To pen and paper, my bitter legacy is wrought. I am neither Dethroner nor Defiler, as they call me. I am May Flower, the lily of the valley. I am sorrow and vision, innocence and poison, happiness and humility, finality and finity. Once golden bells toll of twelve, I am nothing. There is a beginning, somewhere in the tempest. Memory is torturous now. She always tells me to begin at the beginning. Perhaps I shall, for her sake.
It began with the bells. I met the golden gates in the morning, when the skies were only just beginning to lighten. Those golden bells rang six times as I approached the palace. It was autumn, I think. Perhaps it was spring. I just remember a cold breeze passing through and shivering me, and I cannot recall now whether it was a harbinger or a remnant.
It was the day of the interview. The gates were wide open, and curiously enough, no golden-clad soldiers had taken the station. It was quiet, save for the sound of wind chimes hung almost haphazardly from struts and columns all around the palace. I took a moment to adjust my shade hat – I write ‘shade hat’ as if I had any others – which I had donned subconsciously that morning along with my bag and a facade of a confident smile. I walked, step after step, to the palace’s main door.
There I stopped, and waited. Would somepony invite me in? Hardly. I waited for all of ten seconds before I gave a few weak taps on the door. Nothing? I tried again, but no answer. I could have left. Then and there, just gone home, lived in the palace’s shadow, been content.
And now I lie to paper. All I ever had before her were flowers, hedges, statues. My talent was supposedly gardening, but I could never be content on the outside. I knew that in the palace was the loveliest flower that ever bloomed. A flower that would never wilt. That was the flower I wanted to care for. If I had learned anything from gardening, it was that nature needed me not. It cared little whether I lived on. At least with the princess, I could make something last far beyond my own span.
I threw my hoof against the door, and that was that. The wood swung easily back on oiled hinges, and I stared forward, holding back a wave of horror. Where were the locks? Where were the guards? I peeked in, and the hall was empty. The dull rap of a hoof against wood echoed through the palace, fed by pillars, walls, and arches of stone and marble. Stretching out ahead was the throne room, left eerily vacant. The princess was gone. I wanted to leave, but each echo that rang back to me made it impossible to turn back.
Typically, when I look back on what I have done, I consider my past self to be an absolute foal. However, it was not foalish impulse that drew me into the palace. It was a mixture of curiosity and fate. Is there a difference between fate and compulsion? I hope so, for my own sake.
The wind chimes ceased behind me as the door swung shut. Everything inside was awful and still, as if I had just walked into a painting. No breezes stirred the fading tapestries; nothing moved through, nothing gave the palace the illusion of life. It hardly struck me, being young and foalish, that perhaps the emptiness was due in part to the toll of the bells and the dull black of the sky.
Fate may have drawn me in, but I think it was fantasy that lured me to the throne. The stained glass masterpieces on either side threatened to captivate me, but my eyes always seemed to return to that golden seat. It looked uncomfortable, unnatural for anything of our kind to rest in. I had heard before that she was infinite. Immortal. I think that idea struck a chord in my heart. Would that make her a goddess? She certainly had the power, but there was one thing the title mandates that I could not yet attribute or understand: perfection. I know the answer now, but I do not know whether it is a comfort anymore.
The Princess’s Attendant, the job was called. An assistant, a right-hoof, a caregiver. Everything I could be for the most influential, the most permanent thing that had ever walked on imperfect soil. It was more than intriguing; it was enthralling. The herald’s shouts had been swirling around in my head from the moment I heard them until even now. Now, they have disappeared, as if to mock me.
Was it a selfish aspiration to want to aid the princess? Was it about the power or the immortality? I think I hoped that maybe after an eternity, perhaps she had life understood, all figured out. Perhaps it was a matter of pride, too. I cannot deny it; being Princess Celestia’s right hoof filled me with wonder at times, and I certainly considered it my greatest success. Then again, anypony would. I can still feel those chords of hope ringing through me, but they are not for me anymore.
I do not know how long I stood in front of that throne, but a sound began to work its way to me. It was so faint. I thought I imagined it, until it got louder, and I could hear an echo to it. I looked all around, but I remained the only pony in those halls. There was merely me, the throne, and an unassuming door, just to my left. I put my ear up against the knotted wood, and sure enough, the sound became louder. It was a voice. The tone reminded me of counting, very slow, but deliberate. Curiosity knocked at the door, waited for an answer, and when there was none, simply pushed it open.
