Run Away, and Never Return
For every door that the Abada opens, a thousand must close.
-old Zebra proverb
The floor was earth, packed flat and hard by years of being walked on. The walls were baked mud, stronger than brick after countless days baking in the noonday sun. The roof was straw, replaced bale by bale after every rainstorm with all the duty of a royal guard making his rounds.
The floor was covered in shattered pottery. The walls were stained with potions that stank like elephant dung and looked like rhino vomit. The roof had partially collapsed.
At the center of all of it, the shaman Zecora sat huddled on the ground, staring at her overturned cauldron and the puddle of amaranth soup that had spilled out. She was confused by her surroundings, perhaps even a little nervous. She had done inventory, and she was certain that nothing had been stolen. So why the destruction?
Zecora turned and looked at the pile of hay where she slept. Even from here, she could see the razor blades, shining like crystals in the sunlight streaming through the roof. Had she been out all day as she usually was, she most likely would have lay down without a second thought. It might not have killed her, but it would have come dangerously close.
"What crimes are heaped upon my head, that could drive a zebra to want me dead?" The rhymes tasted like acid in Zecora's mouth, and she spat into the soup. Every time she opened her mouth, no matter how brief her thoughts were, her words would be twisted and stretched until they rhymed.
"How I detest poison joke, which my speech patterns it has broke!" Zecora slammed a hoof against her cauldron in frustration. Was that last one even a proper rhyme? What did the curse care? It got its funny moment, and that was all the damned herb cared about. She kicked out at the nearest shattered bottle.
"I hate you, curse, release me now! I'll wash you out, that I vow!"
"If anyone can find a cure, it's you."
Zecora looked up from her shattered pottery, and the familiar conflict between blushing and bowing reared its ugly head. There in the open door of her humble little hut, seeing her untidy home at its very worst, was the Abada.
The zebra chieftain entered the shaman's hut, step by respectfully sluggish step. His skin was as black as the night, while his mane was a carefully combed garden of aging white and gray. Two horns as white as alabaster snaked up from his skull. The simple light and dark of his body was offset by the brilliance of his wardrobe; the Abada was adorned from dock to forelock with gold. His hooves were shod in glimmering gold, his flanks draped in a train of golden thread, a golden helmet atop his head and encircling his horns, and around his neck he wore a golden peytral that bore the symbol of the Spiral Sun. As Zecora's eyes swept over her lover's body, she couldn't help but feel pride at knowing she wore that same symbol on her flank.
"My dearest chieftain, what a surprise. Please excuse the disorder that meets your eyes."
The Abada shook his head, and smiled softly at the shaman. "You have no need for excuses, Zecora. It is I who should apologize."
Zecora gave a little smile of her own, and cocked an eyebrow. "Why would you seek my pardon, when I know not by whom I am undone?"
The Abada's smile became a frown, and for a moment he averted his gaze. "I am afraid I must claim responsibility for the... current state of things."
"You?" Zecora felt confused, though that feeling was quickly being overwhelmed by a sense of betrayal. "What could I have done wrong, that would drive you to ring my final gong?"
"You misunderstand. I did not order this. But there are many zebras in my court, and my actions can sometimes move them in ways that I cannot predict." The Abada's horn flickered with the purple fire of his magic, and he produced a tiny vial from beneath the folds of his train. Zecora stared in mounting incomprehension.
"A potion to soothe aches of the head. Why would this drive zebras to want me dead?"
The Abada began to rotate the vial, examining it as a child might examine a tortoise before laying it on its back in the baking heat. "Headache medicine, brewed by the greatest shaman in all of Zanzebra for none other than the Abada, most powerful mage in all the land and still without an heir." He sighed, and floated the vial a little closer to Zecora. "And today, not knowing the flavor of the potion, one of my servant mares sought to mix it into a soup so that I could stomach it better."
"I fail to see what part murder plays, this would seem to be a most ordinary of days." Zecora wanted to spit in frustration at the curse, but she wouldn't dream of showing such disrespect for the Abada.
"Oh, I wish it might have been so. But the soup in question was being served to me in the middle of court, and being without the power of magic, my servant was forced into a position that made it seem as if she was trying to hide what she was doing. One of my advisors accused her of trying to poison me."
"But why would I dare to poison you? Surely they saw that this could not be true!"
The Abada shook his head. "Do you remember your experiments with dark water? A poison that even the most skilled potionmasters could not detect? You have never been above suspicion, my dear Zecora."
Zecora took a step back, more than a little shocked. "Surely you told them the potion's use? My innocence should be easy to deduce."
Once again, the chieftain frowned and shook his head. "They would not listen. Their suspicions are too great."
"Then why have they not come to me? A few simple questions, and the truth they would see."
Silence reigned in Zecora's hut. The Abada did nothing but stare at her, his horn still flickering with magic as the vial turned in the air between them. Seconds became minutes. Finally, he spoke.
"Your experiments with poison joke have had an... effect on your reputation, Zecora. You have heard the whispers, just as I have."
Zecora nodded. She rarely went into town these days, but every time she did, zebras would avert their gaze, and they would whisper. She had thought herself accustomed to such things; as the Abada's favorite and a skilled shaman, she was bound to turn a few heads. But the words that zebras traded these days were not words of praise or fear, but ridicule.
"Words such as punguani, kumdanganya, kutembea utani." The gaze of the Abada was unyielding and terrifying as he listed the insults. "I have heard it said, to my face, that Zecora is not fit for her position. What you did with poison joke, it has undermined and overshadowed everything else. The hooves that cured me of ailments we still do not understand, so easily cursed by a prankster plant. Some might say you are a zebra with nothing left to lose."
