Haystacks

by writer

Rating: everyone
Tags: Slice of Life
Length: 9385

I kept a small journal of my time with this pony.

"Just tell them I'm a farmer," he says. "They won't want to read any more after that."

That sounds fine, I reply.

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2015-06-29 04:23:44 UTC

Sliver Lining

It's a warm summer night. Haystacks and I meander our way through the attractions, bearing from tent to tent like two lazy bees.

The village carnival only came once a year, he said. I was more than willing to see it myself. It'd been a while since I'd even bothered to think of having fun. It was Haystacks' idea to go together, though, and I was admittedly concerned at first. Hadn't I'd already imposed on my host enough?

A cider tasting tent was mentioned. Haystacks went on at length about the neighbour's incredible pumpkin pies and fritters and milkshakes and sandwiches and sautees. My stomach gets growling. Food and drink are two very serious incentives - ones that shut me up pretty quickly. There's something about the taste of fresh cider and home cooking that will never leave me. It's not a thing you can just find in Canterlot these days.

As we walk and talk, I can smell the faint aroma of pastry cooking. The clatter of cider mugs over the distant chant of music and foals squealing is a pleasant backdrop to a conversation about this year's wheat crop.

We're halfway to the Cider hall. Neither of us are connoisseurs, but we decide to try it anyway for something to do. I'm having a ball of a time – more fun than I've had in an age. It's not the drink talking (perhaps).

He spots her after I do. He's also the first one to go over to her. She couldn't have been older than nine, maybe ten, the little pegasus filly.  She's between the coconut shies and the merry-go-round, tears leaking from foggy blue eyes, looking for all the world like a pale blue statue seated on the cold grass.

“Hullo. Are you okay?” He asks the little filly. I watch on in quiet uncertainty.

I remember feeling annoyed with myself. I was walking along, minding my own business. I noticed the little filly sitting by herself, cotton candy on the ground next to her, and carried on. Well – I say 'noticed'. I noticed her like I noticed somepony else's foal who was upset in a big Canterlot supermarket, in that I didn't notice her at all. I'd taken about five or six extra steps towards the cider tent when I realised that I wasn't talking to anyone.

It's not until he speaks that she seems to notice to him for the first time properly, the big farmer. She hiccups once, her chin quivering. The trails of her tears carve damp paths of azure down her cheeks.

She opens her mouth to speak, and then closes it once more. She hiccups faintly, and lets a tiny sob out. Fresh tears spill from her brimming eyes.

I then see a strange thing happen.

Haystacks removes his hat. Setting it to one side, he sits, and then lies down gently on the grass, so as to be eye level to the filly. His empty cider tankard, dangling from a woven cord around his neck, slips softly onto the ground.

“Hey, hey...” there is an assured, almost absurdly abnormal calm to his voice. “Don't cry. Are you lost?”

I canter over, feeling awkward. The filly glances up at me with teary eyes, and I quickly kneel down and  give my most sympathetic smile. Like I'm trying to offer my condolences to her, or something. I glance uneasily at Haystacks, maybe looking for some guidance. But he only has eyes for the little filly, and he smiles and speaks softly like it's the most natural thing on the world.

“Are you lost?” he asks again, after a brief pause. His voice is lowered to a gentle murmur, as though she were some sort of frightened rooster. “Where's your Mummy? Do you know where your Mummy is?”

The little filly's mane falls in blue and dark blue braids either side of her head, and they wobble from side to side as she shakes it. Then she lets out a great sniff, and looks back at the grass between the prone Haystacks and herself.

I feel a tiny peal of sadness tumble down through my heartstrings.

“My name's Haystacks,” Haystacks says. “What's your name?”

The filly's gaze follows one of Haystacks' giant hooves from the ground up until she is looking at him. She blinks once or twice, and he smiles patiently and kindly, warmly back.

“S-Sliver,” she says, her voice a fragile squeak against the clamour of the carnival behind us.  “Sliver Lining...” she trails off, gazing uncertainly at the very big pony.

“Sliver Lining, huh?” The crows feet at the side of Haystacks' eyes wrinkle as he smiles broadly. “That's a pretty name, Sliver. It's nice to meet you.”

It clicks with me that Haystacks is clearly attempting to sooth the filly with a gentle word or two, but it doesn't seem like it has the desired effect – or at least, not at first. The tiny blue pony looks over to me, still somewhat untrustworthy. I follow suit and introduce myself as Haystacks' friend, making sure to lower my voice like he does. I say that it's a very pretty name, indeed.

She hiccups again, and uses a hoof to wipe her cheeks. The tears cease, though the corners of her distant blue eyes are still red and damp.

“So you don't know where your Mummy is?” Haystacks cooes. “I think we can help you find her, can't we?” he looks over at me hopefully, still wearing that same warm smile.

I'm taken aback. I nod my agreement and make a show of it to the filly. That seems like the right thing to do, of course.

For whatever reason, Haystacks' eyes light up at my agreement. So do the little filly's, although they are quickly masked again under a tiny veil of sadness and mistrust.

“M-mom said I wasn't supposed to follow strangers,” she mumbles. “She said I was supposed to stay here while she went to find my brother.”

Haystacks' smile falls a touch at the thought. But like the clown ponies that we saw earlier, it falls only to spring up a little wider.

“Well, that's okay. Do you want us to sit here and wait for her to come back with your brother?”

I think that particular proposal catches the filly by as much surprise as it does me. I almost – almost – put my hoof in it by voicing some form of objection about the time, but neither the filly nor Haystacks notice me anyway.

“U-um,” she says, and I can hear the tension in her soft voice rising again. “I, um, I wandered off. I wanted to look at the rides, and I thought I wouldn't go far, and I d-don't know where she asked me to go, an-an-an-an–” she hiccups, and I can see the tears beginning anew.