The voice grew, and it no longer sounded like just counting. There was an occasional quiver, a break in her cadence. Before me stood a stairway, a barrier. I did not understand it then, but when I spiraled my way up those steps, I decided that one day, I would be counting with her, and another day without her. Her counting thrummed with my heartbeat, and I began to understand what she was counting. By the time I reached the top of the staircase, I bore a frown.
It let out into a small antechamber, which held five other doors. One stood wide open. Beyond that threshold was the princess, who sat facing her window. Her horn was aglow, and before I could interrupt her, there was light. First, it washed over me, forcing me to close my eyes, and shield them with a forehoof. Then, it took hold of me, pulled me forward, dared me to match it, dared me to become it.
And then it stopped. I heard a metal scrape, and the light was gone. When I opened my eyes, I was met with a set of ornate drapes and a pair of eyes deeper than any violet I had nursed. I was also at the threshold, the light having pulled me out, brought me in for judgment, only to leave me wanting more. Those eyes petrified me, burned me, though they held no vitriol. I was before her, exposed to her, alone with her.
The foal in me spoke on my behalf, “I’ve come to apply,” though it sounded more like a question to both of us.
She kept her gaze fixed on me for a few moments more, then began without even a trace of the former counting, “Pardon.” She turned away from me and, with a short flourish of magic, placed a small cushion in front of me with a perfunctory “Please, sit.” I complied while she pulled her own cushion into place. Rather than sitting, though, she began to look through an old desk that seemed to be exempt from the thin layer of dust that covered the rest of the room.
It was so incredibly underwhelming. I think some part of me expected her to be immediately profound or florid. I might have felt a twinge of disappointment, but it was quickly replaced with a sinking feeling. I was an intruder. About a sunrise too late, my manners kicked in.
“Should I come back another time, princess?”
She shook her head. “No. That would not be fair to you. The herald simply said this ‘morning,’ and morning it is. I had just relied on ‘morning’ as defined by businessponies and bureaucrats, not. . .” she paused, lifting up a pocketwatch from one of the desk drawers, “Six-fifteen. You’re very early.”
Color rose to my bud-yellow cheeks. “I’m sorry, princess. My day begins before the sun shines.” I thought that was a nice way to put it. It almost sounded like it should mean something.
“No, it’s all right,” she said, with a calm lilt as she kept sifting through the desk’s contents, “If anything, your morning seems to be the same as my own.” She paused, offering a short smile. “The morning stars have always been my favorite.”
I realize now that she was actually complimenting me, not her own work. Still, I smiled in turn. Without a clue of how to respond, I changed the subject. “What are you looking for, your highness?”
“Right now, just paper, ink, and a quill.”
Her phrasing threw me off for a moment, but I opened my bag and pulled out my own supplies, suspended in my typical pale aura. “Will these do?”
She pulled her gaze away from the desk, though she was staring at me, not the items in question. I cannot say I knew what she was looking for, but her scrutiny negated any sense of comfort the cushion provided. It lasted for hardly a moment though, before she shut all the drawers of the desk. “Yes. Thank you.” She took them, and her air of ease seemed to return, if only for a moment. My focus, however, remained on the desk. It felt like as much an outsider as I.
“That isn’t yours, is it?”
“What?” she asked, as if just waking up.
“Uh, the desk. Sorry if I’m intruding.”
It was a bit late to apologize for that.
“Oh, no. It belonged to my previous attendant. Why do you ask?”
“If it were yours, you would know where to find everything.”
I know I meant nothing beyond the literal when I said that, but as I look back, I think the princess may have taken two meanings from the same set of words. The moment they escaped my mouth, her eyes flickered with an echo of understanding.
“So, why exactly do you wake up so early, Lady- er, I beg your pardon. What is your name?”
“Just May Flower, your highness. No titles to my name. I have to wake up early to work in your gardens.”
“Hm? Forgive me, but last I checked, my sole gardener’s name was Wintergreen with colors to match. I’ve asked her several times if she wanted help, but she’s always refused.”
“Wintergreen is my mother, your highness.”
“Ah, that would explain it. If that sunhat is anything to judge by, you must truly be your mother’s daughter. She always wears hers into the palace, too.”
