There's Something in the Woods
Well past midnight, Rarity opened her bedroom window and peered outside. The streets of Ponyville were dark and empty. With a smile, Rarity pulled a cloak over her head, made sure her saddlebags were securely fastened and then climbed outside. Her saddlebags were heavy, but she made sure not to make a single sound on the way down. She landed lightly on the ground.
Of course, sneaking out of her bedroom was entirely unnecessary. She hadn’t lived under her parents’ curfew for years, and no pony would have thought twice about seeing her take a late night walk. But necessity wasn’t the point.
Rarity was going to see the witch tonight. She had been visiting the witch once a month since she was a foal. She had learned much from the witch, including that a young lady must never allow herself to be seen with a witch. The consequences of violating this rule were unclear, likely nonexistent. But avoiding consequences wasn’t the point either.
The point was that Rarity had made a promise to never allow herself to be seen on her way to the witch, and so Rarity didn’t allow herself to be seen on her way to the witch.
Rarity double checked the street again, and then crept quickly and silently among the shadows and towards the edge of town. She was going to the Everfree Forest.
She heard hoofsteps, and dove behind the corner of a nearby building. While she waited for the ponies to pass, she lay her saddlebags on the ground. They were too heavy to carry for long.
Along with the hoofsteps came voices. At least two of them, jovial and bumbly and much too loud for this hour. Most likely two gentleponies walking home from the bar. As Rarity listened, she thought about Sweetie Belle.
Rarity had agreed to watch Sweetie Belle the day before. Her sister and her sister’s friends had played at being firefighters, and ran about and splashed each other and the house and Rarity’s hydrangeas and Opal with a hose.
There was a simple joy in watching children at play. Rarity had loved playing pretend when she was young. What she enjoyed most was the performance of it. That’s what playing pretend really was, and all use of the imagination. It was performance art.
To imagine was to make a performance out of yourself and the whole world, and you were often the sole audience. Other children might have played with you, but their worlds were never identical to your own, invisible to everyone but their own eyes.
When she was young, Rarity’s favorite game was to play at being a witch.
The voices faded into the distance. Rarity heaved her saddlebags back on and headed out into the street. She managed to make it to the edge of town without anymore trouble.
There she stopped.
She looked out upon the Everfree Forest, dark and intimidating. A cold wind swept over her and pulled at her cloak. This was where she always stopped. This was where she considered if she was doing the right thing.
The Everfree was always dangerous, but it was triply so at night. To go in alone and without telling anyone where she had gone was foolhardy and stupid. It was childish, and Rarity wasn’t a child anymore. Playing sneak around town was one thing, putting herself in physical danger was another. If Rarity hurt herself while playing these silly games—
But, she realized, this wasn’t a game. At least, not anymore. It certainly had been once. Sneaking into the Everfree had been fun when she was a filly. However, the reality of witchcraft had turned out to be so much more somber and mundane than the pompous performances she had put on as a filly.
Rarity had made a promise, and someone in that forest relied on her, so she stepped forward and into the Everfree.
Passing between the trees, the tangled mess of limbs above shut out the light of the stars and moon. It was like walking into an unlit room at night. The forest was almost totally black.
Her saddlebags weighed heavily on her back as Rarity ducked around thorny brambles and stepped over ditches. She held a magical screen up around herself to keep away the dirt and the bugs, but it couldn’t keep out them all. The Everfree smelled familiar, musty and damp, and the ground felt moist like a crumbly yellow-batter cake under her hooves.
Rarity had spent much more time in the forest than any of her friends could ever have guessed. The very best place to play as a child was the woods, well, the woods and construction sites.
Woods and constructions sites contained all the right ingredients to make a child’s perfect evening. Limbs and ladders to climb, gaps to jump, bugs to run away from or stomp upon, sticks to swing, rocks to throw, few adults, and fewer parents.
Most importantly, woods and constructions sites had the critically necessary element of danger and mystery.
