
Sim was taken aback. “If it was common,” he said testily, unable to moderate his tone, “do you really think I'd be out there? With somepony as green as him?” Realizing how harshly he was speaking, Sim stopped himself, with effort. Talib’s bedroom seemed to exhale the silence that followed, an alert quiet exhaled by the sloped walls, the thick, round scrap-braided rug on the floor, and the warm light of the candles.
Ghaliya's expression softened, her proud shoulders sagging somewhat. “Of course you wouldn't. Sorry, Sim. I just…” Melaco wrapped a foreleg around her as she trailed off.
“No, I'm sorry,” said Sim.
“What for?” asked Melaco, utterly reasonable. “From what you've said, nopony could have anticipated timberwolves acting like this.” Sim could tell he was just putting on a good show for Ghaliya, since Melaco was usually the most upset when the children came to grief. If Sim could tell, then certainly Ghaliya could as well, but she seemed grateful anyway.
Sim nodded. “Everything was wrong, from the moment they caught my scent.” He thought for a moment. “Even before then. There's no reason for them to be in that area of the Forest – most wood dropped by those big trees has rotted away centuries ago, so they must have animated elsewhere and travelled into the stand, as if they were tracking us from the outset. This wasn't their normal, opportunistic behaviour. They were moving too stealthily, or I would have picked them up earlier and skedaddled. And the way they attacked – no quarter, coordinated, smart. It's… not normal. At the first sign of real resistance, they should have turned tail and fled. We should have been fine.” He paused. “Then again, it was nearly a lot worse. That weren't no warning – it was mortal combat. Right until they up and left, just when we were finally beat. It doesn't make sense.”
“What do you think is going on?” asked Melaco, straight to the point.
Sim was aware of Ghaliya's perceptive eyes examining him with veiled interest. He hesitated, pretending to consider the question. Not yet, he thought, even after this. I can't betray that trust.
Yet.
“I have no idea,” he replied, hoping his faux-earnestness would fool Ghaliya. His eyes betrayed him, and flicked sideways to catch her impassive gaze. She gave no outward sign of having received his answer with suspicion. But then, he thought, that's the problem with Ghaliya. You'd never know, until she wanted you to. He dragged his eyes away and back to Talib, who occasionally mumbled incoherently.
Liar , thought Talib, without quite knowing why. He could hear them talking, hear the voices, but couldn't connect. Everything was foggy and jumbled, his awareness drifting here and there without direction. He had vague memories of disturbing dreams: more fire, yes, but now the trees also danced weirdly around in the flames, not burning, emitting a low, other-worldly whistle. Their dance, and the flickering shadows thrown by white-hot flame, made sharp-edged shapes that leapt and twisted violently. They looked like wings, beating angrily against the ground. The soot and ashes rose high, like an inverted black and white rain, or like feathers shaken loose. There was a throbbing in his head, and throughout his body – a beating, pulsing rhythm which thumped, out of time, in contrast with the whistle-dance and the jagged flames. The noise and movement, the light and dark, heat and cold, all escalated towards an unbearable crescendo, until he felt himself dragged back, away into a dark, enveloping liquid coolness – water, deep water. Talib's whole body jerked and thudded with the pulse of the world.
Cool water, on his head – and soft light, perceived through his closed eyelids.
It must be evening , he thought. What happened to the day? An incredible pain throbbed in his head, turning his stomach and making him cringe. Something felt very wrong. He struggled to open his eyes, seeing the familiar sloping, painted-timber walls of his room, dimly-lit.
Shouldn't I be at work? thought Talib. With painful effort, he rolled his eyes sideways and saw Sim, sitting at a bedside chair in dim candle-light and staring out the window, though nothing was to be seen beyond.
“…Sim?” he managed, weakly.
His mentor's head snapped around, a look of immense relief on his features. Hastily, the grizzled brown stallion rearranged his expression into his more customary half-scowl. He rose, gently taking the cloth from Talib’s forehead and wringing the blood-warmed water out into a bucket. The cloth was re-wetted from his canteen and replaced on Talib’s forehead with surprising tenderness. Talib remembered filling up those canteens from a brook on the way to the clearing-ground. But not much else.
“Finally decided to wake up, I see,” said Sim, not quite keeping his gruff voice steady. “Stay put – you're hurt. I'll fetch your folks.”
“What…” began Talib, before lapsing into silence as he searched his memories, his heart lurching with the beginnings of panic. “Sim, I don't remember… I can't…”
Rapid, business-like hoofsteps were carrying low voices closer, up the stairs. Sim glanced at the open door, then turned a comforting gaze back to Talib, no longer trying to conceal his concern. “Aye, that'll happen, with a blow to the head like that. Don't worry – everything's alright now. Here come your parents.” He stood and stepped back from the bed, making room.
Talib soon saw why. A lemon-yellow earth pony mare, whom Talib recognized as Nurse Snowheart, marched briskly through the door, panting slightly but not pausing as she came directly to the bedside, pale blue-grey curls bouncing as she moved. She cast an inquiring glance at Sim and opened her mouth, but a look was all he had needed. “He's just woken up,” said the old lumberpony. “Seems to know himself, but can't remember past the injury.”
Nurse Snowheart nodded her thanks, then dismissed him from her consideration as she focused on the patient. More ponies came through the door – Bianca, still out of breath, then Melaco and Ghaliya, eyes full of hope.
“He's awake?” asked Bianca, as the three rushed into the room, relief and concern somehow unmixed on their faces, like oil and water.
Nurse Snowheart raised a hoof sharply. “He is, but please don't tax him just now, not until I've finished examining him. Here,” she said, pointing a hoof beside the bed, “stand here, if you like, but I'll need his full attention. I won't be long.”
The family gathered around, watching Nurse Snowheart in silence. Several minutes of calm professionalism provided some much-needed reassurance, the nurse gently feeling his spine and skull, checking his vision, cognition and memory, asking probing questions. Talib answered sensibly, though he was thinking and speaking more slowly than usual, and had complete amnesia beyond felling the tree. He'd assumed he'd been injured by a branch. Eventually, the nurse was finished.
“You have a moderate concussion, but you should be fine,” she said simply to Talib, before addressing the whole group. “Concussions can be tricky. Each one is different, so full recovery might take a week, or months. I hope you're a patient patient, Talib, because the best treatment is rest. Lots of mental and physical rest. Even reading should be avoided.”
Talib looked as though a terminal diagnosis would have been preferable, and Sim chuckled, earning a sharp look from Nurse Snowheart. He looked chastened, and the nurse continued. “There's still cause for concern, since Sim and your parents have told me about your earlier symptoms, which suggest rather serious injury to the brain. I'll remain here for a few hours and monitor your recovery, but if everything continues to improve I'll leave you in your family's good care.”
“So I have to lie here, and just… not do anything?” asked Talib. Despite his bravado, however, rest sounded good. The room looked much more… rubbery than usual, swaying and spinning ever so slightly.
“Essentially. At least for a day or two, you should stay in bed,” she said, firmly. Well, thought Talib, there goes my plan to peek at Spruce Timbers' diary tomorrow. Not that I was going through with it. “And certainly no demanding physical or mental tasks for about a week,” she continued. “Apart from slowing your recovery, the first concussion makes you vulnerable to further and more severe concussions, and from smaller injuries. So yes, do as little as practical until you're fully recovered. But I'll go through the full details with your parents. For now, just rest.” She turned to the family again. “I'll stay here, and one of you probably should as well, if you can. But only one. And Talib – close your eyes and sleep, if you can.”
“You're living where? ” asked Melaco incredulously. Talib suspected that the only thing keeping his normally quiet father from shouting was Nurse Snowheart's assertion that he wasn't to be “agitated”. This was not going well.
“In a little cabin, just inside the Forest,” said Talib, too tired to do anything but answer plainly.
Nurse Snowheart had woken him up after a few hours, and repeated her examination. She'd declared herself satisfied with his recovery, and left after giving instructions to Talib's parents, with Sim and Bianca also listening carefully.
“You might expect some behavioral changes – irritability is very common,” the nurse had said. “Although I remember the time when Fleetfoot had a concussion – she developed a sudden crush on Big Mac. Very awkward. Here's hoping Talib isn't secretly carrying a torch for anypony!” She'd winked shockingly at the injured colt, and his parents chuckled. Talib had winced, and made a mental note to continue diligently avoiding Applejack. Nurse Snowheart had bustled out into the deep night. Only then had they been allowed to question Talib about what had happened.
Sim had suspected he knew something about the attack, and made it subtly clear that he'd no longer stay silent about Talib's living arrangements. Talib found himself effectively blackmailed into coming clean. If it wasn't for the concussion, he probably would have found some way to wriggle out of it, but his head was still throbbing and fuzzy, and it had seemed easiest just to confess.
His parents were in shock. Ghaliya looked to Old Sim, and he answered their unspoken question.
“I only found out a few days ago,” he said. “I figured Talib knew what he was doing, but made it clear he had to tell you.”
Before they could say anything, Talib piped up. “I asked him to wait, said that I'd tell you this week.” He looked back at his mentor. “Sim, they don't know about the experiments.”
“…experiments?” said Bianca, confused. Talib took a deep breath as he looked at the uncertain, slightly angry faces of his family, trying to quiet the voice inside. The secretive, deceptive, self-protecting voice, which kept ponies at a distance because what if they find out?
How weird you are, how different? And now, what a liar?
The voice which had caused him to shield off a core part of himself from even his family. They had never known how lost he felt, with this cutie mark that pointed nowhere. How desperately he needed to discover what his life was for ; and the things he had done, the decisions he had made, in pursuit of that knowledge. A part of him realized they’d always deserved to know, but a more selfish motivation was driving him to honesty: if he was ever to be allowed back into the Forest again, he had to make them understand.
Slowly, he explained about the experiments, and then began describing his hidden life from the logical beginning – the day his interest in magic had become an obsession. The other timberwolf attack. At first, he tried to reveal without making himself vulnerable, to twist the story and the justifications so that it seemed he'd been doing the right thing, but Ghaliya's piercing questions soon made him abandon that tack. Ultimately, he just hoped they understood. That, perhaps, would be enough.
He told them about his years of secret visits to the Forest, and more of the details of his reading, here in Ponyville and at the Canterlot libraries. How he'd been planning these experiments for years. Why he'd apprenticed with Sim, finally carrying out the experiments in secret, and was nearly done. His confession came full circle, finishing where it had begun; at the day's un-remembered timberwolf attack. He didn't dare look at their faces, but stared down unseeing at the patchwork quilt, sewn together from years of family scraps, worn-out but never discarded.
His sister spoke up first, which probably meant his parents were too shocked and upset to trust themselves with speech, just yet.
“So,” she said, “when you said you were staying with Sim, you were really in this cabin of yours?”
“Yes. Or building it, at any rate,” replied Talib, meekly.
“And when you said you were at somepony's house – Dawn's, for example – you were actually in the Forest?”
“Mostly.”
“And,” Ghaliya finally put in, “when you applied for those colleges…” she trailed off, and Talib's heart stopped beating. This was the betrayal he felt worst about. Ghaliya gathered herself and finished the thought: “…you were trying to get rejected?” Her voice wavered slightly.
Talib, still feeling a kind of detachment imparted by his unconscious visions, somehow managed to answer.
“…yes,” he said thickly, then swallowed hard. “I'm sorry. I couldn't bear the thought of having this thing forever,” he gestured to his flank, where his cutie mark was covered by a faded grey patch in the quilt, “and not knowing. Even Dawn had more to go on with understanding her mark. I bet she's figured it out by now.”
His parents responded with silence. Bianca, at least, was either unsurprised or sympathetic. He knew how she'd had to hide and suppress her real desires, her machine-filled dreams. Maybe she understood.
“But you have no idea why the timberwolves attacked?” she asked.
“No, I don't know. At least, not for sure. There's something… something bad going on in the Everfree Forest, quite apart from the over-logging. Maybe the two are connected, somehow – it's complicated. But somepony or something in there is preparing for trouble. From what Sim has described about today, I think the timberwolves… they must be part of it. I wish I could remember it. But whatever’s going on, it hasn't reached out to Ponyville. Not yet.” He had a sudden image, of swirling fog, or coarse fabric. “It will, though, which is why I have to keep going. There's something behind this, an intelligence. I think… I think maybe there was somepony with the timberwolves, directing them.”
Sim's eyes widened, and Ghaliya noticed. Hastily, he returned his face to an impassive frown. Melaco looked at Talib unbelievingly.
“Talib, after all this, how could we trust you right now? And the Forest is too dangerous to be in alone, clearly.” He looked at Ghaliya, and she nodded. Talib had a rising sense of dread as his father continued, firmly. “You're not to go back to this cabin, or to your experiments any more. You're only to go into the Forest with Sim, to work. Although,” he said, turning to Sim, “frankly, Sim, we're upset that you didn't tell us straight away.” Sim just shrugged and nodded, offering no defense.
Talib sat up rapidly despite his muddled head, but quickly regretted it. He paused a moment before speaking to let the hammering in his temples abate. “But then, if I can't finish my experiments,” he managed, planting his hooves on the thin straw mattress to steady his slightly swaying torso, “what was the point of all this?” Realizing what he'd said, the wiry young pony looked quickly at Sim. “Sorry, Sim,” he said, “it's been great, better than I expected, but-”
“It's alright, colt,” said Sim, “you told me straight up why you wanted the job. I always knew your real interest lay with the Forest itself. That's why I hired you – it's how I was, at your age.”
Melaco was undeterred. “That's too bad, Talib. You should have thought of this before lying to us. For months - years.”
Ghaliya nodded. “There's no way we can let you go out there to the cabin or experiments anymore. It's too dangerous to go alone, and we can't ask Sim to spend every spare moment supervising your obsession.”