I blushed again, muttering a quick “Pardon,” and started to take off my hat, but a golden glow flickered at the upper edges of my vision, and it would not budge.
“Nonsense,” she said, “It suits you well. If I get to wear a crown, you can certainly wear a shade hat. Besides, it’s nice to see something besides suits and dresses every once in a while.” She paused for a moment to write on the scroll of paper. “So what parts of the garden have you taken charge of?”
“I manage the statue garden, princess.”
Her eyes darted from the paper to meet mine, and the quill stopped abruptly. This time, her eyes twinkled with what I realize now was an apology. “How do you keep it?”
“I trim the surrounding hedges every other morning. The archways at the entrances I’ve decorated with vines, which I tie white lilies around. Every few days I also stick more colorful lilies in the hedges. I clean the statues off every couple of days, alternating with the hedge-trimming, and I surround them with the month’s flowers. I line the walkways with various mums to add more color and contrast from the plain stone. On holidays, I take some roses and line the walkways with their petals.”
“That sounds lovely.”
“It is.”
“And how many others see your work?”
“I can’t say I keep track, your highness.”
“That’s fine. I just want an estimate.”
I took a moment to get an effective benchmark and replied, “Around two or three every week, your highness. Usually tourists who get lost in the hedge maze and ask me for the way out.”
“Truly? I was expecting something a bit more . . .” she paused for a moment, searching for an effective summation, “. . . encouraging, I suppose. The statue garden used to be somewhat of a main attraction. I’m sorry your work goes without an audience.”
“I garden for beauty, your highness, not for publicity.”
That made her smile, and the quill went back to work. “It’s been a long while since I’ve visited it myself. Certainly not within your lifetime. Maybe not even Wintergreen’s.”
I merely nodded, unsure how to respond. After all, she had just discarded both my lifetime and my mother’s lifetime as if they came and went with the seasons. It strikes me now how right she was. Everything up to now has been but a moment, while in the present every second spans millennia, each moment is precious.
“So, then, do you have any other experience?”
“Little else besides caretaking, your highness.”
“That does present a difficulty. As my attendant, you would be managing a lot of my daily affairs. No doubt your work has merit, but at the center, you’re still a gardener. I don’t think either of us can realistically expect any sort of skill transfer besides the fundamental and metaphorical.”
She was not harsh. She even said it with a smile to show me she only meant to speak truth, but it was still a difficult wall she set before me. It was the sort of obstacle I had dreaded, and she was absolutely right. When I walked in that day, I was a blank slate. What followed was a test of my guile: I had to make my lack of experience seem not only acceptable, but favorable.
“I figure you’d be teaching me regardless of my previous walk of life. After all, there’s no job quite like the princess’s attendant. At least with me, you won’t be reteaching or unteaching.”
That brought the princess’s smile back. “So what you mean to say, Miss Flower, is that you’re perfect for the job because you have no idea how to do it? If so, I could just as easily promote one of the guards to the station. Why do you want to apply for a job you’re unable to perform?”
I should have known better than to play mind games with the princess. She did not want an excuse. She wanted an answer. She was not even looking at the scroll anymore. Her eyes rested solely on me, and I willed myself to meet them, but the way they pierced me left no hope for thought, and I averted them for far too long. I remained silent for a meanwhile, looking for an answer that sat plainly before me. I prepared to doom myself, acknowledge that I did not quite know it myself, and thus finally met her eyes.
They held a new and encouraging luster this time, and though they stared back, I was no longer paralyzed. They brought peace. She did not mean to defeat me. She wanted my honest answer, and helped me find it. I could find the words, I could show her what I saw. All I needed was the promise that she would understand.
“I am a caretaker first and foremost, your highness. When the city wakes, perhaps a hundred others as hopeful as myself will line up at your gates. They will have experience, and they will be the best calculators your gold could possibly attract. They may ease your day-to-day life, they may care for every detail, but they won’t care for you. If that’s what you’re looking for, then I’ll take my leave, and I won’t look back. If you find you want a caretaker, however, you’ll find none like me. I’ll carry your yoke myself, if you’ll allow me.”
It was her turn to keep the silence. The quill continued at a furious pace, and her eyes turned back to the scroll, which made me feel strangely alone. Occasionally, she would look up at me, but not with the smile I hoped would accompany it, and she would just as quickly return her gaze to her writing. I felt like I should say something more, but I could hardly think of anything else to say. I said something anyway.