“Well do you want us to try and find that then?” Haystacks asks, trying to interject before she sobs. “Would you like that?”

She bites her lip, and very quickly nods three times.

“Ok,” he says, humming thoughtfully. “Where might that be? Hmm...” He makes a show of tapping one grass-stained hoof against his chin.

“I-it's by the fairy floss stand,” she says. “But I don't k-know where that is.”

“Aha!” Haystacks says, padding his hooves flat to the earth, overtaken by a tiny, mock-playful moment of inspiration. His eyebrows arch, and he winks broadly at the filly. “Well I saw a sign that says fairy floss back there.” He gestures over his shoulder with his head, back down through the avenue of tents and stalls that we have traversed. “It's just down there, past the big top and next to the fortune teller.”

The little filly nods uncertainly.

“If you want, we can walk with you there, if you'd like,” Haystacks says. “But you go first, okay? That way, we can just make sure that you find your Mummy, and you don't have to follow strange ponies.”

The proposal, while strange, seems to sit well with her – or at least, well enough to mollify her. The tiniest smile creeps onto her face.

“Okay,” she chirps, this time without a hiccup. She makes to stand, and notices the sticky remains of her cotton candy, lying in the grass to one side.  Half-heartedly, she reaches a hoof towards it. “Oh...”

“What's wrong?” Haystacks says. “Was that yours?”

She nods, and retracts the hoof. She stands to all fours.

“Oh, never mind then, Sliver, never mind,” Haystacks cooes, lifting his neck a bit to meet her. He makes to stand, and I follow his lead, though at the last moment he stoops, snatching his hat between his teeth.

“Ere,” he mumbles, leaning gently towards the filly. “'Ew can wear 'ish instead.”

She shies instinctively, but Haystacks plops the warm Stesson onto her head. Several sizes too big, it droops down comically over her eyes, and after a moment of fumbling, she slips it back so that it sits flush against her outstretched ears.

Haystacks smiles. And even though he towers over the filly, she offers a shy smile in return.

        The farmpony ushers her between us, and just in front of us so that we walk three abreast with her in front.

“Here,” he says, pointing into the middle-distance with his hoof. “Do you know where to go? The big top is that way...”

We walk off into the bustle of the carnival, pacing ourselves so that the little filly leads all of the way. It's only a few minutes of slow trotting, with us gamely following. Haystacks peppers the filly with questions whenever she looks worried. They're simple things, happy things, like if she is enjoying the carnival and what her favourite food is, and whether she had had her braids tied at the stall by the hairdresser for two bits, and what her mother's name is, and what she looks like so that we can spot her. Confidence-building, I think – I wonder. Haystacks seems to regard every answer to her question with a happy disposition. At some stage, I even lose track of where the acting ends and he begins.

The fairy floss cart is bright and strapped with balloons, and absolutely swarmed by ponies of all ages. Nonetheless, it's easy to pick Sliver's mother at a distance - a deep blue mare with a long, sleek mane of chocolate . She paces with all the frenzy of a distraught lioness, drawing endless circles around the cart, her head turning this way and that.

“Mama!” Sliver shouts, and the haggard-looking unicorn jumps in alarm. She spins her head once, twice to find the source –

She claps eyes on us, and in particular, the little filly. With a shuddering gasp that seems to permeate the clang of carnival chimes, she all but gallops over to Sliver, skidding to a halt and scooping the little filly into a one-hoofed hug. Immediately, she bursts into an endless trail of worries.

“Sliver!” she reprimands, half-chiding, half-sobbing. “Oh my stars, you're okay! I thought you were abducted, or, or – or something, I don't know! –  you should have stayed still while I went to find your brother! But never mind, angel, I'm so happy you're safe... here, where did you get this?” Her attention turns to the hat.

The little filly points at us both. The mare follows her hoof to me, and then Haystacks (the obvious cowpony of us), her mouth crested into a tiny 'oh'.

“Did... did you find my little Sliver?” She says, regarding us both with the same uncertain eyes of her daughter.

Before we can even offer a response, she flings  both forehooves around both of our necks, and pulls us into a hug so unimaginably tight that stars begin to burst before my eyes.

“Oh how could I even begin to thank you!? You found my baby, thank you, thank you so so much! I'm so grateful, and – ”

This goes on for some time. At some point we are both released, and the mare continues to gush her thanks. It's not something I'm really used to, but I manage with a graceful smile. Haystacks, though, ever the solitary creature, turns a faint pink around the face and spends most of the time twisting his hoof into the grass, mumbling about how 'tweren't nothin' and other such bumpkin-isms. It's a rare moment of discomfort for him, I observe with some amusement.

As the mare speaks we are joined by a colt, who Sliver bounds over to, nuzzling him warmly. The way he stands by the mare paints her as Sliver's brother, but he seems strangely distant from goings-on, only taking the briefest notice of his sister.

“I'm hungry,” the colt mumbles, somewhat bizarrely, pawing at his mother's leg with one hoof.

His mother pauses, casting him a fond look. “Oh, I – oh. Yes. Just a second, sweetie,” she says, nuzzling him lightly. She turns back to us, a calmer tone falling into her voice.

“Really,” she says quietly, still slightly breathless. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

Haystacks, still recuperating from his bone-shatteringly tight hug, still a little pink around the cheeks from all the praise, smiles in reply. He offers an afterthought rather absent-mindedly.

“Well, ah, if you're all hungry, you could head into the fresh produce tent. It's just behind the Ferris Wheel. There's freshly cooked Pumpkin pie and Apple juice for the little ones,” he says, looking at the filly and colt, who are chattering away happily. “And, um, maybe a cider for you, Miss,” he adds, smiling sheepishly back at the mare. “But just make sure ya' tell them Haystacks sent you. I'm sure it'll be on the house that way.”