Talib was crushed, and he sank back against the familiar, paneled wall, feeling the shallow corrugations press into his back. All these years of planning, the weeks of back-breaking labour… and now what? I wait more years to finish my apprenticeship before I'm independent? Or give up, re-apply for college? Desperately, he searched for a way out, but found only one.
It was not an enticing strategy.
Hayfa's going to kill me, he thought, maybe literally . Still, it seemed the only way. He drew a breath, searching for courage as he looked at the stern faces of his parents.
“I'm sorry I lied to you. I just… like I said, this has been my life , you know? And I know what I'm doing.” His father scoffed. “No, really!” Talib persevered. “I've been going into the Forest for years , and today… whatever happened today… is the first problem I've had.” Melaco and Ghaliya were shaking their heads, and Talib felt a kind of weightless, dizzy lurch as he mentally committed to playing his ace.
“And besides,” he said, staring at them earnestly, “I'm not alone out there.”
“Talib,” interjected his mother, “we've already told you that Sim can't-”
“I mean, in the cabin,” said Talib hastily. “I'm living with a… a friend.” Who eats meat and held a knife to my throat the first time we met , he carefully did not say out loud.
Everyone, particularly Sim, looked surprised, and he answered another of Ghaliya's interrogative glances with a shrug and a shake of his head. Melaco raised an eyebrow and frowned. “Nice try, son. I didn't want to believe you would still lie to us, especially after all this, but-”
“She's real!” said Talib, exasperated.
“She?” asked Ghaliya, exchanging a significant look with her husband.
Oh, no, thought Talib. As if it wasn't already going to be hard enough to explain.
“It's not like that,” he said. “She's… different. We're just friends.”
“Talib, said Melaco, “you had better start making sense, because frankly, this is not sounding very plausible.”
Which part? thought Talib, that I have a friend, or that I'm living with a female? Stifling the bitter reply, he hastily rallied some half-truths. “She's a… forest worker, kind of like me. But she's not from around here, just traveling through. I met her one day in the Forest, and we talked about the report I was writing for the Council. She contributed some testimony about the strange things going on, that sort of stuff. Her camp was pretty insufficient-” well, “torched” is more accurate, he thought, but kept to himself, “-so I invited her to move in. She's really tough, and smart, and can fight – she's been showing me some stuff.”
“Hah!” exclaimed Sim, suddenly. “So that's where you learned how to swing a branch like that.” The family looked confused, so he elaborated. “I didn't mention it before, but Talib here actually saved my – our – bacon. Turns out he can duck and swing pretty decent – and a good thing, otherwise we'd have been done for.”
“And what is this friend's name?” asked Ghaliya.
Talib gulped, and supplied the fake she'd suggested. “Sifir. Sifir Habiba.” He tried not to look like he was lying again. Though it seems I've even fooled mom all these years , he thought. That's actually concerning .
The pony in question was looking at Talib, not in disbelief, but in shock; a shock that had a worrying component of recognition. Before she could speak, Melaco arched his eyebrow suspiciously. “She's from Saddle Arabia?”
“Nearby,” replied Talib, breezily. Please, he thought, please don't have any follow-up questions .
“Well, you're still grounded. When you're recovered, you can go back to work with Sim, but you're to come straight home every night.”
Talib was feeling increasingly aggrieved. “For how long?” he demanded.
“At least until we've met this Sifir,” said Ghaliya. This clearly surprised Melaco, who turned to his wife questioningly. His eyes widened when she continued. “Why don't you invite her to lunch on market day?”
Talib's mouth hung open, his damaged brain declaring defeat. His mother looked at him innocently, but eventually Talib realized. She knows. He couldn't tell precisely what she knew, or suspected, but if Talib knew his mother, it wouldn't be long before everything was out in the open. He surrendered.
“That might not be advisable,” he said, lying down again and looking up at the half-seen, pitched-roof planks so he wouldn't have to see their faces. “She's a griffon.”
In the silence that followed, it was as if there were not one, but five concussed ponies in the room.
Chapter Seventeen: Recovery
“I thought I’d find you out here,” said Bianca, making Talib jump, “though I’d sort of hoped otherwise. Should have known you wouldn’t have the sense to listen to mom and dad.”
That morning, as soon as his parents had left the farm for one of the more distant fields, Talib had snuck shakily out to one of his experimental plots, behind the small shack which housed the old copper rhum-still. It was, he judged, time to begin the final harvest and start weighing and measuring the plants. There was no telling how long his concussion would take to heal, and delaying for even a week could mask the differences between plots, as the plants’ juvenile growth spurts ended and they all entered an indistinguishable middle age. He was intimately familiar with the running of the farm, and had decided to take the calculated risk to begin harvesting while his parents were out in distant fields, undeterred by the dreary mid-autumn weather. But he hadn’t thought Bianca might be watching, too.
“You should go back to bed,” said his sister. She seemed upset.
“I can’t,” replied Talib as he carefully uprooted and bagged some Everfree Nut-Sedge, the loamy smell of fertile farm-soil filling his nostrils and clinging to his hooves. “I have to harvest these today.”
“Or what?” demanded Bianca, hunching her tightly-knitted, dark-blue woolen jacket further up around her neck against the stiff, cutting breeze. Somehow, on his stocky sister, the subtle movement had the air of a physical challenge. Talib could see she was not going to drop this easily. He straightened up from his stoop over the plants, and looked her full in the face. Her pale blue coat contrasted well with the stronger, dark blue of her jacket, and her curly purple hair was tossed about in the wind. Her grey-black eyes, however, were like steel.
“Or I have wasted years, and broken our parents’ trust, for nothing,” he retorted, giving her a beseeching look. “Don’t tell? Please?” When she didn’t reply, he turned back to work, gently plucking another sapling from the earth.
Out of the corner of his eye, Talib saw Bianca lean against the still-shed and fold her hooves testily, watching him work in silence. She was clearly frustrated. He hoped she’d be convinced by the speed with which he’d shrugged off the worst effects of the concussion – that morning, he’d been woken by his parents for a few motor and cognition tests which the nurse had suggested, and demonstrated an almost complete recovery. By his bedside, Sim had watched with not-quite-concealed anxiety. Either the old pony hadn’t moved all night, or they’d taken the watch in shifts, with Sim first and last. Talib’s dizziness and headache, he had kept carefully hidden.
“Old Sim slipped out before breakfast,” said Talib, changing the subject. “I didn’t get a chance to thank him.”
Bianca’s eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed. “I see why you two get along,” she said, still angry. “He shuns company almost as much as you do. Bet you don’t say fifty words to each other all day.”
“You’d be surprised,” replied Talib amiably, not wanting to sound argumentative.
“Any idea what he’s up to today?” asked Bianca. “Can’t imagine he’ll be playing tour guide to Huon’s family, not with those bruised ribs.”
Talib, still metaphorically walking on eggshells, couldn’t help grinning. “Worse. He’s headed back into the Everfree.”
Bianca was stunned, her anger at Talib momentarily forgotten as she looked at her brother in disbelief. “What? ”
“He said he’d be darned if a few timberwolves would keep him out of the Forest – he’s somehow conscripted Huon to help retrieve the logging wheel and the large tree that we left behind after... when he brought me home, yesterday. Plus I asked him to leave a note for Ha- Sifir, so she doesn’t worry.” Talib was sure, when he hadn’t returned to the cabin, that Hayfa would have snuck up to his window last night to investigate. On seeing Sim by his beside, she would have retreated back to the Forest. “The wife and son are exploring Ponyville without them, at least for the morning.”
Bianca was scowling and tight-jawed. “No wonder this all seemed like a good idea to you, with that influence,” she muttered, “stubborn, reckless old stick...”
Talib decided to keep the focus on Sim. “He’s certainly tenacious,” he said, “you have to give him that. And he has his principles.”
“Oh, he certainly does,” said his sister sarcastically, “thank goodness for that”.
Talib had had enough. Whatever was bothering Bianca, it was more than just concern over his injury, but for once he couldn’t read her. Over the years they’d squabbled, of course, and Talib always felt even more socially inept and evasive when contrasted with his sister’s blunt, outgoing likeability, but they’d always been able to talk. Now, it was different – he could sense something hurt and resentful and dark inside her. Despite his aversion to confrontation, Talib knew he had to draw it out. Maybe it’s the concussion, thought Talib. Nurse Snowdrop did say it could cause behavioural changes – lowered inhibitions and irritability. Well, I’m certainly irritated .
“Alright, Bianca,” he said, trying to sound confident, but not accusatory. “What’s going on?”
Bianca was clearly startled by his demand, uncharacteristic as it was. His sister gave him a long, slow look, wrestling with something. Above, the autumn clouds – coloured that middling grey which threatens rain at any moment, but never delivers – slowly drifted across the anxious, cold sky. Finally, Bianca found her voice.
“I’m jealous,” she said, to Talib’s surprise. “No, not jealous – resentful.” She turned away from her brother’s uncomprehending expression, looking back to the farmhouse and the road leading into Ponyville. Her gaze, however, seemed fixed much further off as she spoke.
“I’ve been making sacrifices, you know,” she said, hollowly, “doing the right thing. You think I don’t want to run off, chase my dreams, find my place?” Her voice turned a little bitter. “You know, nopony’s cutie mark comes with an instruction manual, Talib. We’re all trying to figure it out. But I can’t – because the farm still needs me. You lied, and deceived us, and got your own way, but you only had the space to do that because we’re supporting you. Meanwhile, I’m treading water, because somepony has to do right by the family.” She looked back at him suddenly, her body still turned towards the open road. “That doesn’t seem fair.”
Talib felt a sinking in his chest. Have I really been that selfish? How could I not realize? The escalating wind hissed menacingly through the nearby trees, and Talib looked at his little patch of dirt, full of half-grown plants. It looked forlorn, small, and suddenly pointless.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “I didn’t mean... I guess I just didn’t think.”
“That’s just the problem,” said Bianca, “of course you didn’t mean any harm. And I know you’d make sacrifices for us, for me, if we asked. We’re close. But it’s not enough to mean well – part of being close is making the effort to think about each other. To be less self-centered, to remember us. Because we do that for you, because we love you, and we’re stronger for it.”
She looked forward again, at the road, while Talib looked back: back at the swaying trees which delineated the abrupt edge of the Everfree Forest and the beginning of fields: a perfect-seeming ninety-degree intersection of light and dark green. Talib was finding it hard to see, however – and it wasn’t the concussion blurring his vision. Tears sat delicately in his eyes, not wanting to fall. There was nothing he could say, and for a while the only noise was the sighing wind and the dull banging of some unsecured window. The farm felt abandoned, the world empty except for him and Bianca, and the hurt he’d caused.
With sudden clarity, Talib caught a glimpse of the web of relationships he was entangled in. Things aren’t just pushed, given, he realized, they’re pulled. Demanded. But somehow this isn’t because they’re being selfish. The benefit given by one was shared by all – multiplying without dividing.
Suddenly, Bianca was at his side. “So,” she said, “what exactly are you doing?” She was ignoring the moisture in Talib’s eyes, her tone gruff. Though she was still clearly upset, Talib heard the peace-offering for what it was, and immense gratitude washed over him. Someday, sister, he thought, fervently, someday I’ll be the brother you deserve. Regaining his composure, he explained about the different measurements he was going to take: dry weight, lengths, numbers of leaves, branchings, flowers and fruit and seeds, their sizes… the list went on.
“You’re going to measure all that?” she asked, incredulous. Talib nodded. “Won’t that take forever?”
Talib shrugged. “It needs doing. They’re all measures of the differences I’ve observed, anecdotally, between sites. When I examine the data in aggregate, I’ll be able to tease apart precisely which plants are different, by how much, in what way. Much better than just eyeballing them, though that can be useful too. The data might give me some clues about what’s going on here.”
Bianca looked skeptical. “And that, somehow, will tell you what your cutie mark is for?”
Another shrug. “It’s got something to do with the Forest and magic, so that’s what I’m studying. Plus, it might somehow be related to whatever the heck is going on in there,” he said, jerking a hoof sideways towards the Everfree.
His sister did not look convinced, as she narrowed her dark eyes.
This is it, thought Talib. This is the part where she goes running to mom and dad. For my own good, of course.
“Alright then,” she said, eyeing off the plants which were as-yet un-harvested, “got another bag?”
Lunch that day was a subdued affair. Fortunately for Talib, he’d known his parents would spend the day out in distant fields, clearing some neglected old-growth stands. In the spring they’d be replaced with stem cuttings from younger plants. Bianca had apparently begged the morning off somehow, perhaps to continue “monitoring” her brother, and had helped Talib harvest and bag up his plots in secret. They’d both retreated out of the icy wind before lunch, washing off any trace of dirt before their parents came in to eat. Talib had lunch brought up to him in bed, and spent a few minutes chatting with his father about the work. Outside, he could hear the cold air rustling the leaves on immature cane stalks. Occasionally they creaked and clacked against one another in a strong gust, as though talking. In summer it sounded pleasant and friendly, but gloomy weather changed their tone, and Talib fancied he could hear them plotting resentfully against the ponies who cut off their long necks every year. For once, he was glad to be warm, indoors and out of the weather.
Bianca and Ghaliya came to fetch Melaco so the three could head out to finish off the field-clearing together. Ghaliya lingered behind as Talib’s sister and father went downstairs, Bianca giving him a significant look as she went out – a warning of some kind, he guessed. It might just have been an admonishment to take it easy while they were gone, but Talib raised his mental defenses anyway as his mother sat down by the bed.
“So,” she said, lightly, “Sim took that note to the cabin first thing this morning, so Sifir should know you’re alright. And the invitation for tomorrow was on there, as well. What should we expect?”
“Well,” Talib replied, “she’s friendly enough, though very guarded. Fond of irony. I actually don’t know much about her, though I think she’s spent some serious time in the military, which surprised me because she’s quite young. But anyway, I doubt she’ll come.”
