The ponies of Marshall’s Creek were no strangers to hardship. Most every family lived in a state of “just getting by,” and it was not uncommon for even the youngest children to worry about finances, though they understood little. What they did know was this; their fathers, brothers, cousins, and neighbors would go down into the mine five days a week without fail and return covered from head to hoof in coal dust. It brought the money, but it also brought black lung. Then again, they weren’t supposed to talk about that.
Every family save for the mine owner’s lived in run down shacks clinging to the side of the mountain. There wasn’t a lot of arable land, and most was covered by dense woods. Some folks might have called it beautiful, but Stalactite and his siblings knew that it was just gilding to cover the ugly scar winding its way through the earth beneath them. None of them even dared to deny the truth. They, like their father before them and his father before him would spend the remainder of their lives digging up coal from that hell hole; a reality as inevitable as Marshall’s Creek rising in the springtime. And so children growing up in the hollow relished what little time they had on the surface.
“Hey, Flint, how far you reckon this ‘ere toy can go?” Arbor drawled in that carrying, nasally voice of his, holding up a limp ragdoll with a grimy sorrel hoof. True to his nature, the twelve year old was lounging like a sunbaked tom cat on a cloud above them. How he ended up with Screech’s ragdoll was anypony’s guess, but Stalactite was willing to bet it had been apprehended without her consent.
Flint grunted, dropping the ax he had been using to chop wood. A mischievous smile poked its way through the teenager’s prematurely thick beard. Stalactite really wished he’d take a hint from their dad and shave. At present, he more closely resembled a hairy, roan catfish than a respectable earth pony.
They started to converse, and, as usual, he couldn’t hear a word. They were always talking soft like that though he never understood why. All he knew was that his family members had developed a penchant for conversing like they had something to hide from him. As if Flint and Arbor had anything remotely interesting to hide in the first place . . .
His attention turned to the spring day around the crowded farmyard a little ways off. Just outside the barn, Pa had started working on the wagon while Ma did the laundry up by the house. Birds sat on the pailings and bees buzzed around the garden, trying to beat the inevitable afternoon shower. This year they’d seen a lot of birds, more than usual, a good sign according to Ma. Between her and Ma-maw, the family was never short of wives tales, mountain know-how, and gossip. Stalactite wouldn’t be the one to dismiss them as more often than not, their predictions were spot on.
Today the sun filtered through the still budding trees, bathing the mountainside in an unseasonable warmth. Their town didn’t have the money to support a weather team, so it was decided to allow the clouds to drift along at their natural pace. Town ponies like Aunt Sparrow called it backwards, but what did she know? A little variation was good every now and then, besides, there were enough pegasi in their family at least to manage the storms if they did come harder than expected.
Stalactite flinched as Screech’s tell tale scream pierced the morning air. A navy blur whizzed by him as the young filly barreled down the garden path like an angry stinger bee. “Give ‘er back! She ain’t yers.”
Arbor grinned wickedly, murmuring something incomprehensible. The irate earth pony proceeded to jump at him, missing and falling flat on her face. He sniggered, swinging the doll around like a empty lunch pail. “Go a-runnin’ to ma if yer so worked up ‘bout it, Screechy.”
Screech cantered over to Flint, blond curls bouncing all the way. “Flint! Hit hain’t right. Tell ‘em to give ‘er back.”
Flint stroked his beard, then shrugged, murmuring again. Apparently his reply didn’t satisfy Screech because she kicked him in the hock before galloping over to his spot under the shade tree. “Stalactite,” she moaned in a voice shrill enough to set him cringing. “Cain’t you go an fly on up there? Please!”
Stalactite sighed, looking over towards their two big brothers. With his flying talent, Arbor could have been a weather pony, that and he had a five year head start. He glanced to his own wings, sorrel specks catching the light off their cream canvas. Ma-maw always said pale pegasi were weak fliers and she knew well enough being close to biscuit colored herself. It’d be chancy, but Screech needed him. Standing, he spread out his wings and took off.