The little filly and colt give a simultaneous gasp of delight at the mere notion of fresh pumpkin pie. The unicorn mare looks more than a little baffled, her hooves halfway to her purse.

“Don't you?...” she says, still gazing at him with some degree of confusion.

I realise she's trying to pay us as some kind of reward. Haystacks waves a hoof, shaking his head.

“Ah, no, no thank you, that's alright. I don't need it. You just go and have a drink and a slice of pie and relax, okay?”

The mare offers something close to a disbelieving glance. And in the short seconds between her foals tugging at her saddlebags and her turning to them, she passes us both a priceless look of unending thanks.

The little filly returns the hat, giving Haystacks a happy grin. And then, without any further fuss or bother, they are gone. The colt and filly gambol away into the crowd, and the mare turns gamely to follow. They are gone as quickly as they came, vanished into the technicolour blur of the stalls, stands and ponies.

I turn to Haystacks. Aside from a mote of embarrassment still fresh on his cheeks, he seems unperturbed by recent events.

We travel to the cider hall, and enjoy a few well-earned drinks.

Haystacks insists that it was nothing anypony wouldn't do around these parts, anyway.

Summer nights at the village carnival.

Minié Ball

The sharp quilltip pricked against her tongue, and she sucked it thoughtfully. Not that there was a great deal to be thoughtful about. Her reasoning for the offer was simple. If he took it, he took it, and if not, well ― then it was no skin off her muzzle. Green River Farm was a mere hundred and fifty acres, and not ones she needed, either.

Her eyes paced back and forth over the cheque. Green River fell within that luxurious category of something she desired, and she was willing to spend as much to show it. A pittance, but enough to satisfy him, of that she was sure.

The knock at the door came twice, paced and gentle.

"Miz Ball?" hummed a bassy voice, muffled by two inches of polished oak.

"Yes, Cotton?" she called back.

"Mister Hay is here, askin' for a moment of yo' time."

So he'd come, then. She'd seriously wondered whether or not he would. Perhaps Hay Bale had finally acknowledged his age.

She removed the quilltip from her mouth and began to sign the small rectangular slip, not bothering to look up at the door. Preparedness was vital, if nothing else. She applied her most winning smile, and carried the same energy through to her voice.

"But of course!" she spoke, folding the small slip away into one of her sleeves. "Do show him in!"

The door opened with a gentle sigh, and Cotton entered. The zebra's beckoning murmur to the visitor was barely audible over the tapping of hooves on polished oak.

She'd thought gloating was beyond her. All the same, she allowed her nose a slight crinkle of smug satisfaction.

"So, you got my letter, did you?" she said, resting her head lazily in one hoof.

The stallion that followed behind Cotton was not Hay Bale at all. He looked up as he entered, somewhat confused at being hailed.

Oh. She sat upright. Uncertainty flashed across her mind as she took stock of the newcomer, a tall and solidly built earth pony with eyes like glassy azure plates. Or at least, such was the surprise on his face.

She hid her own adeptly. The stallion was a far cry from the half withered fool she had been expecting, though he bore a strangely familiar face. Among other more pleasing features.

"Oh, forgive my manners!" she uttered, standing quickly. "I was anticipating Hay Bale."

The perplexed expression on the earth pony's face slowly gave way to a smile. "Oh, I see," he said, before bowing his head politely. "I'm his son, Haystacks. I own the farm now."

The words poured over her ears like scotch on cubes of ice, melodious and pleasing. It took a second for the homespun accent and wheat-gold fur to click with her memory, but not too long. After all, Minié Ball could scarcely forget him, standing at his father’s knee, all stony faced like the big ponies were during their little 'business chats'.

Like so many colts her age, he had borne that flimsy, lanky appearance that said he was not quite a stallion or a colt at all. And even then, he had been the cause of an unusual fixation on her part.

Things had clearly changed in the last six years. A tiny ripple of predatory delight slunk its way down her spine as she drank him in.

"Charmed, Haystacks.” her smile was a little less feigned than she had intended. “...I believe we've met before?"

The stallion removed his hat, and held it to his chest with one hoof. Behind him, the zebra quietly departed.

"We have, Miss Ball," he replied, flashing her a quick grin. "But we’ve both done a bit of growing, I think! I hardly recognise you."

He was right. He had grown since she'd last seen him. And for the better, she thought. Usually, she was more discerning about such ponderings ― but there was no crime in a few guilty pleasures every now and again. After all, there had always been something about the Mason-Dixie stableponies that had struck her as particularly robust. Perhaps, she mused, she just had a weakness for blondes, even if they were of a less exquisite lineage.

Idly, she entertained the fantasy of a pure blooded earth pony suitor. That wasn’t too out of the question, was it? He was a landowner, after all.

She laughed, and fluttered her eyes shamelessly. "Oh my," she purred, offering him a hoof to kiss. "Miss Ball?" A gentle burble of laughter escaped her lips. "Well that won't do at all, Hay. You simply must call me Minié."

He smiled, took her hoof in his own, and... shook it firmly.

"Good to see you again, then, Minié.” He smiled, still oblivious, and took a seat on the far side of the desk.

Ah. Well then. Some hopefully meandering part of her mind fell a short way back to earth. Truthfully, she didn't really know what she'd been expecting out of a simple farmpony. Her thoughts returned to the task at hoof.

Her desk was large and rectangular, and she slipped around it to the side that Haystacks was on.

“I take it that Hay Bale has retired?” she said, smoothing the many ruffles of her dress before taking the second seat.