“Oh?” Ghaliya raised an eyebrow, smiling faintly.
“She’s... private,” Talib elaborated. “Intensely,” he added.
Ghaliya nodded. “I guessed as much. Tell me, do you remember any of Baba’s stories?”
Talib blinked at the sudden change of tack. “Vaguely, I think – I remember they were good. But not many details.”
His mother smiled. “They were incomparable. You were quite young... do you remember the stories about the wise fool and his many adventures, absurd and dangerous and strange?”
Something awoke in Talib’s memory... a vague scene, but his grandfather was there, more as a presence than a concrete body, though Talib was sitting on his knees and breathing the pungent pipe-smoke-smell that he’d always thought was just the way Talib Azhar naturally smelled. He’d listen for hours as the tales rambled on, sometimes taking part and steering the characters when, in his young foal’s judgement, things had got too dull. Talib would stare up at Baba’s wizened, expressive face – even in Talib’s earliest memories, his grandfather was already an old pony – with wide eyes, until he had a crick in his neck and Baba’s throat had run dry. There had always seemed time for stories.
“A little,” he eventually replied. “There was the one about... about prince Khalil who hated to be bored, so the fool had to keep inventing endless stories to avoid execution...”
“That’s him,” said Ghaliya, “he was a kind of folk hero, an archetype of sorts. Apparently foolish and tragic, and fond of hopeless quests, but whose actions always worked out, through some mix of luck and design. There are hundreds of stories, popular all through Saddle Arabia and the Griffon Kingdom.”
“That’s right!” exclaimed Talib, memory clearing as he remembered the joys and travails of the character. “I used to love those stories. Oh, what was his name...”
“So did I,” said Ghaliya. “It was quite an unusual name,” she continued, the trap sprung. “It was Sifir Habiba.” She looked at him without expression.
Talib’s mind froze and went blank. In the hanging silence, a break in the clouds allowed bright, cold midday sunlight to stream through his window. It caught motes of dust drifting through his room and set them ablaze. They floated, glowing, until passing beyond the round spotlight and winking out in the relative darkness beyond.
Of course it was , he thought. It had sounded vaguely familiar at the time, but he’d just dismissed it as another of Hayfa’s private jokes. Her eyes were constantly a-sparkle at some perceived absurdity, rarely shared with others. In all probability, they were the butt of the joke. Well, Hayfa , thought Talib, you’ve been a bit too clever for your own good, this time . He had lied enough to his parents – time to start telling the truth.
Just coincidence, then, that this lie happens to be for somegriffon else, and while you’re least likely to get away with it? his conscience needled. Amazing what a lack of personal benefit and a suspicious audience does for your ethics. Go on, why don’t you really turn over a new leaf? You could tell her about your restful morning, out harvesting plants.
Talib carefully filed that self-flagellation away for later and let out a long breath. “Sorry,” he said for the hundredth time in two days, “she asked that I not give out her real name. Like I said, she’s very private.”
Ghaliya nodded. “It’s all right. A certain amount of paranoia is healthy in the Griffon Empire. Interesting choice of name, though. Has she told you her real name?”
“...yes,” replied Talib, after some hesitation.
“Oh!” said Ghaliya, “that’s interesting. She must trust you, to a certain degree.”
Talib thought back to the knife-point interrogation, and the contrastingly civil introductions. “I suppose so,” he said, unconsciously rubbing his throat, “though I think she was also trying to make up for something.”
Ghaliya merely sat looking expectant. Eventually, she spoke. “Well?”
“...well what?” replied Talib, confused.
“What’s her real name?” Talib’s mother was fairly bouncing with excitement, girlish and unselfconscious. She loved a mystery, and in these moments Talib loved her as a friend as well as a mother. “You know I’ll keep it to myself.”
Talib grinned. “Promise you won’t even tell Melaco?” he demanded, mock-solemn. Ghaliya raised an eyebrow and gave him a when-do-I-ever-tell-him-anything look. “Alright then,” said Talib, “she told me her name is Hayfa. Hayfa Karima.”
Ghaliya’s eyes widened, suddenly serious. “Talib,” she said, “that’s a noble name.”
Talib was about to say he quite liked the sound of it himself when his concussed brain made the realization.
Noble. As in, a member of the nobility. He didn’t know what to make of it.
“You said she’s young, yes? What did you say she’s doing in the Everfree?” asked his mother, slowly.
Talib thought. “Just... surviving , as far as I can tell. She goes hunting, makes jerky, tans hides and makes bone carvings. That whole creepy carnivore thing. She said she’ll sell them to passing traders, eventually. It sounded a bit… pointless.”
Talib’s mother frowned and stared out the window, thinking silently. “But why here ?” she said quietly, apparently to herself.
“Mom?” he asked, “what is it?”
Ghaliya looked at him, and assumed a slightly didactic tone. “The Griffon Empire can be a harsh place for the young. It’s a very rigid society, which hasn’t greatly altered in many hundreds of years. Equestria has experienced slow but substantial changes to our society and politics. As you’d know,” she said archly, raising her brows, “if you’d applied yourself half as much in political history as you had in magical history. Anyway. Since Princess Luna became Nightmare Moon, Princess Celestia has been gradually devolving executive powers to ordinary ponies. I mean over the past thousand years – it’s strange to think somepony could maintain that resolve and consistency for so long, but then who really knows how old those sisters are? Maybe it seems like a decade to her. Anyway,” she said again, trying to stay on track. She didn’t get to expound on this very often; Melaco did not share her interest in the affairs of state, which Ghaliya had received from her own mother: an outwardly trivial but really quite sharp mare. “Feudalism was eventually wound down to pretty much a symbolic position with some land and a title but no power, much to the chagrin of our nobility, if the civil wars are anything to go by. Afterwards, regional representatives were appointed; they got the first small piece of the cake. Then towns like Ponyville got mayors, and local elections, and there’s been a lot more done since. Of course, we’ve also had the steam engine which, combined with a little engineering and unicorn magic, is totally transforming the economy. I’m afraid Progress Miller is just the tip of the wedge there, though that doesn’t mean I agree with what he’s doing.” She took a breath, trying to find her original thread.
“Young griffons...” prompted Talib.
“Right. In contrast, the Griffon Empire has been fundamentally unchanged over the same time. Sure, they’ve had their wars, internal and external, and new families periodically march into power over the bodies of the old, but the system hasn’t greatly changed. There’s a certain way to do things, and strong resistance to change. That can be difficult for the young, especially since they’re expected to be respectful and obedient. During their... rebellious youth,” she intoned meaningfully, giving Talib a sharp look, “some families send young griffons away to work out their energies far from home. They usually come back after a couple of years, a little older and wiser – or at least more conformist.”
“You think Hayfa might be in this situation,” stated Talib.
His mother swayed a hoof to and fro. “Yes and no. The nobility are expected to keep up appearances, to be an example. They tolerate small transgressions by their young, as long as money or influence can sweep it under the rug. If it’s something serious, however, the offending youngster is shipped off to distant relatives under some pretext before they can bring shame on the family. Only in extreme cases,” she said, coming to the crux of the matter, “do things get a little more... formal.”
“Formal how?” asked Talib.
“Exile,” said his mother, simply. “Which, due to the inflexible nature of griffon honour, is usually permanent. Disownment may follow, if the family really needs to save face.”
Talib was shocked. All that bitterness, the sardonic armour suddenly made sense. As for “why here” – what was it she had said? Ah yes , he thought, remembering. When he’d asked whether she found the Everfree Forest dangerous, she’d said it was “good practice”.
For what?
“The question, of course,” continued his mother, “is ‘what did she do?’ You say she’s not dangerous?”
Talib laughed. “On the contrary. She’s extremely dangerous – but only in ability. Not in temper or motivation, as far as I can tell.”
“Yes, well,” said Ghaliya, “perhaps I’ll be the judge of that.”
“I don’t know when,” said Talib, “I told you she won’t come tomorrow.”
“You see?” said his mother, slightly smug, “I already know something about her you don’t.” She produced a folded sheet of paper from somewhere. “This came by special courier owl just now – though I’ve no idea where she got such elegant stationery, not to mention the owl. I feel quite flattered – and she must be resourceful indeed.” The note was plunked into Talib’s hooves, then his mother rose and walked out. She didn’t look back.
Talib unfolded it and read the first few words of the elegant writing aloud. “To the Cane family...” He lapsed into silence as he mouthed the rest of the words, then groaned, looking at, for no particular reason, Moondancer’s coffee table on the braided rug.
“Oh, no.”
Sitting in his lap, written in formal style fit, indeed, for nobility, was Hayfa’s acceptance of their invitation to dinner tomorrow.
Chapter Eighteen: Explosion
"I'm sorry," Talib said again, staring at the floor long after the umber unicorn had retreated in indignant shock. That was one customer very unlikely to return.
"Don't worry about it, colt. I've seen off my fair share of jerks over the years," said Sim, uncharacteristically sympathetic as he cast a stern gaze over the shocked market-goers and made them look bashfully away. "Why don't you take a break? Grab some lunch and cool off." Talib nodded, vague and lost. Soon, however, the familiar abrasive tone returned to Sim's voice, and got the shocked young colt moving. "But don't be too long or I'll dock your pay," said Sim, "I'm getting hungry, too."
Talib nodded, unable to reply. A part of him - the rational, non-furious, non-ashamed part - remembered he'd promised to bring the other carving, the one he hadn't just had a shouting match about, to Moondancer. He hastily grabbed it from its not-for-sale hiding-place under the counter and ran off without looking at Sim.
Ponies who'd seen the outburst gave him wide berth, but others expected him to navigate like somepony who was paying attention. Occasionally Talib gently ricocheted off one as he stumbled half-blindly through the crowds, the event still on obsessive loop in his mind's recriminatory theatre. His memories - like most of his short-term memory since the concussion - were vague, the emotion far better preserved than the actions. He recalled yelling, a face very close to his own, a thumping hoof dinting blameless timber. The anger had receded, and it was with difficulty that Talib had forced himself to accept it had in fact been his yelling, his hoof.
It wasn't that Talib didn't get angry. But his schoolyard days had trained him to internalize it. Outnumbered and outgunned, the spindly, uncoordinated foal had developed safe, avoidant habits. Sullen was safer than shouting; diplomacy less painful than direct response. Don't confront - choke it down so they can't even see, so they never suspect the taut ropes of anger twisting in your gut. So he'd added a mask to his wardrobe and for years he'd smiled a reasonable, inoffensive smile. I'm not offended , said the mask, I know you're a decent sort.
See? said the smile. We actually agree on lots of things. We might even be friends. There's no need for hostility . It had worked surprisingly well. Talib himself had grown to believe the mask, most of the time.
But all that had melted away, just now. Perhaps it was the fatigue, or perhaps these were the 'mood alterations' the nurse had warned about. But for the first time in years Talib had got properly, legitimately angry, and the mask had been blown clean off. Anger had been given form and voice. Talib had been ignoring warning signs all day - he'd been slow, miscounting change, and getting increasingly flustered and irritated. Celestia only knew how long this wretched concussion would take to heal. Admittedly, the customer had been an obnoxious bully, haggling and harping about the falling price of timber, but that was no excuse for Talib's eruption, and he felt childish and ashamed.
Except, deep down and barely acknowledged, for the part that didn't.
He slowly came back to reality, looking around at the mostly-smiling ponies going about their market business. What kind of masks did they use? When a mask became natural, instinctive, did that constitute a new, but genuine, face? Or was the old, true self still underneath, struggling for breath?
It was a sharp contrast with the relatively calm, solitary day he'd had yesterday. After the lunchtime conversation with his mother, Talib had waited until the other ponies were safely back out in the fields before sneaking downstairs again, intent on setting up his analysis equipment for the coming week. On the way through the kitchen, however, he had paused, helplessly drawn to the myriad background processes of pickling, fermenting, brining, drying, steeping and so forth which kept the farmhouse kitchen supplied with a variety of food year-round. He had stood on the cool flagstones, gently sniffing the mild indoor air which was fragrant with many aromas, mild or sharp. Talib had lifted the lids off a few large glazed pots, and from one he had fished out a crunchy pickled cucumber. He had munched on the tart snack with satisfaction as he felt himself drawn firmly towards the cellar.
Down here, under the reliably cool earth, was the real heart of his father's preserving empire, full of carefully-labelled pots of various ages. In the delicate early weeks of fermentation, Melaco said, romantically, a young pickle received instruction from the more mature brines. The solid timber beams and packed-earth walls also enclosed dozens of barrels of rum, a dignified end for the crude molasses which remained after fine sugars were boiled off. Unlike most distillers, Talib's father did not bother to blend vintages together for year-on-year consistency, but instead revelled in the subtle variations of each season's produce. Talib had removed the cork from one of the small barrels and dipped the special long-handled ladle. He took a small sip, sweet warmth and spice flooding his mouth, and sighed with satisfaction. He could spend hours wandering the house and workshops, drawing much-needed calm and strength from all these little things that made a home. But it was time to begin work - Melaco and Ghaliya would not be out in the fields forever.
The rum shed was dusty and quiet between seasons, but soon they would process the last of this harvest's cane juice and the residual molasses would be collected, ready for fermentation. Talib could see the process in his mind's eye; first, a dynamic starter culture would be brewed from dried fermentation foam - or rhumbullion - since directly tossing in the dry culture risked over-dilution in the large vessel and stalling the ferment. Melaco and Bianca, who had taken a liking to the work and was far better at it than Talib, would scale up the starter culture and add it to the diluted molasses, which would have already begun a spontaneous fermentation in parallel. On its own this natural, wild fermentation was slow, fickle, and produced unpleasant rum: dry as acid and bitter as wild acorns. In combination, however, the complementary characteristics of the two fermentation styles were unsurpassed.