Some pegasi say flying is the best feeling in the world. Stalactite hated it. How could anypony like the painful whipping of the wind in their ears so loud they couldn’t hear anything at all? He tried to ask Arbor how he bore it once, but he just looked at him like he plum lost his mind.
One advantage to not flying much lay in the fact that none of his siblings expected him to. Using the element of surprise, he snatched the doll from Arbor’s hooves and darted back to Screech. His attempt to slow to a stop failed miserably as he crashed head first into the ground. Ouch.
Flint let out a bark of laughter, trotting over to him.
Just as he got to his hooves, Arbor flew down, cackling like an old crow. “Yer shore a quare ‘un, Stalactite! Hain’t you learn’t to fly yet?” Stalactite made to respond, but Arbor snatched the doll away, tossing it to Screech. The filly clutched it to her breast, smiling contentedly. Arbor leaned down to his eye level, so close he could smell the stale tobacco on his breath, “Reckon some pegasi was just born fer the mines.”
Stalactite pinned his ears, “Like yer one to talk! Yer a-goin’ to the mines in a few months yerself.”
That landed him with a kick to the chest. He yelped with the onslaught of pain, then kicked back. Might as well have kicked a sugar tree for all the good it did. Another hard blow to the chest sent him to his knees.
Thankfully, Flint stepped between them, eyes flashing just like Pa’s tended to. “That’s enough, Arbor. He don’t know mean nothin’ by it.”
“Oh really? Why that retard don’t know nothin’ ‘bout nothin’. You can tell ‘em to do somethin’ an all he does is stare at you like some hoot owl! Then if he do respond, he goes a-shoutin’ his answer.”
Stalactite felt his stomach churn sickeningly as he looked at his brothers. Screech started stroking the limp ragdoll with her hoof, avoiding his gaze. Their family rarely mentioned it to him, but Stalactite knew they fancied him touched in the head. But if they wanted him to understand, why did they whisper everything they wanted then yell at him for not doing it? It was a right dirty thing to do. “It ain’t my fault! If you’d stop whisperin’ behind my back, I—”
“Hain’t nopony’s whisperin’ behind yer back!” Flint snarled, cuffing him on the head. “Yer as paranoid as ol’ Uncle Pen an you’ll end up as crazy as he is afore long.”
“I hain’t paranoid if it’s true!”
“It hain’t true.” Arbor stamped his hoof so hard he left a crater in the dirt. “I’m plum sick of yer makin’ us out to be out fer you. Yer just lazy an stupid!”
Stalactite never wanted to cry so badly in his life. “I hain’t touched in the head!”
Arbor leaned close again, backing him into a nearby tree. “Really? You cain’t even pass first level in school. Shoot, Screech does better an you do an she’s two years younger!”
Flint murmured something again, this time to Screech. Having enough, he shot to his hooves, stamping them as hard as he could. “Quit talkin’ behind my back! How’d you feel if everyone just starts a-mumblin’ nonsense instead of talkin’ to you straight?”
Arbor rolled his eyes, “They wasn’t mumblin’! Was conversin’ like always.”
“Yeah, behind my back. I’m tired of everypony conspirin’ against me!”
An impatient tick had started at the corner of Arbor’s eyes. “Ain’t nopny conspirin’ against you. Yer plum out of yer mind!”
“I hain’t dumb! But yer always makin’ it out like I am. So’s Ma an Miss Clancy. Pa’s the worse! He don’t even give me the chance afore he gits mad.”
Arbor pressed him to the ground, snarling, “Ain’t nopony fixin’ to set you up! Pa gives you plenty of chances. It hain’t his fault you’s too dumb to take ‘em.”
“I hain’t dumb!”
“Well, yer sure doin’ a piss poor job of provin’ it.”
His heart lurched at the cold quality of Arbor’s stare. ‘Yer not even worth my time.’ That’s what it meant, and it hurt, physically hurt. He cringed, sinking back on his haunches. “I’m tryin’ to listen. I want to be good . . .”
