The Unfortunate Tale of Crackle the Dragon

The Unfortunate Tale of Crackle the Dragon. Part Two: Coltfield

On the immediate edge of the forest where we stood was an apple orchard and a farmhouse beyond it. A gentle wind swept through the trees, rustling the leaves and sending a shiver up my spine.

“Hey, someone’s home!” The large grey one exclaimed, pointing to an illuminated window on the second story.

“Come on” Garble insisted “let’s give ‘em a scare!”

We moved slowly towards the farmhouse, the light on the second story becoming larger and larger. Once there, Leon flew up to look inside. He sneered, and gestured for us to come up too. I tried my best to elevate myself without crashing into anything, or anyone, for that matter. Inside was an old grey pony reading a book to what I assume was her granddaughter, almost asleep in a small bed. The purple one turned to us and made some gestures with his hands that conveyed to me that we were going to yell loudly through the window, frightening them. Immediately I was apprehensive, though I didn’t vocalize it. It was frowned upon for dragons to interact with ponies in any way, especially acts like this. I of course also hadn’t pulled any kind of a prank in my life, let alone done something that could hurt someone. But if it was just a little fun, how bad could it be? Right? That was how I chose to rationalize it. I was hanging out with other dragons, and for some reason, I felt that primal need for their approval.

So on the count of three we all yelled through the window, and both the residents jumped almost to the ceiling. I had never seen such an expression of terror before. We flew off into the orchard at top speed, me barely keeping up. Once we distanced ourselves, they rolled onto the ground, crashing into trees, laughing. I started to chuckle a bit, too. It was more a nervous chuckle, though. What we just did was massively unsafe, as I’m sure we all knew. Long ago, dragons and ponies agreed not to interfere with each other, after decades of bloodshed from war. Appropriately, breaking the pact would lead to severe punishment from the elder dragons, who would certainly keep peace by any means.

“That was a good one!”

“You see her face?”

“Priceless!”

“We got to do that again.”

And at that point, it seemed I was “in.” I was participating in the shenanigans, being a real member of the group. I started to chuckle more at the thought of it. I wasn’t thinking of the ponies I had just traumatized, or the rule we had just broken, but instead of the thought of being with what I thought were newfound friends.

“You like that, Crackle?” Garble gregariously asked.

“Uh, yeah!” I said, with a slight pause before “yeah.” I admit I wasn’t entirely thinking clear at that point. The adrenaline was still flowing steadfast through my veins. We sat there on the ground, some of them leaning against trees, until we cooled down. All the lights in the Farmhouse were on at that point, but we agreed that so far from anywhere else, no pony probably left. We decided to head into the town, or at least the outskirts of it, to find fun there. I readily followed them all as we flew just above the trees towards the main buildings.

The sign just outside the first grouping of buildings read “Coltfield: In memory of the brave explorer Holden Coltefied.” We stayed in the trees, going around the perimeter until Garble stopped us and pointed out a building. It looked like a food store judging by the small silo in the back, probably containing grain. I know this because in my earlier years I would spend a lot of time sneaking away from my parents to “spy” on pony towns, from a safe distance of course. They always fascinated me in a way, the communities they developed. We approached it quietly, careful not to arouse any attention in the residential area.

There was a large windowless wall that connected to the silo, which Garble took the opportunity to “mark,” which is when a dragon uses their fire to burn an image into a tree or log, often to designate territory. Garble got very close and scorched a profane image right in the middle. The others covered their mouths to muffle chuckles. I smirked dumbly. I did appreciate the simplicity of toilet humor, for whatever a toilet was. The purple one approached and drew another image to compliment the first. That was it. Leon snorted loudly and tripped backwards into the silo, clanging the metal loudly and slightly tearing it. Oats rolled out onto the ground. There was a mutual feel of panic as a light from the building came on, illuminating the alleyway. While Garble and the purple one tried to help him out from the silo (he had gotten stuck) I looked around nervously to make sure no one was coming.

