The bewitched spectacles

by monokeras

Rating: teen
Tags: Tragedy, Slice of Life, Sad
Length: 1672

It’s always risky to use eldritch magic, especially when it comes to life and death, for it can backfire. Sometimes tragically.

Have you ever wanted to know who was going to live and who was going to die?
Sounds fun, doesn't it?
Well, it is not.

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2013-11-24 22:00:02 UTC

The bewitched spectacles

I’ve always been carried away by the couture of Petit Tricot. As a fashion designer, he is just so talented that I always felt clumsy and awkward beside him; the attires he crafts are simply truly smashing. To my greatest delight, I had the opportunity to be introduced to him four years ago during a défilé, and we immediately hit it off. Petit Tricot is a handsome, raffish and witty pony, blessed with a subtle sensibility at that. Much like Fluttershy, he is a Pegasus that has elected to settle on the ground. He lives in Canterlot, the caput mundi of Equestria, in a posh building that was constructed especially for him. The ground floor hosts his boutique, while the next two stories are occupied by his workshop, where he and his numerous assistants slog. He lives on the highest story and enjoys its solarium.

As we became more and more acquainted, we met regularly, bantering and chatting about our most recent creations and the latest trends of la haute couture. One of these regular rendez-vous was scheduled last Monday.

He welcomed me warmheartedly at the door of his huge apartment, and we both took place in the cozy sofa installed in his living-room. After a short colloquy, he asked me whether I would like to sample one of his finest tea, and, upon my agreement, disappeared for a while.

He came back with a teapot and a strange leathery case, tightly held by a small stud. He filled my cup with this sublime brew whose scent was so powerful that I had perceived it all the way from the kitchen. But as he was about to sit again, I suddenly noticed that his countenance had turned glum.

“What is it my dear?” I asked. “Are you all right? You seem distraught.”

“I am so sorry, my cherished Rarity,” he answered, making himself comfortable in one of his oversized armchairs. “You made a long trip, and what I have to tell you is not precisely cheerful.” He paused, sipping some tea. “But let us come to the brass tacks; curtly put, this is the last time we meet.”

I could not help but start, almost spilling some hot tea on one of my foreleg. “How come? Are you moving away? Or… did I say or do something wrong? Don’t you enjoy my company anymore?”

“Now, please, don’t be silly. You’re the most wonderful mare I ever met, and that is not going to change. It’s important you know that I reveled in every single instant we ever shared. But you miss the point, darling: it’s just that I’m going to die.”

“What?” I replied, completely staggered. “Are you sick? Or just kidding me?”

“Neither sick nor kidding. I am, unfortunately, most earnest.”

“But there must be a reason why this nonsense occurred to you!” I protested.

“Of course there is! Try these!” He opened the tiny brown case and drew some quaint glasses out, that he handed over to me. I put them on my muzzle and couldn’t believe what I saw: instead of a young, dapper stallion, in front of me sat an ancient, scrawny, shabby, disheveled and toothless pony. Dumbfounded, I took the glasses off, and my friend was rejuvenated right away, scrutinizing me with a slight smirk. Incredulous, I put the specs once again; the ghastly vision immediately returned. It was hardly possible to recognize Petit Tricot under this dreary disguise, and yet, who else could it be? Queasy, I gave the lenses back to him.

“I guess you’ve seen enough now,” he said. “Now, loll in the sofa while I tell you the whole story.”

“When I was a young colt, studying at the Canterlot school of art and design, I decided to plan a trip to Hippopolis. As you know, this town is weird, shrouded in a so antique magic that even our beloved ruler, Celestia, fails to grasp it in its entirety. People and buildings look odd and eerie, the atmosphere is always somewhat spooky; you can, however, acquire yon pieces of textile, bright dyes and raw materials almost impossible to locate anywhere else.

While I was meandering lazily through the narrow streets of a remote quarter, my eye was suddenly attracted by the window of a squalid optician shop. No doozy here: old glasses, worn-out and dirty; mostly shoddy stuff, sold for some measly bits. Yet, right in the middle of all this junk, a pair of specs shone out, priced at a stunning million; the one you just tried a while ago.