The inside of the shed looked like it was in perpetual readiness for Nightmare Night: every corner was choked with cobwebs and populated with a multitude of spiders, some commonplace, others never seen anywhere else - migrants from the Everfree Forest, perhaps. Ponyville farmers, proud of their neat habits, always found this shed strange and uncomfortable but listened with interest when Melaco explained the tradition brought from the old country. Far from indicating laziness, the spiders were encouraged quite deliberately. The sugars and alcohols of open-fermenting molasses were attractive to all manner of pestilential creatures - not least parasprites - that could easily spoil a fledgling ferment. The spiders stood sentinel at every entrance and in every hiding place, so the fermentation could be open to the unique air of Ponyville and the Everfree Forest which imparted its own characteristics to the rum.
But Talib was not here for rum. Into his pannier went some scales, jars, a hydrometer and other miscellanea. They would not be missed, since these days Melaco relied on his own five senses. On the way out, Talib had patted the old copper still fondly. In a few weeks it would be hard at work, the temperature carefully supervised day and night to ensure that unpleasant or poisonous phases, produced during fermentation, were fractioned off from the rum proper.
The main workshop furnished a few more tools - calipers, rulers and such - and Talib had then moved on to his ultimate destination. The threshing-room hadn't been used since the farm's previous owners had abandoned their unsuccessful attempt at grain farming. Its elevated floorboards and well-ventilated space would be perfect for drying his samples. Once the floor and benches were dusted out it would provide a secluded space for him to conduct the tedious, pedantic measurements of his experimental crops. Talib had set to work, intending to make full use of this next week of "recovery".
He came back to the present reluctantly. Somehow, his hooves had taken Talib to the centre of the market, right across from the Charms and Cures stall. He stood unresolved, several customers milling around the counter and blocking his view of Moondancer and Remedy. Of course, that meant they could not see him either, and Talib wondered if it would be possible to surreptitiously leave the carving and retreat. But lunch beckoned, and the mild crush of customers thinned even as he watched, leaving a clear view of rude planks with a roughly-hewn swirling motif. On these sat a jumble of glass and ceramic, which doubtless held Remedy's various tinctures. Surprisingly organized by contrast, several velvet-upholstered busts supported Moondancer's shining pendants. The whole stall was a-glitter with crisp noon sunlight, melted or crystallized by solid and liquid as they refracted and reflected.
Moondancer spotted him through the break in the crowd and gestured so wildly that several ponies turned to look in Talib's direction. There was no chance of being surreptitious now, so Talib walked over, a delicately floral, herbal scent gathering strength as he did so. Moondancer lifted a hinged trapdoor in the counter and bounded over, giving him a brief, intense hug to which he barely had time to respond before it was over. Remedy was chatting with a customer and merely nodded in recognition.
"Well," said Moondancer, "it's my favourite removalist! If you're looking for more furniture to move, you can always help us pack up the stall at the end of the day." Talib was about to respond when she noticed the flat dressing on his forehead. "Ohmygosh," she exclaimed, "what happened there?"
"Hi, Moondancer," said Talib, not biting. "Just a falling branch. I'm ok, hazard of the job. How's it going?"
"Oh, you know," replied the dove-grey unicorn, "market day... always tiring." She pursed her lips. "We had a particularly unpleasant unicorn through here just a moment ago. Seemed annoyed about something." Before Talib could decide whether he even wanted to know, she noticed the calico-wrapped package protruding from his pannier. "Ooooh ," she squealed, "is that it?"
Talib nodded and glanced at Remedy, still talking with the customer.
"Well, go on!" blurted Moondancer, impulsively, "hand it over!"
Talib wanted to. He really did. But he seemed constitutionally incapable of interrupting a conversation, and just ended up standing there looking awkwardly at Remedy, who didn't notice, while her customer cast uncertain, sidelong glances at the interloper, and then pretended she hadn't. Unsurprisingly, Moondancer had no such reserve, and soon tired of waiting.
"Hey, Remedy!" she shouted gleefully, "look what Talib brought!"
Remedy's customer, a homely-looking bespectacled pegasus, smiled with apparent familiarity at Moondancer's tactless exuberance. Talib was beginning to recognize that kind of regular customer that straddled the boundary of commerce and friendship, and relaxed a little.
"What have you got there, dearie?" asked the pegasus. Only then did Remedy permit her focus to shift towards him. Talib found himself wondering whether the customer's question was deliberately asked as a kind of 'permission' for Remedy to break off their conversation. Not for the first time, he noted the strange and complex interplay of carefully-masked consideration and insight that constituted politeness, and despaired of ever achieving the kind of intuitive mastery that people like his mother exhibited. He sighed inwardly and pulled the cloth-wrapped carving from his pannier.
"Just a little gift for Remedy," he said, bashfully holding it out for her, "or if she prefers, her cousin - I'm told she likes this kind of thing."
Remedy looked at him blankly, then at Moondancer, and took the cloth-swaddled item in a careful hoof. Unwrapping it with her teeth, she nearly dropped it in surprise when the wooden form began to emerge. She looked at him mouth agape, startled.
"But…" she stammered, "I didn't-"
Moondancer was unable to restrain her laughter, and it bubbled out irrepressibly. Remedy looked at her suspiciously. "Talib," she said, kindly, "however Moondancer... cajoled you into this, it's not-"
"No, no, no!" Talib interrupted, "it's just… repaying a favour, kind of. I wanted you to have this, so maybe you could give it to your cousin if you like, since you mentioned she seems to like them so much."
Remedy fell silent, and slowly finished unwrapping the object, thinking. It was eventually revealed to be a wide, rather shallow fruit bowl of dark walnut, into which Talib had painstakingly cut little ellipsoid honeycombings. It had, if he was honest, taken far more time than he really could spare, but once the idea had gripped him it had demanded to be realized. The three other ponies caught their breaths, and even Moondancer was silent for a long moment.
"I can see why June talks about these so much," said Remedy, presumably referring to her cousin. She looked at Talib earnestly. "She'll be ecstatic. Are you sure you want to just give it away for nothing?"
Talib glanced at Moondancer's beaming face. Not for nothing, exactly. He nodded firmly, smiling. Remedy turned the bowl over in her hooves, inspecting it.
"Well," he said quietly, seeing an opportunity to get away, "I better get back to work, or Old Sim will tan my hide. You know how he can be."
Moondancer rolled her eyes and smiled, then gave him a convincing narrow-eyed glare, screwing up her face and conjuring wrinkles out of thin air. "What do yer think yer doin' thar, colt?" she snarled, convincingly. "Ah've bin waitin' so long ah've grown a second beard, yer lazy varmint!" It was a surprisingly good impression, but as the others laughed, Talib merely smiled wanly.
"Not so fast," said Remedy, sternly, "I absolutely cannot allow you to go away empty-hooved."
Talib was steered towards her section of the Charms and Cures stall and virtually forced to choose something, with enthusiastic recommendations from her pegasus customer, who Talib learned was called Aura, and who had apparently been buying Remedy's teas and tinctures for years. Talib eventually chose an unusual smoked chamomile which, he was assured, would help him with his concussion-related sleep problems, although he chose not to keep the severity of his injury to himself. Moondancer rolled her eyes, a gesture which, Talib had begun to notice, was nearly as habitual as breathing for her. She threw a conspiratorial hoof over his shoulders.
"Aches? Pains?" she intoned grandly, sweeping a hoof across the horizon, "Remedy's miracle potions will cure what ails you! Thinning hair? Flaky skin? At Charms and Cures, we can set you to rights! Unlike competitors' tonics, ours contain only trace amounts of snake oil!"
Remedy frowned at her sarcastic friend, but a smile was visible under the furrows. Aura was openly chuckling, and Moondancer's eyes sparkled with mirth. She looked at Talib, who'd managed a half-hearted smile, and her own faded slightly. Her gaze crawled sharply over his face, searching, and flicked up to the dressing on his forehead. She turned to her friend.
"Hey, Remedy," she said, "could you watch my stuff for a minute? Talib and I are going for hot chocolate."
"We are?" said Talib. "Actually, I probably better get back-"
"Oh," said Moondancer with disappointment, "I was hoping you could help me carry a bunch back here for the Friends for Profit. They're swinging by later and my magic's never been that great for levitating stuff." She brightened. "Are you hanging out with us this evening?"
"Ah, unfortunately not," replied Talib, causing Moondancer's face to fall further, "I have a family thing."
"Oh," she said again, colourlessly.
Looking at her, Talib couldn't bear it. "Okay," he said, "let's go."
Making their way through the chilly autumn drizzle which constrained Ponyville's usually bustling crowds, Talib and Moondancer - mainly Moondancer - chatted breezily about work and the inclement weather. The cobblestones glistened and little rivulets flowed gently between the stones, accumulating into larger streams and finally emptying with a steady gurgle into Ponyville River, clearly audible from the town square even over the sound of bustling hooves and conversation. The hot chocolate stall was run by Featherweight's family, and mother, father and son were all on hoof and doing brisk trade in the cool conditions. Moondancer suggested, to reduce their load, that they drink theirs before ordering the rest and Talib, mindful of the time, distractedly agreed. Moondancer led him to a secluded spot under the awning of one of the distinctive terraced buildings bordering the square, and dragged together a couple of small barrels for them to sit on with the kind of self-possession Talib could never have managed while ponyhandling somepony else's property. They sat in silence for a while, watching the rain-blurred ponies hurrying to and fro. Talib and Moondancer both seemed to relish their rain-soaked coats, but it seemed not to be a common preference.
"So," said Moondancer suddenly, "what's up?"
"Not much," said Talib warily, studiously sipping his hot chocolate to avoid her searching eyes. The steaming, sweet drink nearly burned his tongue, but did little to warm his spirits.
"I might not be as smart as you, Talib," she replied, "but I know ponies. Something's wrong. You've barely cracked a smile today. What's eating you?"
Talib looked at her suspiciously. "Are we really getting hot chocolate for the others?" he asked.
"Don't change the subject," she said, her mercurial, lavender eyes surprisingly stern. Talib looked away and down, finding his own gaze drawn to the jade pendant still hanging from his neck. A sudden thought stuck him.
That's right. Just when he'd given up, when it had all been hopeless... they'd stopped.
Why?
He sighed. I may owe her my life. She at least deserves to know.
"Can you keep a secret?" he asked, seriously.
Moondancer's eyes widened. "Usually," she said, half-smiling as usual.
Talib scrutinized Moondancer's impish visage, and made a decision. He took a deep breath and told her, as far as he could remember, about the true cause of his foggy, irritable state of mind. Moondancer's expression grew more and more horrified.
"But… but why would they stop?" she asked in hushed tones. Around them, the previously gentle rain intensified.
"I honestly have no idea," said Talib. "I thought maybe it was because of this," he said, holding up with a forehoof the jade amulet Moondancer had given him. "You said it was for protection - that's why I felt I owed you an explanation."
Moondancer shook her head. "No. No, it couldn't be that," she said, firmly. "Look, my charms, my magic… they've never been that strong, you know? Sometimes I wonder whether my magic works at all, or whether I'm just…" she trailed off and a pained look, a look Talib hadn't seen on her before, skittered across her face, as she looked at her moon-and-stars cutie mark with frustration. Before he could ask, Moondancer took a breath and continued. "What I'm trying to explain is that, if they work at all, then they're right on the edge of uselessness. I don't know much about timberwolves - I hate the Everfree Forest - but there's no way that amulet stopped them."
Talib sagged slightly. Another explanation discredited, he thought, staring morosely at the downpour, another mystery. When am I going to start getting some answers?
Moondancer had looked away from her cutie mark and was now staring thoughtfully at Talib's own, the Ouroboros. "What about that?" she asked, finally, pointing a hoof. "You're pretty sure it has something to do with the Forest, right?"
Talib cocked his head, considering. "I never thought about that," he said, "but it doesn't feel right. They were pretty resolute in attacking me at first. I don’t recall doing anything that felt like a special talent…" he smirked, "unless falling on my rear counts." He raised a wry eyebrow at Moondancer for emphasis, taking another careful sip of his hot chocolate. It was no longer near-boiling, and now delicious.
"Ah-hah !" exclaimed Moondancer, suddenly, "at last, a joke!" Talib looked at her stupidly, as his friend placed hooves triumphantly on hips. "Not a very good one, I'll grant you," she continued, "but it's better than the mopey face you had on before. My work here is done. You may go." She waved airily at the horizon.
Talib actually laughed, then, and they stood to go. Nothing was resolved, but somehow everything felt more possible. Just before they parted ways, however, he suddenly realized something, and turned to Moondancer. "Sorry," he said, slightly shamefaced, "I didn't even ask. How are you doing?"
"Oh," she replied, easily, "today was your turn. Besides, I'm always fine."
Her smile matched her statement, deliberately ironic. Still, Talib felt there was something more behind it.
Next time , he resolved, as they waved and went their separate ways, I'll ask her first .
It was the most positive he'd felt since the night before, at dinner. Back then, standing reluctantly for inspection in the fire-warmed study, Talib had wriggled. If only they would stop beaming at him.
"Oh, it looks marvelous ," his mother had crooned, "so sharp."
Talib blushed and shifted awkwardly in the suit. Rarity's commission - courtesy of Progress's tactical "generosity" - had arrived a little before dinner, the large package easily carried by a stout fish-owl courier, many times the size of Owlowiscious.
"Can I take it off now?" he had asked, peevishly. His father chuckled and shared a look with Ghaliya.
Bianca just nodded. "It looks uncomfortable," she said, sympathetically. She and Talib did not share their parents' appreciation for formal garb.
"Not quite," said Melaco, appraising Talib critically. "Talib looks uncomfortable, but it has nothing to do with the fit of the suit. Ms. Unicorn appears to have done a fine job. It looks perfect. Right, Talib?"