Unfortunately a pony was. It was a red colt, a relatively young looking from what I could tell. He had a pitchfork in his mouth, but froze slightly at the sight of us. Understandably so; even though we were young, we still stood twice his height and he had most likely never seen a dragon before. He yelled, even with the pitchfork handle clenched in his jaw:

“Hey! Get outta here you-you rotten lizards! This is my store! Get! Go!” He stepped forward, clearly ready for a fight. Leon was now out of the silo and Garble turned towards the pony.

“What are you gonna do about little pony?” he taunted. “Gonna stick me with that rake?”

He said nothing, only held his ground. I stepped back a bit out of fear, naturally, but the others started to crowd around him. I wasn’t sure what was happening. I wanted to be out of there. This wasn’t the right place for me, I thought, as I stepped back again. But by then it was too late. A female voice sounded from behind the pony. It may have been his wife, or perhaps some random mare that just happened to be passing by. The colt turned to look, and Garble took the opportunity. He swooped at the pony with his arm and flung him into the wall, knocking over a pot in the alley. The mare, snowy white with a maroon mane screamed and began to run away, but not before the purple one grabbed her. She struggled to get free, to scream, but he covered her mouth. They laughed.

I was now in a state of semi panic. I looked around for something to show me what to do, but of course that didn’t help. This wasn’t fun at all. Whatever sort of companionship I may have felt was now overflowed with confusion and fright. They huddled around the colt, laying against the wall, taking turns kicking him into it as the mare looked on in horror. An audible thud thud occurred every time, first for their sharp foot against his ribs, second for the smack of his body against the wood. Garble turned to me and ushered for me to come forward. I froze.

“Hey Leon” I heard Garble say “hold him, make sure he doesn’t move. You guys, hold her down, make sure she doesn’t move.” Leon got a good hold on the colt, and the grey and purple ones held her by her mouth and hooves, pinning her on her stomach against the ground. It soon became clear what was happening. Garble knelt down behind the mare and reached between his legs. I shuddered and looked away, hearing grunts and laughter in between muffled screams. It was a nightmare, and I was living in it, without escape. My eyes began to moisten with tears. I felt nauseous and dizzy and faint of heart. I was on the brink of passing out.

But then, and I’m not sure how it happened, the colt freed himself of Leon’s grip, and got ahold of the pitchfork, which he drove into Leon’s jaw. Blood squirted everywhere, painting the walls and spraying on everyone nearby. He screamed as his mouth tried to move with the spike in it, moving only slightly, jaggedly along the hole it made. He flung himself wildly, the handle hitting Garble and the others. The one released the mare out of shock, who had quickly hobbled into town screaming, at least one of her hind legs broken, or in so much pain she could not properly move. Leon was still flailing, now on the ground, as blood shot out in every direction, his cries muffled by gurgling, presumably from blood. Now little tufts of flame came from his nostrils. I couldn’t move. A massive shot of flame came from his nostrils and lit the food store ablaze. We all gawked at the fireball for a bit, then to Leon, who was now still.

In the illumination of the powerful inferno, I could see the expressions of abject horror on all of their faces. I imagine mine was of some disbelief. Garble’s lower jaw was trembling as he stared, unmoving, at the dead yellow dragon in front of him, a pool of blood soaking into the dirt. I could see other ponies coming towards the store, accompanying cries of “fire” and “help.” Instinctively, I darted into the forest, I think on foot, though it felt like flying. The others followed. Soon we were deep in the forest, on the edge of a mountain on the opposite side of the valley from the one we came from. The glow of the food store was barely visible against the night sky.

As we hurried back, avoiding the town, of course, Garble pulled together a lie: “We were all walking in the forest, when we were ambushed by a group of ponies hunting dragons. We lost Leon but escaped with our lives.” It may sound far-fetched to people living in the civilized regions of Equestria, but in many parts of the world dragon hunting was a very real thing, and something the elders remember all too well. So this was completely believable. I still couldn’t get the image of Leon’s flailing, bloody body or the mare’s convulsions and screams out of my mind. Looking back, I believe the only reason I was able to move was the shock, that kept me from focusing on either events.

By the time we returned, it was morning.