Harvest Seasons

Chapters

Spring 1: The Wayfaring Stranger
Spring 2: I Won’t Be Home No More
Spring 3: It's The World Gone Crazy
Spring 4: Friends In Low Places
Spring 5: Southern Comfort
Spring 6: Walkin' After Midnight
Spring 7: Another Song to Sing

Spring 1: The Wayfaring Stranger

"In this reality."

"In this history."

Brown wings beat the sky as the hawk rode a thermal column up into the sky. It let out a majestic cry as it ascended, letting each and every creature know that it ruled this particular stretch of countryside. Down below, hooves safely on the ground, a single pony stared up at the bird with a sour expression on his face.

Turning his gaze away from the sky, that boundless sky, the pegasus scanned his surroundings. Before him was a farmstead, old and decrepit like the gravestone of a once-prosperous estate. The red paint was peeling off, the wood was rotting, and what machinery he could recognize had been all but swallowed up by rust.

Maintaining his annoyed expression, the pegasus turned his attention to his own body, particularly the pair of wings jutting out from his back. They made a weak effort at flapping, but quickly gave up and flopped back down against his back, eliciting an annoyed groan from the pony. He flicked his red and blue mane and nearly knocked himself over in the process.

A loud yip, like a spiteful laugh, caught the pony’s attention, and he found himself staring into the eyes of a red fox. The two stared at each other like this for a good while, keeping a wary distance from each other. While the pegasus seemed ready to hurl rocks at the animal, the fox simply sneered back at him. Then the canine flicked its bushy tail and retreated back into the bushes it had emerged from.

That was the last straw. Unable to take it anymore, the pegasus let out a cry of frustration and shook his front legs at the sky. Such a motion, however, only served to make him lose his shaky balance, and he fell over backwards, letting out a loud yelp.

The pegasus gritted his teeth, and a series of mumbled curses escaped through his lips. He stared at the azure sky above him with angry eyes, before letting out a shout of pure frustration.

“Just where the hell am I!?” The scream of the pegasus echoed across the farmstead.

Yes, in order to understand the situation that George Sparrow had gotten himself into, a quick glance to the past is in order.

Prologue

Rain pounded on the old roof like the boots of a marching army. Somewhere far away, a bolt of lightning resonated through the pitch-black sky, lighting it up for a split-second. The wind howled like a madman, traveling through the trees and hitting the walls of the old house with the full force of an out-of-bounds train.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit…!”

A lone figure, draped in old clothes that were soaked from the rain, ran around the living room while carrying pots and pans of varying sizes. Every time he spotted water dripping from the ceiling, he put one under the leak. It might have been a foolish attempt to contain the water seeping in, but for the moment, it was the only thing that prevented the room from flooding. At least that was what the figure told himself.

A sudden flash and the rumbling sound that followed made the young man curse profusely as he dropped the pots in surprise. Grumbling obscenities, he picked them up, one-by-one, and resumed his task. It didn’t take him long to notice, however, that there were far more leaks in the ceiling than there was cookware for him to use. He had found most of them gathering dust in the cupboard; most likely they had been forgotten by the previous owner of the farm, whoever that had been.

“Bunch of snakes, all of them,” the man muttered as he finally slumped onto the couch, “Should’ve known farms don’t go that cheap unless there’s something wrong with them…”

The man immediately regretted his decision to take a breather. Judging from the icky, wet sensation on his back, the couch had already been soaked by the leaky ceiling, and was now nothing more than an overly large sponge. The leather jacket with a fur trim that he was wearing, his pride and joy, felt like it was beyond ruined. Scratching the back of his head, the man let out an elongated groan and sunk deeper into the sofa.

This person who had vainly struggled against the assault of the storm, determined to destroy the small farmhouse was George Sparrow; though recently, he had heard people refer to him as ‘Hobo’. He couldn’t blame them: with his unkempt beard, dirty and ragged clothes, and the black beanie keeping his unruly, blonde hair in check, he definitely looked the part. The sunken-in eyes and permanent scowl on his face didn’t help either. George, being in his mid-twenties, had lost the youthful spark inside him, and it had been replaced by the tired aura of a person down on his luck.

“I’ll be lucky if this storm doesn’t tear the buildings down,” George said as he fished a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, “Of all the times for a downpour like this to hit the area…”

The first good news of the day for George was that his cigarettes had survived. Before taking shelter inside the house, he had been running around the farm, securing anything that looked like it could be blown away by the wind. He had been about it for a few hours, but when he realized that the old Landinetta parked near the barn had definitely moved a couple of meters, he decided it was best to head back inside. As most of his clothes had been soaked through, it was a miracle that the pack of cigarettes was still relatively dry.

As he lit up a cigarette and brought it to his lips, the tiny pinprick of light pierced the cold and darkness of the room. It was spring, but looking outside, it would have been hard to guess: the black clouds that hung in the sky seemed to have sucked out all the color from the world, leaving only shadows and shades of grey. It wasn’t better inside the farmhouse, since electricity wasn’t working, and despite his efforts, he couldn’t find any oil for the few lamps he had seen. Needless to say, the pile of firewood outside in the rain was absolutely useless.

Staring at the shadows moving across the wall, George couldn’t help but wonder just how he had ended up in such a mess. This move was supposed to be the turning point after a miserable year, but it seemed that his streak of bad luck persisted.

Having lost most of his money in a casino years ago, George had fallen on hard times. He had drifted from one city to another, doing odd jobs and sometimes even sleeping on the streets. All the while he had tried to gather up enough money to find a place that he could call home. The chances were low, but not impossible: he had bet everything on finding himself a home, the first required step to turn his life around.

To his surprise, eventually such an opportunity had shown itself. When he had stumbled through a small town couple of days ago, he had heard from a strange woman that there was an old, abandoned farm at the edge of town. It had nearly fallen to ruin after decades of disuse, but it was still available for anyone who wanted to renovate it. He had seized the opportunity without a second thought and bought the farm for a ridiculously low price. It had sounded like a dream come true: he would get a new home and possibly a new livelihood. Having spent a good chunk of the year travelling and without a proper job, being a farmer had sounded enticing.

“As if there was such a sweet deal without some sort of catch.” George spat on the floor. “Never should’ve trusted a woman with such weird eyes.”

While he had not been able to survey the condition of the fields due to the rain, he had gotten a good look at the farmstead. It was in much worse state than he could have ever imagined. The barn’s roof had collapsed along with the eastern wall at some point, also bringing down part of the neighboring cattle barn. The machinery shed was still standing, but a quick look inside had revealed that it had been stuffed to the brim; in the darkness George had not been able to advance without risking on stepping on something dangerous.

The two small grain silos were leaning against each other, but were otherwise fine. The same could not be said for the windmill, which swayed from side to side in the wind. However, the cherry on top had been the main farmhouse. George noticed immediately that a big chunk of the roof was missing, which was why the rain could just pour in. He had not even inspected the second floor, thanks to how rickety the place already felt. The smell of mold and decades was soaked into the wood, and had hit him like a sledgehammer as soon as he had entered the house.

“I don’t even know how many acres I own. I… suppose I should go over the papers at some point,” George muttered to himself, taking a drag from the cigarette, “Maybe tomorrow, though. Right now… sleep sounds like the best option.”

George’s eyelids had felt heavy for quite a while now. The pounding of the rain and howling of the wind were like a stubborn lullaby that refused to leave his head. Not even the wet clothes he wore could prevent his head from nodding as the slumberland’s alluring call came again and again. The musky smell of the house brought back old memories, and with them, the sweet desire to just close his eyes and let the worries brought by the storm be washed away by dreams.

Another bolt of lightning lit up the room for an instant, but George no longer reacted. His eyes were shut peacefully, and only the occasional cloud of smoke emerging from his mouth indicated that he was still awake. His hand, covered in a fingerless woolen glove, reached for the cigarette one last time as he tapped the ashes from the tip. He then brought it to his lips for the final drag, before stumping the thing into the empty can of beans sitting on the small table beside the couch.

A long sigh escaped from between George’s lips. It was his exhaustion catching up to him. Running around in the rain, trekking from the village to the farmstead, the negotiations for the farm… it was all finally taking its toll. After such a busy day, it was no wonder he was so easily succumbing to the siren call of sleep.

George, however, failed to notice the events occurring outside as he fell asleep. He did not see when two thunderbolts flashed through the air at the same time, drawing unnatural patterns in the air, as if they had been a collection of ancient runes. He failed to notice how something moved within the clouds, disturbing their lazy formations. Lastly, and most importantly, he did not witness when, in the moment of brightness created by lightning striking from the heavens, a dark figure stood not far away from the window, staring straight at him.

So, as the night dragged on, the sound of George’s snoring filled the house. He was unaware of the odd things happening around the house, or of the shadows and whispers that sometimes broke through the sounds of the thunderstorm. He did not feel it when the wind violently changed course, nor did he wake up when the earth itself let out a low rumble.

Perhaps, had he stayed up that night, his life would have remained as it was: uneventful and bitter. Perhaps none of the oddities of that night would have happened. However, they did, and come next morning, George Sparrow was hit with the full brunt of the consequences of that stormy night.

He was uprooted from the reality he knew, and sent hurtling to a distant, foreign land.

Spring Chapter 1
The Wayfaring Stranger

Soft light streaming through the dust-covered windows was what finally woke up George Sparrow. The warmth of the sunshine, combined with the distant sound of birdsong was a surprisingly pleasant wake-up call, at least compared to what he usually woke up to: a kick to the back and someone telling him to get lost. People tended to be so rude towards the homeless.

Yawning heartily, George smacked his lips and cracked his neck, trying to get the stuffy taste of sleep out of his mouth. Sleeping on the couch had not done him any favors, and he could already feel that some of his limbs had gone numb from sleeping in a bad position. Preparing himself for the unpleasant, prickly sensation that came with the recovery, he shifted his posture and straightened his back.

“Hmh?” George suddenly grumbled as he tried to move, “Ah, crap… did the water ruin my clothes completely?”

Still groggy, George wasn’t sure if it had just been the rain, but it was clear that his clothes were ruined. They were soggy and stretched beyond belief, covering him like some sort of tent. Wearing them was no longer an option, as it was hard enough to struggle free from them. George slipped out of his clothes, deciding it didn’t really matter if some odd bird saw him naked.

Figuring it was time to find something to eat, whether it was decades-old canned beans or some unfortunate critter living in the backyard, George shook his head to clear his mind. With thoughts of a squirrel stew brewing in his head, he could slowly feel the fog caused by his dreams lifting. With a bit more gusto than before, he plopped down from the couch…

… And promptly fell flat on his face.

“Ow! What the hell!?” George shouted, holding his nose and rolling on the floor.

Something was wrong. His legs had just given out without warning. George knew they were still a bit numb, but that didn’t mean they would just have no power to support him. Still muttering curses and rubbing his nose, George rose to a sitting position. As he tried to clear out the grogginess that still had ahold of him, George finally noticed another point of strangeness.

His nose felt unusually large.

“Wait… is it swelling because I hit it? That can’t be…” George muttered to himself, “I’ve banged it harder than this before.”

George knew it was impossible that rain had been the cause, either. While he could believe that the clothes had doubled in size, such a thing was impossible for something as permanent as one’s nose. Wearing a frown on his face, he looked around the room, as if the farmhouse could somehow give him an answer to this mystery.

He did notice one thing during his survey, however: the couch seemed much taller than he remembered.

Something’s not right. It’s like my perspective’s all skewed up, George thought to himself, Did I hurt my back while sleeping or something?

Though his brain started to register that something was very wrong, his mind had not even opened the puzzle box, let alone started connecting the dots. Instead, he was absentmindedly stroking his chin while lazily gazing around him, trying to jumpstart his little grey cells.

It was not until his eyes fell upon his "hand" that the slowly moving gears inside his head ground to a complete halt.

George’s eyes fell to pinpoints, followed by his dull expression freezing completely. There, instead of the normal rough, five-fingered hand he had gotten used to seeing, was an off-white colored stump of a limb. It was covered in a coat of fuzzy, unkempt hair, like that of a dirty horse. Shaking in barely-contained panic, George raised his other hand, only to find that it too had been replaced by a similar stump. Turning those stumps around, he saw that they ended in something that resembled hooves… though only barely.

Five seconds later, the farmstead rang with a scream of utter horror.

That day, the birds of the surrounding area were treated to quite the spectacle: a pegasus stallion sliding backwards across the floor of the main farmhouse, propelled only by his wildly flailing hind legs. All the while, the pony kept screaming like something was chasing him, and in a way, something was: too bad it was just reality catching up to him.

It took him a while to calm down enough to take a look at himself in a mirror. Luckily, the large mirror in the living room was still intact, and after wiping off the dust covering it, George could finally see what had happened to him during the night.

“… What… the… hell…?”

What stared back at George was not the same untidy figure he had always seen looking back at him. No, this time it was a small horse with wings, about the size of a large dog. The off-white color of its coat was offset by the bright blue and faded red of its mane and tail. His sunken-in eyes still had their heterochromia, but instead of grayish blue and hazel, they were now of the same blue and red as the mane. Had his face not retained the permanent scowl and the scruffy beard, and had the old black beanie with the gas-station logo not been on his head, George would have a hard time recognizing himself. The irrefutable facts, unfortunately, stared him straight in the face.

“Why the hell am I a tiny horse!?” George screamed at the top of his lungs, his voice a couple of octaves higher than usual.

◊◊◊—Harvest Seasons: Spring—◊◊◊

This brings us up to the present. What followed after George’s discovery of his new body was a good old freak-out that resulted in the destruction of a large mirror, a rocking chair quickly exiting the living room through the window, and the appearance of a horse-shaped hole in the bathroom door. However, he eventually managed to somewhat calm himself down.

After a couple of hours of learning to manage with his new limbs, George had made it outside with all the grace and dexterity of a newborn foal. He now stood at the center of the farmstead, surrounded by the old and decrepit buildings, his legs still shaking from the effort it took to keep his quadruped body upright. However, even if he was outside, none of the hundreds of questions that ran through his head got an answer.

In fact, it only created a new question.

“Just where the hell am I‽”

The surroundings of the farm, while retaining some of the same details, had become completely different. He was absolutely certain that the mountain range in the horizon was a new one, and there hadn’t been a gigantic forest stretching as far as the eye could see to the west. Also suspicious were the rows and rows of trees growing strangely systematically not far from the fields, and what seemed like a tower reaching towards the skies far beyond them.

He could see a river running along the other side of the fields to the east, but he had seen it flooding last night, so at least it wasn’t a new addition to the scenery. Following that river with his gaze, he could see it lazily wind in the direction of the town.

“So, not just me, but the environment, too…” George muttered, eyeing the tower in the distance with a frown, “Just what is going on here?”

While he was contemplating the idea of throwing a tantrum over his bizarre transformation, the fact remained that at the end of the day George Sparrow was a survivor. He knew that while being surprised at twists and turns of life was all well and good, sometimes one just needed to suck in complaints and act, lest he be trampled over. This was definitely one of those times.

Still, it didn’t mean he was over the fact that his 1,9 meter ass had been downgraded to a hardly-over-one-meter-tall miniature horse. He had simply decided to save his complaints until he found whoever or whatever had done this to him.

One who wasn’t reserved about spewing around complaints, however, was George’s stomach. As he stood in the middle of the yard taking in the new sights, he heard a loud grumble echo from within himself. Looking at his own stomach with a frown, he momentarily contemplated whether or not he should try and see if there were more beans inside the house. However, the mere idea that the beans had been in the damp, although cool, basement for over a decade easily invalidated that train of thought.

He wasn’t as desperate as last night, and moreover, now that the storm had passed and the refreshing day of early spring was underway, he was free to take a closer look at the farmstead and what it had to offer in terms of food.

“It’s an old farm, after all. There has to have been a garden at some point. And if there is…” George muttered as he wobbled along like a calf with four left feet.

After about a half an hour of frantic, hunger-powered searching, George came across something he could use. Wild garlic flourished behind the main house, and it was easy enough to collect even with only his mouth to use. Not far away he also found a large amount of asparagus, either from the wild or of the domesticated variety that had returned to the nature in the absence of humans. Nevertheless, the stalks were surprisingly thick for lacking maintenance.

Instead of harvesting the plants immediately, George left the collected wild garlic nearby and stumbled back inside, only managing to fall over five times in the process. Eventually he was successful in dragging his backpack outside. Rummaging through the backpack, he fished out his old, trusty Trangia. The portable stove had been with him for a long time, and out of all of his possessions, he kept it in the best shape. Nobody wanted to eat food prepared with a dirty stove, after all.

While George had believed the hard part was over after he had gotten Trangia out, he quickly realized it was actually yet to come. When he still had two hands, prepping up the portable stove had been an easy task. Now, with his useless hooves and a single, awkward mouth, he had to find a way to set it up. Even though he usually neatly arranged the different parts in a row after disassembling it, now he only managed to make the parts fly everywhere as he swatted at the portable stove in frustration.

George eventually figured out that his hooves, though they seemed completely flat, were actually able to get something of a grip on things. They were surprisingly elastic and somehow, when he grasped an object, it tended to stick relatively well.

I wonder if this is some sort of Van der Waals type of thing, George thought to himself, Do these things have tiny hairs in them or something?

Still, the hooves were no replacement for a good old hand with five fingers. By the time George finally got his Trangia properly set up, he could taste the metal and fuel in his mouth. Spitting did not really help to get the taste out, and thus, his only option was to finish the cooking quickly and fill himself with something actually tasty.

Lighting up the Trangia was a problem in itself. Handling the lighter was near impossible with hooves, but holding it still with his wings and using his front legs to operate it, George managed to make a long stick catch fire. He then stuck the blazing end of that stick into the already-filled burner, and soon enough a happy little fire was burning inside the portable stove. Satisfied with his work, he spat out the stick and stomped on it.

Two seconds later, he regretted this action. It turned out that his hooves were a bit more sensitive than he had expected.

After his short bout of screaming, cursing and rolling in the grass, George returned to the task at hand. He caught the billygrip with his mouth and took hold of the frying pan, bringing it on top of the flame. Opening the bottle of cooking oil was its own battle, but eventually he was able to squirt some of the liquid on the pan. While he waited for the oil to heat up, he finally picked a bunch of asparagus spears. The things were best when freshly picked, and would start to lose their taste in a surprisingly short amount of time.

“Still, I need to clean these. But where to get water…” George mused to himself, before his eyes suddenly lit up in realization. “Ah, right.”

A quick trip back inside saw the human-turned-pegasus carrying one of the pots he had used to catch rain water the night before. Although almost half of it spilled on the journey, he was still able to get enough to rinse the asparagus and the wild garlic, before throwing the bunch on the frying pan.

Adjusting the Trangia to medium heat, George used the billygrip to gently toss the asparagus and the wild garlic around, letting them soak in the oil. The sizzling sound of the vegetables frying filled the air, along with an irresistible fragrance. Having spent so long on the road, George had grown accustomed to getting the most out of the cheapest of ingredients, and it wasn’t his first time cooking something he found in the wild.

“I’d kill for some butter though…” George grumbled as he continued to cook the vegetables.

He covered the pan with a lid and let it sit for about seven minutes, allowing the flavors of the wild garlic seep into the asparagus. Occasionally and clumsily, he removed the lid and stirred the vegetables some more before setting it back. Eventually he took hold of the stick again and poked the burner’s lid over the flame, turning down the flame and the heat of the portable stove. This way he could make the asparagus tenderer before eating it.

When about twenty minutes had passed since the vegetables had hit the frying pan, George grasped the billygrip once more and removed the frying pan from on top of the Trangia. After setting the pan on a bare patch of ground to cool down, he poked the burner’s lid back open. It was wisest to simply let the flame burn out all the fuel instead of killing the fire manually; especially now that he had no useful limbs.

While he waited for the fuel to run out, George turned his attention to the lunch he had prepared. Although judging by the placement of the sun overhead, it may have been more correct to call it dinner. At least his inner clock told him that the sun was moving at a normal pace. That was a good sign.

“Ah, crap… I can’t eat this with only my mouth… I’ll burn my muzzle or whatever,” George suddenly muttered, realizing another hindrance that came with his new body, ”I suppose I’ll have to see if there’s any utensils or the like inside.”

While the small trip inside turned out to be nothing but a waste of time regarding utensils, George at least got his cigarettes from the pocket of his jacket. He had no idea if he would manage to light one up with his hooves and wings, but he knew that after everything he had been through today, he would need a smoke after eating. By the time he returned, the food had cooled down a bit, so without waiting any longer, he dug in.

The dinner itself was a rather silent affair, though George could not contain a couple of moans of pleasure as he bit through the crisp surface of the asparagus. The oil had brought out the clean, refreshing taste of a freshly picked vegetable perfectly, and the slight stinging taste of the shredded wild garlic leaves added just enough to the experience. While he lamented the fact that he had neither salt nor pepper, he was still glad he had taken the time to make it.