As much as he was now regretting having played along with Progress's manipulations, Talib had to admit his father was right. With his long frame and longer limbs, nothing had ever really fit him before. But he was uneasy.
"I guess it's just so unnecessary and... impractical ," he had said plaintively, "and attention-grabbing. I don't want everypony looking at me, thinking how vapid I am."
Ghaliya rolled her eyes. Melaco gave his son a familiar, slightly despairing look. But Bianca got in first.
"Oh, stop being so self-absorbed," she had said. "Your anxiety is getting the better of you. You realize, I hope, that you won't be the centre of attention?"
"Look," Melaco had said, with the resignation of somepony who is not optimistic about being listened to, "not everypony over-thinks things..." like me , Talib mentally appended, guessing the unspoken words which had left the gap in his father's speech. "Some won't notice, some won't care, most will think 'what a nice suit' and that will be that."
Talib had been momentarily silent. "But it feels... fake. Like I'm pretending to be something I'm not."
"Relax, dear," said his mother. "Nopony has to earn the right to wear nice clothes. That's something you give to yourself. Anyway, making such a fuss is just as superficial and uncharitable as your imaginary critics. Give ponies some credit."
Talib sagged. "I just wish it didn't matter what I look like. That's the kind of thing Progress Miller thinks about," he said, remembering their first encounter at the Harvest Parade, and Progress's ultra-formal attire, "he seems to choose his clothes like weapons. Like a symbol of rank."
"That would be nice, if it didn't matter," his mother had agreed, "but the practical truth is that it does matter. You can still make use of that without being superficial - clothes can send much more subtle messages than 'obey'. They can show belonging, or respect. Just don't be too self-righteous or fall into the trap of reverse snobbery."
Bianca and Talib had looked at each other in solidarity, and their parents finally stopped admiring him. He undressed with alacrity.
After dinner, Talib had been sent firmly back to bed, and lay there contentedly. It had been a good day. Despite this, he had lain awake for some time, eyes staring blankly at the dark wooden roof. Tomorrow... tomorrow was another matter. How would his family react to Hayfa? And Old Sim... Talib thought, concernedly. The gruff workpony loathed griffons. Well, there's nothing to be done now, he thought, with barely-comforting fatalism. Eventually he had slept.
As he hurried through the rain, Talib reflected on his naiveté - thinking that the meal with Hayfa would be the only challenge he faced today. In any case, after the chat with Moondancer and a quick bite to eat, Talib found his malfunctioning brain easier to bear as he returned to work at Sim's stall. He still miscounted change, forgot things, had trouble understanding ponies, and felt like snapping at every little perceived rudeness, but somehow he now could find the willpower to push through. By now the rain felt like a fact of life, unsurprising and unrelenting, and ponies were disinclined to linger at the markets. Sim and Talib closed up early, storing everything in the back of the cart but leaving the awning up for shelter while they waited, staring at nothing in particular, speaking not at all. Their silence assumed, to Talib, a similar character to the rain; natural, and somehow comforting.
They didn’t have to wait long. The Canes had likewise finished early, and had brought Sim's kin: Huon, his wife Marjorie, and their son, Ash; a quiet, fussy young stallion with a deep grey coat. They'd all met very briefly that morning on the way to market, but Talib hadn't had much chance to get to know them.
"Ho there, brother," proclaimed Huon - slightly pompously, Talib thought - "how goes the day's commerce?"
"Goes fair enough," was Sim's laconic reply.
"I tell you, Sim," continued Huon, "you should get into food sales. Anypony selling something hot today was making a killing." Sim snorted, gently, and Talib immediately thought about all the extra overhead, capital, and work - work for which Sim was neither equipped nor experienced - which food sales would entail. He wondered that Huon didn't see that, but Sim's brother continued, apparently oblivious of their skepticism. "Why," he pronounced, "we came across one mare - lovely, strapping pony, friendly as you please - selling hot apple fritters." Talib jolted a little, and hoped he wasn't blushing. Huon, at least, certainly wasn't paying attention to him, though Bianca seemed to gaze at him a little long. "It was unbelievable," continued Huon, "They were selling like hot cakes!"
"No dear," said Marjorie gently, "the hot cakes were the next stall over. The fritters were actually more popular."
"I think you'll find it was neck-and-neck, darling," said Huon, brushing his wife's observation aside with a wave of his hoof. She seemed used to it. "Point is, food sells very well here. I mean, how much did you make today, Sim?" he asked bluntly, causing the Canes' collective eyebrows to raise, Sim to scowl, and Ash to wince slightly behind his spectacles.
Ghaliya spoke up. "We have some thoughts on that, actually," she said, "about food sales at the market, I mean, since we do a little trade ourselves. But we'd better get changed, for now - let's talk about it over dinner." Everyone agreed, and Talib caught Sim, normally taciturn, cast Ghaliya a brief look of gratitude.
Under the waxed-canvas awning, everypony donned their best clothes - including Talib with his new morning dress - and threw heavy rain-jackets over the top. Talib would rather have felt the rain soaking his coat through the clothes, but it didn't seem prudent. Sim looked him up and down, and scowled. Talib's self-consciousness, barely beneath the surface, boiled over and he wriggled into his raincoat swiftly. He realized that, despite the solid strategic reasons for accepting the "gift" from Progress Miller, Sim was nevertheless irked by the reminder. Great , he thought, now Sim thinks I'm dancing with the devil. That'll do wonders for his mood . It did not promise to make the meeting with Hayfa any easier.
The old lumberpony's scowl drove them to haste, in order that they could be at the restaurant five minutes early for their booking, as was his custom. L'Ash Tombée was quiet at this early hour - too late for lunch, but too early for dinner - but its fires were lit and it beckoned invitingly through the gloomy afternoon. The time had been chosen carefully; it allowed everypony plenty of time to get home afterwards, and in any case the Canes were not sure what to expect of their griffon guest, so a large audience was not desirable. Talib thought that in any case Hayfa, too, would rather prefer it that way.
Savoir Fare himself opened the door and gave them warm welcome, peremptorily beckoning underlings to unburden his guests of their wet coats. They were directed through the cavernous space, seeming all the larger for being mostly empty, to a large table at the rear. Before their escorting waitpony could depart, Melaco immediately took charge, as he did in these settings, ordering water and hot bread rolls with butter to be brought immediately. As well as having served with distinction in various well-regarded eateries, dining had been elevated to a high art in his home country of Portugallop and, considering himself the host, he set to work passing around the drinks menu and suggesting some entrees. Ghaliya, meanwhile, broke up the ponies' instinctive groupings so that Talib, rather than sitting with his sister, was placed between Sim and Huon, while Bianca was between Ash and Marjorie. One chair sat empty, but it seemed to hold a tense, foreboding character, like a spectre at the feast which everypony did their best to ignore. Shortly, drinks were ordered and delivered, and Melaco toasted Talib and Sim's narrow escape and swift recovery.
Just as they had begun to fall to general chatting, conversation in the crowded restaurant decayed. Slowly at first, then rapidly they were plummeted into complete silence as more and more ponies looked around. Some gasped in shock, but most merely stared, jaws open, at the new arrival. From the back of the room, Sim's gaze was narrow-eyed and hostile. Hayfa, militarily punctual, had just made her entrance.
Here we go , thought Talib, feeling his stomach lurch and his appetite, already diminished since the concussion, vanish. If this meal was half as tense as he anticipated, he would not be eating much tonight.
Author's Note
Continuing his experiments despite the concussion, Talib is apprehensive about the upcoming dinner where his family (and Sim) will meet Hayfa for the first time. His concussion causes unexpected problems on market day, but luckily he has a friend nearby to talk him down. The dinner finally arrives, but despite his time with the griffoness, Talib is far from certain that the event will remain civilized, especially in light of Sim's hatred of the species...
Chapter Nineteen: Food for Thought
Author's Note
Talib's worlds collide as the Timbers, Canes and Hayfa meet for a meal. Desperately, he tries to manage the tension and direct the conversation, but old prejudices are hard to shake.
Chapter Nineteen: Food for Thought
The shocked silence turned to a low murmur among the restaurant's few occupants. Outwardly, Hayfa appeared unconcerned, acute vision scanning the restaurant, predator's gaze quelling ponies wherever they fell. Talib, however, familiar with the reclusive griffoness, saw signs that her composure was an effort. He waved a hoof. She noticed him immediately but was rapidly approached by Savoir Fare, and Talib held his breath.
The unflappable restaurateur, however, extended his usual courteous welcome to the unusual guest - to the immense relief of Talib and, from the subtle softening of her eyes, to Hayfa herself. Griffon and pony briefly conferred before the Maître d' gestured graciously towards the back of L'Ash Tombée, in the direction of Talib's small party.
Hayfa nodded and strode purposefully toward them, followed by every pair of eyes in the vicinity. The grifoness's movements, as usual, were lithe and fluid, and she cut an arresting figure. Her feathers and coat were groomed to full glory, only slightly dampened by the rain. The only ornament to her muscular frame was a single silvery armlet, worn high on a steely bicep, of a familiar design which Talib nevertheless could not quite place. He supposed most of her possessions had been lost when her camp was torched - except perhaps for some leather, drying on distant racks, which would have set ponies even more on edge. Talib had no time to study the armband further, however, as Hayfa was already upon them. Behind her, one family, meal barely touched, got up to pay their bill and leave. Talib prayed she hadn't noticed.
There was an awkward moment as Hayfa hesitated at the table, uncertain how to proceed. Ghaliya stood, casting a glance at Talib, which he failed to interpret.
"Talib," she prompted, slightly exasperated, "won't you do the introductions?"
He panicked slightly. Ah, yes, he thought, standing next to the griffoness.
"Uh, everyone," he began, clumsily, "this is Ha-"
A small but sharp pain in his leg made Talib start. His eyes flicked down as one of Hayfa's lion claws retracted into its sheath. She hadn't appeared to move a muscle.
"Sorry," he said, belatedly catching on and thinking rapidly, "this darn concussion..." The assembled ponies looked at him with sympathetic concern. He started again. "This is Sifir Habiba, a-" the faintest pause- "friend of mine, from the Everfree."
Hayfa made the same exotic gesture he'd previously seen from her and Mujeer; a talon touched the breast, forehead and beak in sequence, before being extended palm-up toward her audience.
"It is a pleasure and an honour to meet you," she said, slightly stiffly. The members of their small party each stood in turn to be introduced - except Sim, who merely grunted from his chair - and Talib guided Hayfa towards her seat, facing the wall. The griffoness hesitated again, looking uncertainly at the placement, then turned to study the restaurant. Her gaze settled on the door. She appeared discomfited.
Ghaliya, ever observant, appeared to remember something. "Sifir," she said in a familiar tone, as though the two were already fast friends, "may I ask a favour? I'm liable to overheat here by the wall, with the fireplace so close - might we exchange seats? I know you hail from warmer climes. This Ponyville autumn drizzle must be rather uncomfortable for you."
Talib, who had known his mother to happily sit almost on top of a fire, wondered what her game was. But Hayfa happily accepted. From her new vantage she scanned the restaurant with apparent satisfaction, most frequently the door. Talib finally understood what his mother had grasped immediately. Hayfa was distinctly uncomfortable with her back exposed, a habit so ingrained that she would bruise her pride and stand around looking gauche until somepony picked up on it.
She's not just some cadet, thought Talib. She's seen some serious action.
It was a stark reminder of the differences between Hayfa and the relatively bucolic assembled ponies. And of Talib's darkest fears about what might go wrong. It seemed paranoid, after sharing a roof with her, but he'd never forgotten their first meeting. Not just her casual application of a blade to his throat. Worse was when he had compared her to Mujeer - the resulting hard clack of her beak, and the even harder look of anger in her eyes, the merest glimpse of a throbbing wrath which strained against her composure. These ponies had not yet earned her trust as Talib had. He did not like to think about what instincts might break loose if somepony - one of the Timbers brothers, if he was honest - should decide to try a shouting match with a griffon. Hayfa struck Talib as somegriffon whose bite was certainly worse than her bark.
There was a tense moment of silence, which Hayfa broke. "I must apologize for my lack of appropriate dress," she said. "I live a simple life in the Everfree Forest, and, with one thing and another-" here her gaze rested on Talib for a moment, and he thought again about the fire "-formal garb has somewhat fallen by the wayside."
"Never mind," said Ghaliya, "you look splendid. We're very glad you could make it."
"Yes," said Melaco, "it's quite a long way from the Everfree."
"Not on the wing, Melaco," said Huon in a knowledgeable tone, his black eyes confident, "I'm sure Sifir is just as fast as any pegasus."
"Actually," said Hayfa, "I walked. I did not think it meet to disturb the good residents of Ponyville by hovering overhead."
"Ah, of course," replied Huon, tapping his nose with a hoof, "I suspected as much."
Hayfa looked at the pea-green stallion a little too long, but Talib was relieved to see more bemusement than frustration in her eyes. For now. Sim snorted again, but quietly, not wishing to get involved. The bread and butter arrived and Melaco passed it around, the little rolls piping hot. Talib rediscovered his appetite.
"And how are you finding the Everfree, Sifir?" asked Bianca, boldly. "Don't you find it dangerous?"
"Oh, one must be cautious, of course," said Hayfa, "as Talib and Simon's recent encounter illustrates. But with alert senses and the right skills, it can be a very beautiful place to live. Just ask Zecora."
Huon nodded vigorously. "It's like I've always said. Its reputation is greatly exaggerated." Talib wasn't sure he wanted Huon arguing their case, but the opinionated plantation-manager was well away, now. "Still," Huon continued, speaking around a mouthful of bread, "it's hardly proper to have timberwolves and such at the very edge of Ponyville. What that forest needs is sound, large-scale management. With a proper trapping and culling policy, you could clear out all these inconvenient creatures in a few years, and then really open up the Everfree to proper industry."