The farmpony’s reply was simple. “Yes, that’s right. He left the farm to me, though I still ask for his opinion from time to time.”

“A shame," she lied, not missing a beat. "...And does he know of your plans to sell up?”

There was a pregnant pause. Haystack’s hoof found its way up his chest, where it scratched nervously underneath his chin.

“Well… I haven't spoken to him about it, if that’s what you mean.”

And that was all she needed to hear.

Before her Green River counterpart could even think to offer anything further, her hooves clattered together twice, a pair of castanets in the dance of trade.

“Cotton! Drinks for my guest and I, if you please!”

The chance to be the only pony whispering things in Haystacks’ ear was highly appealing in many respects. The sudden reality that Hay Bale was no longer in the picture was just one of them.

Without hesitation, she tapped into old history.

There was always something wonderfully meaningful about old business acquaintances, she observed, halfway through discussing her father’s untimely demise. Haystacks seemed more gripped by her and her words than any immediate business deal, in that good natured, benign way that all farmfolk were. For all he seemed to care or notice, the visit might have been a social one.

At some stage in recanting the year that had been, drinks were poured by a spectral Cotton, who floated in and around the room with practiced quietness, a silver platter between his teeth. Her guest watched him come and go, even offering a cursory ‘thank you’.

Much to her pleasure, Cotton knew better than to reply with anything other then ‘Yessir.’

The bourbon was silky and rich ― three years aged, with a hint of vanilla and cinnamon. Her favourite, of course. Just one mouthful left her licking the inside of her muzzle. It scorched all the way down.

The glass left her lips, and she felt herself smile. She glanced up at the stallion, whose near silence she had been thoroughly enjoying. She noticed he was still gazing at the zebra as he left through the door.

"...But Haystacks, I must confess, this all a bit nostalgic of me. Forgive me for pushing to the point, but I don't want to waste your time. I assume you're here because you wished to hear my offer."

The stallion paused, bringing his attention to bear on her. "Yes," he uttered. "I'm the owner now, so it's up to me, but..." his voice trailed off.

"But it's a big move to sell the farm, undoubtedly."

He pursed his lips together, his gaze fallen on the broad brimmed hat in his lap. He said nothing.

Minié leaned towards him, placing her hooves together. The stallion looked up, breaking from his thoughtful reverie.

"Haystacks," she softly spoke. "Let me be sincere, for a moment. We're quite alike, aren't we?" The rather generous admission rolled off her tongue. "We're both the executors of substantial parcels of land, we both had fathers of substantial character. We both know what it means to work hard; I'd be lying to your face if I said otherwise!" She allowed herself the tiniest of titters. "I understand your concerns. I'm like you, you see. I know I'd have reservations if someone wanted to buy Mason-Dixie. But you can rest assured knowing that it would go into good hooves."

The small paper slip tucked up her sleeve itched and poked at her fur. She decided, in the end, that there was little point in cajoling him any further.

"I'm making this offer on the notion that our families go back a little way." She smiled, slipping a hoof up past her cuff and producing the paper slip. It was remarkable how often she could use that excuse. "And besides," she added, turning her attention to her drink as he plucked the cheque from her hooves. "I think it might present an attractive proposition to a young, enterprising stallion such as yourself. Perhaps you'd consider the opportunity to do something else? Perhaps consider a move on up to the city?"

Another delicious buzz of pleasure found its roots in the sudden and complete silence that filled the room, as if somepony had suddenly ceased to breathe. She swirled the glass a few times, enjoying the smell of bourbon. Enjoying the moment.

She glanced up at him once she'd had her fill of it.

The farmpony stared down at the thing, cradling it in his hooves. Seven digits in length, it was more money than he would have seen or held in his life. She knew he was too young to have ever seen real money before. And, well ― she would be quite honest with herself ― it was unlikely that he would ever see it again. Not with his family.

"This?" he all but whispered. She could hear the shaking in his voice, see it in those pallid blue eyes that kept reading over that figure again and again and again.

She smiled, inwardly and outwardly, and nodded. A lock of dark mane slipped over her eyes, and she replaced it behind her ears idly.

They always had second thoughts after the money came out. Hay Bale had been no different, though his answer had ultimately been something along the lines of ‘not on his life’.

The seconds ticked by harmlessly. She gave him the precious moments he wanted.

He raised his head. The stallion was clearly shaken, and thinking hard about something.

“Minié, the offer is…” he paused again to search for words. “More than enough.”

And there it was. The subtle satisfaction of another pony won washed over her. She took another sip of the delightfully heady bourbon, savouring the moment.

"But I must ask...” he hesitated slightly. “...What do you pay them?"

She blinked, and coughed slightly. A bit of her drink had missed the mark. With one hoof held before her mouth daintily, she lowered her glass back onto the side table.

"I'm ― ahem ― I'm afraid I'm not sure what you're referring to."

For a moment, only the grandfather clock against the far wall broke the contemplative silence of the office.

"The donkeys," Haystacks continued. "The ones I saw in the fields on the way here. How much do you pay them?"

His voice was even, and his expression impassive, but there was a dead weight that hung on the end of his demand, like a zebra on a noose―a careful absence of anything even resembling a question.

It was only then that she noticed that his glass of bourbon was untouched.

Slowly, she placed her hooftips together. She did not smile.

"They are paid well," she replied. "Enough to support themselves. Less than the minimum wage, but we also give them a place to stay and live and eat. It is better than what they are paid in the Burros, Mr. Hay. I can tell you that much."

The answer seemed to mollify him, though she was sure it was not the one he wanted to hear.

"And the mules I saw? Are they taken care of?" he asked.

"Half-castes, you mean?" she replied idly.

The farmer paused, and then nodded once more.