It was his first proper meal in a few days, after all. Having always been interested in cooking, George found tv dinners to be anything but ‘proper’. However, thanks to the easy preparation and low cost, he had somehow gotten accustomed to them.

But seriously… what the hell am I supposed to do now? George mused, It’s bad enough that I’ve been turned into some sort of friend of Barney the Dinosaur, but it’s starting to be pretty clear this is not the same world I was in yesterday.

He stared at the mountain range on the horizon absentmindedly, trying to figure out if he could place the white-topped, jagged lines in the distance to anywhere on the map. He knew that there weren’t any mountains like that near the village he had passed through a few days ago, but the climate seemed extremely similar. Heck, he could swear it was identical.

It was early spring there, and it is early spring here… I can’t be that far away. But that doesn’t explain the mountains, or the forest, or that tower…

George shifted his gaze to the strange building towering in the distance. While he had called it a "tower," it was more akin to a castle of some sort, only unbelievably tall. The architecture, at least what he could make out, didn’t seem to correlate to anything he had ever seen before.

And then there’s that ridiculous color scheme, George thought, grimacing, I mean, purple? Whoever paints their tower, castle, whatever, purple has got to have some mental problems.

Then, as if in an after-thought, George looked at himself and frowned heavily.

Well, I’m not one talk, I suppose…

After finishing his meal, George set aside the cookware and took out the pack of cigarettes he had fetched from inside. The brand “Lucky Bastard” had always been his staple, but now he was starting to curse his sentimentality. Had it been a hard pack, he could have just shaken it till one of the cigarettes fell out, but Lucky Bastards weren’t sold in anything but soft packs, which were made of thin paper and took less space in a pocket. They also had no flip-up top, instead requiring one to tear open the top. Therefore, he had to spend a good ten minutes prying a cigarette out with his teeth, only to crush the filter when he finally succeeded.

“Crap!” George exclaimed and sighed. “Well, I suppose those are horse’s teeth for you…”

Finally he managed to pick up the cigarette from the ground with his lips. Then came the part he had dreaded so far. Staring intently at his lighter, he flung his right wing open awkwardly. So far he had not used the appendages for anything but balancing himself and helping him operate the lighter, but he was unsure whether he could repeat the latter trick. In addition, he still found a set of new limbs quite creepy.

“Wait… the burner…” George muttered, his eyes slowly looking over at the small brass cup that still had a small flame dancing on its surface.

Never had the end of George’s appendage, whether it was a hand or a hoof, met his forehead faster.

After getting the needed flame from the burner, George retreated from his lunch area and fell backwards onto the grass. Staring up at the bright blue sky, he continued to fret over his situation.

So, just what the hell is going on? I find a farm that’s for sale, jump the gun and spend almost all of my money to buy it… and find out it’s a rundown collection of ruins and mold. When I get there, a storm violent enough to warrant a restraining order hits. I fall asleep and… then what? George took a long drag from his cigarette. I transform into this pitiful excuse of a draft horse? Get some wings way too small for flight strapped on my back? Have the surroundings of the farm completely changed? No matter how I look at it, things went to hell in a handbasket the moment I set foot in that village. Way too much weirdness going on at once.

George frowned at the single cloud travelling slowly across the sky as if it had been the source of all his problems. Somewhere close by, a hawk cried out. Perhaps it was the same one he had seen earlier that day, perhaps it was a different one; the only thing that George knew was that the cry felt almost as solitary as he was.

If the village is still where it was yesterday, I bet someone would have come to check up on me, or at least see who had been stupid enough to buy an abandoned farm like this. George blew out a cloud of smoke that slowly travelled up towards the sky. I don’t even have a phone, so I can’t call anyone.

Now that his stomach was relatively full and he had gotten his fair share of nicotine, George finally started to realize just how bad his situation was. He was alone in a place barely livable, stuck in a body he did not belong, and dropped into a world that most likely wasn’t his own. Any one of these facts would have seriously ruined anyone’s day, but combine them all together and you get a disaster waiting to happen.

George had always been a survivor, but this was something he had never experienced before. He had no vast pool of experience and knowledge from which to draw upon in order to make sense out of his predicament. Had he died and gone to a bargain bin heaven? Considering how soaked he had been when he fell asleep, there was a good chance of that. Had some sort of wormhole opened beneath him and swallowed him into another dimension? Was the house a gateway to a magical land? Had he been transported into an alternate timeline Earth where gaudy purple castles were the norm?

Gah, I can’t make heads or tails out of this, George groaned in his mind, I should probably try to find out if there are any people around. If I’m lucky, I might find someone who can turn me back. If I’m not… well, to be honest, everything so far has been so weird, I can’t even begin to think what might be waiting for me out there.

Feeling more and more frustrated, George took the last drag out of the cigarette and spat the stump high into the air. Just as it reached its apex, a sudden gust of wind threw it back, making him utter a short curse. Instinctively, he swatted the descending cigarette butt with his wing, causing it to be flung far away from him.

Well, whatever might be out there, I guess I've got no choice but to push forward and meet it head on, George thought as he lazily followed the trajectory of the stump with his eyes, There’s nothing as useless as griping about stuff you can’t change, so I should just—

George’s thoughts came to a screeching halt as he saw the cigarette butt land in the grass. Thanks to the flick of his wing and the light breeze coursing over the yard, it had travelled quite the distance downhill. Even worse, only few centimeters from the butt’s landing spot was a familiar black bottle of fuel with which he had previously filled the stove’s burner.

Sealing the deal were the tiny bits of bright orange in the stump telling of the remaining heat and burn in the damn thing.

“Son-of-a-b—!”

Rising faster than he thought possible, George half-ran, half-dove towards the bottle of fuel in a desperate attempt to stop a possible yard fire. As hopeless as he had deemed the farmstead, he had no desire to see it go up in flames. He had paid good money for it, after all, and having it all end up as a bright, mocking inferno would have been more than he could have taken.

Too bad though, that George was still an amateur when it came to handling his equine body.

That day, the critters living near the farmstead were treated with a grand spectacle: a desperate pegasus dove after a bottle of fuel only to catch it with too much force and slide down the grassy slope, letting out a panicky scream. This unfortunate ride ended with a collision to a rather large rock. Giving out a gurgling sound of resignation, the bottle, having been squeezed between the rock and George’s hooves, exploded merrily and splashed its contents all over the unfortunate pony.

For a few minutes, George could do nothing but stare up at the blue sky. His whole coat was soaked in the Trangia fuel, and he could feel the stinging sensation caused by the methylated spirit.

“Crap, crap, crap…” George muttered and with each word, hit himself on the forehead. “I need to wash this off quickly, but… if I go dive into that river now, it’ll be pure hell when the temperature drops at evening. How am I going to…”

George fell suddenly silent as his gaze lowered enough that he saw the barn once more. There, right next to the deep blue Lamdinetta that had seen better days, was a collection of empty oil drums simply taking up space. Gears slowly turned in his head as he continued to stare at the metal barrels, having momentarily forgotten his own sorry state.

For the first time that day, a grin slowly formed on George’s face.

◊◊◊—Harvest Seasons: Spring—◊◊◊

Fire rattled loudly in the small pit dug to the ground. Two rows of bricks, each on opposing sides, lined the circular pit, lit up by both the fire and the orange light of the setting sun. A large oil drum adorned with the logo of a long-forgotten company had been set sturdily on top of those rows. A big pillar of steam rose from the water in the drum, like a Native American smoke signal out of one of those old movies.

Submerged deep within the water was George. After a dip the river, he had quickly gotten to the task of building the bath. Making one wasn’t a difficult task. He simply needed a place for it, a large enough metal drum, and the patience needed to carry the water to the drum while stuck in a form of a horse.

Luckily for George, he had all those.

The end result was that he could now lean back in a warm bath and soak himself to the bone. Letting out a satisfied sigh, he closed his eyes and allowed his muscles to relax. Most of his day had been spent running around and yelling at the top of his lungs, and his whole body felt like a bow-string stretched to its limits. Now he could finally rest in the hot bath, something he felt like he deserved.

“Well, it’s been one hell of a day mentally, too,” George muttered, “I mean, I’ve spent most of it grumbling to myself. What’s up with that?”

Opening his eyes, George was able to catch the majestic sight of the sun as it neared the end of its journey through the sky. Only a sliver of its light could be seen above the horizon, and soon enough even that would disappear. The long day finally began winding down.

“I suppose I’ll have to see about exploring the forest tomorrow,” George said to himself, “No sense in getting lost there during the night.”

As if his words had been the signal it needed, the sun finally fell below the horizon, taking the last rays of brilliant orange with it. The only thing the sun left behind was warm glow that still hung in the air, but even that was quickly being replaced by the dark of the night rising from the opposite end of the sky.

Though his mind was pleasantly fuzzy, George did realize that the transition between the evening and the night had been rather abrupt. However, he felt no need to worry about it at the moment. He had gotten his moment of peace, and wracking his brain with even more troubles would have just ended badly. There was only so much weirdness a guy could take in one day.

Unfortunately for George, weirdness wasn’t exactly interested in his opinion.

“See? Ah told ya somethin' was risin’ from over here!” a female voice suddenly rang from the nearby forest, “Ah dunno if that’s smoke or steam or what, but there’s definitely somethin' goin’ on here!”

The muscles that had just gotten relaxed tensed again, and George struggled to free his mind from the lull of the bath.

“Ah hear ya, Apple Bloom,” another female voice answered, “That’s steam, all right. Dunno where it’s comin’ from, but that’s an easy mystery to solve.”

People!? George thought in panic as he tried to use his legs to lift himself from the bath, Well, whoever they are, they’ll be here any minute!

George wasn’t stupid. Whether the owners of the two voices were humans or not, it was best if he could see them before they could see him. Enough strange things had happened today, and he could guess that this encounter was not about to break the trend. No, it was best for him to observe the strangers first and see what sort of people they were before showing himself.

The last thing George wanted was for the owners of the voices to get any ideas from the oil drum bath and turn him into a stew right then and there.

“Wait… do ya hear that Apple Bloom?” the second voice suddenly asked, “Is something moving out there?”

George nearly flew out of his bath.

However, as he climbed out, something strange happened. George felt a sudden lurching sensation as his center of gravity shifted, along with his body suddenly becoming far heavier than it had been. His field of vision rose rapidly, and the drum suddenly felt much smaller than it was before.

This eerie change was accompanied by an odd sound somewhere between a crunch and a slurp, like a block of ice being shattered and melted at the same time. Losing his balance in his hurry, George fell forward along with his barrel, crashing to the ground with a loud sound.

“Ow, ow, ow! What the hell just happened?” George grumbled as he raised his head… only to freeze completely.

There, right before his eyes, was a limb; and not the white, useless stub he had gotten so annoyed with during the day. No, there, illuminated by the light of the moon that had peeked over the horizon, was the same old hairy arm ending in a hand with five fingers that George had known his entire life.

A series of whinnies and nickers could be heard coming closer, accompanied by the sound of small hooves pounding the ground.

It was at that moment that George Sparrow realized the whole horrible reality of the situation. He was in an unknown land, in a yard of a farm that was all but abandoned, about to have two unidentified creatures come across him at any second…

… and he was human again, lying buck naked on the ground.

“Oh, bollocks!” George said.

Author's Note

Xvzybnv hk giv Twebnou Sbia.

Aakfm puf fzz, evjhep Dyonz.

Next Chapter: I Won’t Be Home No More

“It still seems almost familiar, though. Just can’t remember why....”

Spring 2: I Won’t Be Home No More

Spring Chapter 2
I Won’t Be Home No More

If there ever was a reason for a person’s fight-or-flight reflex to take over, it was when the sound of something completely unknown quickly approaching was combined with the one hearing it being completely naked.

George Sparrow had experienced many things in his life, and while he might have been the type to slink away into the shadows when the situation so called, he could also gather his courage and stand his ground when that was needed.

He could not, however, do it when he had not a single piece of cloth to cover his shame.

“Okay, screw this. No way am I gonna meet any unknown visitors naked!” George said and shot up from the ground.

With a speed that was in great dissonance with his large stature, George sprinted across the yard, heading straight for the bushes that were growing like wildfire around the farmstead. They were tall enough that they would hide him completely if he laid low, and in the shadows so that he could watch the mysterious newcomers without being spotted himself.

At the edge of his hearing, George registered that whoever the talking pair had been, they had probably arrived at the edge of the yard just as he exited the area lit up by the small bonfire. In a desperate attempt to hide himself, he jumped the last few meters to the bushes and dove towards them, attempting to roll to safety and hide himself in a manner not unlike what he had seen soldiers do in movies; at least the 80’s action-genre variants.

It was too bad that only a fraction of a second before hitting the green foliage, George’s eyes registered one unfortunate fact: there was a vast amount of stinging nettle among the overgrown plant-life.

It took all of George’s willpower to suppress his need to let out a scream that would have made a 10-year old girl green with envy. Still, he could thank his reflexes as they automatically directed his hands to protect his nether regions as he ripped through the green leaves. Hitting the ground, George rolled around and lay on his stomach, head down, to conceal himself within the bushes.

Two seconds later he had curled up in pain as the burning, stinging sensation spread all throughout his naked, unprotected body. Try as he might, he was unable to suppress a hiss that escaped through his lips to replace the litany of curses that his mind had already generated.

While George twitched among the foliage, his mind was eventually drawn out of the pulsating pain by the weirdest sound he had ever heard. It was something akin to a high-pitched neigh that eventually lowered itself and devolved into a series of nickers that sounded oddly punctuated, with pauses and tonal shifts. This strange noise was quickly answered to by another, similar in construct, but coming out in somewhat higher pitch.

Almost like… communication? George thought to himself, unable to believe he had even suggested something like that.

Now curious about the strange set of sounds that continued, he slowly crept across the ground towards the edge of the bush for a better look. As he moved, he did his best to ignore the light touches of the nettle leaves as they brushes against his back, but when one of them fluttered across his buttocks, he couldn’t help but to let out a muffled yelp, feeling his eyes watering in pain.

Eventually George made it to a good spot where he could view what was happening at the yard, and peered into the area illuminated by the fire that had warmed his oil drum bath. There, he could see two shapes against the light of the flames, and after a moment of letting his eyes adjust, he started making out just what it was that he was staring at.

“More miniature horses?” George grunted, unable to stop himself from speaking aloud in amazement.

There, in the middle of the yard, stood two creatures that were very much like what he had been just a few minutes ago. Big, round head, small body, stumpy four legs that were impossible to use for walking, and eyes that seemed far too expressive for animal as stupid as a horse. The other horse-like creature was a calm orange in color, while the other, smaller than its companion, was light-yellow. The two of them were staring intently at the flames and their surroundings, pawing at the ground with their hooves.

But I’m sure I heard someone speaking when I was still in the bath, a language I could understand no less. Human language means humans, right? So, what are these two? The pets of the two I heard? Does that mean I turned, for a day, into some freaky variety of trendy toy horses popular in this region? Damn, and here I thought things couldn’t get worse. There’s no way I’m letting anyone know about that, or they’ll just lock me away, either because they think I’m crazy, or because they expect me to change back. Strutting around in an animal fashion show is the last thing I want to do! George mused, Still, poor things. In no way can they be comfortable with their own existence. Just look at those hideously bright colors, oddly shaped bodies and the little clothing put… on… them…

A horrible, horrible theory hit George’s brain like an out-of-bounds Siberian express.

No-no-no-no! Even if I could speak normally when I looked as stupid as them, that doesn’t mean they can actually communicate like me, and are sapient! What I spoke was my native language, clearly! Those things are just… doing whatever horsey-noises they want! George thought, cold sweat running across his forehead, Having clothing by no means implies they’re sapient! I mean, I’ve seen crazy cat ladies dress up their tortured pets in things far more degrading! Plus, I’m sure I heard someone speak in a way I could understand!

However, the more George watched the two odd horses, the further the feeling of dreadful realization crept up his spine. The way they seemed to be examining the oil drum bath, the way they looked at each other when making their whinnying noises, the way the orange one tipped its hat as if acknowledging something… it was all too unnatural to be merely the product of some sadistic toy horse trainer working for the rich and bored.

Also, what bothered George the most was just how expressive faces those horses had. There was something oddly, eerily human in them. He saw quizzical expression rise on the “face” of the smaller one while the taller seemed to be lost in deep thought. This was followed by the latter clicking its tongue and pointing at the oil drum and the still-burning fire.

No, I’m just overthinking this! George thought, an almost obsessed smile creeping up his face, There’s no way those things are sapient! If they were, they’d have already noticed the direction the oil drum fell and made the connection.

It was at that exact moment that the taller of the creatures pointed straight at the trail of water on the ground, and continued to nod towards the general direction where George had escaped to.

C-calm down, George! This still means nothing! Maybe they’re hunters of some sort, and can track down prey! Wait… predatory horses? That’s even worse, damn it! George gnashed his teeth as he fervently observed the situation escalate. Still, nothing is suggesting they’re searching for me like sapient creatures would.

In that instance, the larger creature let out a strange whinnying sound that echoed through the dark farmstead, all while gazing around the direction where the trail left by George pointed at; that is, his hiding spot.

I-i-i-it was just a random noise! No reason for alarm! George thought, desperately clinging to the last straws of common sense, It’s not like it called out to anyone hiding out here!

Then, following the example of the bigger creature, the smaller one let out the exact same sound, also gazing into his direction.

“Oh come on! Stop rebutting my every attempt of rationalizing this, you crazy freaks of nature!” George screamed in frustration, hitting the ground with fists and causing the bush to shake violently.

There was a deep moment of silence, stretching for almost ten seconds.

Then the two creatures looked at each other, nodded, and charged towards George’s revealed hiding spot.

Crap-crap-crap-crap! George cursed in his mind as he started backpedaling furiously, not caring if either his family jewels or his buttocks were lashed by the stinging nettle. Great time to lose your cool, George! Really, a model job!

He had thrown away all the pretense of trying to be stealthy, and instead threw himself backwards so that his back was against the ground. Digging his heels and his hands into the soft ground, he pushed himself back like a crab on steroids, speeding through the bush while keeping his eyes on the approaching danger he saw faintly through the foliage.

However, George Sparrow knew it was of no use: in a short moment, those creatures would be upon him, and then it was all over. Whether he wanted it or not, he would be revealed to two apparently sapient toy horses in all his naked glory.

Bollocks! What did I do to deserve this!? George thought while growling in frustration, I only bought a farm! One that was completely in ruins! For that I get to spend a day in a form of a drunken mistake between Incitatus and Rainbow Brite!? Only to find myself back as human when I’m naked and about to be assaulted by the local Tokyo-brand equine!? Reno’s mullet, how is this supposed to be fa—

Suddenly, the night-sky, the foliage, and indeed his field of vision seemed to rapidly escape from him, ever upwards.

George’s thoughts had been rudely interrupted when he suddenly found himself weightless. At least, that’s how it felt for him for a brief blink of an eye. This sensation was soon followed by pain as he hit a large rock with his back, rolled around and continued falling. Barreling down a rather large hole hidden deep within the overgrown bush of stinging nettle, George quickly got closely acquainted with the sediment layers below the surface of the farmstead.

As he hit every single piece jutting from the edges of the hole on his way down, George had only the bemusing pastime of coming up with new swear-words to occupy himself.

After which came the complete darkness.

◊◊◊—Harvest Seasons: Spring—◊◊◊

Waking up in a cold, damp cave after what felt like hours spent on a moss-covered floor was nothing new to George Sparrow. Far from it, he had actually spent good deal of his life in similar situations. Still, it was not the sort of feeling he enjoyed, especially after what had felt like an endless fall down a hole barely large enough to let his tall frame pass through.

As his eyes fluttered open and George realized he could still count himself amongst the living, whatever that meant in the familiar-yet-eerily-Richard-Scarry-esque world he had been thrust into, his first instinct was to shoot up and inspect his limbs. To his great relief, he still had the five fingers in plain sight, illuminated by the moonlight that poured through the hole. It seemed that the night was still continuing, though he had no idea exactly how long he had been out.

Still, despite losing his consciousness, he had not turned back into a crime against nature. That itself was a good sign, or at least George thought so.

“Still… just what sort of rabbit hole did I fall into?” George murmured as he started looking around, “Dirty and old for a dirty and old Alice, I suppose.”

Inspecting his surroundings, George came to a quick conclusion that wherever he was, it was not a natural cave; or rather, it might have been at some point, but now that it had stone slabs acting as a floor and few decrepit pillars holding up the ceiling, it had definitely become manmade.