Talib glanced at Sim - mindful of Huon's implication that their work was somehow not 'proper' - but his employer sat steely-browed, the expression of irritation only a shade deeper than usual.
"I'm not sure it's that simple, dear," said Marjorie, "the Everfree is far larger than any plantation-"
"Then," interrupted Huon, "it's a simple matter of throwing more stout Earth ponies at the project. Why, look at what they're achieving in Appleloosa. Incredible growth of industry. Applejack and I were discussing it at the market today."
"But look how poorly it was handled," Marjorie protested. "I've been following the town's progress, and even now there are tensions between Chief Thunderhooves and-"
Huon waved a hoof dismissively, an apparently familiar gesture, and Marjorie fell silent. "There will always be ponies - or buffalo - who stand in the way of progress. They don't understand that a bigger pie is always better. More to go around. This little hobby of yours, this pioneer history stuff, it only gives you the ivory-tower, academic perspective. You've got to look at it from an economic point of view, with ponies who get their hooves dirty. They're the ones who really make things happen."
"Actually," said Talib, "I've been thinking about that." The whole table stopped and looked at him expectantly, as often happens when habitually quiet ponies speak up. He forged on under the sudden attention. "About predators like the timberwolves, I mean. There's really nothing written about the Forest specifically. But elsewhere, when an apex predator is suddenly removed, the results are unpredictable. Often the prey populations rapidly expand, which causes other problems: over-browsing of the undergrowth, for example. But it's complicated."
Hayfa was smiling, but Talib could see he'd lost Huon's interest.
"That's interesting…" said Marjorie, and Talib's attention was drawn to the large, slightly plump, maroon mare, "I remember late one winter, when we had just finished cutting stands at the plantation, we decided to take a holiday at Canterlot, kind of a sight-seeing thing. Anyway, well, what an opportunity! I took a few hours here and there to look through the great libraries-"
Huon snorted, and Talib wondered whether the mannerism was hereditary. "You spent half your time in those dusty old rooms!" he protested.
"Hardly, dear. Anyway, there was so much on the pioneering history of Equestria, as it was being settled by the three pony races. Talib, you reminded me of one thing I read… more of a legend than a historical account, really, although at that distance of time there's a blurry line between the two. This story was about a grand city, founded deep in some wilderness somewhere, which had grown more swiftly than any city before it. Its glory was marvelous to behold, with high towers and grand gardens, and dignitaries from all over Equestria came to witness its beauty and learn the secrets of its success for themselves."
Talib sat enthralled, and suddenly realized he was in the presence of a master story-teller, like Baba Azhar had been. Marjorie had begun conversationally, but soon an excitement had gripped her, her grey eyes had flared into life, and her language had become more ornate. He looked around, seeing the rest of the group similarly attentive - even Huon, who seemed to pride himself on his cynicism.
"But there was a small group of Earth Ponies who dissented, who raised concerns. They warned that the natural balance was being destroyed, that things were changing far too quickly. They were ignored, ostracized. The final straw was when the city-dwellers, ever desirous of more space, came into conflict with a large population of bears, although the legend describes them more as bear-people: intelligent, reasoning, organized and strategic."
Talib was sharply reminded of the almost calculating behaviour of the timberwolves, so unlike their normal hunting. He glanced at Sim, but the old lumberpony was deeply held by the story and did not return the look.
"Strange as it sounds," continued Marjorie, "the bears would commit acts of petty sabotage - destroying scaffolding in the night, that kind of thing. So the citizens eventually made a drastic resolution: they would drive the bears away by force or, if necessary, destroy them. They could not allow them to interfere with the expansion of the city, which they held as their right. Groups of armed ponies soon patrolled the surrounds, attacking bears on sight and destroying their lairs, burning any stands of trees which might hide them."
Marjorie's gaze, directed out into the rainy night, turned grim. "It did not end well. This account was ostensibly written by the survivors, who said that the very wilds themselves turned against the city. Rain ceased to fall. Plants grew at astonishing speed in the cracks and crevices of their masonry, and buildings toppled. A plague of dust, and then of pollen, choked the air and ponies were unable to breathe freely. Some began to leave, but still the city persisted, the ponies digging deep and drawing the water they needed from underground - so much water, for such a large population, that the aquifers receded deeper and deeper. Ponies closest to the wells began hallucinating, seeing visions of terrible catastrophes and hearing ominous thudding sounds. More left, but still many remained.
"Then came the end. Nopony could remember the time of the last rain, but one evening they observed a great storm on the horizon. The hallucinations suddenly ceased - the thudding fell eerily silent. Ponies thought perhaps they had won - though against what, they did not know. The final battle, however, was yet to begin. That night the city awoke to a strange trumpeting, as of distant war-horns: but what army could have been sent against them, here in peaceful Equestria? Nervously they donned their armour and grabbed weapons, patrolling the walls by the dim glow of flaming torches and peering nervously into the wastes beyond; wastes which they had created. And all the while, the trumpeting grew nearer. Some fancied they could see dim shapes moving in the outer darkness, just beyond the torchlight. A gentle rain began, but grew steadily more heavy and dampened the blazing torches. They could see almost nothing beyond the watch-towers, except the approach of distant lightning.
"Then pandemonium struck. Jet-black creepers lashed out towards the city, growing before their eyes at an unbelievable rate. A few brave ponies tried to stop them, but blades rebounded and fire had no effect. The vines buried their tips in the already-crumbling mortar and grew , cracking apart the tall, haughty walls of the city. Swarms of biting, stinging insects filled the air in furious clouds and hampered ponies' attempts to preserve their defenses. A heavy thundering was heard in the ground, and out of the wilds came enormous elephants, their eyes red and crazed, who ripped stones from the walls with massive tusks, trumpeting a war-cry all the while. With the walls fallen, all manner of creatures stormed the naked city - timberwolves, rockodiles, manticores and some even stranger. The smaller animals joined the fight as well, and ponies were tormented by biting ferrets and enraged badgers. Jets of flame suddenly pierced the darkness in great sheets, brighter than the lightning, and ponies knew that there had come against them even dragons. And moving through it all were the bears, what few remained; wrathful, unforgiving and terrible.
"The ponies fled in abject terror. Who could hope to stand against Nature's fury? Scrambling over the crumbled walls, which had stood so mighty, they ran into the darkness, carrying nothing except the young children. Weapons and armour lay discarded in a thinning trail leading away from the city. The plants and animals opened a path for them. Those who dared to look back saw the ranks were closed again behind them, and at the front stood, grim-faced, those same Earth ponies whom they had cast out, the ones who had warned them, and whom the citizens had reviled. One stranger stood larger, nearly twice as tall as the others. Out of the darkness, a near-blinding flash of lightning illuminated the unmistakable features of an alicorn, regal and fearsome.
"The city-ponies escaped in disarray, and sought refuge in whatever settlements they happened to encounter, bearing a strange and frightening tale. When the Princesses received word of the tragedy, of course, they assembled an expedition to reclaim the city and rescue any survivors. But the city could not be found - as though, almost overnight, it had vanished into the wilderness. Many ponies were never found, and were grieved as dead by their families. Luna and Celestia issued a decree that never again were ponies to settle in that savage place, upon which surely lay an awful curse."
The group was silent for a moment, coming slowly out of the story. Talib, however, could barely contain himself, stunned by the similarities to what he and Hayfa had seen. He spoke first.
"Where… what was the name of this book?" he asked, trying to sound casual. "Was it in the Library of Equestrian History? Or the Central Repository for Folk Tales? Or maybe the-"
Marjorie chuckled, kindly. "Sorry, Talib," she said, "I'm afraid I don't recall. I was researching hard historical accounts. This was just a little diversion for me - I wouldn't have kept it in my notes. But I see you're familiar with Canterlot's wonderful libraries - next time you're there, I can recommend a few things, if you're interested in pioneer history."
Talib slumped back into his chair slightly. "Thanks," he said, summoning what enthusiasm he could. "That would be good." Another dead end, he thought with frustration.
"It's an arresting tale," said Hayfa, quietly.
"Yes," said Marjorie, "I suppose that's why it's stuck in my memory all these years. Do you share Talib's interest in folk stories? Is that how you two came to live together?"
Talib tensed, worried Hayfa would mention the dangerous changes in the Everfree Forest, or the destruction of her camp. His parents would never let him back in the Forest, after that. Hayfa, however, turned her head slightly away from the observant Ghaliya, ostensibly to scratch her cheek, and winked - the briefest flicker of her nictitating membrane.
"Not quite," she said, "I met him one day while he was out checking his experiments and we began chatting. We share an interest in the Everfree Forest, and eventually I offered to help him building his cabin. It's a marked improvement on my rough little hovel."
For the first time since they'd sat down, Huon and Marjorie's son, Ash, piped up, and Talib took a proper look at the dusty-blue colt. "Experiments?" asked Ash with quiet interest, in a homely drawl, "What's this?" His deep golden eyes, usually half-lidded and sleepy, were suddenly filled with a quiet intensity.
"Our Ash is quite the tinker," said Huon proudly, by way of explanation. "Always in the workshop cooking up some contraption. Don't know how we'd run the plantation without him behind the spanner." Bianca, who had already been casting curious looks at the wiry, self-assured young stallion, now watched him intently. Ghaliya nudged Melaco subtly and they smiled at one another. Talib didn't get it, but felt mildly irritated for some reason.
"Nothing mechanical, I'm afraid," Talib said, half-mumbling in the hopes that they'd lose interest and he could cede the spotlight to somepony more talkative. Apart from Ghaliya, Bianca and Huon, he thought, suddenly concerned, what a gathering of introverts this has turned out to be. Hayfa is so guarded - she certainly won't carry much of the conversation. Talib realized this was a problem. There was no way Hayfa would open up to his parents without Talib's prompting. Then they wouldn't be reassured that he would be safe in the Forest. Shoot, he thought, I'm going to have to take the reins a bit after all. The conversation would not go where he wanted if Talib remained a wallflower. Everypony's attention would soon waver, but for now he held the floor. He forced himself to some semblance of sociability, thinking of Moondancer's easy geniality and trying to hold their interest.
"I've been studying the Everfree Forest for some years now," he said, beginning simply. "I'm trying to figure out why the plants there are so different from the ones we get in Ponyville. Or elsewhere in Equestria, for that matter."
Huon guffawed. "Why, I could tell you that! They're just wild plants, son. No mystery there! Ho ho," he chuckled, "I fear you've been on a bit of a fool's errand, my boy. It's like I always tell Marjorie and the lad - you're always better off setting your hoof to something practical. Something you can build, and tap with your hoof at the end of the day. I thought that's what you were doing with Sim, and with these wood carvings I hear about."
Talib tried not to feel insulted. "Oh, I enjoy that too," he replied, "but understanding the Forest is why I pestered Sim to take me on in the first place, and why I built that cabin out there. I guess it's been kind of an obsession of mine, ever since I was a young colt."
"In fact," said Melaco, looking sternly at his son, "that's one of the reasons we invited you tonight, Sifir." Uh-oh, thought Talib nervously, this is it. Trust dad to just put everything out in the open. Hayfa regarded the older pony with pleasant seriousness, eyebrows raised. "Until that timberwolf attack," he continued, "Talib had been concealing just how much time he spent in the Everfree. You can imagine our… disappointment. Now he wants us to let him continue these experiments, but we're worried, of course. Do you really think you two can look after each other in there, after what happened? Do you know what you're doing?" Melaco turned to Talib's recalcitrant boss. "You too, Sim - you know the Forest better than anypony here. What do you think?"
Hayfa waited a polite moment while apparently considering the question, giving Sim an opportunity to reply first. Sim, however, merely grimaced and did not respond, perhaps to avoid acknowledging her presence. Talib felt the tension rise slightly, and looked at the griffoness imploringly.
"I have... some experience with wild places," she said, and Talib could see her calculating how little she could reveal. "I've spent time living off the land, trapping and traveling. In my experience these places are usually only dangerous to the unwary and the unprepared. Talib is neither. We'll look out for one another." Ghaliya and Melaco looked only slightly mollified. "What do you think, Simon?" asked Hayfa, deferentially. "As they said, your knowledge of the Forest is unrivaled. Your wisdom would be a boon."
For the first time, Sim could not ignore Hayfa without obvious insult. He regarded her suspiciously, alert to any signs of irony in her respectful tone, buy found none. Still, his reply was addressed to Talib's parents.
"It's like I said. That timberwolf attack was a freak occurrence. Talib and I got separated, and for some reason the usual strategies didn't work. Talib's a bit of a space-pony sometimes, but not when it comes to the Forest. As long as he doesn't wander off on his own, I reckon he'll be alright. Besides," he continued, a slight smile hiding behind the scowl, "he's pretty nifty with a staff. If he hadn't barreled into those wood-mutts when he did, I'd have been a goner."
"You can thank Sifir for that, actually," said Talib, "she's been drilling me. I didn't see the point, at first. But I'm glad she insisted."
For the first time, Sim looked at Hayfa with something other than suspicion. Talib's parents, too, appeared impressed. It was a start.
"That timberwolf attack must have been dreadful," said Marjorie. "But they're naturally vicious - yet you don't think it was normal behaviour?"
"Well, some of it," said Talib. "I mean, yes, they're aggressive. But usually it's more territorial, just to drive ponies away. And they reek, so usually you can smell them a mile off. If you keep your wits about you and keep track of their dens, they're not a problem. And if it comes to a confrontation, a few firm kicks will often see them off." Here Talib looked at Sim, who nodded agreement. "But this pack, for whatever reason, seemed to appear out of thin air, and went straight for the kill. They didn't back down, either... until, for no reason, they did. It was very strange."
