They come every once in a while
It echoes from miles away. They come every once in a while; sharp and invigorating as a bolt of lightning, rending the cold and the night, they come. There have been many once-in-a-whiles—memory runs wide and deep—but things could work out this time around. Maybe they can go back to being the way they were. How long ago? In eternity, time serves no purpose.
Nourishment used to abound, and the snow never petered out. Now poison and heat suffuse the air for the better part of most days. It's as simple as that.
The wind brushes past the skeletons that hem in the source of the echo, howls through the split heads. The last yellow leaves that came off the gnarled limbs rustle, spin in lively eddies, and fall back down for hooves to stamp them into the ground for good someday.
Faint shafts of light encroach on the last line of the withered orchard and beacon a clearing. It doesn't take long, not with the wind blowing as it is. The first snow of the season may greet the world tonight, after all. It won't feel like before, but at least a couple of snowflakes will swirl. The morning might have an inch of white in store. It might have a few. Or much more, depending on how this goes.
The distance closes. Soon the red building comes into view. The black laces on its doors waver in the chilly breeze. Oil lanterns hang on hooks from some of the walls, throwing bright hourglass-lobes across painted wood. They sputter and jitter with silvery bumps, just an innocent accident away from cooking up a delectable tragedy. They know better, though. They have conquered the iciest mountains, the thickest forests, and the most formidable monsters. Two of them have conquered death, too. Indeed, they know better. The lamps must be enchanted—they always rely on enchantments.
On a second-floor window, the sound breaks out again. The lights spit and fail in a predictable progression as the breeze washes over them on its way up. The glass pane rattles. Moisture plasters it full of hazy frost-blotches, like patches of visible breath. The curtains are drawn, and the room's four walls are painted green down to the wainscots. Only a rug close to the bed graces the planked floor. It must be hot as death inside this fortress, with every wooden confine warding off the cold from the fields. But they wouldn't have it any other way. They enjoy the heat. If they didn't, it would still snow like it once used to. Day and night. Non-stop.
A nightstand rests next to the headrest, toward the window. If the reading lamp were on, it would probably flicker and sputter as the lanterns outside did. But the reading lamp isn't on. A small lump squirms under the covers. A mat of straw pokes out into the faint gleam of the moon. Another sharp sound, and the little hay-bale rolls over, facing the night. The sheets slip just slightly to reveal orange fur and white freckles.
Can she hear the budding nightmare inside her head? Yes, she can. But she doesn't find the tune sweet. To her, it doesn't sound like music at all.
They weren't always such poisonous creatures. In the days of the snow, they didn't come into this world knowing love. Love was a skill they picked up along the way, not unlike flying at freezing heights, spotting quality tinder with enchantments, or using only a piece of flint and a horseshoe to kindle a fire. Most of them didn't learn. For those who did, it wouldn't last long. Every sweep of a gust would clear the poison from the air, and then all would be okay. But maybe that was enough time for them.
She sniffles now. The nightmare has grown into a full-fledged beauty, and it sings spectacularly.
She calls out for Pa, for Ma. Who's gonna look after the farm? Who's gonna buck the apples down and haul 'em over to town? Granny's hip ain't what it used to be, and Big Mac's busy enough with school as it is. And who's gonna sing to Apple Bloom when she gets all antsy in her crib?
A silver rivulet streaks her cheek. It dries on the pillow.
Does she love? Maybe she did yesterday and the day before, but she doesn't tonight. Ma and Pa bent her love out of shape, rendered it helpless. They did this on purpose; on some level, they had to know this would happen, because the Apples always see this sort of things coming. The hairs on the napes of their necks will stand on end, or their joints will ache like Granny's do when vampire fruit-bats are in season and threaten the orchard. But they went anyway. Ma and Pa didn't really love, did they? Why else would they have boarded that train to Manehattan, knowing what they knew?
The nightmare sings on. The clouds are heavy with snow, waiting for a reason to burst, waiting for her to say it out loud. Her lips squiggle in the moonlight—the words hang on the tip of her tongue. She sinks her face into the pillow and screams instead. Quite the fighter, she is. But she'll break. The sky has greyed too much for her not to. It's a matter of time, and time means nothing.
Snow will fall tonight. The world will wake up covered in beautiful—
Does she hear the frantic clip-clops outside the room? Not over her own screams, she doesn't. Somewhere in the house, the cries of another inhabitant join in the exquisite chaos. That's when the door swings. The lights from the hall cast a bright, yellow rectangle on the floor. Two shadows lie squeezed in it side by side, limbs long and thin, bodies flattened. The silhouettes they belong to stand in the doorway. One is slightly taller than the other, but ragged and brittle. The shorter one says it wants to stay and help Applejack too.
"No, Big Macintosh," says the taller creature. She sounds worn, age-ridden. "You go and check on Apple Bloom. She musta' scared herself out of her diapers, the poor foal. You go on, boy. I'll be there in a jiffy."
Nope. The shorter one is determined to cross the threshold and find out what made Applejack scream. The taller one won't have any of it. She raises her voice to him.
Silence.
The shorter creature nods and steps out of the frame, his shadow slipping away with him.
The other walks into the room and works her way to the bed. Works, because her hip ain't what it used to be. Moonlight pours over the green coat, the bun of white hair, the wrinkles, the gorgeous shimmering eyes. She pats the little creature.
"Granny?" The Applejack turns around, looks up, and scoots over to give the other some space.
The shimmering in the elder one's eyes grows brighter, wetter. The Applejack's hug caught her by surprise. "They knew something like this could happen. They did it on purpose. They don't… they don't love us!"
The Granny returns the hug and pulls her close, away from the window. She reaches over for the reading lamp's switch and flicks it. Light spills around the room.
"Now, sugar bun, your folks loved you. I'm sure wherever they are, they still do." A smile flickers across her muzzle. "Don't you ever have a smidge of doubt about that, 'kay?"
"Then why'd they leave? If you love somepony, you stay with 'em. They left, so that means they should hate me! And I… I should hate them!"
There it is—she said it. But it won't suffice. Not as long as she doesn't believe it.
A gust wails by the window. The reading lamp gutters and buzzes. The Granny notices; her smile sags to a grimace. She must've figured it out. After all, the Apples have a knack for this sort of things.
"Applejack," she starts again, "I know it's hard. I know you miss 'em a bunch—I sure miss 'em a bunch—and I know you want answers. Sometimes bad things happen to good folks, and we'd just love the chuck the blame at somepony."
The Applejack wipes a hoof across her face with a loud snort.
"It's easy to go chucking blame around. That's why everpony does it." The Granny's eyes hover over the sputtering light for a second, then fall back on the little creature. "But, sugar bun, lying's never gonna make things better, not even when you do it to yourself."
"I want them back." And that's the truth. She sinks her muzzle into the elder's side.
"I know you do. You're a strung'un, aren't you?" She kisses the mat of straw that is her mane. "Do you want me to stay the night?"
"Don't worry, Granny," she replies. "I guess I'll be fine."
Poison fills the air, but that doesn't bother them. Their poison gets them through harsh winters. The hug lasts for a while, and when they finally do break it, there's nothing left to gain here anymore. Maybe there never was. How long until the first snow?
Does it matter? In time, other nightmares will come and sing their songs. And time means nothing.
I blow through the trees.
Author's Note
4 days. Style prevails. Substance be damned.