The cave itself was vaguely circular in shape, quite cramped and filled with what seemed like ruins of a shrine of some sort. Marble bricks dotted the area and thanks to the fact that the ceiling was not high enough for George to stand straight, he got a good look at the remnants of a small dome that been buried inside earth. Ten meters in diameter, the cave felt even tinier thanks to the aforementioned columns. Most of the space in the middle was taken by what seemed like a spring, now long dried up, that had been carved in the floor in the middle of the cave.

What really piqued George’s interest about the strange, small cave was, however, the smell permeating the place. While in the farmstead, he had gotten quite accustomed to the rustic smell of age and neglect that lingered there. Here, in this shrine, the situation was quite different. If he had to describe the smell, he could only come up with words like “ancient” and “untamed,” even “forgotten.”

Every city, every place, has their own distinctive smell, George mused, Then why is it that two places so close to each other differ in their smell so greatly? If it was the natural progression of a smell between locations neighboring each other, I could understand it, but this… this shrine or whatever it is… it feels almost foreign to this land.

It was then that he spotted it: at the back of the cave, hidden beneath the moss growing from the walls, something glimmering in the moonlight caught his eye. George carefully moved forward, though despite his efforts managed to bump his head twice in the uneven ceiling. Reaching the back wall, he slowly wiped away the moss to reveal what was hidden beneath it.

“Mural?” George’s voice went from flat to curious, and back again.

Though he had said mural, what was left of the thing could hardly be called such anymore. There was a large rectangular space in the wall that once must’ve been brilliant blue in color, but now only had faded, dusty remnants of it left. Small circles had been carved in the rectangle, but George couldn’t make out if they were supposed to form a bigger whole, as over half of the mural was literally missing. It was if a gigantic claw had raked across the wall, slashing away the upper part of the picture.

Drawing his hand across the dust-and-moss-covered surface, George was surprised to find something different at the very lowermost point of the mural. There, among the small circles dotting the background, was a bigger one, this one protruding from the walls. It felt soft to the touch, so it couldn’t be a natural occurrence; it had to have been carved there for a reason. However, a large circle flanked by two smaller ones, one at upper-right and one at lower-left, told him nothing of importance.

“It still seems almost familiar, though,” George muttered as he stared a hole in the mural, “Just can’t remember why....”

George sighed in annoyance and rose up, intending to step away from the mural. Unfortunately, he failed to remember the height of the ceiling, and painfully struck the edge of the dome peeking from the ground above him. Cursing heavily, George landed on his behind, ending up sitting right before the picture that seemed to be the dominant feature of the shrine. Shaking his head, George let out one more string imaginative of profanities, intending to get up… and, instead, fell silent as his eyes saw one more detail at the back wall.

There, under the mural, was a string of words.

Moreover, they weren’t just words: they were words George could read.

It was the first written text George had found in this strange world of toy horses and oil drum baths, and it gave him the proof that he had so desperately needed after the incident with the freaky creatures: at least someone in this world knew human languages. That meant that somewhere out there, humans should exist.

Somewhere out there he could, perhaps, get an explanation to this crazy incident he had been drawn into.

With a small grin on his face, a testimony of his newfound energy, George finally turned his attention to the actual content of the text carved in the wall.

Its shape in ruins, its bounty gone
Forgetting everything, they simply move on
Ages go by, the last faithful dies
And the fate of the land is left to the skies

Desperate times, desperate needs
Make life grow and pull out the weeds
In three years you must succeed in this task
To leave this worldly cage you did not ask

Behind these actions are the oldest of reasons
Everything happens for the Harvest Seasons

Letting out a sharp hiss as wind passed through his lips, George slumped backwards and lay down on the cold floor. The words engraved in the stone before him repeated in circles in his mind, pounding his understanding with a message he didn’t really wish he understood. Sure enough, it had been written in a form akin to a riddle, but still…

“I think I get what that damn thing is trying to tell me,” George said.

He couldn’t help but feel irritated. What annoyed him even more was the fact that he could not exactly pinpoint the reason why he felt that way. Was it because he found the riddle easy to solve? Or was it because of what it told him? It could have been either reason, but in the end, George simply decided it was a bit of both.

Looking at each line individually painted a cohesive picture that seemed to ridicule George with its message.

The first part of the riddle had been the easiest. The talk about ruins and gone bounty, and how the “faithful” had died was obviously referring to how the farm had fallen to disuse and eventually even the last of the people tending it had died. The fate of the place had been left to the whims of the weather, in other words, skies.

Next came the paragraph about the need to make life grow and pull out the weeds: if that wasn’t a reference to making the fields around the farm to grow crops again, George was prepared to quit smoking. In addition, the rhyme even gave it a time-limit to do it in order to leave “this worldly cage” that the reader of the rhyme had not asked for.

If there was any cage George felt trapped right now, it had to be the strange world he had been thrust into by the storm.

“But, three years? You’ve got to be kidding me,” George said as his eyes narrowed in anger.

The last paragraph was a bit harder than the rest, but in the end, even that did not pose much of a problem. It was relatively easy to figure out that the “oldest of reasons” was livelihood, the need to stay alive… and that “Harvest Seasons” meant the time when a farmer could collect his livelihood from the fields. In other words, it was nothing but twisting the agricultural knife in the wound.

It was a bitter truth that stared at George from within the words of the mural.

“So a stone wall is telling me to spend three years in this place with freaky creatures that break enough rules of nature to be put on a death row…? That’s my only way home?” George muttered, staring up into the hole, where he could see the silver disc of the moon, “What the hell?”

George felt something rising from within him. It almost felt like one of the times he had been kicked in the stomach, forcing whatever he had eaten out along with gastric juices. This time, however, it didn’t try to exit through his throat; no, this time it was aimed at his heart. Burning sensation swelled and rumbled from deep within him, causing his hands to sweat and his teeth to grind against each other, resulting in a loud crack. Somewhere at the back of his mind he faintly realized it was his back teeth where the sound had come from, but he could no longer care.

“What the hell?” George spat.

His vision blurred like he hadn’t blinked in a while; and he probably hadn’t. Every hair in his body seemed to stand up as the emotions churning and turning inside the deep pit within him roared. George’s nails dug into his palms as his hands instinctively formed fists, his favorite defenses against anything that was enough to get an emotion out of him.

Unbearable loneliness; Impotent rage; Hopeless unfairness; Confused despair. It all mixed within him, becoming a serpent that tossed and thrashed against his stomach, screaming to get out. It was a rattlesnake coiled deep within him, baring its fangs at the sheer absurdity and stupidity of the situation.

Where had he gone wrong? Was gambling really such a sin? Or had he somehow offended some unknown figure that decided the fate of men?

There were no answers; only an incomprehensible mural and comprehensible text which told him to grin and bear it for the next three years in a world he did not know.

In other words, his life back home had been deemed worth less than a ruined farm.

“What the hell!?”

As his scream, packed with enough bitter tears and mordent emotions to kill a murder of crows, was sent out to the night sky, George slammed his fists repeatedly against the ground like a child throwing a temper tantrum.

His question wasn’t answered and the shrine did not break. The only thing he saw was the uncaring, cold surface of the moon he wasn’t sure he even knew.

In that hole hidden within the stinging nettle, in a shrine that felt foreign to the land, he finally learned what had become the single word to describe his life:

“Unfair.”

It wasn’t until hours later that his breathing, rapid and erratic like a wounded beast’s, finally calmed down, and George Sparrow fell asleep; and, even then, he dreamt of only misery and pain pulsating through his scraped fists.

Author's Note

Wamwktvkqimsb ris ltmxv’y ajm ypj anosa.

Fvi bmcx nfqqa yw wmfl gmyejms bmm qqsmx.

Next Chapter: It’s The World Gone Crazy

"Just what sort of attention-seeker lives in that place?”

Spring 3: It's The World Gone Crazy

Spring Chapter 3
It’s The World Gone Crazy

That morning, the birds that had chosen to live around the abandoned farmstead were in for a rude awakening, as suddenly the air was filled with a shout of especially rude curses.

The excessive swearing was soon followed by an off-white pegasus who climbed out of the small hole hidden beneath a bush of stinging nettle, angrily muttering to himself. As he waded through the shrubbery, he kept staring at his wobbling hooves like they had been the source of all his problems; and in a way, they mostly were.

Indeed, George Sparrow found himself, once again, in the form of a miniature horse.

“Again with this form!” George grumbled, stumbling to the yard from the bush, “As if I hadn’t slept badly enough, I have to wake up to this!”

When he had finally woken up in the small shrine hidden underneath the surface of the earth, George had realized the unfortunate fact that his form had once more changed, this time back to that of a colorful equine. There seemed to be no reason for it, as far as he thought about it: he had changed when he had been bathing last night, and now, when he woke up, he was back to his four-legged form.

In addition, now that he was back on the surface, he also realized that his stomach was rumbling more than ever. It was time to get some grub.

I wonder if warm water has something to do with it? George mused as he started firing up his Trangia once more.

That morning’s breakfast turned a bit more fanciful than the lunch he had prepared yesterday. Along with asparagus and wild garlic, he managed to procure some Garden Angelica and clovers, which he added to the mix. His best find of the morning was, by far, the tell-tale signs of certain leaves in a suspiciously bumpy patch of earth not far away from the main house. Pulling the stalks, George was pleasantly surprised to find that the potato population of the small garden had survived through the years. The tubers were small but inviting, and though they weren’t as golden as store-bought ones, they still made George lick his lips.

Still, he had to admit that washing them in the rain water he had gathered two nights ago was a difficult task with hooves. As was chopping them up with his knife.

To make the breakfast even more delicious, George also got his revenge on the stinging nettle by adding them to the mix. He parboiled the leaves that had caused him indescribable pain the previous night, dipping them into boiling water, washing them afterwards with cold water, and finally shredding them up to use as a last-minute addition to the mix he had prepared.

After the extensive preparation that had taken him over an hour, the results were finally laid before George, and he admitted, it had all been worth it: the fried asparagus, unevenly sliced potatoes, and Garden Angelica were topped with finely shredded stinging nettle, clovers, and wild garlic. Especially the potato had retained some of its crispy golden color, and the starch that had spread to the plants had given them a thin yet somewhat crispy coating.

The fragrance of the finished breakfast, irresistibly delicious to someone as starved as George, floated up towards the cool spring sky.

… Screw it. I know I’m gonna burn my mouth in any event, so might as well dig in. It’s not like I can use these stumps to properly eat, anyway! George thought and grinned, leaning towards the plate resting on the grass.

So good was the smell of the potato-and-worts breakfast before him that George completely forgot the world around him. Even the last night’s crushing depression felt like it was far away now that he had somewhat proper food to enjoy, and the warm sun shining upon him. True enough, being back in the form of an animal was an unbelievable hindrance, but George was willing to pay that price for this one moment. He knew that if he had transformed once before, there had to be a way to repeat the said change. It was only the matter of figuring out the trigger.

Hungrily, the off-white pegasus dug into the potatoes, chewing them up loudly and like a mangy dog. Tears of joy streamed down on his face as the irresistible smell was joined by the unbelievable taste, so good and basic that it would have put a smile on anyone’s face. With no additives there to ‘fix’ the flavor, George could taste every imperfection and minute variation that were part of the wild ingredients, and it made the whole experience that much sweeter. This only served to increase his appetite, and thus he continued to eat with even more ferocity.

Still, had he not been in such a food-induced trance, George might have heard the approaching steps on the sand road.

“Mighty fine lookin’ breakfast ya got there, pardner,” a sudden voice interrupted George’s meal. “Didja’ fix it up from the plants ‘round here?”

George’s mouth clamped shut, and his head turned like a rusty hand of a clock, eyes wide and pupils shrunk to pinpoints.

There, not ten steps away from him, stood the orange creature with the corny cowboy-hat he had seen last night, a big smile plastered on its face. The green eyes of the animal were staring at him with barely-contained curiosity sparkling in them. Now that the thing was far too close to him, George could also see that its tail and mane were both tied up, enforcing the idea that it truly was sapient and civilized.

George couldn’t help it. His jaw dropped and the half-chewed asparagus fell from his mouth.

“What’cha lookin’ so surprised fer?” the creature said and chuckled, “Ya scampered away so quick last night, it’s almost like ya ain’t seen anypony ‘round these parts before.”

Getting up, George slowly walked over to the creature, never once taking his eyes off of it or blinking. As he approached, the thing quizzically raised its eyebrow, looking both a bit confused and amused by his reaction.

“What’s the matter, pardner? Ya look downright spooked,” it asked, still maintaining its smile.

As an answer, George pressed his head against its, staring straight into the eyes of the animal like he was accusing it of destroying the good atmosphere of the morning scenery.

“You. Are talking,” George stated flatly.

“Um, sure Ah am? Something wrong with that, sugarcube?” the creature asked, looking rather weirded out by now.

“You are talking. And I’m understanding what you’re saying,” George continued, his voice tinted with disbelief.

“Ah reckon that’s the case, yeah. Ain’t that what chitchat is all ‘bout?” the thing said.

“But, you… you were supposed to make weird horse noises,” George said, sweat dripping down his forehead and his eyes glinting somewhat maniacally.

“Hey, no need to get rude, mister. Ah know Ah got a bit of an accent, but that ain’t no reason to make fun of me,” the creature said, starting to push back with its own forehead, “Ah can speak proper an’ all, just like ya do, if Ah want to.”

It took few seconds for the meaning of the creature’s words to register in George’s brain; and when they did, his scream, filled with both confusion and panic, echoed through the farmstead.

“W-what the heck’s wrong now?” the creature asked while staring at George, who was rolling on the ground, screaming at the top of his lungs. “Mighty sorry to say this, pardner, but you’re actin’ as crazy as a chicken in a rollin’ barrel!”

It took considerable time for George to calm down from his crash-course of verbal communication with unknown creatures, but eventually he was able to stop expressing it through incomprehensible yelling. Standing up, he wildly scanned his surroundings to find the orange perpetrator of his troubles, only to find it staring curiously at his breakfast.

When the creature realized George was staring at it, it took a step backwards, a slightly wary look rising to its face.

“Feelin’ better there?” the creature asked, cocking an eyebrow, “Or ya plannin’ on rollin’ some more?”

“I… I think I’m all out of confused frenzy. I burned through my reserves last night, and this is just the fumes,” George answered, “Okay, the toy horses talk now. Makes as little sense as everything else, but I should be able to live with that. Not like I got a choice, anyhow.”

“Ah gotta say, ya ain’t makin’ a lick of sense yourself, pardner,” the creature answered dryly, “Now, if ya don’t mind me askin’… just who are ya, an’ what in tarnation are ya doin’ here at the Faraway Farm?”

Faraway Farm? George raised an eyebrow. This place has a name? Well, it does make sense, but how does this unholy beast know it? Did it name this place? Or is it common knowledge around here? I did see it with another creature last night, so there must be more, but… just how many?

George frowned, tapping his chin with one of his forelegs. He knew next to nothing about the creature in front of him, other than the fact that it spoke with a ridiculous accent and was most likely female, judging by its voice. Still, questions like “How can I suddenly understand it?” and “Why is it still here?” or even “If I stuffed it in the oil drum and tossed it into the river, could it find its way back?” filled his mind, and he couldn’t shake off the feeling that he shouldn’t divulge too much information.

Especially since there was the matter of the riddle and its message.

“… George. George Sparrow,” he finally said, walking over to his breakfast plate, “and I’m here to eat my breakfast, as you can see.”

The strange creature chuckled.

“Well howdy-doo, Gorge Sparrow,” it said with a smile, though George noted it still looked a bit wary. “The name’s Applejack! Sorry ‘bout interruptin’ yer meal.”

“George,” he flatly stated, “George Sparrow.”

“That’s what Ah said,” Applejack said, tilting her head in confusion. “Gorge Sparrow.”

“No, not Gorge. George,” he repeated.

“Like Ah said, Gorge,” the creature said, frown now crowning her face. “Ya hearin’ all right there, pardner?”

“Like I said, it’s… you know what? Never mind. Call me Bone Marrow for all I care,” George finally said, relenting. “So, what do you want… um, Bobblejack?”

“Applejack,” the creature replied, “Ahm here to see what in tarnation made somepony take a bath in an abandoned farmstead like this one. Why, it’s been decades since anypony even set foot here, so ya can’t blame me for bein’ mighty curious ‘bout this one-pony shindig.”

There’s that word again. Pony. Why does she keep adding… wait a minute. George grimaced at the thought, but his inner curiosity was already forcing his hand.

“Sorry, just hold on a minute. Are you… are you supposed to be a ‘pony’? Really?” George asked, tilting his head.

To his surprise, the look on the orange creature’s face changed from wary but smiling to outright dissatisfaction. Taking two steps forward, Applejack suddenly bobbed him two times in the chest with her front leg, before settling to staring at him threateningly from an all-too-short distance.

“Now listen here, mister,” the creature said, “Ah know ya pegasi ain’t always seein’ eye to eye with us earth ponies, but Ah ain’t sittin’ here and just listenin’ to close-minded talk like that. Pegasi, unicorn, or earth pony, everypony’s created equal, an’ if ya disagree ‘bout that, then ya ‘n I are gonna have a personal problem here.”

So now I’m a bigot among freaky horse creatures? Oh joyous day, George grumbled in his mind. Still, aside from stepping on some toes… if they existed… looks like these things are supposed to be ponies. Not only that, but there’s three varieties. Reno’s mullet, I can’t wait to see how unicorns are supposed to look in this Tove Jansson’s lost manuscript.

“I didn’t mean it like that. Ugh, just forget it,” George finally said, taking a step back and rolling his eyes. “So, okay: you know who I am. Satisfied? I still have this breakfast to finish…”

“Now hold yer horses there,” Applejack said, stomping the ground once. “Ah know who ya are now, plus Ah can see you’ve set up a shop here… but Ah gotta wonder: why? This here farm ain’t been in use fer years, an’ if yer a traveller, Ah know ya could’ve gotten a better place to sleep in Ponyville. It seems mighty strange to me that you’d choose to stay in this place when there’s a town not far away from here.”

Town? One that’s near here? It must be where that gaudy tower is rising from, but… Ponyville? The name alone gives me plenty enough reasons not to go, George thought as he munched on the now-cold potatoes. Still, it has to be suspicious to have some unknown… pony… settle in an abandoned farmstead out of nowhere like this. This creature’s far too smart for my liking. I have to come up with a good reason for being here, though, because…

George grimaced in his mind. He had no choice but to stay in the farmstead, after all. If the riddle was to be believed, he’d have to make the place flourish again in three years, or he’d be stuck in this crazy world. Because of that, he couldn’t afford to be chased out by some toy horse local. This place, this Faraway Farm, was connected to his survival, and he was damned if he was going to let some overly nosy creature get in his way.

Therefore, his answer was surprisingly simple.

“’Why’… Well, that’d be because I now own this place,” George stated, popping another asparagus to his mouth.

“Beg ya pardon?” Applejack asked, her eyebrows nearly jumping out of her head.

“Well, just see here.”

George put down the plate and scanned his surroundings, eventually finding his backpack in the same place he had left it the previous day. After opening it and rummaging through the contents, he finally emerged with a stack of papers that had been, mercifully, spared from the torrential rain two days ago. Dropping the papers a little smugly before the surprised orange creature, George walked back to his plate and continued on with his breakfast.

“Read ‘em. Should show you what I’m talking about isn’t a lie,” George spoke with a slight grin. “Hard to argue with that text.”

It was a gamble, but George was rather sure it would pay off. After all, judging from the accent and the hat of this ‘Applejack’, it was easy to see she was a working class creature; hardly the type to be in the good graces of the officials often selling lands. Therefore, if she was presented with something official-looking enough, she’d buy it, hook, line and sinker. Not to mention that in truth, those papers proved he did own the farmstead; just not in this world.

Wait. Do these ‘ponies’ even use papers for official stuff like this!? George thought, suddenly feeling cold sweat dripping down his back.

His worries seemed to be for nothing, though, as Applejack was intently poring through the papers, face scrunched in concentration. Chuckling at the sight of the creature trying to get through the legal jargon, George hummed a bit to himself as he returned back to his plate. If these creatures were this easy to fool, he’d have no problem getting himself a nice amount of cash to start rebuilding the farm with from the nearby town.

Unfortunately, George’s plan, as often was the case, did not go exactly as he wanted.

After all, a full two minutes later, the off-white pegasus found himself dragged down the sand road by one determined-looking orange kin of his.

“Wait, what’s going on!?” George exclaimed, unable to comprehend the sudden change in the situation.

“We’re gonna see Twilight about them papers, mister!” Applejack answered, sounding gravely serious. “Ah can’t accept it! This can’t be right!”

“Wait, Twilight? Who’s that!? What’s happening!?”

The protests and questions of George Sparrow fell on deaf ears.

◊◊◊—Harvest Seasons: Spring—◊◊◊

“You have got to be kidding me.”