My curiosity was obviously roused: why would an ordinary pair of glasses be worth such a big amount of money? Was it a silly joke? I entered into the shop and asked the proprietor, a small, dull pony, what the heck was so special about these goggles. And he responded, placidly: ‘Oh, you’re right, they are so underpriced; that’s because they are secondhand and rusty. Glasses to see elders are usually much more expensive than that.’”

“Glasses to see elders?” I asked, taken somewhat aback.

“Indeed! But before carrying on, I have to digress a little.

To everypony’s mind, being old usually means entering dotage. As a poet could put it, being in the ultimate season of one’s life, having but a trifle left to live. Now, try to think it over. If oldness is, strictly speaking, related to our remaining lifespan, then age in itself is irrelevant.

Old is the new-born foal that, in a few hours, will die of a congenital malformation. Ancient the stallions who set out for a trek in the snow-covered mountains, and will be wiped in an avalanche. And hoary the ponies that board a train bound to derail and fall off a bridge arching a bottomless canyon. But their ‘real age’ is invisible to the naked eye. They are hidden, concealed elders; crypto-elders, so to speak.

Now and then, somepony with an exceptional insight can sense something and recognize these illegal elders; these glasses are made just for anypony else.

Back to my story: glasses that disclose everypony’s destiny, including yours, isn’t that thrilling? Look around and find out who’s going to live, and who’s going to die. Tempting, isn’t it? Besides, you know, my family is one of the wealthiest in all Equestria. So a million bits is no such big deal to me, even on a whim. But I had somehow to be certain that the glasses are not phony.

‘How can I be sure this is no fraud?’ I asked the optician. And he responded with a  tinge of aloofness: ‘You’re in luck sir. Walk down the street a hundred meters or so. At the end of it you will find a park that belongs to a pediatric hospital. Have a try!’ He fetched the spectacles and handed them over to me.

I trotted out – by the way, wondering why the guy is so trustful – along the street and ended up facing a fence beyond which several foals frolicked on the grass. I put the glasses on, and, while a few younglings remained unchanged, most suddenly metamorphose into capering mummies, sort of teensy-sized versions of what you beheld just before. Shocked, but satisfied, I turned and walked back. Hundred meters, two hundreds meters, three hundreds meters; no outlet of any kind. I paced back and forth, nothing: the shop had vanished. Puzzled, I entered into a nearby grocery store and inquired. ‘I can think of no opticians around,’ answered the employee. ‘You’ve got to go downtown!’

What was I supposed to do? I kept the goggles. To say the truth, I had a lot of fun with them during the first months. I was usually wearing them while walking around, and sometimes would make big discoveries, such as stuck-up ponies strutting past, reduced into quivering wraiths by the eerie magic of the glasses. They also helped me decide if it was wise to grant a credit to some of my customers. But it was a macabre game I eventually got fed up of. So I decided to lock them up in a chest I store in the basement, and restrict their use on myself, with the help of a mirror. At first, every month, then every other, then every semester then – as I grew more confident – every year. Until this morning, when I was… sniped by a potshot. Torpedoed. Beheaded. And there is no denial, no escape, no flight. You will concede that, given what you saw, there is little hope of any recovery…”

“But you don’t feel anything? Tiredness? Depression?”

“Not the slightest bit: I’ve never felt better! In fact, I could fly to the Moon and back a thousand times. Yet, I’m the oldest stallion in this world. And now the time has come for me to throw the final curtain. Get ready for my last trip. Adieu, farewell. I don’t give you these accursed glasses right now, because I know you would not accept them; but I have added your name on my testament. And I crave you, my beloved Rarity: no sobs, no tears, no sorrow. But better leave me alone now, if you don’t mind, as I have a final private chore to attend to.”

He stood up and hugged me, a long, tight and warm clinch unlike any other before, then escorted me to the door. I was so bewildered I did not even protest. I began to descend the first steps, but halted and looked behind. I saw him waving me goodbye and disappearing in his apartment. Still musing on what I just heard, I almost reflexively resumed walking down the stairs, musing on all I heard until I was suddenly shaken out of my trance by a strange muffled thud, much like a big tote bag crashing on the ground. Alarmed, I rushed down the last flights, dashed along the hall and flung the entrance door open.

The body of my friend lay on the pavement, broken and lifeless.