For play to be really worthwhile, there needed to be some doubt and wonder at what might be around the next corner.
A bear?
A construction worker?
Might this branch break if climbed on? Might this unfinished floor collapse if stood upon?
Are there thorns? Are there nails?
Where does this tunnel lead? Where does this pipe go?
If you knew for certain some monster couldn’t be lying in wait for you on the path up ahead, it wasn’t a path worth taking.
Rarity had always preferred the woods, because the gentle curves of the green trees and underbrush were more aesthetically appealing than the hulking broken angles of beams and scaffolds. And because the monsters of nature were so much more terrifying and bizarre and unique and fascinating and beautiful than those ponies manufactured.
Rarity had often played alone in the woods.
One night, she found something deep in the Everfree Forest.
She never told anyone. She had been sworn to secrecy.
Once a month, she returned.
__________________________________________________
A small shack lay ahead of Rarity, nestled among the gnarled roots and limbs of the Everfree Forest like a toad in a puddle. Vines and moss grew up its walls, and the whole structure sagged like a neglected houseplant. It had no windows, but a dim light shone through the cracks in the wood.
Rarity’s forehead was wet with sweat, her mane and tail tangled. She felt exhausted. Her saddlebags were still heavy, and she’d had more than one run-in with the denizens of the Everfree. There were few occasions for which Rarity was willing to allow her meticulously styled mane to be disheveled. This was one of them.
No road led to this shack. It would be nearly impossible to find if one didn’t know precisely where to look.
Rarity dragged herself up to the shack’s door.
She lowered her hood and knocked.
She waited.
Sounds of slow movement came from within the shack. The wood creaked.
“Who’s out there?” a sharp, haggard, coarse voice called from within.
“It’s me,” Rarity said.
The door opened. A grey old mare stuck her head outside, her stringy unkempt mane hanging her eyes. Her gaunt skin hung tight to her bones. She narrowed her eyes at Rarity.
“You’re late,” the mare said.
“I’m sorry, Laurel,” Rarity said, even though she wasn’t late. She never had been.
Laurel looked her up and down. One of the old mare’s eyes was dull and clouded and blind. The other was a striking green. She was an image taken straight out of children’s book of fairy tales. Rarity could never tell if that was on purpose or by accident. “Were you followed?”
“No.”
Laurel coughed. “Are you certain?”
Rarity nodded. She had never been followed. No one had any reason to follow her. But she had taken the directive seriously as a filly. Then, whenever she came, she had glanced behind her shoulders and ducked behind trees and hidden beneath bushes the whole way.
Laurel scrutinized her, and then her eyes settled on the saddlebags. “Is that them?”
“Yes.”
“Well, hurry up and bring it in then.” Laurel moved aside and coughed again, raspy and dry.
Rarity winced at the sound, but went past her and inside.
The inside of the poorly lit shack was cramped, and Rarity had to be careful where she stepped. It was full of trinkets, doodads, carvings, totems, and dusty books. As a filly, Rarity thought the assortment looked full of magic and possibility. As an adult, they looked like they needed a good cleaning.
Laurel closed the door behind her, and Rarity picked up the suitcase and set it on a table. The floorboards beneath her whined with every step.
“Let’s see what you’ve got,” Laurel said, coughing again. The sound was harsh and sickly. She walked to the table with a noticeable limp. “See if you’ve finally learned to follow instructions.”
Rarity frowned as she watched. Laurel hadn’t always been like this. She had always been dirty and eccentric, but she had once also been just as fiery and quick as a newborn phoenix, with a wonderful flair for the dramatic. She had brewed potions that mesmerized and dazzled. She had wowed Rarity as a filly, enthralled her with flashy tricks, exciting stories, and secret instructions.
But Rarity had learned over time that the tricks were just that, the stories largely false, and the instructions meaningless.
She hadn’t cared so much. She never really believed any of it, but she loved the game, the performance.
But the game had turned into something else now. Laurel had changed.
Her limp was recent.
Her cough was less so.