After about a half-an-hour of frantic running and dragging, Applejack had managed to get George all the way to the town she had mentioned. While George had some suspicions about the place because of the overly specific name, he still readily admitted that the village exceeded every expectation he had of it.

Or, rather, it was an even greater nightmare than he could have thought.

It was like the Alpine architecture had a violent collision with medieval house-planning: Thatched roofs and overhanging upper floors with timber frames as far as the eye could see, intertwined with buildings of the most outlandish designs straight out of a 90’s fairy tale picture book. Colors ranged from tolerable to garish at best, seemingly having no rhyme or reason as to how they were arranged.

It isn’t too much to hope it’s just a sign they have a caste system of sorts, right? Right? George thought in desperation.

Flailing after the orange equine who kept his mane in a tight lock in her mouth, George had the unfortunate pleasure of witnessing even more of evolution’s rejects: namely, the rest of the populace. It was as if the coloring of the houses hadn’t been enough, as the ‘ponies’ themselves were even harder to look at. Screaming pastel colors and bright hues were mixed in an unholy matrimony, giving birth to the various toy horses populating the village.

This is like Matisse’s nightmare, George grumbled in his mind.

Innumerable curious pairs of eyes seemed to follow their surprisingly hasty journey through the city. George even saw some of the ‘ponies’ start following them, as if they had nothing better to do than to gawk at the misfortune of a downtrodden farm-owner; or perhaps it was because he had been made into a some sort of spectacle by his orange captor. Had he been paraded through the streets by a cowboy in his homeworld, he would have definitely earned some glances.

Cowboy? Or should it be cowboy horse? Cowhorse? Horseboy? No, wait, this thing is female… George mused in his mind as the journey continued.

Being stared by locals like he was the sin against nature, being dragged by an apparently frenzied creature with a ridiculous accent and having to endure the sight of a town with no shame… even George eventually got to his limits; or rather, it was surprising he hadn’t had an outburst faster. Determined to put a stop to the parade, George dug his feet into the ground with force and performed a hair flick that would have left a certain outlaw-hunting-outlaws green with envy; all with the intention of tripping up his captor.

Too bad Applejack was one step ahead of him, and before he knew it, George found himself on his back, staring straight up to the bright blue sky. Even the sun seemed far too shiny, as if making fun of his predicament.

“Now, calm yer chickens, mister, ya ain’t in a rodeo,” Applejack spoke somewhere above him with a slightly amused tone. “Why, we’re already here. No need to get antsy.”

George cursed under his breath as he picked himself up from the ground.

“’Here’ being where exactly, you miserable…”

Words died on George’s lips when he saw what lay on the outskirts of the town, just roughly ten meters from where they were right now. His gaze climbed ever higher and higher as he marveled at the building in front of it. It completely dominated the landscape, being vastly different in its architecture and atmosphere. Even George, who wasn’t the most humble person, could not help it…

… He let out a huge, mocking snort before exploding in laughter.

“Oh my God, what is that thing!?” George spoke amid his ridiculing guffawing, sounding almost like a hyena. “That… that is the most ridiculous castle I’ve seen! Gwahahaha, I mean, I did see it from the distance, but up close it’s even worse!”

George, who was unable to laugh and keep himself standing at the same time, succumbed to the chuckles and rolled around on the ground, pounding the dirt and shrieking in amusement. Applejack, on the other hand, stared at him like a lunatic.

“Whoever built that has no sense of taste whatsoever! Reno’s mullet, the rest of the town was bad, but this is the worst!” George said and cackled. “What the hell is that? That gaudy, outlandish purple color! Those gigantic wind chime wannabes hanging from the balconies! There’s even a who-knows-what-the-hell crystal star on the top! Just what sort of attention-seeker lives in that place?”

George’s laughter, as obnoxious and overbearing it was, was silenced when a very matter-of-factly cough came from behind him. Looking up with a cocked eyebrow, he found himself looking at another creature; this time a purple one with both wings and a horn. It also wore the most deadpan expression he had ever seen.

“… That would be my castle,” the creature stated.

About half an hour later, after George’s first moment of amusement in this world had deflated like an unfortunate whoopee cushion, he found himself inside the castle in what he could only assume to be the throne room. He had been dragged there, non-violently this time, by Applejack and the purple creature apparently known as “Twilight Something-or-other.” George would have made the effort to remember the name had she not lived in the atrocity that was the castle they were in.

As he was ushered into the circular room with multiple thrones, George could not help but think of his situation and how absurd it had gotten so quickly: one minute he was just minding his own business, enjoying his heavenly breakfast, when the orange toy horse comes marching in like the saints. Then it was yelling, confusion, allegations of racial bigotry, followed by questioning the ownership of a farmstead before being paraded through the town like some sort of prize animal. It all ended here, in the throne of a creature that resembled her abode far too much for George’s liking: slightly bigger, nauseatingly violet, and more accessories than good taste can handle.

Still, I think for now it’s best to keep my mouth shut about my true nature. Whether they’d believe me or not, they’d still lock me up, and farming is damn difficult behind the bars, George mused in his mind. I wonder, though, what was so strange about those papers of mine. If there had been any glaring problems, I think the orange one would have just called them forgeries; If she didn’t recognize the language, she’d have just called them scribbles. No need to drag me all the way here. So does this mean she understood what she read there, and something in there didn’t sit well with her? But how could that be?

One other thing that made George slightly surprised, and even a bit wary, was how relatively calmly he was taking all this. Sure enough, he had one nervous breakdown after meeting the cowhorse for the first time, and he had spent a night naked in an underground shrine, both emotionally exhausted and violated by stinging nettle. Had it been enough for him to truly take meeting these sapient creatures of another world in such a stride? Or… had it all been pushed back by necessity, as sometimes happened? George dreaded the idea of another outburst of negative emotions in the future.

And speaking of negative stuff… how come I’m no longer feeling anything from my dive to the darned shrubbery? George thought, frowning to himself.

“Umm… Mister? Is everything all right?”

Finding himself the target of two curious stares, George made a non-committed gesture with his front leg, almost falling over in the process.

“Sorry, was just thinking,” he answered with a half-truth. “It seems my feelings of peace and quiet just took a one-way trip to Honolulu, and have no intention of returning.”

“Beg ya pardon?” Applejack asked, scrunching her face in confusion.

“Just forget it.” George rolled his eyes.

After clearing her throat rather loudly, the creature with the dubious honor of owning both wings and a horn took a seat on one of the thrones (one with the same mark as was tattooed to her posterior, as George noted) and turned her attention to the two who had arrived. Applejack was wearing a strange expression, switching between annoyance directed towards George, and odd anxiety that stemmed clearly from somewhere else.

“Ya know, Ah understand Twilight ain’t much fer formalities, but ya still could show a lil’ respect towards her,” Applejack suddenly said, glancing at George, “She is a princess, after all.”

“Princess?” George said, looked at Twilight with raised eyebrows, and snorted, “Well, that explains a lot.”

“Watch it, mister,” Applejack said, “Ah get the idea ya ain’t the most sociable fellow, but it don’t hurt to be polite.”

“It’s all right, Applejack, really,” Twilight said with a smile, “I don’t need ponies posturing every time they meet me. I’d go crazy if that was the case.”

“You have no idea how glad I am to hear that,” George commented, looking at his own legs, “I can barely stand with these things. I wouldn’t even know where to begin to make them kneel.”

Twilight’s smile froze for a good second before she hurried to continue the discussion.

“A-anyways! You came to see me, Applejack?” she asked, “What’s going on? And who is this, um… lively friend you’ve got?”

“Hell if I know,” George said, cutting before the orange creature’s words, “There I was, minding my own business, when Caddyshack here—“

“Applejack,” the pony in question corrected.

“… Applejack here waltzed in, demanding to know who I was and what I was doing here. And, when I told her, she dragged me off here like I was an illegal immigrant,” George said, shooting a dirty glare at orange creature.

“What?” Twilight asked, looking rather surprised. “Applejack, can you explain?”

“Sure can, Twilight,” Applejack answered, crossing her front legs, “Ya remember Faraway Farm? The farmstead that’s been abandoned for, gosh, twenty years already? Well, yesterday Apple Bloom said she had spotted something movin’ down there, so we went to investigate. An’ sure enough, we find something over there: an oil drum bath that’s been knocked over, an’ this feller here, hidin’ in the bushes. When we tried to approach, he let out this ungodly noise an’ fled. Made every strand of hair in mah mane stand up, he did.”

Wait. Ungodly noise? Is she saying she couldn’t understand last night when I yelled as human? Just like I couldn’t understand them? George thought, frowning. This is getting more and more confusing.

“So come this morning, Ah went to check again, only to find him eatin’ breakfast there like he’d own the darn farm,” Applejack continued. “Actually, that’s what he claimed. An’ accordin’ to these papers… well, just look at ‘em yourself, Twi.”

Applejack handed over the stack of papers that had been the crux of this whole problem, and Twilight began pouring through them with speed that made George fatigued just by looking. As princessy as this La Mansión Maldita was, he could clearly see that the image didn’t really match with that of the purple toy horse sitting on the throne; if anything, she looked more like an overworked accountant during the height of the summer season, or a poor college student assaulting a lecture hall in a post-test-induced frenzy.

Well, now the cowhorse went and did it. My otherworldly ownership papers might fool a simple working class ‘pony’, but against a royal with a nerdy countenance, I expect them to be as effective as piece of wet toilet paper in the eye of a hurricane, George grumbled in his mind. Might as well start packing my things right away.

“… Huh. That’s strange,” Twilight said, looking at the papers with quizzical eyes. “I haven’t heard anything about the Bureau of Land Administration setting up any contract for a deed lately… but according to this seal, this is the real thing. Wow, the whole thing was paid in a single installment, even. That’s a lot of money to move around.”

“What?” George’s eyes nearly bulged out of his head.

“Yeah. There is nothing wrong with these papers as far as I can see,” Twilight said with a smile, “Your payment was adequate and the land was transferred under your name and is now your responsibility, as you now own the legal title to the farmstead and its surrounding fields. Oh, wait, looks like they made a mistake with your name. They added additional ‘e’ here for some reason…”

George wanted to make a dry comment, but deemed it not worth the effort.

“Now wait just a darn minute,” Applejack interjected, “Ah know it seems fine an’ all, but there’s a mighty big problem here! Ah happen to know that neither Faraway Farm nor its fields were ever s’posed to be sold again.”

Both Twilight and George stared at the hat-wearing pony with surprise. The look on Applejack’s face was somewhere between anxiety and righteous, subdued anger. A quick glance to the purple pony told George that this was something of a surprising development.

“W-what do you mean, Applejack?” Twilight asked, “That’s the first I’ve heard about this.”

“Ya came here ‘bout a decade later, so ya wouldn’t know ‘bout it,” Applejack started, looking like she was carefully choosing her words, “But Ah know the officials promised that they’d keep Faraway Farm as the Crown’s property. Sellin’ it to some random stallion ain’t what was agreed on.”

“I… I don’t know what to say, Applejack,” Twilight said with a troubled face, “If it was a verbal agreement, it might have been forgotten if there was a change in the Bureau members, but other than that…”

“’Tis certain you might not know what to say, but as for I, it rather invites a choice word or two.”

The unknown voice that rang through the throne room caught the attention of the trio, and they turned to face the source. There, in the large doorway, stood a figure of a pony draped in a large travel cloak, with a hood pulled to cover the wearer’s face. The entrance of this mysterious creature was enough to cause Applejack to take a step forward while sizing up the newcomer.

“That voice…” Applejack murmured. “Ya can’t possibly be…”

“I cannot recall if ‘twere a verbal agreement or simply wishful thinking on your father’s part, but alas, it seems the farm has acquired a new owner,” the pony continued, “I suppose I’d feel bad for you, Applejack, if it did not amuse me so.”

“An’ just what in blazes are ya doin’ here?” Applejack asked, her voice gaining a steely edge to it, “Apple Cobbler?”

The figure in the doorway put her hoof on her hood and pulled it back, revealing her face. To George’s surprise, it was yet another orange pony, female as her voice suggested. Her mane was long and colored like flaxen wheat. The azure eyes of the mare stared at the group with dry amusement in them.

“’Tis simple,” Apple Cobbler said and smirked, “I am merely informing these two that the reason as to why you are so against Faraway Farm being renovated is, well… ‘twould be because your own father worked so hard to drive it out of business, is it not?”

Silence as deep as a grave descended into the throne room.

Author's Note

T tylmlrbhbs uevnwx ps ity tax jonkze.

Una wata iy rvuk zpre bz avmbaeef a ahysx?

Next Chapter: Friends In Low Places

"Sparkle on, then, you crazy pony."

Spring 4: Friends In Low Places

Spring Chapter 4
Friends In Low Places

“Don’t ya dare brin’ mah Pa into this!”

“’Tis hardly my fault if uncle happens to be the source of your anger.”

“Ah am not angry! Ah just don’t think the Faraway Farm should reopen, especially if it’s sold to some rude pegasus with no knack to farmin’.”

“Really? ‘Twas my impression that the only thing you needed to be a farmer was the will to try. Skills are only gained through experience.”

“Now don’t ya go twistin’ mah words, Cobbler! Ah remember what Ah said back then!”

As the argument between the two orange mares grew louder and louder, George couldn’t help but tap Twilight with his hoof and give a small nod towards the two.

“I take it you don’t have any idea what’s going on either?” George asked, voicing his confusion. The purple alicorn scratched her head, looking rather troubled.

“No. I’ve never seen Applejack act like this. And I met Apple Cobbler years ago, and she certainly wasn’t like… this,” Twilight answered, making a vague gesture towards the cloaked mare.

Even George, as thickheaded as he was when it came to other people’s feelings, could feel the animosity between the two orange mares, rising upwards like thick steam from a sauna. There was no outright hatred in their eyes, but their countenance was like that of a snake and a mongoose: two fated enemies whose way of life was at odds with that of the other. In the red corner was the down-to-earth mare with a country accent; in the blue corner, the enigmatic pony speaking in an old-fashioned manner.

Still, I suppose it makes sense for the cowhorse to be so much in my face about this whole deal. If her father was a part of it closing down in the first place, this must be personal. George mused. Figures the supernatural farm dragging innocent humans to some twisted up other dimension had some enemies in the past.

“It hardly seems like your place, dear cousin, to be dictating what this stallion is supposed to do with a place he himself bought,” Apple Cobbler said with a smirk. “I must admit, your tendency to stick your muzzle into other ponies’ businesses leaves much to be desired.”

“Don’t think Ah don’t know what this is ‘bout, Cobbler,” Applejack said, jabbing the other mare with her front leg. “Ah understand ya don’t think too kindly of me, but that ain’t no reason to let this Sparrow-feller have the Faraway Farm.”

“Oh, ‘tis a perfectly valid reason, dear cousin,” Cobbler answered. “I admit, ‘twas not the reason I originally came here for, but it has proven to be a worthy cause to strive for. Or, at least a distraction for the moment.”

Applejack snorted loudly, giving a dirty glare to the other mare, who simply smiled stiffly back. Seeing this momentary lull in the argument, Twilight decided to wedge herself into the discussion in order to direct it to safer waters. Waving her front leg, she caught the attention of Apple Cobbler.

“Umm, excuse me?” Twilight asked, smiling rather sheepishly. “Why did you come here, then?”

“Ah, good day to you too, Your Majesty,” Apple Cobbler said and made a small bow towards the alicorn. “I do not know if you remember, but as you can see, I happen to be a travelling merchant.”

Having said that, Apple Cobbler flashed a small badge fastened to her travelling cloak. Twilight’s eyes widened slightly in understanding.

“‘Twas the previous fall that I last visited Ponyville, and it seems the town has changed quite a lot,” Cobbler continued. “For example, I had some trouble locating the D’oro Trading Company’s brokerage house. ‘Twas also my intention to take care of the tariff here, as per custom there was no one at the checkpoint near the town.”

“Um, yes, I’ve been meaning to do something about that,” Twilight said and chuckled in embarrassment. “There’s just been so much to do after Tirek’s attack a couple of months back. It was in that same attack that D’oro Trading Company’s brokerage house, along with many other buildings, was destroyed. They’re now residing on the other side of the river.”

“Ah, many thanks,” Cobbler said and did another small bow. “And the topic of the tariff? If possible, I would like to sell my wares as soon as possible.”

“Hold yer horses, Apple Cobbler,” Applejack interjected, shooting a glare at the mare. “We’re still discussin’ the matter of this feller here gettin’ the Faraway Farm. Ya can wait fer yer turn.”

“Oh, ‘twas my impression that the matter was already finished.” The merchant feigned surprise. “Surely you realize that you are protesting overmuch?”

“Ah can’t accept it. Even if this Sparrow feller opened the farm, he ain’t got no bits to run it. No capital fer equipment or crop seeds, no experience, no functional buildings… Land sakes! That there is a disaster waitin’ to happen.”

“Cousin, he could do as all the others have done, and simply take a loan,” Cobbler said dryly. “’Tis a simple solution, no?”

“An’ who in the wide wide world of Equestria would give a loan to an unseasoned, fresh outta barnyard door farmer like him?” Applejack asked, cocking an eyebrow.

Wait, Equestria? George thought, grimacing heavily. Oh, great. So this whole place is named all horse-like. I guess it’s too much to hope for any friends with fingers and toes. This day just keeps getting better.

“Well, I’ve no reason to refuse being his co-signer,” Cobbler stated somewhat smugly. “Give me half a day to sell my wares, and I should have enough capital to reassure any lender. The word of a successful merchant should be enough, yes?”

That was finally the straw that broke the camel’s back, at least for George. While he had no intention of getting involved in the bad blood between two alien creatures, this was still his future that was under discussion. Sure, he knew he had to get a loan if he wanted to get enough capital to start up his farm, but still, a travelling merchant suddenly appearing and declaring she would be his co-signer? George had met enough conmen to know when something sounded suspicious.

“Now wait just a minute,” George said, stepping forward and pointing at Apple Cobbler. “Just… who the hell are you? And why the sudden interest in my situation? Well, apart from hating Cabbage Patch—”

“Applejack,” the pony in question corrected.

“—Applejack here.”

“As I do believe I said, I am a travelling merchant by trade. As for my name, would it not be proper to introduce yourself first, before demanding me to? Alas, I think my dear cousin did let my name slip just before, but a proper, civilized greeting is never a bad thing, is it?” Apple Cobbler said with a sly smile.

“… I suppose not,” George said, narrowing his eyes. “The name’s George Sparrow. Or Gorge Sparrow. Whatever you want to mangle it into.”

“And I am Apple Cobbler. ‘Twas simple, no? And very polite, unlike some of the other meetings in this room,” the merchant said, glancing at Applejack. “As for my interest in your plight, ‘twas not my intention to make you suspicious. I simply had to act when I finally could, if you’ll pardon the expression, knock my dear cousin off her high horse.”

Oh great, George groaned internally. It makes puns. The joy.

“Like Ah said, this ain’t no time fer our old rivalries, Apple Cobbler,” Applejack said, sounding a bit more pleading than before. “Ya know why mah Pa drove the Faraway Farm outta business. If it opens up again…”

“Oh? ‘Twas not his own greed which fueled his ambition?” Cobbler asked, faking surprise. “In any event, dear cousin, perhaps you should have thought of this possibility a few years ago. If you had, it could very well be that I would not be this keen on helping this poor stallion.”

To his surprise, George could hear the bitter sting hiding behind those words. It was something he had least expected to find in such a colorful, nauseatingly cheerful-looking place. However, this mare clearly had it against Applejack, and was not above shoving her resentment into the cowhorse’s face. She almost flaunted it.

For George, it was almost like looking into a mirror.

“So, let me get this straight: you’re helping me, a complete stranger, financially just because you’ve got a grudge against the one trying to stop me?” George asked, cocking an eyebrow.

“Oh, heaven’s no,” Cobbler answered and chuckled. “I am a merchant, after all. I shall be expecting a good portion of your earnings once you get the farm back on its feet. ‘Tis clearly an investment, see?”

George couldn’t stop his own expression melting into a grin. Hearing those words spoken aloud relit the flame of his hope for this place. It was as if he had finally found a small imperfection in an otherwise flawless diamond. In other words, he found it very reassuring.

“So greed and personal vendetta? I think I can dig that,” George said while offering his hoof. “A human without vices is always hiding something, after all.”

“Human?” came the question from the three mares.

“Ergh, pony, whatever, just roll with it,” George hurried to correct himself.

“Then I shall. And your words ring true. ‘Tis a personal rule of mine to never conduct business with ponies who seem too altruistic. Among them usually are the vilest of snakes,” Apple Cobbler answered with a grin of her own, and shook George’s hoof. “To find somepony who shares my sentiment… it almost seems like a fated encounter, as ‘twere.”