Minié's pout and furrowed brow was genuine, for once. She had never really lent a thought to the animal instincts that sometimes lent a regular pony to cross paths ― and tails, for that matter ― with a Burro. She dropped a hoof to her drink again.

"Well," she murmured, her hooftip circling the crystal tumbler's rim. "To be honest, I am not sure yet. Our decision to house Burros is only a recent one. I suppose, in time, they will join hooves with their parents in the fields." She sniffed, and wrinkled her nose slightly. "There are half-caste foals born here, and they are a wholly unpleasant matter, Mr. Haystacks. Reprehensible breeding, one might say. We treat them as fairly as we treat their parents, though we often dismiss the pony responsible. We do not need workers that cannot keep their thoughts away from..." she paused. "Their beasts of burden, if you'll forgive my wording."

He nodded again to show his understanding, the cheque still clasped between his hooves. As she had been speaking, his gaze had fallen to a spot on the floor between them, where it searched for some greater answer.

"Of course," He murmured, not really looking at anything. "That's fine."

Minié was no stranger to the sensation that something was awry. She had been hoping that Haystacks would be more malleable than his father, and so far that had proven true. After all, the golden farmpony did not seem overtly bothered by anything she had said. Not like Hay Bale had.

Perhaps pushing the envelope was the way forward.

"So," she said, resisting the urge to retrieve her glass for a toast. That would be a bit too much. "Do we have a deal?"

Had his ear not twitched slightly, she would have been sure that he didn't hear her. He glanced up at her, his smile present, but muted. There was a dreadful absence of the joviality that had accompanied him through the door.

And it would be at least another one of the same, all encompassing moments of silence before he responded.

"Well, I think I've made up my mind," he replied. With a gentle purpose, he drew his hooves together, folding the little slip of paper in half.  He ran one hoof across the spine of the fold a few times, as if sealing it shut, before placing it next to his untouched glass, all the while still bearing that almost laughably empty smile.

"I'm afraid this land is not for sale right now," he said. There was a certain degree of finality to his voice, one given all the more presence by his making to stand. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some business in town."

Minié's mind raced. Years of her father's business acumen had lent her a certain adeptness with salvaging the losing scenario, and this one was rapidly slipping through her hooves.

She quickly drew back her frown, giving way to homely smile that had seemed to resonate with him before, and slid a hoof across the gap between them, placing it gently on his. It did not seem to have the desired effect ― at the merest touch, she felt him tense up.

"Haystacks," she began, her voice sweet once more. "If I may explain further―"

A very large hoof settled over hers, and she fell silent. She felt a slight pressure against it ― the gentlest of squeezes, and nothing more.

She let go.

When he spoke, she heard only a gentle voice. There was not a thing about him that resonated indignity or outrage. He even had the audacity to offer her a tiny smile from that haggard, common face, as if all was well, as if she might have better luck next time. But she recognised the distant look his eyes, one that offered no warmth, yet spread no farther than two pale blue irises for the sake of plausible deniability.

"No, Miss Ball." His voice was barely audible above the deafening silence. "I'm very sorry. But you may not."

The halls of the hospital were graced by the familiar aroma of iodine and disinfectant. He had trodden them so many times that he could guide himself around by pure repetition, allowing his limbs to do all the work. He nodded to the one or two of the orderlies that he recognised, though their smiles felt distant and spectral.

He found her room empty, barring the occupant of the bed against the wall. The hinny looked up as he entered, and after a moment of recognition, her face lit up like dawn across the valley.

"Hello, love. How are you?"

Haystacks nodded and gave a noncommittal grunt. Still fueled and swept onwards by a mad wind, he trotted slowly to the hospital bed's side, and took a seat, his head bowed. As was his default, he removed his hat, and laid it on the pristine white bedsheets, the partly drawn blinds throwing playful lashes of shadow across it.

"Your father's down the street, buying some fresh bread from the bakery."

A pause heralded a moment of uncertainty. He did not notice it until the soft clicking of knitting needles stopped, giving him cause to glance up.

She peered back at him through half-moon glasses. Her eyes and face were worn with lines, a mix of love and weariness, though her smile was still bright and full of life.

"You look tired, dear," she murmured. "Are you sleeping well?"

"Such reprehensible breeding," a coquettish mare's voice said, in the far off reaches of his mind. An equally attractive figure kept repeating itself over and over to him, one with seven digits. One that whispered the unknown truth that, perhaps, there was life to be had outside the farm.

The corners of her lips fell. "Haystacks?" she asked gently. "Is something wrong?"

He swallowed.

"No," he replied, smiling faintly. There was little sense in telling her, he decided. He took one of her greyed hooves between his own, and gave it a gentle squeeze. "Nothing at all, Mother."

Mango Leaf

Haystacks pressed on through the warm night. The skitter of the occasional flagstone on his hoof was enough to mark the way forward, though he could see plenty well enough on such a moonlit evening.

Should he run? Excited was never a Haystacks kind of feeling, but it simmered like fruit moonshine in his stomach, sweet and bubbly and delicious. And nopony around here could brew it like Mango Leaf.

The mere idea of some of Mango's homebrew gave him a queer burning feeling in the back of his throat, and a sweet twinge to the back of his mouth.

No; walking would do. But trotting a little faster couldn't hurt. There was no reason to keep good company waiting any longer than was necessary, he thought. And besides, it hardly went without saying that he'd been looking forward to this evening for quite a while. Mango Leaf had been a phantasm in his life for what felt like months.

Or was it seasons by now?

The thought dogged him as he passed by the lit windows of the last row of houses in the village, the gold of their fire-lights and candles throwing shadows onto the road. His mind wove lazy beelines around the last year as he tried to remember what had been.

