The Conversion Bureau Event Eight Submission:
Miner Forty-Niner
By Aegis Exemplar
August, 1848
The flow of news of gold into the east from the west had intrigued the powers that be. Further, it had greatly influenced the poor and downtrodden, those whose fortunes hadn’t been secured. Great Conestoga wagons, full of hope and dreams, began flowing westward, the first great population shift the fledgling nation had experienced.
There was gold in them thar hills.
September, 1848
Gold had been discovered at Sutter’s Mill in January, but like in all things, time and money factored heavily into the picture. Mack Branton had been working his stake, out of the mining camp at Brucker’s Creek, for two months now, to no benefit. He’d set up in the mouth of a natural cave, figuring on using it as a combination of shelter and deep access to hidden veins of the stuff.
October, 1848
Unfortunately, the only thing Mack had accessed were piles of stones and an ever increasing debt to the general store.
He crawled deeper and deeper, hunched low, nearly on all fours. The natural shaft had dropped its ceiling low, but he didn’t care. Somehow, the air was actually getting fresher. Something was drawing him on. The motherlode. Had to be.
Mack found himself at a wall of rubble. He sat his lantern down, then tapped lightly at the edge with his prospector’s hammer, the pick end pulling away the rock. It was loosely packed, and that meant there wasn’t any weight being held. Mack grinned, a greedy glint in his eye. This had to be it.
His pick hammered away at the rock, sparks occasionally glinting as one surface proved the right angle for it. He tore away the rock at a steady pace, when finally, just as he would have to give up and try again the next day, something shone with a gold light of its own several strikes later, he fell forward through the rubble....
...and into the light of day.
Mack bounced his pic off the ground in anger, then covered his eyes, the brightness of the day nearly blinding him, colors shining brightly enough in the gleam to cause their shapes to etch themselves in his vision. he’d managed to tunnel himself from one side of the mountain to the other.
A pony, tan in color and wearing a set of saddlebags full of rock, stood staring at him blankly. Mack hadn’t just tunneled from the cavern out onto the mountainside, he’d managed to do so right into someone else’s claim, a shooting offense if the stakeholder was particularly surly. Mack sighed and sat on a boulder. He may as well wait, see as he and his neighbor-across-the-mountain now shared a claim. Mack lay his face in his palms, resting his aching eyes.
“Um...sir, are you ok?” Mack looked up. he hadn’t heard anyone approach. Looking around, the only thing he saw was the pony.
“Sir, uh...you do understand me, yes?”
There it was again. Mack stood and began searching the clearing for the source of the voice. “C’mon out, ya varmint, I’m not tryin’ ta jump yer claim! I just gotta discuss somethin’ with ya.”
“Mister, I’m standin’ right here, I can hear you just fin," spoke the voice again from behind Mack. Once again, only the pony stood there, looking somewhat irritated. How could a pony look irritated?
“Now look, my name’s Rock Cracker, and this is my claim. What do you wanna talk about?”
“Eh...eh heh. Talking pony...” Mack promptly fell over, his mind shutting down and completely unable to process what was standing in front of him. After all, only people and parrots were supposed to talk.
***
“Is he ok? Is he supposed to be all blotchy like that? I don’t think he’s a diamond dog...”
“He popped up out of the ground and started walking around on two feet, what else could he be? Look at all that hair.”
“I dunno, Cracker, thought they had bigger, sharper teeth than that...”
“Shush now, Honeyberry, he’s stirring.”
Mack, who had indeed been stirring, heard something hard smack something meaty, a muffled “ow” following immediately. He immediately wished he’d not awoken, his entire body aching and burning.
“Oooh, feels like I’ve been on a three-day bender with a week’s worth’a booze...” Mack cracked his eye open, looking around the small tent he found himself in. Standing over him with a look of concern was that same pony he must have hallucinated speaking. fact was, it still was talking.
“Hey there, pal, you gonna be alright?”
“Depends, lil’ fella...are you talkin’?
“Ah, well, yes...”
“Well then I’m fit for the looney bin. Haul me away!” Mack laughed, but the effort caused him to start hacking instead, sore ribs painfully contracting with each wheeze.
“Oh, my, let me look at you...” Another talking pony the color of warm honey, with a mane of light red, strode towards Mack where he lay on the very undersized cot. This talking horsie had a horn on her forehead. Yep. Mack was cracked.
She lowered her horn, which had begun glowing, and touched Mack’s bare chest...which then began alternating between relief and agony, a pattern of healthy and blackened skin rippling across in a bulls-eye pattern.