“Just don’t expect to mooch off of my hard work, and we’ll be fine,” George added. “Even if you’re my co-signer, I don’t intend to be your serf.”

“I am not so shameless as to thoughtlessly live off of other ponies’ work,” Cobbler said and gave George a proud smile. “They do not call me ‘Wise Westward-Walking Witch’ for nothing in the bayou. ‘Tis important to me that the farm thrives, and so, you can count on my knowledge to help you. It shall be interesting to work with you, Gorge Sparrow.”

“Likewise, Apple Cobbler,” George answered.

Seeing the two of them shake hooves, Twilight smiled amicably. For her, the Princess of Friendship, seeing two ponies get along so well from the get-go was always heart warming. Even if she was a bit unsure whether or not it was a good thing these two had joined forces, she couldn’t deny she was hoping this would be a good experience for them. Since both Sparrow and Cobbler were not the friendliest of ponies, perhaps working together would teach them about magic of friendship. Or that was what Twilight hoped.

Meanwhile, Applejack was groaning in frustration and rubbing her temples.

“Now wait just a darn minute,” Applejack said, stepping forth. “Ya still hafta sell yer wares to get enough capital fer this. What are ya even sellin’? Last time ya were here, I remember ya left with bushel of spices an’ nothing else.”

“Oh, it happens to be something of a family specialty I am selling this time, dear cousin,” Apple Cobbler said with a sly smile.

“Beg yer pardon?” Applejack asked, tilting her head. Cobbler’s smile widened.

“Apples.”

◊◊◊—Harvest Seasons: Spring—◊◊◊

After Apple Cobbler had gone over the tariff of her goods with Twilight, the whole group moved outside in order to check the wares she was carrying. Applejack in particular was interested in the apples. George found out that, indeed, the hat-wearing pony was in the business of apple-farming herself, and apparently owned the orchard that he had seen from his own farmstead. Therefore, it was logical that Applejack was skeptical about her cousin’s wares. Even George found it strange that Apple Cobbler was selling the one thing this town should have an ample supply off.

However, as they reached the large wagon waiting outside the castle and Apple Cobbler pulled aside the cloth covering it, George quickly understood that he had made something of a hasty assumption. What he saw was not multiple big crates taking up most of the space in the cart, but numerous small barrels stacked tightly and sealed even tighter.

“’Tis as I said: sixteen barrels of apples, weighing close to ten nails each,” Apple Cobbler said, pride seeping into her voice. “Finer apples have ne’er been brought from the Griffon Kingdoms to the east. ‘Twas not a small price I paid for them, I assure you.”

“Ya know, sugarcube, ain’t lookin’ to rain on yer parade, but that’s still apples ya got there,” Applejack said and chuckled. “An’ Ponyville’s learnt to trust the Sweet Apple Acres brand. Ain’t no exotic variant or two turnin’ their heads ‘round.”

For a moment, George was pondering if Apple Cobbler was related to the Cheshire Cat; so wide was her gleeful grin.

“Oh, I suppose we shall see about that, no?” Apple Cobbler said, patting one of the barrels. “You see, unlike here in Equestria, in the griffon lands ‘tis still winter: a season of preserves, as ‘twere. And they have such a curious method of preserving fruit on those mountains, nothing like the crude pickling we practice in these lands. The fruits in question, apples in this case, are thinly sliced and, along with figs and almonds, then stacked into these barrels. After honey is poured in, ginger is added on top of it all, keeping it quite edible for multitude of fortnights. ‘Twas my impression that such a method would make them quite a bit tastier compared to your… regular… apples.”

Listening to the explanation, George snapped out of his trance once the mare was silent again. He quickly wiped off the drool that had been forming, and noticed he wasn’t the only one. Applejack looked almost enamored with the barrels and their contents, to the point that Apple Cobbler had to step between her and the wares.

“Dear cousin, it would be much appreciated if you would stop staring at my wares like a predator hiding in tall grass,” Cobbler said, glaring at the other orange mare. “’Twas my intention to sell them, not let them be devoured by an apple-crazy zealot.”

“Well, they certainly sound delicious,” Twilight commented from the side and giggled. “I wouldn’t mind trying them out… but aren’t honey-preserved apples usually something only the nobles can afford? Why sell them here in Ponyville?”

Apple Cobbler smiled smugly and tapped one of the barrels, as if she had been a proud parent showing off her talented child to a bunch of colleagues from the same book-club. After making that surprising connection, George also realized that these ponies seemed very serious about something as mundane as apples. The mere idea of an apple-focused rural town was enough to send shivers down his spine. He’d have to find a way to add meat to his diet, and quick.

“Your Majesty, if I might remind you, I am simply selling these to the brokerage house of this town. It is not my intention to deal with customers directly here. Of course, there are some wealthy buyers in Ponyville, such as the Rich family,” Apple Cobbler explained as she threw the cloth back to cover the barrels. “Whilst they could buy the apples as a bulk, I have the suspicion that my wares will simply head further up the road, all the way to Canterlot. ‘Tis not in my style to deal with the fools of the capital, and as such, I shall leave that hassle to the merchants of D’oro Trading Company.”

As she talked, the orange pony secured her cargo once more, before making her way to the front of the cart. There, she easily slipped into the harness that was waiting, so that she could pull the thing around. The sight made George snicker, though he tried to subdue to the best of his ability when the three ponies looked at him with raised eyebrows.

So even if they can talk, they still pull heavy stuff around? Reno’s mullet, they weren’t kidding when they called horses the idiots of the animal kingdom, George thought and cackled in his mind.

“So, you’re heading straight to D’oro brokerage house now?” Twilight suddenly asked. “I’ll show you the way. Their new building isn’t as grand as before, so it’s a bit hard to spot.”

“Ah hafta disagree,” Applejack commented with a somewhat dry expression. “They still insist on paintin’ the darn thing turquoise fer who-knows-what reason. Ah ain’t never gonna get what foreigners think.”

“Well, ignoring my cousin’s narrow-minded view of the world…” Apple Cobbler threw a dirty glance at Applejack. “… Yes, ‘twas my intention of handling this situation as quick as I could. Strike while the iron is hot, as ‘twere.”

“Great! We can give Gorge here a small tour to Ponyville while we’re at it!” Twilight exclaimed happily, completely ignoring the animosity between the two mares.

“Ugh. I guess I need to learn about this place if I wanna do business here. Sparkle on, then, you crazy pony,” George muttered, and gestured the trio to lead the way.

“Ah think the only crazy one here’s you, feller,” Applejack commented with a raised eyebrow, earning a glare from George.

“Bite me,” he very eloquently shot back.

So began the brief but informative tour of the town George started, begrudgingly, referring to as “Ponyville.” Since the castle resided on the outer edge of the town, across the river from the brokerage house, he got a good look at the village and all the outlandish sights it had to offer.

The town was built around the Rouge River that lazily meandered through the plains, its source being somewhere up in the mountains to the north. The river cut the town basically in half, bending around the town square and continuing into the forest that grew near the Faraway Farm. It was a branch of that same river that flowed next to said farmstead, too. It seemed that almost all farmland around the town, both his and Applejack’s included, were south of the town.

While George had no problem when it came to memorizing the geographical features of the town (he even admitted to himself that it felt somewhat good to get a sense of where he was), the same could not be said for the “important buildings” of Ponyville. First on the list was the town hall, which George had already seen by a glimpse. It seemed that some sort of gathering was taking place there, as an alarming number of ponies had amassed there, prompting George to hurry his guides up. Next, there was the Sugarcube Corner, a confectionery shop that made George feel personally insulted through its design and color-scheme. Following that came, in quick order, the marketplace, the spa, and the hospital. For, as Twilight put it:

“All your everyday needs!”

This prompted George to inquire the location of the nearest bar. Judging from the two confused glances and one husky laughter, only Apple Cobbler seemed to understand what he had meant.

The final place Twilight pointed out before the brokerage house was the so-called “Carousel Boutique” where, apparently, one could get designer clothes for any big event that required such. As the purple pony princess happily continued her explanation, George couldn’t help but roll his eyes and make a gagging motion at the obnoxious sight of the building.

“’Tis my impression you do not much care for traditional Equestrian architecture,” Apple Cobbler said with a hint of amusement in her voice. “This does raise the question, though: why would you then move here, and even buy a farm so you could start up a business?”

For a second, George’s brains felt as if a needle had scratched a record. The question came so out of left field he wasn’t sure it was even in the same ballpark. Still, now that he was put on the plate, he had no choice but to show he was up to the bat.

“… You know, I have no idea,” he answered, grunting as he did. “I mean, if I had a choice, I wouldn’t be here. But, what’cha gonna do? Considering what I’ve been through, I’m starting to think grudge-filled apathy is the right way to behave in my situation.”

“A wise choice, if a bit cynical overmuch,” Cobbler said. “Then again, the positive countenance of the locals is somewhat daunting at times. I cannot claim I do not enjoy the trips to different regions precisely because of that.”

“Which reminds me: you sure about this?” George asked. “You said you’re a travelling merchant, and now you throw it away because you happened across someone with a way to stick it up to your cousin? It sounds both stupid and suspicious.”

Apple Cobbler chuckled and flashed her Cheshire cat-like grin.

“’Twas a moment’s decision, sure, but sometimes you have to make such in this business,” she answered. “Of course, ‘tis also known that the Faraway Farm, when it was still used, produced the most bountiful harvest in all of Ponyville, maybe even all of Equestria. So, if the same old magic would still apply, the profit I would make of this investment would be well worth it.”

Then, as if just remembering it, Cobbler made a non-committed gesture while walking.

“Still, I shall leave when the winter comes, as usual. It is in my nature to head to the south during autumn, and not return till early spring,” she explained. George gave her a dubious glance.

“Don’t tell me you also own a shabby, wide-brimmed hat and play harmonica,” George flatly said.

“Hmh? How did you know?” Cobbler asked, looking rather surprised.

George hit his forehead with his forehoof, only to lose his balance and fall to the ground as a pile of limbs and curses. This finally got the attention of Twilight, and the group continued their journey. The brokerage house was close by, the tour had come to an end.

Now it was time to sell some wares.

◊◊◊—Harvest Seasons: Spring—◊◊◊

When they arrived, George saw that it was just as Applejack had described. The D’oro Trading Company’s branch building was bright turquoise in color, making it stand out even among the obnoxious designs of the rest of the town. As they walked through the huge, still only half-built gate for wagon traffic, Apple Cobbler explained to them that it was because the D’oro, though they were from a nation even further to south, were still part of Prance’s Merchant’s Guild. This color was used to identify officially guild-sanctioned trading houses, and the shade of turquoise was, indeed, referred to as “Merchant Blue.”

As they arrived to the loading area, which was a veritable chaos of ponies running left and right while shouting orders at each other, Apple Cobbler could not help but comment on the hustle and bustle.

“’Twas my impression that the D’oro wanted to be perceived as efficient and quick, with attention to detail and good service,” she spoke. “Then why is it that these bandit-like stallions gallop around us, throwing wheat and timber around like they were trash of yesterday?”

“That’d be ‘cause of Tirek,” Applejack answered, nodding to the construction that was still under way at the building. “He caused a heck of a lot of damage in this town, an’ like Twilight here told ya, D’oro’s was hit mighty hard.”

“Luckily there wasn’t much stored in their warehouse back then,” Twilight added with a slightly sad expression. “But I hear they still had to give a lot of credit to those whose wares did get destroyed in the battle.”

“Well, I suppose that does make sense,” Cobbler said, frowning slightly. “I just do hope it does not affect their ability to pay in cash.”

As the group got inside, they were introduced of the sight of a large hall with piles of lumber, straw, and stone waiting for the construction workers. These piles were side-by-side with large crates that undoubtedly contained wares of the trading company. Before they could get a closer look at this questionable manner of storage, their attention was directed to the beret-wearing stallion that gave them a quick bow. As George noted, it was slightly different in manner when compared to the ones ponies had given to Twilight, as if to signify cultural differences.

“Ah, Apple Cobbler! So good to see you again!” the stallion, looking more fitting for an accountant’s office than a construction yard, greeted them. “As always, the D’oro Trading Company thanks you for your patronage. As for the rest of you, I offer you a greeting as well, Miss Twilight, Miss Applejack. And… um, I do believe you have me at a disadvantage, good sir.”

“Good. I’d hate for anything with an Italian accent to have the advantage over me,” George stated flatly. However, after Applejack had given him a harsh stare, he finally caved in. “Okay, fine. George Sparrow. Gorge Sparrow. Whatever.”

“And I am, as some of you may know, Tempo Denaro,” the stallion introduced himself. “Now, how may I serve you, la padrona?”

Wait, I thought the whole Italy-thing was just a joke? George thought in his mind. Is he seriously from Italy? No, wait, earlier Cobbler mentioned… Prance? Are… are there more countries in this messed up world than one? Each with their own horse-related pun!?

Luckily the rest of the ponies were too engrossed in the negotiations, so they never saw how George, repeatedly, smashed his head against the stone wall.

“’Tis the task of selling, Tempo, that has brought me here once more. This time, I am carrying a most coveted of cargos, for I have managed to procure a shipment of honey-preserved apples, all the way from the Griffon Kingdom,” Apple Cobbler explained with a hint of theatrical flair creeping into her voice. She cleared her throat loudly before continuing. “Sixteen barrels of honey-preserved sliced apples, stored with figs and almonds and mixed with ginger. ‘Tis not often that the griffons agree to sell this favorite of the nobles to ponies. Therefore, I do hope the wares speak for themselves and their assured quality. Indeed, ne’er has there been a day that we could accuse the imports of the Griffon Kingdom to be faulty. Thus, I trust that you make the right decision, and see these apples as not the common everyday food that they are in this town, but as a luxurious treat for the cream of Canterlot, where they will undoubtedly fetch a price much higher than they do here today. And even if I would praise them overmuch, let me assure you, they are still worth thrice every coin you pay for them.”

Tempo Denaro nodded in agreement, examining the barrels with sparkling eyes. It seemed that Cobbler’s little speech had some effect on the merchant, as he had hard time keeping his face from twisting into an excited smile. After his inspection was over, he turned back to face the mare while giving her a tentative nod.

“Well then, let us get down to the business,” Tempo said, and nodded to his assistant who had been on the standby. Said pony quickly lifted up an abacus with his hooves. “I can see that these are apples of excellent variety, and the mere rumor that they would hail from the Griffon Kingdoms would raise their price to a great deal. There are sixteen barrels in total, am I correct?”

“Indeed,” Apple Cobbler answered. “Each of them weighs close to ten nails. You can rest assured that every inch of them has been used properly.”

“Of course, of course, I would not suspect a foul play there,” Tempo said and started moving the wooden beads of the abacus. “Now, taking in account our long partnership and cordial relationship when it comes to business… how would this offer sit with you?”

George saw that the in the third row of the abacus, eight white beads had been moved up, separating them from the rest. Apple Cobbler was staring at these beads with a hint of a frown adorning her face, before glancing at the trader.

“Eight hundred? And the currency is?” she asked.

“Of course, the golden bit of Equestria,” Tempo hurried to answer. This simply made the mare emit a nod of acknowledgment, before she took a step back, and looked at her barrels once more.

“Now then… ‘tis a rare chance, I might remind you, to have your hooves on a quality product such as this,” Cobbler spoke. “While honey is a great preservative during the winter, it will not behave so well in the heat of the Equestrian spring. ‘Twas not easy to transport them here in this prime condition. However, due to my care and preparations, they are as delicious as the day they were sealed into the barrels. Oh, nay, I would say they are even more luxurious in taste, as they have had the time to let the taste of ginger and honey seep into the succulent, yet ripe, flesh that lies beneath their skin. ‘Twere no expenses spared, I assure you, when it came to transporting them.”

“Ah, I see, I see,” Tempo said while nodding. “It is true that the rise in the interest to imported goods would give more market to apples such as these. Especially if care has been given to their transportation, we can assure our clients of quality, and expect them to make further purchases from us. Taking that into account… how does eight hundred and fifty golden bits sound?”

While this conversation went back and forth, George leaned a bit closer to Twilight and Applejack, who were following the trade with interest. He had seen his share of haggling, but this felt almost as if it was from some medieval faire. The grandiose words they used, not to mention the terms for both money and measurements, felt oddly foreign and old to his ear. Therefore, he had to know more about the situation to get any understanding of it.

“So... eight hundred and fifty?” he asked with a hushed voice from the mares. “Is that a good market price?”

“Ya darn right it is,” Applejack said, not looking too pleased with that. “Ah couldn’t get such sum fer a wagon of apples even if the wagon came with ‘em. Ah know them luxury goods sell like hot coals, but Ah can hardly believe what Ah’m hearin’ here.”

“Eight hundred and fifty. Eight hundred and fifty…” Apple Cobbler repeated, as if she was deep in thought.

“Yes, that would be our offer, indeed…” Tempo echoed her, smiling in a slightly nervous way. Even George could see that the stallion wanted to seal the deal before anything unexpected could happen.

Of course, when one makes such a wish, it’s like inviting the unexpected to drive through your bedroom window with a semi.

“Eight hundred and fifty golden bits!” Apple Cobbler yelled out so loud that everypony within earshot turned to look at her. She had jumped on top of her wagon and was now staring down at the poor trader, pointing her hoof at him. “Dost thou taketh me for a fool!? Am I to be made fun of in front of all these experienced traders!? ‘Tis a grave insult thou threweth at my face, Tempo! Or did thee think I wouldst not realize the true nature of this situation!?”

Oh, wow. Her way of speaking got at least five times fancier, George mused. Is she… is she doing it on purpose?

“N-no, it was not my intention to insult you, Lady Cobbler!” Tempo hurried to calm the mare down. “If I have made a mistake, please inform me of my misconduct.”

“Well. ‘Tis a situation where thou presumeth me to not know my current company,” Cobbler said, before suddenly pointing at Twilight. “When I left this fine town, Miss Twilight Sparkle was still but the apprentice of Princess Celestia. But, lo and behold! While I was gone, she completed her training, and her coronation was the talk of the land. Thou must taketh me for a wet-behind-the-ears filly if thou believeth I didst not hear of her ascension to royalty! And what’s worse, thou tried to take advantage of such foolishness! As if I didst not know what it means for a princess to observe the trading of a luxury food such as this!”

It was like an electric shock had run through the room. Almost everypony was staring at Twilight now, who in turn was looking at Cobbler with wide eyes of disbelief. Applejack, on the other hand, had already realized where this was going, and looked like she had been hit on the head with a mallet.

George, though, was having a hard time hiding his grin.

Oh, she’s good. She’s really good, he thought. Using something like this to her advantage… she is about to string that trader for all he has.

“’Tis well known that what food the royalty of Equestria has taketh a liking to shall be the talk of the whole country!” Cobbler continued her speech, crushing Tempo with her stare. “And as such, this shipment of apples would be, for the moment, the most contested of wares amongst the true nobles of Canterlot! Of course, ‘tis only if Princess Twilight doth not intend to acquire them herself!”

“What!?” Twilight cried out in protest. “But I wasn’t—“

“Dost thou understand that I have seen through thy plan, Tempo?” Cobbler asked with a cocked eyebrow and a cool expression. “Now wouldst be the time to make me an offer based on the true value of these apples, methinks.”

The stallion was quick to catch on the intention of the mare. He racked the abacus like a madman, before nearly shoving it into Cobbler’s face with bullets of cold sweat running down his face. Apple Cobbler calmly analyzed the sum displayed for her.

“Hmm. Thousand and two hundred golden bits, you say?” Cobbler asked.

Applejack looked like she was about to choke from the surprise.

“Well… ‘tis a situation where I do want both of us to profit from,” Cobbler finally said while smiling like the striped cat of Wonderland. “What would you say of buying the whole wagon for eighty gold bits per barrel?”

Thousand and two hundred eighty gold coins. As George looked around, he saw the bulging eyes and flabbergasted faces of the ponies around him. Even he, who had no idea about the currency of this world, understood that this sum was ludicrous. However, Apple Cobbler had masterfully utilized the presence of royalty to her advantage, bringing the pressure on to Tempo instead. Now, the only question left in this battle of wits and words was if the stallion would crack under the pressure.

Indeed, after about ten seconds of frantic thinking, Tempo Denora cracked like a twig under a boulder.

“… Very well. Eighty golden bits per barrel, it is,” the stallion finally admitted, looking like all air had been sucker-punched out of him.

Meanwhile, Apple Cobbler was looking extremely smug as she winked at George.

“Nice doing business with you,” the mare said, her voice tinted with the sweet taste of victory.

Author's Note

D arkfvngw yahzb shu kvm dbq vkoef.

Vhveo hbhn vrk wwzx wc fxoz n ydfz.

Next Chapter: Southern Comfort

"I wouldn't feed this sugary swill to kids, let alone adults!"