His birthday was the nearer side of winter. And his twenty-second birthday had been only a little while after he'd seen Mango Leaf – yes, he remembered now. Just before it got a bit too chilly for the apple trees to bear any fruit. Even then, Mango had complained bitterly about how mild winter was down here.

He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with a clear summer's night.

He was twenty-three now. That would mean he hadn't seen Mango in little over a year and a bit. And that simply made no sense. How could it ever? It felt like only yesterday that he had found himself curled up adjacent to the fire and Mango, drink in hoof, talking about life, ponies, and everything in between. Whateverso fell into his mind.

Thirteen or fourteen months, perhaps. That was long enough to go without seeing anypony just once.

The line between friend and acquaintance had blurred over the last year, but Mango was a good friend - that much was clear. And barring the reporter mare who had come to the carnival with him, he hadn't really had the heart to call somepony else a good friend in a while. In truth, he hadn't really allowed himself to get to know somepony, or in Mango Leaf's Case, to get to know him all over again.

Haystacks wondered briefly if Mango had changed. It lingered longer than he would have liked, and some small wisp of emotion stirred within him. It vanished just as quickly as he became aware of his surroundings, and he glanced up.

Barring a few lonely abodes behind him, the village had finally given way to the fertile fields that surrounded the town, most of them still not quite ready for harvest, and some fallow altogether. Those that were not waved at him as the wind swept silvery ripples across their moonlit surfaces.

Haystacks cast a cursory glance around, and the distant glimmer of the campfire caught his eye. He made a path for it.

The point where the paved stone of the township dwindled to the sprawling miles of dusty country roads was where he knew his friend would be. Despite repeated offers, Mango never chose to stay at the farm or in town. Perhaps he was more comfortable when he could see the sky. But then, that was Mango in a nutshell. Always stargazing.

As he came nearer the fire, he could make out the familiar blue wagon silhouetted against the flame, just next to the sign that marked the crossroads out to Sweet Apple Acres. It seemed like this time, Mango Leaf had been more careful about where he'd camped out.

Haystacks smiled to himself. He'd been a little curious about where the unicorn might choose to park his cart this year – and in particular, whether or not it would be on top of somepony's prize flower garden.

He took a fond moment to remember. Lily had caused such a fuss. The rhododendrons were still delicious, though, and in fairness to Mango, the patch didn't have a fence around it. He had even tried to make amends, albiet by making a rhododendron-flavoured snowcone out of some of the flowers and offering them back to her.

A smirk flitted its way across his lips. Perhaps, all things considered, it was better that he was farther out of town.

As he approached the camp proper, he took the location in. A nice, flat piece of earth just off the road, underneath a few sycamore trees. He could smell the woodsmoke of the fire now, mixed with the pleasantly familiar scent of mango chutney and vegetables. One lone figure lay prostrated by the fire, looking for all the world like the shaggy, mop-headed unicorn he fondly remembered.

“Nice place you got here,” he observed.

The figure by the fire jumped, and clambered to its hooves a little too quickly. It spun around, staring into the darkness. From the glow of the fire, Haystacks could faintly make out Mango Leaf's face, hidden amongst his thick, braided mane of mandarin and orange.

“Did ya finally decide to show up?!” he replied, his voice brashful and melodious. “Haikili save me, cousin, you like to take your sweet time, huh!?”

They took a few cantering steps forward each, meeting close enough to the light that their faces were clear to the other. He'd grown a beard since they last met, Haystacks observed. An uneasy smile spread its way across his face.

“Mango,” Haystacks murmured, proffering him a hoof.

Mango blinked. He stared at the hoof, and back. The mirth in Haystacks' chest began to spread up and away from his stomach, and now it was at the corners of his cheeks, threatening to burst. He felt like he might, and the thought didn't worry him one bit.

Mango Leaf's response, however, was a forlorn scowl.

“Haystacks,” he said, desiccating his words. “Hay-stacks. Do you mind explaining to me what in the hay is that supposed to be?” he jabbed his hoof at  Haystacks' own.

The farmpony looked down at his hoof, up at Mango, and down again. Whatever smile had been there before slipped off his face like it was roped to an anchor.

“...What?” Haystacks recoiled, retracting his hoof a slight. “What do you mean, what, I –”

“Cousins don't shake hooves,” Mango Leaf replied firmly. “They hug." his voice softened. "Now come here, you big lump.”

And before Haystacks could think, the Haywaaiin took a half-step forward, reached out, and put a foreleg around his neck, pulling him into an embrace.

After a few seconds of shock, he raised his own foreleg and hugged him back tightly.

“...You missed me, then?” jibed Mango Leaf, into his left ear.

He'd often thought about how to reply to a question like that. The scene that unfolded before him was one that sometimes drifted through his mind after the evening's work was done, during those precious twilight hours where the small ponies seemed to do their best thinking.

Strange, then, that he could give no reply that felt tough or strong.

“Of course I did,” he said.

The hoof around the upper part of his back tightened sharply. For a brief second, the gentle snaps of the fire and the distant blare of cicadas was all there was to hear.

“Me too, bud.”

They separated to a hoof's length. Haystacks continued to regard the unicorn with a mixture of caution and amusement, but he couldn't help the delight that etched its way into his features.

“You... surprised me a bit, there,” he mumbled.

“Why?” The unicorn grinned foolishly, and the duo broke apart. “What, did think I'd changed horribly or something?”

“Well, so long as we're being honest with each-other, then yes.” Haystacks replied.

“And likewise, cousin. I thought you might be the one who'd changed, huh?" Mango Leaf said. "Good thing that didn't happen. You're still the ugliest son of a hydra I've ever had the chance of meeting." He turned and trotted to the fireside, leaving Haystacks to snort amusedly to himself. A wreath of emerald magic took hold of a large pot that hung just above the fireplace, removing its lid to stir slightly.