"What do you think was the cause?" asked Marjorie. Talib looked at Sim, who shrugged and looked away as though disinterested. That's strange, thought Talib, Sim, more than any pony, should want to know. Ghaliya, of course, also noticed Talib's surprise, and looked at Sim thoughtfully. And now Ghaliya's onto him. Talib remembered Sim's refusal to allow him access to Spruce's journal, and wondered whether he could be hiding something. But what? A sneaky peek at those journals suddenly became a lot more tempting.
"They're just savage beasts, Marj," said Huon authoritatively, "that's just what they do."
"Sure," Talib said, in light of Sim's reticence, "sometimes, under some circumstances. But this was unusual, and it's not the only thing. I've noticed animals moving to areas they usually avoid and…" Talib thought of his visions, violent trees, and dragonfire, but didn't think it appropriate to mention. "…and some other stuff," was his lame finish. "Sim and Sifir notice, too." The pony and griffoness nodded. "We think it has something to do with a new logging operation which started up somewhere on the other side of the Everfree." He explained briefly what they'd learned about Progress Miller and his impossibly high-volume operation. Even Huon nodded, giving a low whistle.
"You're right, Sim," he said, pondering the numbers, "there's no way he could be sticking to the quota. But the Council haven't acted yet?"
Sim scoffed. "Ask them on a Tuesday what day it is and they'll still be arguing come Monday. We gave them the fancy report they wanted, everything spelled out clear as day. Nothing yet. Don't want to light a fire under them straight off, but soon enough we might have to."
Huon gave him a look. "You never thought about joining up? I know how these big operations work - they grab as much local talent as they can. This Miller fellow must have approached you. Why don't you take the deal? They must be making a killing, and look like getting away with it, to boot. A pony could get set up right comfortable, from an opportunity like that."
Sim gave him a long look, and for the first time Talib noted the undercurrent of outright hostility which ran through their relationship.
"Same reason I wouldn't come join your big fancy plantation, even if it means getting "set up right comfortable". This here's my home, and I can neither leave it nor see it plundered by somepony out to make a bit."
The brothers exchanged glares, and Talib looked around the restaurant with discomfort.
Melaco broke the tension. "We really need to decide on some food," he said, brandishing a menu and taking charge, asking about preferences and recommending items. Talib gratefully buried his face in the list of delicious-sounding dishes, no longer hungry, and sighed. Clearly, Hayfa was not the only source of tension he needed to manage tonight.
Chapter Twenty: Indigestion
Something has gone wrong. We don't seem to have an archived copy of that chapter. Chapter Twenty-One: Connections
Author's Note
Everyone at the Timbers-Canes dinner has their own agenda, but nevertheless a slow truce emerges as they each offer something of themselves. Bianca and Ash discuss Talib's "visions", which seem to be growing increasingly urgent...
Chapter Twenty-One: Connections
Talib groaned. The final course had been cleared away and all the diners sat sated; some – Talib, Bianca, their father and Huon – were beyond satiation and shifting uncomfortably, metabolising the delicious food into regret. Thinking was difficult with the distracting fullness of his stomach, but Talib watched Hayfa and his parents carefully. Nothing had gone wrong, but it neither had it quite gone right. Hayfa was withdrawn, probably grown used to her solitary existence in the Forest. She spoke when spoken to, but answered personal questions evasively, even fairly innocuous ones. That would not earn Ghaliya or Melaco’s trust.
Indeed, Ghaliya in particular now regarded the griffoness almost as warily as did Sim, while Melaco seemed to have more or less decided to ignore her. Talib desperately searched for some excuse to pull Hayfa aside and entreat her to be more forthcoming, even if she had to resort to fictions, but no plausible reason presented itself. So he sat, discomfited and anxious, attending to the conversations as best he could.
The communication between Melaco and Savoir Fare was almost telepathic, and Talib’s father rose to pay the bill at the same instant as the maître d’, on the other side of the restaurant, began totting it up. Marjorie nudged Huon, who quickly offered to pay – as did Hayfa, though Talib wondered where she could be getting money from. Both were shamed into acquiescence by Ghaliya. They all rose and walked to the door, thanking the staff on their way out.
A blast of frigid, rain-damp air forced its way into the warmth of the restaurant, causing nearby diners to frown at them. They hastily closed the door behind them and huddled under the small tiled roof which projected over the entrance. The night was wilder and more miserable than they’d realized while sheltered inside. Sim scowled at the sky and turned to the group.
“Well,” he said, resolutely, “we’d best be off before this gets any worse.” Hayfa nodded, and began to convey her thanks and take her leave. Huon looked at the rain uncertainly, and Marjorie smiled and shook her head, but said nothing.
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Ghaliya exclaimed, looking offended. “I will not permit you to walk all the way back by yourselves in this filthy weather!” She turned to Marjorie, as though for support, who nodded emphatically. “The very thought! We have rooms enough for all of you in the farmhouse, and it’s much closer. Tonight you will be our guests.”
Huon looked relieved, and Ash and Bianca looked like cats who had got the cream, but Sim and Hayfa immediately began to grumble and protest. Ghaliya, however, would brook no disagreement. The grizzled old stallion and the steely-muscled predator were soon cowed. The carts were rigged with makeshift awnings and their small caravan struck out, into the wild weather.
The walk back to Sugarcane Farm should have been miserable, the rain and clouds shrinking their world to the little pools of lamplight they needed to stay on the road. It was difficult to hear anything over the sustained crunching-hissing of hard rain on wagon canopies and the hypnotic squeaking and clattering rhythm of the cartwheels. But the simplifying darkness and the white noise of the rain were strangely meditative. An odd mood – a surreal, peaceable mood – came over the company. Talib knew that if he could only stop watching the blackness beyond their lamps – stop imagining timberwolves in every shadow, and trees animated by malevolent purpose – he could be serenely happy. He tried to dismiss his frustration at not being able to relax, and that worry fed into his anxiety, his edginess. Round and round. His brain was working against him again, like it knew what would be good for him but wilfully did the opposite. Sometimes he felt he had no control. He envied the others their calm.
So when a hulking shape loomed out of the darkness, when the others started in surprise and shock, when only he and Hayfa, unobserved at the rear, seemed to have been expecting it and lunged forward to attack – that was when Talib suddenly knew he wasn’t the only one. Whatever Hayfa had experienced in her mysterious life, she too seemed always to be watching the shadows, expecting the worst, as he had been since his schoolyard days, and especially since the timberwolf attack. He’d seen that hypervigilance in Canterlot veterans who had fought the Changelings and he saw it now, in the two of them, and knew they were alike. He knew it from their shared discomfort with crowds. He knew it from the way she always sat with her back to the wall. And he knew it from her hiss, the raised talons, his huffing grunt and flashing hoof-edges. Both of them saw the world as fundamentally hostile. Of course, just now, they seemed to be correct.
So when the looming mass let out a lowing moo and the others relaxed, laughing that they had been scared by a lost cow, Talib and Hayfa merely shared a look of dark knowing. No, it had not been timberwolves, or dragons, or Mujeer, or something yet stranger. But it could have been. At any time, Talib and Hayfa knew, it might be. They walked grimly on.
After an uncomfortable walk Sugarcane Farm was filled with the smell of wet coats and the sound of stamping feet. The Canes set to work with the swiftness of practice. Talib got fires up in the lounge and kitchen, Ghaliya busied herself offering guests rhum from the cellar and preparing hot tea, and Melaco and Bianca prepared guest rooms and helped the others settle in. Sim and Hayfa, it seemed, became less comfortable the more was done for them, but Huon’s family made themselves emphatically at home, making use of the fire for their fur and the drying rails for their cloaks. Melaco quietly asked Talib and Bianca to share a room so that Sim and Hayfa wouldn’t have to. They happily agreed, laughing about when they were younger and used to sneak into one anothers’ rooms at night, when they were supposed to be asleep, and talked or played childish games until they either fell asleep or became loud enough that their parents heard and sent them back to their own beds.
The insistent aroma of peppermint tea came to them from the kitchen, and Ghaliya called her children in to help. They carried saucers and cups of the steaming green-gold liquid to their guests, who variously sat in comfortable armchairs and sofas or stood about the room, quietly reading or chatting. She then refilled Baba Azhar’s old teapot and placed it on the coffee table for those who would want refills. Talib caught Hayfa staring at it with intensity from a corner of the room, and wandered over. He’d overheard Huon talking loudly to her earlier about the Griffon empire – some ignorant opinion, emphatically stated, which had insulted her. She’d given a curt reply and separated herself, which was rude but better than disembowelling him. Talib didn’t really think she would do that, though. Probably.
“What’s so interesting about the teapot?” he asked quietly.
Hayfa looked at him for a while before answering, seemingly unwilling to take her gaze off the innocent-looking item.
“Where did you get it?” she asked.
“My grandfather, Ghaliya’s father, left it to us. She might know more about it. You should ask her.”
Hayfa shook her head, but Ghaliya’s sharp hearing made the decision for them.
“Ask me what, dear?” she said, drifting over from the fire.
“H- Sifir was wondering where the teapot came from,” said Talib, ignoring Hayfa’s glare. He had had enough of her evasiveness. Talib’s parents had to feel like they were getting to know her.
“Oh, that old thing! My father left that to us. He picked it up somewhere in the Griffon Empire, though I don’t know where. Are you familiar with the design?” She fetched the pot and held it up for closer inspection, its starburst of arrows and intricate geometric flourishes worn to a sheen by long use.
“I am,” Hayfa said slowly, taking the object after a calculating pause, “although it has become obscure in recent times. Antiques occasionally bear it.”
“I was always fascinated by it,” said Talib, “I wish I knew something about it.”
“Oh, that is no great secret,” replied Hayfa, tracing a line with her claw. “The diverging lines, like a sunburst, they symbolize several things. Principally, they invoke life, with its manifold forms and natures. A certain wildness, a chaos which is nevertheless born of hidden laws; unpredictability, emergence, incomprehensible diversity and complexity. It has not been a popular theme in our kingdom for some time. We have enough of confusion and disorder as it is, in these times.”
“You sound like Baba Azhar,” said Talib.
“Yes,” said Ghaliya, smiling. “or rather, his affinity for Griffon culture made Baba think like one. It was an enormous influence on him.”
Hayfa was looking from Talib to Ghaliya, a shocked expression in her suddenly wide eyes.
“Sifir, what’s wrong?” asked Ghaliya, concerned.
“You are named for your grandfather?” Hayfa asked Talib slowly.
“Yes...” he replied, unsure.
“Your father was Talib Azhar?” she asked Ghaliya, who nodded. Hayfa held the teapot close to her breast, as if cherishing it, and looked around the room as if seeing it for the first time.
“Lalla ,” said the griffon reverently, setting the teapot carefully down before bowing deeply to Ghaliya and making that strange greeting gesture again, somehow more graceful this time. “I had no idea the honour I was receiving. Please, forgive my ignorance.”
Talib was gobsmacked, utter confusion plain on his face. Ghaliya merely laughed and tutted, pulling Hayfa up hurriedly.
“Oh, hush,” she said lightly, with faint embarrassment, “none of that, Sifir. Or do you extend that title to all sugar-farmers?”
“No,” said Hayfa, seriously, “just to the only child of a great hakim .”
Talib had had enough. “Can somepony please tell me,” he said slowly, “what this is all about?”
“Well,” said Ghaliya lightly, “your grandfather was something of a poet, you know. He was quite well-known in the Griffon Empire.”
Hayfa seemed scandalized, turning to Talib intently. “Talib Azhar was more than that. He was a scholar of the highest genius. He was known to us at the Royal Court, and his works are still studied by every student in every school.” She grasped his forearm in urgency, apparently unaware that she’d revealed, at long last, something about herself. Ghaliya and Talib exchanged a glance. “He revitalized Griffon culture,” Hayfa continued, “reminding us of our own nobility, shown in the mirror of our neglected literary traditions.” She sank a little. “For a while, at least. His absence is felt more and more keenly, in recent years.”
Talib looked at his mother, who appeared slightly embarrassed. “But he was a pony,” said Talib. Hayfa waved a claw.
“He saw our truth. What matter his species? He was as glorious a champion as Griffonkind ever had.” She turned to Ghaliya. “And did he teach you our language, lalla ?”
She looked regretful. “He tried,” she said wistfully. “I wish I could say that some of his learning rubbed off. But I was too happy with my hooves in the dirt.”
“There is honour, too, in honest work, lalla ,” replied Hayfa, deferentially. “It is all too rare.”
“I do wish you’d stop calling me that, Sifir. I can’t even read the books he left us.”
Hayfa froze. “You have more of his writings?” she asked, quickly. “Written in Griffon?”
“Yes, in the library,” replied Ghaliya, “would you like to see them?”
Hayfa looked at her earnestly. “I think it is accurate to say,” she pronounced, carefully, “that I would.”
Talib didn’t know Hayfa was capable of such expressiveness. She leafed through his grandfather’s wide-spined, hempen-bound notebooks excitedly, muttering in Griffon under her breath, eyes widening and narrowing in turn. Occasionally she made little surprised noises or chuckled. The griffoness seemed completely oblivious to her surroundings. After a time, Ghaliya nudged Talib, who stared at her dumbly until she tilted her head and her eyebrows significantly towards Hayfa, frustration at her clueless child evident in her crossed forelimbs.
Right , he thought. If she’s ever going to open up, this will be it . He cleared his throat carefully. When that didn’t work, he rolled his eyes and walked over to where Hayfa sat with uncharacteristic carelessness on the floor, in front of one of the dark-wood bookshelves that sheathed the library walls, floor to ceiling.
“Find anything interesting?” he asked.
Hayfa looked up from the book with irritation, and he backed away slightly. She sighed and closed it. “Did you know your grandfather was still writing and composing?” she asked, as if Talib had deliberately been keeping this from her.
“Well… I guess I never really thought about it,” he replied defensively. “I knew he wrote, of course, but I never considered what it might be. I mean, he was so old, maybe I assumed he was done with all that…” Hayfa glared at him incredulously, and he faltered. “To be fair,” he offered mildly, “I was practically just a foal.” Behind him, Ghaliya chuckled gently.