Laurel clumsily opened the saddlebags. She peered close down at into their contents with her good eye. She coughed. “What is this?”
“Have you seen anyone about that cough, yet?” Rarity asked.
“I could brew something for it myself,” Laurel said, rifling through the saddlebags, “if you’d just bring me what I ask for.”
“And what about your leg?”
Laurel glared at her. “What about it?”
“It’s getting worse.”
“How would you know?”
Rarity kept her voice gentle. “You should have it looked at, darling.”
“And you should learn to keep your ladle in your own pot, darling.” Laurel practically snarled the last word.
“I have a friend who could exami—”
Laurel whirled on her. “You remember the oath you swore here in this house, girl?”
“Yes, of course I do,” Rarity said. She had long ago promised to never reveal Laurel’s existence or whereabouts. She hated old promises.
“Never cross a witch,” Laurel said, coughing and turning back to the suitcase. “Who can tell the horrors that might befall you if you do.”
Rarity stayed quiet. She’d heard the threat often enough to know it was all bark and no bite.
“What is this?” Laurel asked again, pushing the saddlebags aside. “This isn’t what I asked for.”
“No, it isn’t,” Rarity said evenly. “I brought you something you actually need.”
“This is worthless!” Laurel cried. “Where is the nightshade? Where is the boggart eye?”
Rarity stepped up to the saddlebags and pulled out their contents one-by-one. “There is no such thing as a boggart. Here is some celery, tomatoes, potatoes, corn, turnips, onions, and carrots, all bought fresh at the market this morning. And these apples were grown on my friend’s apple orchard.”
“What potion could I ever brew with an apple?”
“An apple potion. Or you can just eat them. When was the last time you ate?”
“What business is it of yours?” Laurel coughed and her chest spasmed and heaved.
“It is my business as your friend,” Rarity said. “I care about you.”
Laurel looked at her, and something about her seemed to soften, and her whole body sagged, defeated. “Fine.”
“You’d like to keep them then?”
“You can leave them here if you want,” Laurel said, not looking her in the eye.
Rarity took the rest of the fruits and vegetables out of the saddlebags. “Some warm soup might soothe your throat. Would you mind if I prepared some while I’m here?”
“You can do whatever you want. Who do you think is gonna stop you?”
Rarity nodded. She gathered together the food and then rummaged around the shack until she found the utensils she would need, the same dull and bent utensils with which she had helped the old witch brew potions years before.
Rarity peeled and cut the potatoes on the table.
After some time, Laurel stepped up beside her and took a knife and helped peel the potatoes.
Rarity smiled, but kept quiet.
“We’re making boggart’s drought,” Laurel said.
Rarity shook her head. “We’re making vegetable stew.”
Laurel cursed. “Dammit, girl, can’t you let me have anything?”
Rarity paused, and then continued. “We’re making boggart’s drought,” she agreed.
They went back to work together, falling into a cordial rhythm. Rarity remembered all the times she had stood beside Laurel as a filly and watched fascinated as the witch prepared for her some wondrous brew, how excited she had been when asked to help.
After a while, Laurel began to enjoy herself. She talked Rarity through a list of preparations for boggart’s drought. The potatoes became dwarves’ feet, and the corn became golden dewdrops, and the carrots became the stems of bonebreaker plants. The broth had to be stirred counterclockwise for exactly three minutes while reciting some gibberish chant, then stirred clockwise for another four minutes in absolute silence to prevent some horrible unspoken fate.
Rarity faithfully followed every instruction, and for a little while she let herself feel just a little bit like an actual witch again.
As for the effects of the potion, Laurel told her with a wry smile, if shared with another, boggart’s drought was said to promote lasting friendships.
“But that’s probably just a rumor,” Laurel said, pouring the stew into their bowls. “You can never tell with witches’ talk. Witches enjoy tricking one another. This very well might turn our spleens inside out. Or it could be straight hogwash.”
Rarity grinned and picked up her bowl. “I suppose there is only one way to find out.”