"I'm glad you're here," the unicorn added, his voice taking a fond tone as he worked.

Haystacks smiled. Spices that he hadn't thought he'd ever smell again made his mouth water.

“I wouldn't trade anything for it. Not for the world,” he replied. “I just had some work to do first.”

Now it was Mango Leaf's turn to nicker breathily. “Hah! Just like you. Keep an old friend waiting for your job? What are you, married to it?” He beckoned Haystacks over. “Come sit, so I can hear all about it. My legs are killing me.”

The earth pony took a few strides, bring himself forward to the fireside. In the light, he felt and looked less pale, less the pallid shade of dry grass and more the colour of his namesake. Warmth seeped into his hooves from the dusty earth. Whatever nerves that had dogged him vanished into the night, and as Mango Leaf placed another log on the fire, he forgot ever having had any worries at all.

“I'll trade you,” Haystacks said. “Fill me a glass of that drink you make, and we'll talk.”

Okolehao. That was what he called it. Equestrian Okolehao, 'mixed with mango juice so it didn't knock you out and send you home, cousin'. That was fine by Haystacks. The last thing he wanted to do was to fall asleep in a field next to his friend and that warm fire.

At least, that was the initial thought.

“To us again! Ōkole maluna!” Mango said cheerfully, his voice slightly slurred.

“Cheers,” he replied.

The liqueur sloshed greedily from the two tankards as they clicked together for what must have been the fourth or fifth time. Haystacks raised it to his lips and allowed the golden, fruity mixture to flow down his throat, savouring every drop.

It went nicely with the stew, a hearty mixture of rice and fresh vegetables with a mango chutney. Mango insisted he was no good with anything hot – still, after all this time, Haystacks said – but that was all fine. He helped with the cooking, and together, they made something that was more than half-edible.

The tankard was a third empty before he put it down. He continued his story as a fresh buzz of alcohol zipped its way into his stomach.

“...So I'm out in the field, with nothing on me, right? And so I had to get the damn thing unstuck, fix it, while it's raining, and I'm knee-deep in mud, and of course, as soon as I get the plough fixed again, poof.” He swept his free hoof in a fanning gesture. “Sun comes out. Beautiful weather. And here I am caked in mud and Celestia knows what else. And that's when the carriage of tourists rolls by.”

The noise Mango Leaf made was somewhere between a leaky gas pipe and a rusty axle. The tears rolling from his eyes stained his yellow coat a shade darker as he doubled over in laughter that looked almost painful.

Haystacks waited until it subsided, feeling his cheeks ache through his own barely-controlled grin, until the noise of Mango Leaf's occasional hiccuping laughs fell quiet, and nature resumed its dominance of the realms of sound and sight. He felt his head draw itself high to the heavens above, though whether the urge to do so came from the alcohol or the weariness that eked at his bones, he couldn't say.

“...I've missed this,” he whispered, barely audible above the crickets.

And there it was. More than a statement of how pleasant it was to see Mango, it tapped into that strange other, that unspoken-of area that had plagued his mind – how nice it was to not be alone for a while.

He mused about adding more to that particular thought, but decided against it. He was never so good with describing his feelings. They sat best, and most comfortably, under wraps.

“S'been a while since, huh?” Mango replied.

Haystacks blinked. The stars looked clearer tonight.

“Yeah,” he replied. “Haven't seen you in ages.”

He heard the scraping of a spoon against a bowl as somepony scooped the last of their frozen yoghurt from a wooden bowl.

“That's...” there was a pause as Mango ate more of his dessert. “'At's not what eye meen.”

Haystacks dropped his gaze. The golden pony continued to tuck into his bowl, speaking almost absent-mindedly.

“Well, what do you mean?” the farmer replied, shifting his body against the woollen rug that lay between him and the earth.

“Eye meen,” Mango said, before swallowing, “That you don't get out much.”

Haystacks nickered indignantly, but made no reply. There was nothing about Mango's attitude, laissez-faire as it was, that showed any sign of a joke. He even went so far as to size Mango Leaf up, only to find that Mango Leaf was looking at him the same way.

“And how do you figure?” he finally conceded.

Mango's head tilted, his lips locked into a contended smirk.

“I mean that the farm is all you do,” he replied.

Haystacks fell silent, watching the fire burn until the absence of a reply began to eat away at him.

“It's just work. Work is something I have to do, and that's all,” he said, taking another sip of his drink.

“So you don't like it?” came the reply.

He had to think about that one.

“I do.”

That was honest enough. The farm was one of the few things he had in this world. How could he not love it?

There was a pause.

“...When was the last time you did something like this, Hay?” Mango quipped.

Haystacks didn't have to think to give him an answer.

“I told you about the reporter mare, right?” he said. “We went to the carnival together?”

“Yeah." Mango wiped his mouth and grinned. "But was that the only time you've gotten out and about? Blown the cobwebs out, so to speak?”

Haystacks frowned.

“In how long?”

Another pause. It only took a fraction of a second for the farmer to realise that he'd said more than he'd intended to.

“Uh, I mean...” he picked his words carefully. “Technically, yes. The 'only' time.”

“And do you remember the last time before that?”

Haystacks turned his head away, gazing over the fire and into the darkness.

“It was here,” he replied. “With you.”

“So twice in a year,” Mango said flatly.

“And there was that one time I went down to the tavern and stayed a while.”

“Three times,” he repeated. "And ya folks work there. That's cheating."

“Well, I... I'm sure I'm just not remembering some of them.” he nickered, lowering his hat onto his brow a bit more. “What's your point?”