Stalactite flinched as a sorrel hoof the size of a dinner plate pushed between him and Arbor. Blood rushed to his ears, eyes following the stallion’s massive chest upwards to the disappointed scowl on the burly miner’s face. Instinctively, he shot to his hooves, shuffling submissively back.
Baron sighed, rubbing the back of his neck and turning to Arbor. Just like usual, they started whispering to each other. Stalactite’s heart lurched at the familiar uncertainty that came with their conversation. Though he didn’t look mad, Stalactite couldn’t help but shake. He hadn’t done anything wrong, had he?
Baron strode over to him, leaning down until his eyes met Stalactite’s. “Waaatsthis‘e’ssssayin’‘boutyoubein’paranoid?” The words slurred together as always, but for once, he got the gist of it.
“They keep a-talkin’ behind my back, mumblin’ all the time like they’s got somethin’ to hide from me!” Certainly he noticed, he had to. And yet, Pa never so much as scolded them for doing it. “I hain’t dumb,” he added softly, more to himself than anypony else.
“Stalactite,you’sgottostoptellin’lies. Hain’tnoponymessin’withyouonpurpose.”
Stalactite barely caught the words, and when they did, the blood rushed to his ears. Pa always sided with them, always played with them, but never with him. Shoot, he never talked to him unless it related to chores or something he did wrong. He had enough of it to last a lifetime. Wheeling around, he bucked his hooves right into the stallion’s chest before taking off at a dead gallop.
Baron outran him of course, knocking him to the ground. Once again he began to whisper. Stalactite hated that sound worse than even the screeching of the coal carts. The same sound, every day without fail and they always denied it. Did they want him to look stupid? Did they think it was a hoot to force him to guess what he was expected to do?
“Stop whisperin’! If you hate me, just go on an say it!” Stalactite found his throat going tight as Pa just looked at him like he lost his marbles. “You don’t ever talk to me but when you want somethin’ an when I cain’t understand what that somethin’ is, you scream at me like I’s some polecat what got into the corn crib. I hain’t-hain’t dumb, I’m not,” he started to cry, feeling even more stupid than they were making him out to be.
He felt the pressure of Baron’s hoof lift off him slightly. Stalactite might have relaxed if he hadn’t just started whispering again. A panic started to seep over him as the reality sunk in. They didn’t believe him, and they never would. He’d spend the rest of his life labeled as a lunatic all for some cruel joke of theirs. Collecting what little strength he had, he kicked Baron’s hoof off of him, and scrambled to his hooves. This time, he galloped only a few steps before taking to the sky. Arbor might go after him, but it’d take some time for him to catch up. By then he’d be well hidden.
The sun was already creeping low in the sky by the time Baron slunk through their modest cabin’s door. As usual, the front room containing the kitchen, table, fireplace, and a collection of well-worn tools for necessary projects like soap making was packed. All the kids were gathered around the table along with Ma-maw and his wife. Eight kids and only Flint earned anything. His back ached at the thought of yet another day in the mine alongside him tomorrow.
The kids chattered away, though they were obviously missing a member. It really was not uncommon for Stalactite to run off, he always came back later at night. Every time he came slinking home it was the same lie. ‘You didn’t even call us in.’ Of course he and his wife had several times, but the colt never listened. Just like fate to land him with a child slow in the head. He didn’t have the time to explain everything five times before it finally clicked in that thick skull of his.
“Baron?” Whippoorwill’s soft voice in his ear brought him back to the table again. “Stalactite run off again?”
“Yeah . . .” He fidgeted with the biscuit on his plate, afraid to look Whippoorwill in the eyes. Though, Celestia knows she had the face of an angel and the wings to match. “He’s gettin’ worse, I cain’t even get him to try an listen. I talked to him real soft and slow, so’d he’d catch on, but he just don’t catch on, Whipp. Keeps ramblin’ ‘bout how I’m whisperin’ behind his back.”
Whippoorwill’s mottled hoof slid across his, smooth as the river rocks it so resembled. “Baron, we need to think of somethin’. He’s gettin’ worse.”