Spring 5: Southern Comfort

Spring Chapter 5
Southern Comfort

“’Tis a situation I would deem to need a good drink.”

Apple Cobbler said this as the four of them finally exited the D’oro Trading House, leaving behind a cart full of barrels, but having gained a big cloth pouch full of jingling gold coins. George had to admit, his eyes had nearly popped out of his head when he saw that the things were pure gold. Something like that had been unheard of back home.

“Ah should take ya to the guards fer what’cha did,” Applejack growled, and threw a glare towards the other orange mare. “Ya used Twilight’s name fer your lil’ scheme to make more money! Ah’m ashamed to know that you’re mah cousin! Trickin’ honest ponies like that is simply unfair an’ uncalled fer!”

“Cousin, ‘tis not a sin to be clever,” Cobbler answered with a deadpan expression. “Not to mention that had I not taken advantage of their weakness, rest assured, they would have done so instead. ‘Twas simply a pre-emptive attack, if you will.”

“I really didn’t mind, Applejack, but… well, it doesn’t seem right to lie just for your own gain,” Twilight said, her face a troubled mask.

“Those merchants can surely take it,” Cobbler said. “’Twas not a large sum they will lose in the trade, if any, and complaining overmuch about how they were tricked would simply make them seem like sore losers in the eyes of their peers. Appearances are everything for a merchant, and if you are tricked by words, then you might as well be at fault.”

“Hey, if you’re stupid enough to trust infomercials, it ain’t anyone’s problem but your own,” George chimed in, flashing a grin at Cobbler, who returned it. However, the two other ponies looked confused.

“Info-what-now?” Applejack asked. “Ah’ve been meanin’ to ask ya this, but ya keep usin’ mighty strange words, Gorge. Where’d ya get all of ‘em? Your homeland? An’ where do ya hail from, exactly?”

Ah, right, medieval otherworldly society. Can kiss the cable goodbye, George thought. Let’s just hope these creatures have decent booze, or the nights at the farm’ll be unbearable. That or I’ll just have to kick up some moonshine.

“Hmh? Yeah, something like that,” George gave a noncommittal shrug, which was surprisingly hard on four feet. “And I’ve been on the road for quite a long time. I was born in this small village, you’ve probably never heard of it. It was called… well, erm…”

Frantically, George racked his brains for a good name, and finally just blurted out the first word that came to his head.

“Whiskey. Whiskey… Valley. Yeah. Totally,” George hurried to say.

Apple Cobbler suddenly had a hacking cough that sounded oddly like restrained laughter. Applejack, on the other hand, peered at George even more suspiciously. The only one who didn’t seem to find the situation strange in the least was Twilight, who was already smiling innocently.

“… Is that so?” Applejack asked slowly, cocking an eyebrow at the stallion.

“That is so,” George firmly stated, refusing to avert his eyes from the stare.

“Well, ‘tis not something to be concerned about, methinks. After all, Mr. Sparrow is nowadays a resident of Ponyville, is he not? Oh, which reminds me…” Apple Cobbler turned to look at Twilight. “Your Majesty, is it all right if I leave the arrangements of the loan to you? I would not ask such a brazen thing if Ponyville had an actual bank, but alas…”

“Oh, sure! Lately there hasn’t been anything but reports on the reconstruction anyways,” Twilight answered and nodded. “Is it all right if I contact the Murgese bank? They abide by the contractus trinus, so you’ll be protected by law against loan sharking. Plus they’re reputable, so there shouldn’t be any problems.”

“Hmm, ‘twas not my intention to deal with Istallians again so quickly… yet, I suppose your suggestion makes sense,” Apple Cobbler said. “Just remember that I shall be marked as the guarantor of the loan, and my financial situation is not to be doubted. A year should be plenty enough time to pay back this loan.”

“What? You actually have faith in my skills?” George asked, unable to hide his rather sarcastic expression. Cobbler answered with a sly smirk.

“No, but ‘twas never a question of trust in you,” she answered. “I do trust in Faraway Farm, however.”

“Lovely.” A dry grin crept up to George’s face. “I can tell we’re going to get along fine, you and I.”

“Which was why I was suggesting we would celebrate this budding business relationship with a drink or two,” Apple Cobbler stated. Then, as if it had been an afterthought, she gave a dirty look at Applejack. “You, cousin, are not invited, however. ‘Twould spoil any beverage with the bitter taste of a sore loser.”

“Ah didn’t plan to join ya,” Applejack answered rather loudly. “Unlike some others, Ah’ve got a heap of work to do back home. Now if y’all don’t mind, Ah hafta get goin’. Catch ya later, Twilight.”

“Um, sure! Later, Applejack!” Twilight said.

Thus, the positively grumpy-looking farmer pony left the group, muttering something under her breath the whole way. As she stomped away, the remaining three turned to look at each other. The sun was already on its way down from the sky, and even George noticed that the amount of creatures on the streets had increased. He figured that it was just like anywhere else: work days were ending, and the citizens were all in a hurry to get home.

“So, I’ll have to get back to the castle to finish up the paperwork. I’d join you otherwise,” Twilight said with a smile, and both Cobbler and George nodded.

“’Tis a shame, but I suppose it is for the best. Who knows what sort of reaction Your Majesty would cause if she entered a bar unannounced,” Cobbler answered. “Indeed, it seems that Mr. Sparrow and I shall have to survive on our own.”

“Hey, if it’s a bar, I can survive there for a whole week,” George chimed in. “Just point me in the right direction.”

Both Cobbler and George chuckled at his words. However, Twilight seemed somewhat anxious, clearly wanting to say something before she left. Eventually she cleared her throat, inhaled deeply, and took a stern expression upon her face. George found this a bit surprising, considering the purple pony princess had exhibited nothing but the traits of a naïve fool so far. The look in her eyes now, though… it seemed unexpectedly wise.

“And Apple Cobbler… I know it might not be my place to say this, but… can you try to get along with Applejack? I don’t know what happened between you two, but I think it’s for the best if we all can smile and laugh together,” Twilight said with a somber tone. “Especially if you’ll be staying here ‘til winter comes. It’ll get hard on everypony if you two keep bickering like that.”

The surprisingly stern eyes of the purple pony kept staring at the merchant with intensity, but even so, Apple Cobbler refused to budge. She answered that stare almost rebelliously, her trademark smirk keeping its tint of bitterness hidden in the corner of her mouth. George had seen a look like that many times, usually when he stared into the mirror; he knew that Twilight’s words were meaningless to the orange mare.

“… I hate to disappoint Your Majesty, but that is one order I cannot obey,” Cobbler finally answered. “’Tis a situation which stems solely from the stubbornness of your subject. If my cousin were not prideful overmuch, she might understand the true source of the quarrel here. Oh, and do not get me wrong: I am sure she is humble as a pony can be. But… yes, I suppose one could say there are prides of many sorts. Let us simply leave it at that, lest this bad blood affect the relationship between you and I, Your Majesty.”

Twilight continued to stare at the mare, and for a moment, George was sure that the princess would press on despite the warning. To him, she seemed just like all the other “kind souls” that he had met on his journeys, ready to stick their noses into other people’s business even when they shouldn’t. These people then had the gall to act surprised when that nose was bloodied quickly in such an event.

I don’t give a rat’s ass about the situation between those two… and that’s the way Cobbler clearly wants it, George thought. Perhaps you should understand that, Meddler Princess?

Finally, Twilight sighed and closed her eyes, clearly backing down.

“All right, I understand. Just take my words as a piece of advice, okay?” she said. “Now, I guess I should go.”

“Indeed, Your Majesty,” Apple Cobbler answered, before looking at George. “As for the two of us… there was a talk of a drink or two, was there not?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” George said and grinned. “Believe me, toy horse, I could empty every keg from here to the border right about now.”

Without caring for the slightly confused expressions of the mares, George hurried Cobbler to show him the way to this much-talked-about ‘bar.’

◊◊◊—Harvest Seasons: Spring—◊◊◊

“Hah, that does indeed hit the spot!”

The empty wooden pint hit the counter, accompanied by a short barking laughter emanating from Apple Cobbler. The Cheshire Cat-like grin of the mare was back again, showing her good mood. Meanwhile, George was resting his chin against the wooden counter, his eyes almost lifeless and a hopeless cloud hanging above his head. The pint next to him sat half-empty, the foam on top of the cider quickly disappearing.

“When you talked about ‘cider’, I had the measly amount of hope you meant hard cider… but this…” George said and groaned, glaring daggers at his pint. “This cider can’t even quench my thirst, let alone get me utterly plastered! A waste of a good pint, I say!”

The place the two had eventually ended up in was the purportedly “oldest saloon” in Ponyville, situated on the eastern side of the river that ran through the town. It was an old white brick building with a wooden roof, making the place stand out amongst the thatched roofs of the neighboring houses. The weathered façade of the building was deceiving, though, as a closer look revealed that the building was very sturdy for its age, and nowhere near toppling over yet. It was simply the artistic choice of whoever had built it to make the place look like it had been sitting there long before the town. However, while the bar gave off a good atmosphere, George had to admit that he cringed when he saw the name of the fine establishment.

‘The Pony You Came In With Saloon.’

One of the first urges George had when stepping into the place was to slap whoever happened to be the owner.

Still, the promise of alcohol and something to eat had managed to win him over, and eventually he had settled next to the counter with Apple Cobbler. There weren’t many patrons in the place, allowing George a good look at the saloon. He genuinely felt that if it had been a place back in his home world, he would have visited there more than once. The saloon itself was nothing more than one large room with two corners separated by brick archways for private meetings. The counter was at the other end of the room, near the fireplace and a corridor that must’ve led to the kitchens. Old barrels worked as tables, and while there were no chairs to speak of (for obvious reasons), most of the floor had been carpeted to make sitting easier. The red brick walls and low ceiling gave the place a cozy and almost intimate appearance, if a bit crowded. It didn’t help that one of the halls was solely reserved for the huge barrels where the cider was stored.

Indeed, the cider, which had become an object of pure hate for George. He had noticed it walking in, but nowhere on the carpeted floor or the wooden support beams could he smell the stinging, fermented stench of watered-down alcohol. Even the roaring fireplace that kept the saloon warm was surprisingly clean, with no sign of trash or wooden mugs thrown into the mix by drunken ponies. The whole place, for the lack of a better word, felt too clean. The only sign of actual staining in the passably cleaned establishment was near the doorway to the kitchens, most likely caused by grease that had seeped into the wooden floor.

So, while the smells flowing from the kitchen were almost irresistible, the warning bells were ringing in George’s head the whole time as the barkeep, a middle-aged unicorn with a bushy moustache, took their orders.

In the end, it turned out his suspicions were right, and what he got in his pint was the tasty yet cheap swill of a cider without a smidge of alcohol in it.

“I hate this place!” George proclaimed loudly as he leaned back, a groan erupting from somewhere within him. “Filter it! Filter it, you damn mules!”

“I take it you have something against the cider of Equestria?” Apple Cobbler asked, her grin devious enough to frighten spymasters. “What, pray tell, might this problem be?”

“This,” George said and raised his mug. “I wouldn’t feed this sugary swill to kids, let alone adults. What is wrong with you creatures!? Can’t any of you work a decent brewery, or are we under prohibition? If so, introduce me to local bootlegger come tomorrow. I can’t take another night with stuff like this.”

“’Tis the pride of the Sweet Apple Acres. Bottled for later consumption, of course, but still the local favorite. That being said, I cannot fault you for insulting their products, even if your reasons make no sense whatsoever,” Cobbler answered. “Not to mention I could hardly understand half of the words you said. Even if you are from far away, you have to adapt to the local lingo.”

George groaned and shot a glare at the mare, who simply chuckled at the sight. It seemed that the bartender had learned the skill of discreetly ignoring his customers, of which George was thankful. He had enough problems figuring out the orange creature who had suddenly become his business-partner. The last thing he needed was an overly curious taverner.

“Oh shut up. I’m doing my best to adapt, despite the horrible situation I’ve been thrust into. This town just ain’t making it exactly easy,” George said and let his eyes wander around the saloon. “It’s like I keep getting slapped across the face with a sledgehammer with the word ‘ridiculous’ written on it, over and over again. So yeah, one problem at a time.”

Cobbler sighed and signaled the bartender to fill their pints again. After the stallion had done as instructed, she took a sip from her drink, before looking at her companion. George had entered some sort of odd staring contest with the three other patrons of the saloon. Whenever he would avert his gaze from one, they would try to sneak a glance at him. Of course, this attracted his attention, so he ended up staring at the pony in question. Being stared at by the off-white pegasus, however, made the patrons quickly avert their gazes far too innocently. Indeed, it was a game of cat-and-mouse between overly curious ponies and someone who just wanted to be left alone.

“Well…” Cobbler answered, drawing the stallion back into the conversation. “Dialect and attitude aside, I think your number one problem is Death Valley—”

George’s ears perked up. For a moment, he was sure he had heard something extremely strange come out of the mare’s mouth. Two words that felt oddly foreign to this place, to this world, had just been spoken, and even he could catch the moment’s distortion.

The stallion’s eyes snapped at Cobbler, and for a moment the two of them ended up staring at each other in odd silence. Eventually George managed to break the uncomfortable, eerie lull hanging around them.

“What… what did you just say?” he asked. Apple Cobbler blinked in confusion.

“Huh? ‘Twas simply a reminder that your number one problem is still the debt. Actually, you’d do well to keep a calendar of some sort to remind yourself of the date of repayment,” Cobbler repeated, looking even more confused. “Were you not listening to me?”

George turned his eyes to the pint in front of him. The yellow liquid in it bubbled and sizzled, but seemed to offer no answers to the befuddling moment.

Did I just imagine it? Did I just doze off momentarily? George thought, frown scrunching his face. If not, then… what? Did she say what I thought she did? … Nah, that can’t be. Even if she did, why would she? That wouldn’t make a lick of sense.

Eventually, George was shaken from his thoughts by Cobbler’s voice.

“And to think they thought of me as weird when I left,” Apple Cobbler said and chuckled. She took a sip of her drink before continuing. “Would I not know better, I wouldst entertain the thought of you being some poor colt with a befuddled head, confined to his home for his whole life. Or perhaps you are, and have just escaped to the freedom of this vast world?”

“Are you picking a fight?” George asked, frowning at the mare. “Of course I’m not. I just got a bit lost in thought for a moment. Anyways, there’s nothing interesting about my past. I’m just your Average Joe, getting by in the world. I’ve done my fair share of travelling, and I guess for some god-forsaken reason, I’m punished for it by being stranded here. There, end of the story.”

“Truly? ‘Tis a bit hard to believe that a stallion that smells of nothing but innumerable roads would not have a story or two to share of his journeys,” Cobbler said, smiling slyly.

“Ain’t a single one, let alone two,” George answered bluntly and emptied his pint with one huge swig. “Look, I’m not prying about your past, so leave mine alone. It’s not remarkable and it’s not interesting, so there. End of story.”

“Oh, is that so? But I have no qualms of telling you about my past,” Cobbler said, giving a bit of a theatrical wave. “As I’ve said, I’m a travelling merchant. Like my name indicates, I am part of the Apple Family whose blood runs strong here close to Canterlot. But… well, I am not part of the main family. No, ‘twas to the north where I was born, past the bayous and plains, in the city of snow, lakes, and forest: Whinneapolis.”

George almost spat out his drink because of the name, but managed to settle it with a hacking cough. After giving the stallion a pitying look, the mare continued.

“A place where summers are mercifully short and winters depressingly long… A beautiful city illuminated by the night-time snow that glitters under the stars granted us by Princess of the Night,” Cobbler spoke, a hint of nostalgia creeping into her voice. “’Tis a world where branches of the pine trees reach forth like wings of great eagles, grand enough to carry a weight of a pony or two. Inhospitable at first glance, yet with warmth that can be found when you know where to look.”

To his surprise, George saw a strange look appear on the mare’s face. She was clearly no longer seeing the cider which she was staring at, but rather, the land which she spoke of. Even he could somewhat imagine it: endless forests of great trees, snow-capped by the ever-falling white powder that came from the skies. All of that, illuminated by the wondrous moon that managed to peek through the curtain of grey clouds that otherwise wanted to swallow the midnight sky…

… He had been in a similar place, once. Long time ago, during his travels. Simply hearing someone talk of it with such fondness rekindled, if only for a moment, the emotions that George had felt during those short winter days.

“Well, I gotta admit…” George finally said, ending the short silence. “… It sounds like a nice place.”

“Indeed ‘twas. But, alas, that was no place for a young filly with wanderlust in her bones,” Apple Cobbler said, and chuckled sardonically. “So I began travelling south, and only recently have I stopped. The life of a merchant overtook my desire to see these faraway places… though sometimes, I still get to visit lands I’ve never even dreamt of.”

Slowly, though somewhat awkwardly, George swirled around the pint in his hooves. Unlike he had expected, Apple Cobbler had not simply given him an exaggerated lip-service when it came to her past. At least not in the way he thought she would. Instead, she had honestly spoken of where she came from, and what had driven her forward. It was… a surprising showcase of familiarity, to be sure. So far, he had seen only a reflection of himself in the mare: unfriendly, sarcastic, and full of bitterness channeled as strength to drive herself forward. But now it started dawning upon him that maybe things weren’t that simple.

Or, rather, maybe the mare wasn’t as simple as George himself was.

“So? I’ve divulged some of my personal tales. Surely you’ve gotten comfortable enough to indulge my curiosity?” Apple Cobbler suddenly said, leaning closer to George with a sly smile on her face. “Of this… ‘Whiskey Valley’ you spoke of.”

Gah, I’ll take that back, George thought as he grimaced. She’s just devilishly clever, that’s all.

“Ugh, okay, God. You’re so persistent…” George finally relented, taking a sip of his cheap cider before continuing. “Let’s see… something interesting…”

For a moment, silence reigned between the two again, before George finally lifted his gaze from the surface of the counter.

“Well, there was this time I used to wrestle for living,” he blurted out. Cobbler stared at him with eyebrows reaching for her maneline.

“W-wrestled, you say? That sounds… odd, I admit.”

“Yeah, well, it wasn’t anything too special. Bunch of showboating and such. It wasn’t even real fighting, not like you’d see in illegal competitions and such,” George continued. “The winners were decided beforehand, and the only thing we’d have to worry about was putting on the best show we could for what measly crowd we could gather. The pay wasn’t good and my body still aches because of it, but at least it brought food to the table.”

It seemed that for Apple Cobbler the concept of professional wrestling was absurd to say the least. The mare stared at her drink, brows knitted together. George didn’t know whether it was because of what he had told specifically, or because Cobbler found what had been said too implausible to even consider as truth. Whatever the case, he had spoken honestly; even if he himself was the only one who knew this.

And it’s not like my hip is going to let me forget any time soon, George mumbled in his mind. The injuries suffered on those sweaty, bruise-filled days were still with him even to this day.

“Oh, taverner,” Cobbler suddenly called out, interrupting George’s thoughts. “Is the kitchen open already? I’d like to place an order.”

“Certainly, ma’am,” the mustachioed stallion behind the counter answered. “What would you like?”

Swigging the rest of her cider down the hatch, Apple Cobbler leaned forward on the counter, a somewhat excited smile on her face. George had to admit that the smells coming from behind the closed door were enticing, and even in this world where meat seemed to be a rarity, he could hope for something delicious.

“’Twas two years ago that I previously dined here,” Cobbler said. “Do you still make those delectable baked potatoes covered in goat cheese? I’d like to have four, please. Two for me, and two for my business-partner here.”

The bartender looked surprised for a moment, clearly not expecting someone to remember a dish from so long ago. However, his face quickly melted into a pleased smile.

“Certainly. If you wait for a moment, I’ll let the cook know.”

The mustachioed stallion left for the kitchen, leaving George and Apple Cobbler alone on the counter. While the rest of the tavern had been slowly filling up with ponies returning from work and what-not, George quickly noticed that not many of them were willing to approach where the two of them were sitting. In small towns like this, there was always a certain sense of unity, and strangers stuck out like sore thumbs.

Well, if these things had thumbs, sure. What should I say: ‘stick out like sore… I dunno, hooves?’ Can hooves even get sore? They’re supposed to be like keratin or something, right? George mused to himself.

Still, there was no denying it: he and his partner were left in peace, and that was just fine. The last thing George needed right now was more nosy ponies trying to pluck seeds of information out of him. The merchant sitting next to him was quite enough.

“Still, four potatoes?” George said, finishing up his own drink. “That’s hardly a snack, and more like a meal.”

“’Twas the intention, really. I have not eaten anything since I left Dashville this morning, and travelling does take a lot out of you,” Cobbler answered, signaling the taverner who had returned to refill their mugs. “What about you? Have you managed to fill your stomach already?”

