Dismay

When I was very young, my mother would tell me a story.

It was a story about a great ranging herd of earth ponies, stretching as far as the eye could see. They would run the plains for as long as the sun shone, and sleep as long as it didn’t.

And within this herd, there were three stallions.

The first stallion walked at the front of the herd far ahead of the other stallions. He was handsome and strong and dashing as a prince. Every pony in the herd knew him, and every pony in the herd loved him. When it came time to fetch water for the mares the handsome stallion carried more buckets than any other stallion in the herd. When the night fell, and the wolves would crawl from the shadows looking to fill their bellies with soft pony meat, the handsome stallion would fight fiercer than any other stallion in the herd. When spring came, and it was time for breeding, the handsome stallion sired more foals than any other stallion in the herd.

The handsome stallion was superior to all those around him. And he flaunted his superiority without discretion. At first, the stallions around him admired him and loved him. But eventually, their love was soured by jealousy. He was better than them, and every day he reminded them of this fact. Days became months, and months became years. Their resentment grew, until love became hatred. The stallions at the front of the herd hatched a plot. United by hatred, they came together one night, when the handsome stallion was tired and weak from keeping the night creatures at bay. They surrounded the handsome stallion, and beat him to death. And after his body lay still on the ground and his blood colored the grass, the stallions raped his mares and slew as many of his offspring as they knew of.

The second stallion walked at the rear of the herd, far behind the other stallions. Unlike the first, he was not handsome. He was fat and ugly and slow. When it came time to fetch water for the mares, the ugly stallion would fill only one bucket, which only he drank from. When the sun fell past the horizon, the ugly stallion did not fight the night creatures when they came. He hid with the sick and elderly who were too weak to protect themselves. When spring arrived, and the mares fell into heat, the ugly stallion did not sire any foals, for no mare wanted to bare his children.

Eventually, the other stallions in the rear of the herd grew tired of his sloth. They talked amongst themselves, and together, they cast the ugly stallion out of the herd. He tried to rejoin the herd, saying that he would change his ways, but no matter how hard he pushed or how loud he yelled, the other ponies would not let him rejoin them. That night, no night creatures came prowling out of the shadows, for they had already filled their bellies with the ugly stallion’s soft, fat meat.

The third stallion, however, walked within the center of the herd. He was not a handsome stallion, but neither was he an ugly one. He was plain. When it came time to fetch water for the mares, the plain stallion fetched just as much water as all of the other stallions. When the night creatures prowled out of the shadows, the plain stallion neighed and nickered at them just like all the other stallions. And when spring came, and it was time for breeding, the plain stallion would sire one or two foals, from one or two mares, just like every other stallion.

Nopony hated the plain stallion. Nopony murdered him, and he was never cast out of the herd. He lived to grow old and weak, and eventually die of old age in the center of the herd. Peacefully.

The moral of the story, my mother always told me, is that if you are better than those around you, then they will envy you and eventually hate you. If you are inferior to those around you, then they will resent you. It is always best to stay in the middle of the herd. Where nopony knows you. Nopony sees you. Nopony cares about you.

“That is why I named you Green Leaf,” my mother would always say, as she tucked the covers up under my neck and kissed the top of my head. “Because the fruit gets picked, and the tree gets cut. But the leaves, my dear, nopony ever pays the leaves any attention at all.”