“Later,” he hissed, noting Flint and Arbor’s unusually intense stares.
Two hours passed until Baron and Whippoorwill had the front room to themselves again. Whippoorwill had curled up beside him on the floor by the dimming light of the fire, resting her velveteen wings over his withers. Though she spoke calmly, her eyes kept darting to the door.
Baron sighed, “He’ll come back, he always does.”
The nervous tick in Whippoorwill’s tail his heart sink. “What are we goin’ to do? He don’t listen better to me than he does to you.”
“He’s gettin’ right dangerous too. What if he hurts the younguns?” His heart sank as the reality sunk in deeper than ever before. Stalactite had been growing more violent and paranoid lately, who’s to say he wouldn’t hurt somepony? “I think . . . think we ought to consider the institution.”
Whippoorwill folded her wing, jumping to her hooves. “You cain’t be serious, Baron!”
He stood as well, glowering at her, “Well? What else can we do, Whipp? We hain’t got time to mollycoddle this ‘un all day with eight others to tend to. He don’t learn an he don’t listen because he cain’t!” His heart began to race at the tears streaking down Whippoorwill’s face. “Dear, I don’t-don’t blame you. Foals get sick all the time. We just weren’t ready for-for this.” He sighed, seeing his worn expression reflected in her crystal blue eyes. “The institution knows how to deal with-with ponies like him.”
A tiny squeak by the front door brought their attention to the fleabitten pegasus shuddering by its frame. He whirled around, galloping off. They set off after him but froze halfway across the yard where his mother had the colt in a bone-crushing hug. “Ma? I didn’t know you was up.”
The elderly pegasus shot him that disappointed glare she reserved only for his major screw ups. “You get yer rump over here, Baron or so help me I’ll send you to that institution.”
Baron stepped forward, noting the fear in his son’s eyes as he approached. “Stalactite, me an yer ma, we . . .”
In the moonlight, he could make out the tears streaking down his face as he clung to his grandmother’s cream hooves. Goldenrod waited until both he and Whipporwill had settled down on the dirt across from them. Then she met Baron’s eyes, continuing in her most dangerous voice, “Well, I seen some foolhardy nonsense in my time, but this has gone an topped ‘em all. When he was a foal, what was aflictin’ him?”
The question seemed so out of the blue, he did not really know what to say. “Do I look like a city doctor to you?” They sat in silence for a while until he spoke in an exasperated tone, “I reckon it had somethin’ to do with his head caused he hain’t never been right. Goin’ on ‘bout us whisperin’ behind his back an all.”
“Did you ever think that he might be tellin’ the truth?”
Whipporwill shook her sandy mane, “None of us whisper to him, Ma-maw, you know that.”
“Well, maybe to him it is whisperin’.” Before Baron could question her further, his mother had leaned down to Stalactite’s ear level and practically shouted, “You hear anythin’ of what we been sayin’?”
Stalactite looked up at her with a blank stare, shaking his head. “No.”
“Righty then, can you hear what I’m saying now?”
“Uh-huh.”
Realization started to sink in as he stared at his son. He cleared his throat, doing his best to speak as loudly as his mother despite his damaged lungs. “You hain’t heard me right this whole time?”
Stalactite’s eyes widened like saucers and his ears perked up as if hearing his voice for the first time. Baron’s stomach churned. “Is this the-the first time you heard me clearly?”
Stalactite nodded, “Yeah, since yer always whisperin’.”
“He’s hard of hearin’. He hain’t . . . hain’t dumb.” Baron leaned down, grabbing his son in his hooves. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. You were tellin’ the truth, should never have doubted that for a second.”
The colt flinched at first, but then relaxed, hugging him back.
As a seasoned miner, he had dealt with a lot in his time. But, a deaf colt? Sure as the wind cuts through the holler, there would be trouble down the road. Still, he could not help but smile at the realization. As long as they spoke loud enough, the colt would catch on. He might not grow up to be the brightest stallion, but at least he’d have a chance. That thought alone was all the comfort he needed.