“A scholar such as Talib Azhar is never ‘done with all that’, as you put it,” said Hayfa acidly. “It is not a career from which one retires. It is a calling with as many ages as a life.” She looked out the window, counting off the ‘ages’ on her claws. “He started by collecting oral poetry, folk stories and songs, travelling the length and breadth of the Empire as a wandering minstrel. He settled in the capital and began to publish these. Then he moved to the written literature, collecting neglected writings and republishing them with contexts and criticisms in anthologies. Griffons who remembered his visits would write to him if they had any interesting old books lying around. Naturally this then moved into the study of Old Griffon and translations of forgotten works. Finally,” she said, significantly, “he published the Epic of Ilfah.” Hayfa dropped the words from her mouth like great weighty gold nuggets. Talib tried to look like he had heard of it. “Shortly after that, he left the Griffon Empire. Now we see what he worked on next.”
“Goodness,” said Ghaliya, “it never sounded so tidy and lofty when he talked about it, wandering the land, singing in taverns.” She shook her head, smiling fondly in memory. Without warning, her expression hardened and she caught Hayfa in a gaze which even Talib could see was loaded. “Obviously,” she said, with delicate precision, “you’re a griffon of uncommon schooling, Sifir.” Then silence. Somehow, Talib saw, his mother had just told Hayfa that she knew much more about the griffoness than had been revealed. Now, written on the quiet, papery air, hung a question. Talib could read it. Doubtless Hayfa could, too.
Who are you? Why should I trust you?
The griffoness stood slowly, her golden eyes taking in the two ponies. That moment lasted a long time. Talib felt like the sudden tension was seeping out of the air and into his bones, freezing him in place. One inscrutable gaze met another, his mother and this secretive predator, neither wavering. Finally Hayfa seemed to reach a decision.
“Talib has spoken with you about me, I assume?” she said, voice neutral. Ghaliya nodded slightly. The griffoness sighed. “Well,” she said, “then there seems little point in remaining reticent. My true name, as you probably know, is Hayfa Karima. Yes, I am of ‘uncommon schooling’, as you put it. I am the daughter of a noble house, and have had the appropriate tutelage. Probably I should have played up my accent a little more, jumbled my grammar.”
Ghaliya nodded with satisfaction. “It is nice to finally meet you, Hayfa,” she said, not without reproach.
“Lalla , I am truly sorry for the necessity of lying – to you, especially. I beseech you to keep this confidence. Please trust that I have my reasons, although I cannot share them.”
Talib’s mother inclined her head doubtfully. “Not even Melaco?” Hayfa shook her head. Ghaliya held her gaze a moment longer, while Talib held his breath. His mother, however, broke into a smile, and the tension dissipated. “Well, that won’t be anything new,” she said. “So, what are we looking at?” she continued, peering at the strange script of the open book in Hayfa’s talons. Talib breathed out. Finally, something had opened between the two females.
“None of this is published, or finished. They would be highly prized in the Griffon Empire.”
“I think we’d like to hold on to them,” said Ghaliya, slowly.
Hayfa shrugged, understanding. “From what I’ve seen,” said Hayfa, “these notebooks are more scholarship than composition. There are stories and poems, but most are vague or fragmentary. They are accompanied by copious notes, however. This particular notebook,” she said, “seems dedicated to…” she paused, uncertain, “…wilderness , as far as I can discern. Stories of wastelands, forgotten tribes, remote mountains. Even the Everfree Forest gets significant space, Talib.” Talib’s ears pricked up, and Hayfa opened the book to show him. Talib looked at the page, but could make nothing of the graceful, flowing script. A symbol, however, caught his eye.
“That’s the design from the teapot!” he cried.
“Yes,” said Hayfa, “he seems to have used this and similar symbols to code the passages for note-taking. The ‘wilds’ symbol, from the teapot, is most common in this notebook focusing on wilderness stories, of course, but there are other symbols and the system is consistent through all the books. But I have no idea what the others mean.”
Talib frowned, staring at the page.
“Baba seems to have shared your interest in the Forest, Talib,” said Ghaliya.
He nodded. “I think… look, obviously there’s this stuff going on with Progress,” he said, slowly, “and the over-logging is definitely important. But there’s something else about the Forest. Something deeper, and older, and whether he realizes it or not, Progress Miller is… disturbing it. I don’t know how I know, but I do. I can practically taste it. That’s why I want to finish these experiments so desperately. They’ll get us one step closer to understanding what is really going on.”
Ghaliya sighed, closing her eyes. “It’s just… well, you know our thoughts.” She looked between Talib and Hayfa, the lantern-light glowing in reflection from the open pages around them. “The Everfree would be dangerous enough without all this going on. But right now, who knows what could happen in there?” Her gaze settled on Hayfa. “My son wants me to believe he will be safe. He is going to remind me – perhaps unwisely, considering how he lied to keep it from us – how experienced he is in the ways of the Forest. And since I still won’t be convinced, he’ll drag you into it, and tell me you are some kind of soldier, and you’ve been training him, and you’ll keep each other safe. But if there is any chance of Melaco and I believing that – and I don’t concede that there is – then I would have it from you directly. Why are you throwing your lot in with my son for this? You don’t have skin in the game, as my husband would put it.”
Hayfa did not respond immediately. She preened with uncharacteristic agitation, then said, “I cannot easily answer that question, since my own mind is… confused, in certain memories. But whatever is happening, I’ve felt it before. It’s… not something I can talk about. Suffice it to say that in the Forest I can hear echoes of something unpleasant I experienced, once. If I can prevent it repeating, I will.”
Ghaliya considered. “You have some training?”
“More than some. And experience, and practice. I am ‘proved’, as my ’ameed , my colonel, put it.”
“And Talib?”
“Talib is competent. He can be more than that. Some Ponyville pacifism made him hesitant, but I suspect he has discovered a new appreciation for the martial arts,” Hayfa said drily. Talib nodded fervently, which, ironically, aggravated the now-chronic ache in his skull.
Ghaliya frowned, thoughtful. Talib watched her closely for some sign, but she gave none. Eventually, she nodded. “I will discuss it with Melaco. We’ll sleep on it.” Talib sagged, but knew it was the best he could hope for. As if summoned, Melaco poked his head into the room and announced their guests were retiring for the night. Ghaliya gave them a final, grave look, bid Talib see that Hayfa was settled in for the night, and walked out to ensure the others had what they needed. Even with so much on her mind, the code of hospitality which was so ingrained in their family could not be neglected.
Talib, now alone with Hayfa, smiled weakly at the griffoness. “Thank you,” he said, “I know you don’t like talking about yourself.”
“Needs must,” she said laconically, regarding him blandly. She seemed to have more to say, but was unsure. Talib waited patiently. “Will you…” she began hesitantly, “…will you thank your parents for me, later? It’s been a while since anyone has been so generous with their hospitality.”
Talib nodded slowly, unsure what to say. “I wish-” he began, then stopped, looking at her helplessly, wanting to ask more, wanting her to trust him with her story, and not quite sure why. Even now, he could not be sure whether they were friends, or were merely thrown together by the alignment of their goals. He gave up. He would not wheedle revelations from her. But there was one thing he would request.
“Can you tell me what Baba wrote about the Everfree?” he asked.
“I don’t have the patience to translate or dictate all the little pieces in these notebooks, Talib,” she replied, gesturing to the several thick hemp-bound volumes. “There are all kinds of fanciful folk stories in there, about druids and manticores and something winged and secret in the mountains beyond the Forest. I will not be your bedtime reader.”
“I suppose not,” he said, glumly.
Hayfa regarded his morose expression a while and rolled her eyes – a particularly expressive gesture with her aquiline visage. “Oh, very well. There is something I can do. Would you like to learn the Griffon tongue?” The young colt looked at her in surprise. “It would be fitting,” she said, “with your heritage. Some,” she continued, her familiar sardonic, lofty tone exaggerated, “would consider it an honour to teach you.” Talib’s suddenly eager expression made his answer clear. “We can practice while we work, so it won’t cost me any time. You’ll need some books of instruction, though, to study independently.”
“I’ll see what Twilight can rustle up,” said Talib. He tried to hide his excitement as they bid one another goodnight.
"What's behind this go-faster instinct? Impatient to get somewhere?" Ash teased gently, looking with interest at Bianca's latest soap-box cart design. The expressive scribbles crouched on the page, sleek and low and somehow animated, as if ready to pounce.
Bianca just laughed. "I think that's pretty true," she replied. "If I know what I want, then why wait?"
Ash looked at her for a time, expression pleasant but not easy to read. Their eyes met, and then he looked away in awkward silence, shuffling through some of her calculations on the workbench. Bianca thought she could see him blushing under his soft grey-blue coat, and her heart leapt.
That morning the two families had awoken roughly in sync - except Talib, who was sleeping a lot since his concussion - and shared a happily rowdy breakfast, enjoying the kind of easy familiarity that grows quickly after sleeping under the same roof. Sifir was nowhere to be seen, but an elegantly-penned note in the kitchen expressed indebtedness for the Canes' hospitality and a desire to meet again. Bianca, the kind of farm pony who could practically hear the sun rise, reflected that the griffoness must move silent as mist to have slipped away without waking her. While the others were lingering over sweet, cardamom-infused coffee, Ash had asked to see some of Bianca's work. She had recognized an opportunity to be alone together for a while. They had gone out to the workshop, and spent a few minutes looking through designs and very carefully not brushing against one another in the sometimes-cluttered space. Ash had apologized for his father's opinionated manner, and Bianca had said something vaguely reassuring.
It had become clear, over the last day or so, that there was something here. They talked naturally and with passion about their machines - although Ash had more of an intuitive mechanic's approach and Bianca a methodical engineer's - and their hopes for the future. There was an electrifying mixture of nervousness and comfort, attraction and caution, in the way they interacted. It felt natural and strange at the same time. They'd already promised to write, though neither of them had any idea what to do next.
Still half-heartedly ruffling through Bianca's notes to avoid her gaze, Ash unearthed some of Talib's old notes, and peered more closely. The chaotic, irregular scrawls made the copious calculations and equations even harder to understand, written as they were with much crossing-out, idiosyncratic notes and abbreviations, and heavily layered with botanical sketches. Ash shook his head and looked at Bianca questioningly.
"Do you understand any of this stuff?" he asked.
Bianca raised an eyebrow. "You mean the statistics, the botanical experiments, the magical theory, the silviculture, or the industrial espionage?" she asked wryly.
Ash laughed. "Any of it, I guess. I might work with trees but I'm a city pony at heart. I couldn't make head nor tail of what he was saying last night."
Bianca looked at the cryptic scribblings, her gaze focused on something else. "I have a vague picture," she said. "Talib wants to understand the magic of the Everfree Forest, so he's come up with some experiments or other. At the same time, he and Old Sim have evidence that Progress Miller is over-logging, and that seems to be affecting the Forest, so they're trying to stop him."
Ash nodded. "That's about what I understood. I wasn't sure if the two were related somehow."
Bianca placed the tip of a hoof on one of the sketches, tracing the outline of an experimental plot. "Exactly. That's where the wheels come off. Talib doesn't know either, though he seems to think so. And that's just the tip of the iceberg - I can tell there's a lot more weirdness happening than he's letting on. Last night Talib told me he's been having visions."
Bianca watched Ash carefully assemble his best I'm-not-calling-your-brother-crazy-but-I-have-some-questions expression. She frowned, but not at him.
"I know. He woke me up thrashing and muttering last night, something about wings in the Forest, and fire, and water, and a great heart…" she trailed off. "I don't know. Crazy stuff. I thought it was a nightmare so I tried to wake him up. But his eyes were already open, looking at the moon through the window, and he didn't seem to hear me. I was worried he was having a fit, you know, like the nurse had warned us after the concussion. But then it started to ease off, and he woke up properly."
"Was he alright?"
Bianca remembered how drained Talib had looked, grimacing in pain with hooves pressed to his temples and eyes squeezed shut, panting in a cold sweat. She'd offered him the glass of water on the nightstand but he'd waved it away weakly. You're drenched , she had said, you need water . His eyes and mouth had shot open then, wide with shock. Of course , he'd said, water…
But then he'd frowned and gone silent, and in her concern and exasperation, Bianca had demanded he drink up and tell her exactly what in Equestria was going on. He'd sworn her to secrecy before telling her about the other visions, and what he'd just realized: that every time, they had come to him while he was in water of some kind. The streams and pools. The mist. The rain. Until this time. It felt like something was reaching out to him: sending a warning, asking for help, increasingly desperate.
"He said he'd seen catastrophe and destruction, a breaking of the very heart of the Forest"
"What does that mean?"
"He has no idea."
They lapsed into silence, until Ash shrugged. "Maybe they are just nightmares," he ventured, hopefully.
"Apparently they're… different," she replied. Talib had been a little more verbose. They feel real, Bianca , he'd said. It's like watching thundercaps roll in over the hills. I can see something coming, hear the thunder, smell the rain . He had stopped just short of the word 'premonition'.
"You're worried," said Ash; a statement.
"Absolutely. Going up against Progress Miller is scary enough. But I think Talib's right: there's a lot more going on here, and we have no idea what."
"I'm a bit jealous," said Ash, "I never had a sibling. Talib's lucky."
Bianca sighed. "It's not always easy. He's such a dreamer… and still as wilful as a foal. But we've always looked after each other. Well," she said, considering, "I've always looked after him."
Ash was quiet for a spell. "I don't think he likes me," he said, finally.
Bianca laughed. "He just has no idea what's going on. He'll get used to it."
Ash brightened. "Will he, now?"
Bianca looked away and mumbled something about being time to go back inside. But she couldn't hold back the smile.
Chapter Twenty-Two: Isolation
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