For a moment, George’s thoughts returned to his breakfast. It had been delicious considering his situation, but frankly, not enough to fill one’s stomach. Not to mention that the Stetson-wearing pony had managed to abduct him before he had even managed to finish it. It probably still lay on the grass of the farmstead, unless some forest animals had made away with it.

“No, not really. Actually, now that you mention it, I’m starving,” George admitted. “Good call.”

“Oh, just wait and see,” Cobbler said while smiling mysteriously. “This is your first time eating this dish here, after all.”

The mare did not lie. When the potatoes finally arrived, George had hard time holding back the drool that threatened to slip down his lips. The potatoes had been baked to the color of deep gold, and steam still rose from them, spreading their irresistible smell. The wooden bowl the taverner had brought the potatoes with was not small one, and still it seemed that the four potatoes were more than enough to fill it to the brim. George didn’t know whether it was because the potatoes were so large, or because he was smaller in size, but at this point, he did not care. After all, his stomach was already letting out rumbles of joy for what awaited it.

And then there was the goat cheese: rich and fatty in substance, creamy in composition, it had been melted over the potatoes in vast quantities, almost drowning the potatoes. In a sense, they looked like white-capped, boulder-shaped mountains of pure deliciousness.

“Well? What are you waiting for?” Cobbler asked, amused by George’s astonished expression. “Let us ‘dig in’ as they say.”

Together, both George and the mare took one potato and proceeded to break them in half. This revealed the steaming center of the potato, which was bright like sun itself. Unable to wait anymore, and not caring about the clear possibility of burning his mouth, George popped one of the halves in his mouth. Apple Cobbler was quick to follow suit.

And for that brief moment, the two of them tasted the heaven of culinary simplicity.

“Mmm~! Oh, God, wow! Man, oh, oh… oh God…!” George managed to say, tears streaming down his face. “This is… this is…!”

“Good, is it not?” Apple Cobbler chuckled.

George could only nod enthusiastically.

“You have no idea.”

◊◊◊—Harvest Seasons: Spring—◊◊◊

About hour later, George finally found himself outside the tavern. However, this time, he was in the backyard, searching for the telltale signs of an outhouse. Even if the cider they had served him was cheap, sugary swill with not even an inch of alcohol, it still did its job. Eight pints later, he had suddenly found his bladder entering the danger zone, and thus, some actions were required.

“’Tis at the backyard, if I remember correctly,” Apple Cobbler had advised him. “Now go before you embarrass us both any more with your strange jig.”

It seemed that the ponies, or at least Cobbler, were unfamiliar with the famous dance of a person past their urinary limit.

Still, even after he spotted the house of relief, George couldn’t help but to take one last look at the darkened sky. Stars were already out, and a beautiful full moon was rising from beyond the horizon. As he had noticed the last time, it really seemed that the night arrived faster than back in his own world. For a moment, George wondered if it had anything to do with the size of the supposed planet he was on, or if the orbits of the celestial objects were simply different.

Then again, it’s not like the days feel any shorter. It’s just that the moon seems to shoot up quick, almost like it’s trying to show off or something, George mused in his mind as he used his hoof to swing open the outhouse door.

To his relief, the outhouse was, as with rest of the pony buildings, much cleaner than their human equivalents. Gone were the stains of urine and feces in the ceiling, and even the roll of toilet paper seemed to be in rather good condition. George was almost about to praise such tidiness, until he remembered that ponies probably had a hard time even utilizing something like toilet paper because of their hooves.

“Damn these things… such useless flabs of meat,” George muttered as he sat down on the toilet. “Then again, I suppose that’s not a big difference compared to my old arms. It’s not like they were good for anything else than punching people.”

Heaving a sigh, George began to work and relaxed. From between the planks of the outhouse he could still see the shine of the moon as it continued to climb up the sky. It was then, staring at that light, that the absurdity of his situation started to dawn once again to George. There he was: in a body that wasn’t his, sitting in an outhouse in a world that was worse than Saturday morning cartoons… and yet, he ended his day in about the same way as he usually did. Emptying his bladder because he had drank too much.

“Hah. If I just were plastered, this’d be no different from home,” George said and laughed quietly, his gaze shifting down at his stumpy little legs hanging over the edge of the toilet.

Only, instead of the off-white legs that ended in hooves, he was now staring at a pair of weather-beaten, hairy, muscly legs. Human legs, to be exact. And his hind legs that rested on them had been replaced by familiar arms that ended with five digits.

“Oh, bollocks!” George hissed, looking at his once-again-human body.

Author's Note

Ppwg ggn bjtvkywjf il mpw ewg,

Mpw yif pqde jw jcavs lh uwxb lam hhw.

Next Chapter: Walkin' After Midnight

“Any chance you’d just let me pass without screaming at the top of your lungs?”

Spring 6: Walkin' After Midnight

Spring Chapter 6
Walkin’ After Midnight

In the dark of the night, in the backyard of the ‘Pony You Came In With Saloon’, a certain outhouse was filled with desperate yell of a man living his currently worst moment ever.

“’Ooh, no. Oh, no-no-no-no! Not now! Couldn’t you at least wait till I was done? I mean, changing me in the middle of the operation? Who does that!?”

Observation #1: The pony-outhouses were clearly meant only for ponies. Therefore, something the size of a tall, bulky human suddenly appearing in one quickly found itself in a very tight spot.

Observation #2: Just like last time, changing from a naked pony into a human did not mean that you magically gained clothing from anywhere. In other words, anything changing in such manner was presented in their most natural state… for better or for worse.

Observation #3: George Sparrow’s life had taken another terrifying turn for the worse.

“Crap, this ain’t good. Not in the least,” George muttered as he squeezed out of the outhouse. “I can’t let these ponies see me like this, I’ve got enough problems already…!”

While the day itself had gone more or less well, George still remembered what had happened just the previous night. The pain caused by the stinging nettle to his nether regions had made sure of that. He didn’t want a repeat of those panic-filled moments, and thus, his only choice now was to somehow make a quiet escape to somewhere where he could hide, at least until he changed back to his equine form.

“What the hell causes it, anyhow?” George muttered as he scanned the thankfully deserted backyard of the tavern. “The last time I was having a bath in that oil drum, but now I was simply taking a leak, and it still kicked in… oh, wait a minute.”

Peering up towards the skies, George saw the full moon staring back at him. Its silvery light covered most of the town around him, including the place where he stood. Slowly but surely, gears in his head started turning, until like a flash of lightning, realization hit him. George slapped his own forehead, and grimaced.

“Moonlight…! Of course!” He said. “Well, that or just night in general. I was pretty shielded from moonlight in that outhouse after all. But, still… that sounds plausible. Or, at the very least it would put some sense into these transformations. Something in the night activates them, and I change back into that four-legged nightmare whenever sun comes up… or something like that.”

Suddenly, a frightening thought struck George, causing him to shiver. It did not really help that he was outside on a chilly spring evening without a single piece of clothing to hide his shame.

“So, wait: I’m some sort of… were-pony? God, and here I thought turning either into an animal or something sparkly was bad. But no, I’ve been saddled with turning into both!” he grumbled, grinding his teeth, before looking suddenly horrified. “… Saddled? Oh god, am I starting to make puns, too? Is this some sort of side-effect of this curse!?”

A sudden sound of an opening door from a nearby street shocked George back into reality. He was relatively safe on the backyard, as it had been walled-off, but sooner or later some patron would stumble upon him. Thus, he had to escape, and fast. He didn’t want a pony, especially not Apple Cobbler, finding him looking like this. Even if they connected him to the off-white pegasus they had seen earlier, just the sight of him would cause enough trouble.

“…I guess that’ll have to do,” George muttered as he finally spotted something to cover himself with.

The large piece of cloth that had been pulled over some old barrels got the dubious honor of becoming his makeshift clothing. George ripped it in half, covering his lower half like he had worn a towel. He then proceeded to wrap it around himself to fasten it, securing it with rope that had held the cloth in place. The rest of the dark brown linen he threw over himself to hide his bulky frame. It wasn’t the best disguise, but at least he managed to hide his face with that makeshift cloak-and-hood.

“I don’t suppose this Lawrence of Arabia look is fashionable anymore,” George mumbled as he tested that the clothing wouldn’t restrict his movement. “Still, there’s no way I’m risking showing my junk to these crazy creatures. I’ve seen what sets of teeth horses have!”

Having acquired some manner of disguise, George decided not to linger in the backyard anymore. Every minute he risked a chance of someone walking in on him. Thus, he headed to the plank fence that separated the tavern from the back alleys, and easily climbed over it. While it might have stopped a pony, for a human it was merely the matter of having some muscles to pull one over it; and though George might have been lacking in many aspects, he could always be proud of his muscles… even if he had started developing a pot-belly lately.

Dropping down to the back alley, George immediately lay as low as he could, frantically scanning his surroundings. Both ends of the alley were empty, so he quietly made his way towards west. From what he could remember, most of the town’s buildings were concentrated on the eastern side, close to the river that ran through it.

If I can just get outside of the town and into that darn forest, I’ll be golden, George mused as he snuck forward. The only problem is if I have to cross any large streets… but then again, it’s night. Something tells me these marshmallow-colored freaks ain’t nocturnal.

George’s suspicions were soon confirmed. After walking down a couple of more alleys that led him closer and closer to the western edge of the town, he came across one of the main streets. Indeed, it was the same one he and his useless “tourist guides” had used earlier that day; and in the dark of the night, George saw no living soul in sight. Only the lights in the houses told that anything was indeed awake at this hour.

Confectionaries and fashion boutiques… Bah. Escape routes, Crazy Sparkle! Whenever entering a new town, you’ve gotta identify all escape routes! George admonished the purple alicorn in his mind. Any guide worth their salt should have the courtesy of at least discreetly showing them! Unbelievable. It’s like they’ve never had to skip town before.

As the main street was far too wide and far too open for subtlety to be of any help, George decided to risk it. He waited fifteen more seconds to make sure that nobody was walking about or appearing from behind a corner. Then, muttering a little prayer for anyone interested enough to listen under his breath, he sprinted forward. His bare feet slapped against the sandy surface of the street, creating a rhythm to go with his heartbeat.

Gods of Irony, don’t look now! George hoped as he dashed with all his might.

It took him only few seconds to cross the main street with his long legs and speed, but for George, it had felt almost like an eternity. Only when in the shadows of the buildings once more could he breathe easy. Now that he was relatively safe, George squatted down on the alley for a moment, steadying his heart-rate.

“Damn… this is more nerve-wracking than I thought. I mean, at the end of the day, I’m hiding for miniature toy horses. It’s ain’t like they could do anything to me even if they caught me. Unless they ganged up on me,” George muttered to himself, shivering at the thought. “Ugh. Swarmed by a pastel colored wave that barely hits my knees. Now there’s a nightmare for the weekend.”

Having calmed himself down, George patted his knees and stood up once more. His cloak was working admirably for its makeshift nature, and even the super-sized breechcloth was doing its job. Even if some of the creatures saw him, they would hardly know what he looked like. Grunting to himself, George pulled his hood down to further cover his face, and headed back into the shadows of the alley. Using this route, he could most likely make it all the way to the edge of the town. After that, he’d only have to avoid the occasional farm, and he’d be home free. Faraway Farm was feeling like the best choice for a hideout at the moment, as George knew he could lock himself in some room until morning came.

Hopefully that’ll change me back. I’ll have to come up with some excuse for Apple Cobbler, but… eh, I’ll think about that tomorrow. First I have to worry about getting out of here, George mused in his mind. It’s not even that big of a place, but the town plan’s bonkers. Then again, I suppose they did have that attack of… Tiramisu?... some time ago. Hmm… I’d better ask about that when I get the chance. Don’t wanna be surprised by some fantasy monster crap while I’m tending to my turnips.

As George made his way through the alleys of Ponyville, he slowly started to relax a bit more. There clearly wasn’t anyone walking around this time of the night, especially on the backstreets that he kept using. What that left him was the almost uninterrupted silence of the night, as well as breathtaking view of the starry skies above his head. George couldn’t remember the last time he had seen stars shine so bright. It was like he had been transported in the middle of a desert.

However, the sight also filled him with dread. As much as he tried, he could not find any familiar shapes or constellations. Even Polaris, which was easy to spot just about everywhere, was missing. The sinking feeling in George’s stomach told him the truth that he already knew: the night sky he was admiring wasn’t the familiar one, but weird and alien. It did not take long for that grand sight to turn eerie.

George sighed and pulled his cloak further on himself. His wandering eyes returned to stare at the streets once more…

“… Crap.”

… Only to see a pony staring straight at him.

Light cerise coat. Mane and tail colored vivid, blazing yellow. Sporting a horn but no wings, and with a colorful tattoo of an exploding star adorning its rear end. George had never seen this pony before, but judging from its expression, this meeting was not about to go well. Its pupils had shrunk to pinpricks, and there was a frozen expression of fear plastered on its face. No, not even fear. George had only seen that sort of expression in one place during his lifetime.

— And that had been on the faces of small critters being stared at by hunting dogs.

It was absolute terror. Primal, undiluted, absolute terror. The horned pony was staring at his cloaked figure like he had been some sort of Lovecraftian horror that had slithered up from the sewers. Even George had to admit it was surprising: he had expected shock and fear, but not to this extent. The creature looked like it would shatter akin to glass if he just touched it.

At this point, it’s just the fear and surprise that’s keeping it silent. George muttered in his mind. This moment’s just a pitiful blank between one and perdition. The second I make some sort of move or open my mouth, it’ll scream. And run. Probably at the same time. And that means… the whole town’s going to wake up. ‘Crap’, indeed…

There was no way around it. The situation had been locked already, and there was only one way out. George softly inhaled and prepared himself, digging his feet into the soft ground. This would be all about speed. Either he would grab and silence the silly creature, or then he’d have the whole township, plus those armored guards he had seen at the castle, after him. In other words, it was a make it or break it moment.

And George, trusting his gambler’s instincts, had decided to roll the dice.

“Any chance you’d just let me pass without screaming at the top of your lungs?” George asked, trying his best to emulate a friendly expression.

His answer was an ear-piercing screech that must’ve been pony-equivalent of a typical horror-movie damsel-in-distress scream.

“That’s about what I expected, yeah,” George said with a grunt, and dashed forward.

His plan had been simple. Catch the pony, knock it out, stuff it into some nearby trashcan and then flee from the scene of the crime before anyone could come investigating. Not the most complicated plan, but on such a short notice, it was the best he could do; and in any other situation, the plan would have probably worked. The pony was nowhere near his size, so overpowering it was a piece of cake…

“W-wait, what!?”

… If only the pony hadn’t suddenly disappeared in a flash of blinding, golden light.

George could only stare in front of him in stupefied awe. This he definitely had not anticipated. It wasn’t as if the pony had blinded him with something and used that chance to run away, no: the creature had simply disappeared from within his reach. Almost like… almost like…

“M-magic?” George muttered, his teeth chattering. “No way, don’t tell me… then again, this place is fantasy-ish enough already, so it could be. But still, if the horned ones can do something like that, I… I… I…”

Somewhere in the distance, bells started ringing with great fervor. Alarmed by that sound, lights popped on in just about every window around the town, illuminating even the alley that George was currently on.

“—I think that’s my cue, actually,” George finished his thought, and dashed forward.

There was no need for subtlety or sneaking anymore. If the bells in the distance meant anything like the bells he had heard before, the whole town had just been alerted to his presence. In other words, ponies would be out looking for him. George’s only chance at this point was to run as fast as he could and hope he would be able to make it out of the town before some patrol fell upon him.

Securing his cloak one last time, George vaulted the fence that greeted him at the end of the alley and arrived on a backyard. There was a terrified scream coming from the open window, no doubt meaning he had been spotted again. Without missing a beat, George crossed the yard in a mad dash for freedom, vaulted another fence and landed on the sandy surface of a street.

Taking a sharp turn, he sprinted towards the promising sight of faraway trees; the only problem was that this direction took him straight to one of the larger streets, and only few seconds after getting there, he could hear the tell-tale signs of small hooves pounding the ground. He might have had more leg power, and considerably longer legs, but he ventured a guess that these ponies could still get into quite the speeds. Therefore he wasted no time in looking behind, and instead darted down the street, straight into the spotlight of the lamps flanking the street.

Reno’s Mullet, how can one day go so wrong so quick!? George yelled in his mind. As if I didn’t have enough problems already!

Bolting to the next street, which seemed to lead towards the forest and the river, George noticed from the corner of his eyes how more and more windows started flying open, and curious heads poked out of them. He silently thanked the cloak he was wearing in his mind. The last thing he needed was some pastel-colored freak seeing his ugly mug.

What he wasn’t so thankful about was the closing in sound of trampling hooves. Throwing one glance backwards as he made a sharp turn, George nearly bit his tongue. A whole platoon of armored white ponies was hot on his trail, and judging by their expressions, they were not about to give up. Not to mention that with their speed, they would have caught up to him sooner or later.

“I suppose I’ll have to improvise, then!” George muttered to himself and changed his direction.

Instead of following the street, George headed straight towards the side of the nearest house he saw. The timber frames and overhanging balconies were perfect for what he was about to do. Thus, the moment he got close enough, George jumped with all his might and caught hold of one side of the dark brown frame with his fingers. Striking his bare feet against the wall, he pushed himself forward, throwing forth his right hand and catching a hold of the balcony’s railing. Using that as a lever-point, he then pulled himself up and jumped on to the small balcony. From there, it was simply a hop, skip and a jump, and he was on the thatched roof.

— Far above the reach of his quadruped chasers.

“Hah! Try to catch me now, suckers!” George yelled and laughed mockingly.

His happiness was, unfortunately, short-lived. While using the rooftops as his way out had been a stroke of brilliance, George had failed to accommodate for one rather obvious fact. Not a minute of rooftop-running had gone by till he heard a strange sound of powerful wings flapping in the air. Glancing over his shoulder as he jumped from one roof to another, George saw to his horror that some of the armored ponies had taken flight, using their strangely short wings to beat the air and get some impressive height.

“Oh, right! Of course!” George grumbled and cursed under his breath. “The wings! They were made for flying! God!”

Thus, the chase was on once more. The pegasi guards were much faster on their wings than George’s acrobatic escape, and thus they started gaining on him quickly. There was also another problem that occurred to him as he approached the river, and the forest beyond it: The rooftops would end pretty soon. He only saw three houses ahead, and after that, it was nothing but the big drop and the river that waited beyond it.

George knew that there was only one way to go. Gritting his teeth together, George quickly crossed the distance of those last three rooftops, put some power to his legs, and made mad dash forward, right to the edge that awaited for him.

“The things I do for my freedom!” George cried out angrily.

Then, performing a magnificent leap, George put his arms forth, shaping something like a knife with his body, bending his waist ever so slightly. He cut the air with amazing precision, covering the distance between the rooftop and the river easily, before plunging head first into the deep, cold river that awaited him. The only that was left behind was the cloak he had covered himself with, hanging in the air like it had been a kite.

The freezing water hit George like a truck to the face, but he managed to shake off the shock. For a moment, his eyes saw nothing but deep, murky blackness, and his ears were filled with the rush of the flowing river. However, his instincts kicked in, keeping his body still on the move. George’s legs kicked the water and his hands dug forth like shovels, keeping him moving forward. He did not fight against the current, however, allowing it to move him sideways. He knew that the power of the water would take him further away from his chasers than his own limbs ever could.

Eventually he felt certain light-headedness that came when losing oxygen during a dive. Deciding that he had gotten far enough, George put all his strength into swimming forward, and soon enough felt the muddy bank of the river with his hands. Digging into it deep, he pulled himself forth and pushed up with his legs.

Only a second later did George break the water’s surface, inhaling the fresh air deep into his lungs.

Quick look around revealed that he had made much more headway than he had anticipated. The house he had dived from was far away in the distance, as was the group of ponies who had gathered on the opposing bank of the river. They seemed to be busy investigating the makeshift cloak he had left behind. Cackling to himself, George waded out of the river and on to the dry land.

However, his laughter was cut short, as another flash of brightly-colored light, purple this time, appeared near the group of ponies. He heard a commanding neigh, and saw how the purple pony that had appeared pointed into his general direction with its front leg. There was no doubt about it. The Crazy Sparkle pony had appeared once more, and it ushered the chasers after him once more… that, and it was also, apparently, capable of the same disappearing trick as the other horned pony.

“Oh, come on!” George screamed at the sight, forgetting his situation momentarily because of sheer frustration. “Okay, that’s it! Officially: Screw! This!”

Growling out of anger, George resumed his run, heading straight to the woods that awaited him. They were the only relief he had at the moment. The ponies might have been as fast or faster than him on flat land, but out in the forest? He could give them a slip before they even realized what was going on. At least the ponies didn’t have squad cars to help them, or ATVs with drunken hillbilly drivers.