“I’ll count with you.”
She looked up at me, and regarded me with a mixture of curiosity, bewilderment, and inquisition, and I did my best to match her with affirmation. After a few moments, she stoppered the ink, and put it into my bag alongside the quill.
“That will be all,” she said stiffly, “You will be informed of the decision as soon as it is made.”
I never thought I would see that paper again. Good stars, she had kept it all this time.
I rose and gave a curtsey, then went back the way I came. Several guards regarded me with suspicion, having never let me in, but none of them acted on it. The palace fled from under my hooves, and in a moment I was once more alone in the courtyard, ushered out by the droning of the chimes.
At the time, I thought it had been an awful interview. It ended on a bad note, and I had not done the best job of selling my strong points. It was more akin to digging myself out of a ditch than elevating myself above the competition.
For a single moment, though, I felt what I had come for. I looked into her eyes, and my thoughts became clear. The words flowed, and I could talk without the constant fear of being misunderstood. I could hardly imagine what hid behind her eyes, but whatever it was – whoever she was – it brought out something far greater in me.
The greatest torture after meeting the extraordinary is the return to routine. I had a garden to tend to. The walk back felt short. Everything did, or perhaps it does now. Memory has rendered it weak, as if I were looking upon a list instead of a scene. I used a spell to cut the hedges without beheading the flowers I had tied into them; I swept some dust and dirt off of the cobblestone pathways; I watered everything before the clock could strike nine, when the garden would open to whoever wandered in. It was dreadful and tense. I wondered if the princess’s delayed decision meant she was actually considering me, or if it was just a formality? Had I come off as arrogant or confident? Was there really a difference?
The world has somehow managed to find far more than two answers for that question. Those beyond ‘yes’ and ‘no’ involve a story or parable of some sort. The answer I have come to accept recently is no. In the long run, the two are actually one. Arrogance and confidence are just separate interpretations of the same ignorance.
And what am I? The ignorant gardener. I dared to trespass the empty gates, to open unlocked doors and echo through empty halls. I had taken the vacant palace as an invitation, a beckoning of fate. I could hardly refuse what looked so open and free to me. I was able. My dream was within my grasp. I needed only to reach out. The ignorant gardener.
It was autumn. I remember clearly now, because I was sweeping the fiery leaves from the pathways, and just above the scrape of the broom and the leaves against stone, I could hear her steps. I thought another visitor had lost their way, and paid no heed. Kept at my work, waiting to hear the same steps recede back into the labyrinth. Only after I had all the leaves crowded together in a pile did I think to look up.
If the princess was offended by my nonchalance, she did not show it. She was engrossed in the statue of a well-hatted mage reared up on his hind legs, poised for battle. Starswirl, he was called. My broom fell and struck twice against the stones below, which made her turn and smile at me. I knew it was as much a smile as a summons, and I joined her. It occurred to me at the time – a passing thought – that we were sitting on the same stones.
“You’ve done me a great service here,” she began, returning her gaze to the statue.
“I could do greater, princess.”
“You would need more than flowers.”
“You need more than a secretary.”
That made her smile broaden for a moment, but it seemed to curve down at the edges. “What makes you think that? I’ve had more attendants than you have years. Forward or backward.”
I tried not to let that last addendum faze me, but once it had sunk in, there was no way to shake it out.. She rarely spoke so harshly, but those words haunted my thoughts for a long time. Right then, I did not have the time to consider it. I had an answer.
“You’re here after all, princess, and I’m the only other one here who is still alive.”
“Sometime in your life, May, you’ll come to realize that the dates on these statues have little to do with whether their subjects yet live.”
If nothing else, she was marvelous at being cryptic. Every day presented some new koan. Now, I have solved them. The ones I remember, at least. Under other circumstances, I might be proud. The only one I have left is whether the others were worth solving.
A short silence passed between us. To her, it brought long, drawn-out breaths, and an even gaze. To me, it brought only tension. My question remained unanswered.
“Have you made your decision, your highness?”
“When you told me you would count with me, May, what did you mean?”
“You seem to know what I meant.”
“But do you know?”
I gave her an earnest smile. “I haven’t a clue.”
She smiled, though I figure it was from amusement, not satisfaction.
“You will.”
And I do.