“My point is, cousin,” Mango Leaf began. Haystacks heard a shuffling, and glanced up to see that Mango was moving his things around the edge of the fire. A small mat rolled itself out beside him, and Mango Leaf lay beside him, facing the fire. They were almost touching shoulders.

“My point is... other then that, all you've done is talk about work. That's fine and all, but... do you feel like that it's all you do, though?” Mango replied. “Don't you think you're a bit... well, lifeless?”

It wasn't really an admission he had ever made to himself. Work had always kept him busy; but that was the beauty of it. Where there was work, there was never much time to do much else. Including think.

“I don't know,” he replied. For some reason, Mango was hard to look at, even though he was only a hooflength to his left. “I just do what I think is right. I don't even think about it much. I just know I have to work hard.”

A silence fell between them. The fire snapped happily, long since having been reduced to a few small branches and coals.

“I wasn't being rude, or anything, cousin.” he sounded concerned. “Maopopo I a'u. I know what you mean. You told me about you having to run the farm on your own. I was just saying that I thought you'd changed, that was all.”

A small coal, seperated from the rest of the fire by a small plain of ash, caught Haystacks' eye. It sat alone, glowing gently.

Mango Leaf would be the only pony who had really seen him before and after his life had taken a turn for the adult. He was the only pony that had snapshots of Haystacks, that went as far back as he himself could remember.

A burning sensation crept into his stomach.

“I mean, have you ever considered that you might not want to be a farmer, Hay?”

He didn't reply. He couldn't.

He wouldn't.

“...Is this about your Momma, Hay?”

A full-body shiver caught Haystacks unawares. While it was easily hidden beneath the rug draped around his shoulders, the shaking breath that accompanied it was, regrettably, left bare to the campsite and its two inhabitants, and the whole night sky.

The tankard, just short of his right hoof, never looked so appealing. He seized it, and took another drink.

It was just the alcohol, he thought. Some Haywaain plant or herb that Mango had brought with him from the far side of Equestria. Surely it was just a side effect. The tears weren't meant to be. He was a strong pony, his father's pony, the farmer.

They burned all the way down.

Nothing ever really needed to be said between them. That was the best part. Whole volumes were spoken in the slow seconds of life that washed away as they sat, watching the fire burn for just a little longer. Catharsis. There was no rush, and nothing more important than each other.

But all good things had to come to an end sometime.

“Do you remember when we first ran into eachother?” Mango said.

Haystacks nodded, though he was not able to bring his gaze to bear on the unicorn.

He had just been given frozen yoghurt from Mango. The first time was always free, Mango said. It had always seemed bizarre how much attention the cart had gotten from the villageponies, so Haystacks accepted. One bite, and he saw why.

“I was gettin' angry at the flower mare,” Mango continued.

“...Lily?” the farmpony murmured.

Mango shivered audibly at the name.

“'Ae, that nag. Terrible temper... but she has a great butt.”

Haystacks snorted with a mixture of shock and laughter. The exertion felt good, an outlet for the pressure in his chest.

“S-she was paying you out about the flower snowcone, as I recall,” he said. “The one you made from her ruined flower garden.”

Mango Leaf nickered angrily. “But the snowcone was a great idea!”

“Time and place, surely?...” Haystacks murmured.

“No.” The unicorn paused for emphasis. “That's just it, Haystacks. That's just it.”

He felt a warmth on his shoulder, and looked over to find a hoof there. He looked up.

Haystacks could never recall Mango looking so intense, so serious in all his life.

“That's the whole point,” Mango said. “Don't you see? You can't compromise on what you feel like you have to do, cousin.” He gave Haystacks a wan smile. “You can't, not even for a second. And in the long run, if you can't meet your dreams halfway, then how are you ever going to be happy?”

Haystacks bowed his head. The shadow of the hat shaded his cheeks from the heat of the campfire.

“When you...” he sniffed, and wiped away the damp at the corner of his eye. “When you have people who rely on you, things change. It all changes.”

“That's true. But I don't think, even then, that your parents would want you to have anything less then they have. That they would want you to give up on your own dreams. That's why they worked so hard in the first place, right?”

The farmpony blinked, mulling the thought over.

It seemed... right. It made sense. He had never told his parents about Minie Ball's offer, and he had never been able to work out why. Had he thought they would be angry for passing up on the chance to leave? To sell his business and just go somewhere, like Mango?

“Life throws adversity at you.” Mango continued. “But you have to find a way to carry on regardless. I spent too long trying to do things that everyone wanted me to do. Luau and firebreathing and swimming and canoeing, and sweet sun-princess knows what else. And in the end, all I wanted to do in life was just simple. I just wanted to share frozen yoghurt, what I liked the most, with everyone. Sure, it didn't stick too well with my folks at first, but at the end of the day, that's what made me happy, and they helped me with that." Mango Leaf paused a moment. "I didn't compromise on what made me happy. And you shouldn't either."

Haystacks couldn't help but chuckle, just a little. The logic, while classically Mango Leaf, was bizarrely sound. And despite the uncertainty in his heart, the thought of Mango persevering stayed with him, and the more un-knotted his stomach began to feel.

“How, though?” Haystacks said. “I've got so much to do right now, it's just –” He sighed. His shoulders felt heavy. “So much to do.”

Mango Leaf clucked his tongue. “I don't know how, cousin. I'm just a simple fro-yo vendor. But don't worry. If we think about it together, and walk the same road, then I'm sure we'll make some sense out of it. But you promise you'll chase your dreams, right?” He shoved Haystacks lightly. “No matter what happens.”

Haystacks nodded gamely, and dragged the back of his hoof across both of his eyes. The smile slipped unbidden onto his cheeks.

“Whatever they might be,” he said. “I promise.”