The forest scenery whistled past George as he dashed deeper into the dark depths of the thicket. Strange shapes and odd shadows crept everywhere around him, but he didn’t let them bother him. It was night-time in the forest, after all. Only fools presumed there was nothing scary out there that could harm them; and George was banking on the fact that these ponies knew the same thing, herbivores as they were.

I mean, they’re idiots, but not suicidal idiots, right? George grumbled in his mind as he vaulted over a boulder. Please don’t let them be suicidal idiots!

It seemed that George’s prayers were answered. As he broke further and further in into the deep, unwelcoming undergrowth, he heard the strange sound that accompanied the flashing light. Quick glance told him that the purple pony with both horn and wings had arrived to the edge of the forest. Still, it was clearly hesitating, as were the other ponies that quickly arrived to its side. They did not want to venture into the forest after him.

“Hah! Take that you grass-munching, candy-colored freaks of nature! Even you know it’s best not to mess with the best!” George yelled and laughed victoriously. “Score one for Team Sparrow, ahaha— Aaaaaah!”

In his glee of victory, George had went and forgotten one of the most important aspects of running in a forest: keeping a track of where and how you step. Before he even knew it, his right foot was caught in a particularly thick root, and he fell like lakeside timber. Worst of all, what awaited him was a steep downwards slope filled with rocks and bushes.

The end result was predictable: letting out a horrible litany of curses, George Sparrow tumbled down the hill in one big pile of limbs and brown cloth.

“This—! Ow! Feels awfully—! Ow! Familiar! Eaugh!”

However, every moment has come to an end. George’s unrefined roll down the hill met its end when he reached the very bottom, only to hit his head straight into a large rock. For a moment, he saw nothing but stars and flashing white lights, until pain assaulted his cranium. It was like something had set his brains on fire without asking for permission first.

The last thing George saw, before completely blacking out because of the hit, was something strange. Far above him, towering like a giant from fairytales, was something… oddly familiar. It was bulky, and it cast a big, black shadow over him; but, even in his stupefied state of mind, George realized one thing before darkness overtook him:

—The shape he saw was that of a human.

Author's Note

Pr ena fmrv og ziem bn pprme.

Vbe ume lemnuf iem jzbctpg evbu nrie.

Next Chapter: Another Song to Sing

“Goddammit… I didn’t do anything wrong…”

Spring 7: Another Song to Sing

Spring Chapter 7
Another Song to Sing

What woke George up was, as per usual, a pounding headache. However, instead of its cause being copious amounts of alcohol consumed the previous night, the reason was much more physical this time. Groaning in pain, George reached to the back of his head with his hand, only to feel oddly slimy and wet part that made his heart jump.

Despite the pain, he forced his eyes open and brought his hand in front of his face. Even in the dark of the forest, he could see clearly that he hadn’t guessed wrong: his hand was covered in the one red substance he hated to see.

— Blood.

“I’d… say it was worth it…” George grumbled, his voice sounding hoarse. “But I’d be lying. Damn that smarts…!”

Pushing himself up from the moss-filled forest floor, George couldn’t help but to rub the back of his head again. He knew that he had been busted up pretty badly by the stone, judging from the amount of blood that covered his hand. Unfortunately, he had never been someone with enough patience to not scratch his scars. Moment’s satisfaction was preferable to a long-time goal.

Glancing around, George was somewhat surprised to find himself completely alone. Considering he hadn’t run that long of a distance into the forest, he had expected the ponies to have him surrounded at this point. Instead, all he could see were the shadows covering the foliage, and the occasional beam of moonlight that managed to seep through the treetops. The whole forest seemed to be draped in darkness, making it hard to see even five feet ahead.

“Maybe they couldn’t find me…” George muttered as he slowly got to his feet. “Or maybe this forest’s some sort of taboo for them. Yeah, that sounds about right. Stumbling straight into cursed woods on my second day…”

Letting out a frustrated groan, George once again took a look at his hand. Now that he had gotten back his bearings to some extent, he could see that the blood in his hands was mostly darkened and somewhat stiff. That was good news, at the very least. The flow had dried up, and hopefully, it wouldn’t start again even if he moved. Still, the wet spot at the back of his head felt rather disgusting. It took all his concentration not to get right down to scratching it.

“Where am I, anyways?” George continued muttering as he scanned his surroundings. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen a forest this… feral. Just look at these trees. I can’t practically see the sky at all.”

Moss covered the large tree trunks and vines seemed to stretch between the plants, creating a webbing that veiled even the undergrowth. Plants unknown to George swayed in the nightly breeze, and out in the distance, an owl let out its familiar cry. The only colors that entered George’s vision were green, brown and black. It was like a uniform the woods had donned.

“At least I know where to get lumber when I start fixing up Faraway Farm,” George said and chuckled dryly, knocking the trunk of the tree near him. It let out an odd, hollow sound. “Strong wood and it’s quite close to the town, so I should… wait, what?”

He knocked the trunk again, and once more, the hollow knell of wood answered. It was a sound unlike anything George had heard before. His eyes narrowed as he stepped away from the trunk, just now noticing the odd its color was. Under the moonlight, the weathered hue was not easily noticeable, but if one strained their eyes, it could still be recognized. For some reason… the tree’s bark was faded blue.

George’s eyes climbed higher and higher, trying to see the branches and the leaves of this odd, hollow tree. However, he only found the trunk continuing, forming into an odd mass that connected to another tree, and climbing even higher from there. It took a moment for George to realize just what he was staring at. The dark shape blended into the night-time forest perfectly, and if he had not seen the shadow it cast before falling unconscious, George wasn’t sure if he had pieced the clues together so fast.

Still, the sight sent a freezing chill down his spine. The odd foreboding feeling clutching his chest was even worse than when he realized he was in another world. After all, what he stared right now in the deep forest… was something he recognized.

“Paul… Bunyan…” George whispered in awe.

He wasn’t mistaken. Even in the darkness of the forest the old statue hadn’t lost any of its grandeur. Standing almost ten meter tall, it barely hid within the forest, its head reaching all the way up to the treetops. In its right hand it held a gigantic axe that seemed to gleam in the moonlight. The eyes of the colossal statue stared into the nothingness, and the empty smile of the larger-than-life lumberjack made George shiver.

“What… but how!?” George asked aloud, unable to comprehend what he was seeing. “Y-you’re a statue of a human! Not something native to this world! I’ve seen your images on the roadsides! You’re… you’re definitely the Paul Bunyan I’ve seen on Earth!”

George’s brains were running like a racehorse. The farm he could still somewhat understand. Maybe it was some sort of hotspot between worlds, or maybe it existed between dimensions. There had to be some sort of explanation for that. But this…? This wooden statue that had been beaten down by weather and years, clearly showing it had been sitting here in the middle of the forest for at least decades? It was impossible. Sheer absurdity. There was no reason for a statue of Paul Bunyan to be in the middle of a forest in this strange, surreal world of colorful, talking ponies.

A crunching sound filled George’s ears as he grinded his teeth together. Despite the pounding pain in his head, or perhaps just because of it, his hands clenched into fists. Anger flared up in his eyes as he stared at the empty smile of the giant, unable to take the sight anymore.

“Why!?”

Letting out a yell of impotent rage, George swung his fist as hard as he could, punching the statue in its leg. Of course, he did not achieve more than hurting his hand, but that didn’t stop him. Instead, he swung again, and again, until he was laying a beat down on the wooden surface. Slowly but surely, he chipped away the blue-painted wood. It was need born out of desperation, the desire to hurt something, anything, because of his current situation.

—And this inexplicable statue had given him the perfect target.

“You have to know something!” George roared, ignoring his pain with pure stubbornness. “You can’t be here just because! There has to be a reason! Somebody built you! Somebody who knew what humans looked like! Or, someone who was a human!”

Pain stung the bloodied knuckles, but George did not care. Instead, he quickened his pace, embedding more and more splinters into his skin in the process. But no matter how painful it got, it seemed to only elevate his anger. The bottled up emotions that had been held at bay by the presence of other, intelligent creatures now came gushing forward. The pain of being ripped out of one’s world, the loneliness of not belonging, the anger stemming from homesickness… it was all there.

It was that rattlesnake with bloodshot eyes, coiling around George’s heart.

“You bastard! Tell me! What the hell is going on here!?” George screamed at the lifeless statue. “Why am I here!? Why me!? Why do I have to save some goddamn farm in another world!? I didn’t do anything wrong!”

Finally, a punch embedded itself deep into the wooden surface of the statue’s leg. George, breathing ragged and heavy, looked down on his shaking fists, only to find them bleeding badly. His anger was gone, but instead, he now felt a hollow hole inside him. Even in his greatest bout of drunken rage, George had not felt like this. This wasn’t something that would simply go away, not as long as he remained in this world. He could keep it hidden, he could fake it till he made it, but as long as he was unjustly imprisoned in this dimension, that rattlesnake in his chest would continue to bare its fangs.

“I didn’t do anything wrong…” George whispered, finding it hard to catch his breath. He leaned his head against the cold, wooden surface of the statue’s legs, trying to calm himself down.

Even to his own ears, his words sounded empty.

No matter how he had raged, the empty eyes of the statue gave him no answers. It simply left him feeling tired and lonely, clawing at the walls of this pit he had been thrust into. More questions had risen, but there were no solutions in sight. Just a statue that reminded him of everything he had lost.

George fought back the tears that welled up in his eyes. He bit his teeth together with enough force to break them, but to no avail. Before he knew it, salty drops of frustration fell to the mossy ground, as if to mock him.

“Goddammit… I didn’t do anything wrong…” George muttered, his shoulders shaking. “I didn’t do anything wrong…”

He knew that this was not the end. He would still survive. If what he had guessed was right, by the time the morning came, he would return to his four-legged form, and could head back to the farm. However, even if that did not happen, he could still find a way. Just like he always had. But right now, George simply could not care. He felt spent, like he had been beaten up and tossed down. The burst of anger he had felt had left him simply… hollow. Right now, George only wanted to stay silent and not face any of the problems he might have waiting for him.

He would carry on. Just like the wayward son he was. However, even George did not know if there was a peace waiting for him when he would be done. The only thing he wanted to do was to lay his weary head to rest…

… And not to cry anymore.

◊◊◊—Harvest Seasons: Spring—◊◊◊

Eventually, morning came to Ponyville, as well as the Faraway Farm. And along with the light that slowly enveloped the decrepit farmstead came George Sparrow. He dragged his feet, still feeling unbelievably tired, but at least this time, he wasn’t just dragging two legs. He was dragging four.

Just like he had anticipated, by the time the sunlight slid through the treetops into the overgrown forest, the lurching feeling in his stomach returned. Just a sinking feeling in his bones, and he suddenly found himself once again looking like a freaky little toy horse with useless wings.

Thus, here he was: trudging down the road that led to the half-ruined farmstead that he was now saddled with. The sand beneath his hooves stung, but at least he wasn’t suffering from his wounds anymore. For some reason, they had all healed after his transformation was finished. However, at the time, George had been too spent to even think about the implications behind that. Instead, he was simply glad that he could finally get out of the forest and leave the mysterious statue behind him.

As he approached the Faraway Farm, he could see all the old, familiar signs. He saw the oil drum that he had bathed in. He saw the tilted grain silos that seemed ready to topple over, if not for the support of each other. He saw the big hole that was in the roof of the main building, just screaming to be fixed before the next torrential rain. Everything his eyes took in was bathed in the golden light of the morning sun… and yet, he felt nothing as he gazed the sight.

What finally made his heart jump, though, was the quiet sound of harmonica that flowed from the farmstead.

To his amazement, George saw a sight on the porch of the main house that he had not expected: Apple Cobbler was sitting on the old wooden bench, leaning her back against the wall like she had been a human. Gone was her heavy travel-cloak, and instead, she was wearing a wide-brimmed, brown hat with a large feather on it. In her hooves was a shiny, silver harmonica. The melody that echoed in the silence was coming from that very instrument.

George couldn’t help it. A tired smile spread to his face.

After making a small detour to his backpack which was still lying in the grass, George headed to the porch himself. Apple Cobbler greeted him with a silent nod, keeping her lips still glued to the harmonica. The song did not stop when George sat down next to her, nor when he brought out his pack of cigarettes and a lighter. After a minor scuffle, he got one cigarette to his lips, and even managed to light it up. Using his wings, he took a drag out of the cylinder and blew out a gentle cloud of smoke in the morning air.

“Rough night, was it?” Apple Cobbler suddenly asked, halting the melody of the harmonica.

“Yeah, you could say that,” George answered bluntly.

“I hear ‘twas some monster that rampaged in the town last night. I hope you did not get caught up in the midst of it?” the mare continued, arching an eyebrow.

George felt a pang of panic in his heart. Had Cobbler figured out what had happened? She was devilishly quick-witted, after all. It wouldn’t take her long to put two and two together.

“Many monsters do exist in the woods surrounding Ponyville, after all,” Apple Cobbler said, breaking the silence again. “It would be a shame if you were scared by one of them on your second day here.”

It felt as if a great weight had been lifted from George’s shoulders. Judging from Apple Cobbler’s expression, the orange mare had not realized his connection to the “monster” business after all. Instead she most likely presumed he had managed to get himself in trouble with some local wildlife.

“Well, I’m not totally sure,” George finally answered, taking another drag from his cigarette. “I did get chased by that… erm, monster. I managed to get away, but found myself in the woods. Took me this long to get back.”

His lie wasn’t too pretty, but it had no need to be. Coming up with overly complicated reasons as to why he had just disappeared would have made Apple Cobbler just suspect him more. Instead, the best option was to keep his story short and sweet. That way he would have to add details only when someone interrogated him.

“I see. ‘Tis fortunate, then, that you survived,” Cobbler said and chuckled. “Everfree Forest is not kind to the uninitiated.”

“Someday you’ll have to tell me about these weird places, you know?” George commented. “Otherwise I’ll get myself killed trying to put up a still in the wrong place.”

“I’ll be sure to teach you the basics of Ponyville’s oddities,” Cobbler answered with a sly smile. Then she gave a slightly confused glance at his cigarette. “And speaking of which… what, pray tell, do you have on your lips?”

“Peace.”

George’s answer was more like a grunt. He was far too tired to start discussing the details and hazards of smoking with a candy-colored horse right now. Luckily Apple Cobbler seemed to sense it, as she nodded understandingly, and lifted her harmonica back to her mouth.

“I see. Peace it is,” she answered.

Once again, the lilting, tranquil melody of the silvery instrument filled the farmstead. Its wail was pacifying to listen, and even George found himself oddly at peace. His outburst in the forest had left him tired, but now that same feeling was being transformed into something else. Sure, he was still exhausted… but at least he didn’t simply want to bury himself in some hole. Instead, he was perfectly content just sitting at the porch next to Apple Cobbler, listening to the tune of her harmonica.

As he listened, George’s eyes wandered around the farmstead spreading out in front of him. The fields were still feral, and would need lots of work before he could even use them. The outbuildings and sheds would need to be fixed before he could even think about storing anything in them. The cowshed was probably caked in dried up, ancient dung. Not to mention there was still the huge hole in the roof of the main building.

However, for the first time since arriving to this strange new world, George felt like the task ahead of him was not impossible. Sure enough, it would take a lot of work. But listening to the calm song of the harmonica, he felt that his goals were, at least for the moment, within reach; for better or for worse.

“You know… I’m not happy to be here,” George suddenly said, cigarette burning slowly on his lips. “To be honest, I’m rather sick of this place, and I’ve been here only for, what, two days? The town and the… ponies… are far too much of a hassle for me to care about, and this decrepit farmstead is just asking for demolition crew to attack it. I dread to think about how long it’s gonna take to renovate all of this, and I’m not even sure if I can make it all work. Earning money is just a dream, really. In other words, even if I signed up for this farming business, I can find no motivation for it at all.”

Apple Cobbler kept playing her harmonica, but her eyes were now locked on George. He took another drag from his cigarette, and watched the wisps of smoke disappeared up into the sky.

“But… I’ll still do it,” he finally said. “Not because I want to, but I because I have to. I’m stuck with this farm, and thus, I’ll do my best to get it up and running. I ain’t got any big plans or stuff to look forward to… so might just as well make use of the time I’ve got, and do what I can for this place. Who knows, maybe I’ll even succeed by some odd stroke of luck?”

After he finished his little speech, George was surprised to hear Apple Cobbler’s husky laugh. He would have expected the mare to either make some sarcastic quip or simply roll her eyes, but instead, she seemed genuinely amused. Cobbler looked at him once again, little smile on her lips.

“Spoken like a true farmer,” she finally said.

“Wait, what?” George’s eyebrows reached for his maneline. “Really?”

“Of course,” Apple Cobbler answered. “There exists no farmer in this wide, wide world of Equestria whom could say they wake each morning with nothing but joy of hard work in their hearts. Anypony working on a farmstead will have days when they feel down, or simply find no motivation to go on, as ‘twere. And yet, they do. Do you know why?”

George shrugged his shoulders, or at least tried to. Ponies had very little when it came to shoulder department.

“’Tis because farming is their way of life. It may not be always fun or glamorous, but there is more to it than work,” she replied. “Being a farmer means choosing a very particular way to live. Hard work that may not always pay off, bouts of bad luck that ruin your year, being at the mercy of weather and markets… If you were to judge it solely by the facts, being a farmer would be the worst career choice you could have. However, ponies still choose to become farmers. ‘Tis because being a farmer is not a matter of this…”

Apple Cobbler softly tapped George’s head.

“But this,” she concluded, pointing at where George’s heart was.

“You know, that sounds incredibly lame,” George answered, but couldn’t help the grin that rose to his face. “Still… I suppose it does make sense. It’s a harsh way to live, but someone’s gotta do it. Might as well be me. I never liked office-work, anyhow.”

“And ‘tis about ruining heartfelt moments by being blockheaded,” Cobbler continued, showing her usual Cheshire Cat grin. “Believe me, Gorge Sparrow. I do think you shall fit in Ponyville just fine.”

“I think the only place I want to fit at the moment is my bed,” George said, stumping his cigarette to the wooden surface of the bench. “I didn’t manage to catch a wink of sleep last night, and I’m ready to crash. You don’t mind if I take this day off, do you?”

“Go ahead,” Cobbler said and chuckled. “We can begin in earnest tomorrow.”

“Gotcha.”

George stood up from the bench and stretched his limbs. As awkward as the four legs (not to mention the wings) were, he was slowly but surely starting to get used to them. Sure, actions requiring fine motor skills were still beyond his reach, but with enough time, he was sure he’d be able to get a hang of those, too.

“All right. I’ll see ya later, Cobbler,” George said, heading to the front door. “Tomorrow’s when we start this damn farmer life.”

Apple Cobbler laughed at his words as he disappeared behind the door. George did not care that as things stood, he’d have to sleep in one of the old beds of the house. Anything with soft enough mattress was sounding good right about now. It also helped that after a while, he could once again hear the melody of Cobbler’s harmonica. This time, the tune had slightly shifted. It sounded almost like a lullaby to his ears.

Thus, by the time he found a promising-looking bed in one of the side-rooms, George was just about ready to fall asleep. Thanks to the physical and mental exhaustion experienced that day, he didn’t even have to pull a blanket over his quadruped body before sleep assaulted him like a trained anti-terrorist unit. Just a few minutes, and soft snoring could be heard coming from the room, only broken by occasional mumbled curse. Then there was nothing more than the soft sound of the harmonica that echoed in the house.

— However, only fifteen minutes later, that same melody came to a halt.

If George had been awake at that time, he might have noticed how Apple Cobbler put away her instrument and straightened her hat, jumping down from the bench she had been sitting on. He could have also witnessed how the mare, slowly but decisively, headed out to the yard, eyes glued to the large thicket of stinging nettle that was growing at its corner. He might have wondered why she stopped at the edge of said thicket, looking around like she was scanning the environment for possible witnesses.

He might have also heard how she, after having made sure she was alone, whispered something to the empty farmstead.

“… And thus starts the difficult part.”

Finally, he might have been surprised to see the orange mare head straight into the bushes of stinging nettle… only to disappear into the hole that the thicket hid within it.

And so the Faraway Farm, ruins of something that had stood at the edge of Ponyville since the time of its building, were silent once more. Just like they always had. Watching and waiting for someone to come along and rebuild them to their former glory. Hoping that some soul would wander in and take it upon themselves to fix the decrepit buildings and fill the farmstead with laughter and smiles once again, bringing its bounty to the creatures of all nearby towns. After all, behind that wish were the oldest of reasons.

Everything happened for the Harvest Seasons.

Author's Note

Zvwg poe akse tnl taeugl pv sxpalx,

Ooe lpple bvrzka taa ztbjnigc uempse

Next Chapter: Take This Job and Shove It

“Lemme tell ya, Spike... this is one box we'll never show to anyone."