Zecora found herself retreating beneath the glare of her chieftain. "So, what now? Is it to you or the executioner that I should bow?"
"It will not be that simple. They cannot prove that you were trying to poison me without making someone take it, and for all they know you could be drenched in antidote, so they can't try for two birds with one stone." He sighed, and let the vial start to slip out of his grip. "But there is pressure. You are no longer welcome. The only question is how you will leave." With those words, the vial fell to the ground and broke open.
The liquid didn't spit or hiss or bubble. Zecora would never be so obvious. It hurt her to admit that. It just sat there like the headache medicine it was, as subtle as the nightshade in the river had been on Siku ya Kufa. Had she been anyone else, Zecora would have had every reason to think she had meant to poison the Abada.
"Are you with child?"
The question was like a poison dart in the grasslands; unexpected and brutal. Zecora couldn't stop the tears. "I check every day, but it seems that it has been pointless to pray."
She had not expected the reaction that she got from the Abada. He hung his head, and began to make a noise that sounded like he was trying not to cry. "I am sorry to disappoint, my lord. I know that you have wanted a ward."
"It's not that," he choked out. "If you were with child, I could plead to keep you. My advisors would not dare endanger the throne to be rid of one meddlesome shaman. But, with you like this, I have... limited options."
It was admirable, the way he was doing so much to hold back. The Abada actually turned away, staring at one of Zecora's few intact shelves as though it had committed treason. She saw that most of her hut was now flickering with purple fire. Often mistaken for an intimidation tactic in court, it was actually the Abada's equivalent of gritting his teeth in frustration. It had been years since Zecora had seen him so distraught, and never over her. She took a few tentative steps forward, and laid a hoof on his shoulder.
"I do not want to die." He turned to stare at her, and she offered a smile as she tried her best to wipe away the single tear on his face. "But I cannot stand to see you cry."
A smile spread across his face. "There is a way we can keep you alive. You're not going to like it, though."
Zecora knelt, and pressed her muzzle to the Abada's golden shoe. "You are my chieftain, remember? With a single thought, you can make this hut as embers."
"Then as your chieftain, I do hereby exile you from Zanzebra, until sun be shattered and moon be swallowed."
Zecora shot to her feet like a rat from a trap, tears streaming freely from her eyes. "No! Please, don't send me away! I'd rather be blind and deaf for the rest of my days!"
"Degradation alone will not soothe my advisors. This is the only way."
"But I would never see you again! How can I go on, outside your domain?"
"For every door that I open, a thousand close. Weren't you the one who told me that old saying?" The magic had died down, and the Abada had straightened up. "You will find a way, Zecora. I have seen you find the meaning of the universe in a blade of grass. The lands beyond mine should not prove challenging."
"But my flesh and blood, they all are thine!" Zecora pointed at the brand on her flank. "How might I live if nothing I own is mine?"
Sorrow seemed to have retreated from the Abada. He had turned stony and unmoving, at least on the outside. He reached out with a hoof, and touched Zecora's earrings. "Tell me something, my dear. Where did this come from?"
"The mines at Calcifer, across the street from the tomb of the Cloven Elder."
Now his hoof touched the rings of gold around her neck. "And who gave these to you?"
"A gift from you, that our love would be proven true." Zecora tried to lose herself in the happy memories of those bygone days, but the weight of her future was shattering her past.
Now his hoof was running down her leg until it touched the rings there. "Do you remember what I said to you when I gave you these?"
Zecora nodded. She remembered every word, but didn't want to twist it with her cursed tongue. Thankfully, the Abada was not cruel.
"I said, 'from birth, I have owned all of Zanzebra. I could demand anything I saw, and it would be given without delay. I can take children from their cradles, with the parents' blessing. So I hope you understand what it means when I say that these are not mine. Alone of everything in this land, I renounce my ownership of these fourteen golden rings'. You see, your exile will not leave you with nothing."
"But this hut..." Zecora looked around at the shattered pottery, the overturned cauldron, and the hay scattered everywhere. "All of my work, scattered on the earth. This is the resting place of the last of my worth."
"You are wrong." One wall of the hut was suddenly alight with magic fire, until it exploded outward. The Abada pointed out towards the jungle. "Beyond those trees, if you have the courage to go on, there is the land where the sun lives. Right now, your name counts for nothing in that distant land." His hoof was on her chin now, guiding her to look into his eyes. "Here, you are a hero. I challenge you, become a legend in those far-off lands. Let the name of Zecora crack the earth and silence the winds. Let the ponies see what can be done with naught but a few sprigs of elderberry and a day in darkness."
"A tall order, your majesty." Zecora took a few hesitant steps toward the shattered wall, her eyes fixed on a point beyond the horizon. "If I fail, it will be a travesty."
"If you fail, it will never reach these lands. But if you succeed, your flame will burn brighter and longer than my own."
Without even noticing it, Zecora had stepped outside of her hut. Beside and behind her, the pieces of the wall floated up into the air and came together like a puzzle, before sliding into place with not so much as a whisper.
There was no door behind her. There was only the road ahead.
"Um, Miss Zecora? Y'alright?"
The zebra blinked a few times, chasing away the ghosts of her past and returning to the present. She was sitting in front of her cauldron, absently stirring away despite the spoon having melted a long time ago. On the wall, masks bought from wandering traders on the Zanzebran border stared back at her, either taunting or comforting depending on her mood. And there in front of her was Apple Bloom, listening patiently to her story.
"I am quite fine, my child. It is just that when I tell that story, my mind goes a bit wild."
"Well, no wonder! I had no idea that was why you're always rhymin'!"
That was what the filly chose to take away from the story, eh? Well, no matter. Her question had been answered, now they could get back to the lesson.