“Honey, stop! Look! Those blotches, it’s the magic doing it!” Rock Cracker shouldered Honeyberry away from Mack. She stared, horrified by what she’d done. Mack, fortunately, had the good sense enough to pass out again at the first wave of agony.
“R-Rock, there’s magic everywhere. If it’s doing this to him, how can we help?”
“Well Honey...” Rock squinted, thinking the matter over. “Well. He was livin’ somewhere before without rottin’ away. I guess we could take him back there?”
“Oh, Rock, that’s genius! I knew I married you for your brain.” Honey lit her horn again, lifting Mack from the cot.”
“Honeyberry!”
She then dropped Mack like a bad habit. “Oh. Sorry, Rock”
***
Mack found himself waking again, this time in far less pain, feeling almost alive. He looked around, taking in his surroundings, which made sense again. It was his own cot, in his own ‘home’ cavern, at the head of his claim.
“Ah, good to see you up, Mister,” the one named Honeyberry beamed.
Oh, made sense save for the talking pony and unicorn staring at him with wide, cheery eyes.
“I suppose you two burros drug me back here?” Mack asked grumpily. “It looks like we’re sharin’ a claim, whether we meant it or not.”
“Sharing a claim, huh? what interest you have in rocks, diamond dog?”
“Rocky, darling, I don’t think he’s a diamond dog...”
“I’ll say, I’m after gold, not diamonds”
“Gold, huh? Yeah, these rocks are pretty good gold seed. But what’s a diamond dog want gold for?”
Mack rolled his eyes, the conversation leading nowhere fast. He was starting to seriously contemplate pulling his beard out. But then something the tan pony said made him stop and think.
“What do you mean, gold seed?”
“Just what I said, good for growin’ gold. Gold seed. What, you think the stuff just lays around?” Rock Cracker smirked.
“...How does that work?”
November, 1848
Farming minerals was an old, old tradition, and only a few Earth pony families had ever mastered the art. Rock Cracker’s family had specialized in metals, and Rock had been sent to gather some proper stones for gold seed the day Mack had popped out of the ground.
It was simple, really. Seed the stones, rotate daily until reaching a proper nugget size, harvest, repeat. It wasn’t too dissimilar to gathering wild gems.
Mack showed a healthy interest in learning the art, but every time he tried at the claim, nothing would happen. Had Rock not shown him it worked on the other end of their claim, Mack would never have believed it. However, every time Mack went across, he came down with what Honeyberry started called the “Creeping Crud,” the black patches of flesh where magic would simply start eating away at Mack.
“I just can’t figure. Why can’t I grow my own gold like you?”
“Honeyberry thinks it’s the same reason you’re getting all eat up by those black spots.”
“Magic?”
“Magic. There’s none here, there’s no gold growin’ here. It’s that simple.”
“Consarn it, I can’t stay over there long enough to grow gold. I guess I oughta just rack it in and go. your lessons ain’t gonna do me no good here.”
“Actually....” Honeyberry piped up, “There might be a way...”
Both males turned, giving Honeyberry such a similar incredulous look she couldn’t help but laugh.
“You want to clue us in, dearie dear dear crazy wife of mine?”
“Well, it was a long time ago, but since I saw those splotches on poor Mack, I started doing a little research back in town, over at the library. There’s a...um...cure....or inoculation, I guess it is.” Honey pulled an old tome out of her saddlebag, opening to a dog-eared page. “Right here. It describes your ailment perfectly, and the best part is it’s not beyond my ability to make. See, says right here you’ll be able to withstand magic like a pony.”
“Lady, if I could read that, or read at all, I’d be amazed, I’m sure.” Mack grinned at his friend.
“Well, Honey, What’re you waiting for? Brew it up!” Rock grinned at his beloved wife. She returned the smile, then set about gathering materials she’d need.
December, 1848
Gathering everything together had taken longer than she’d expected, but she’d managed to brew together the herbal concoction and, with careful application, imbued it with all the proper spells. It was exhausting work, but she had done it!
Mack sat on his cot. Thanks to Rock Cracker and Honeyberry sharing their generous supplies of food, he’d managed to avoid facing ol’ Dodger at the general store. Honey hovered a glass of purple gunk with her magic, holding it out to Mack. Gingerly, he reached forward, making as little contact with her magical field as possible. he looked into the old tin cup, sticking his tongue out. It stank of rotten grapes.
“And I’m supposed to drink this stuff?”
“Every drop. After that, you’ll be able to stay with us on our side!” Honeyberry was too excited. She’d brewed the potion perfectly, following every step to the letter.
“Well, down the hatch.” Mack tossed the purple stuff down his throat, nose pinched. “Yeugh. That was awful. hand me that brown bottle, I need a chas-” In the middle of pointing his arm dropped, his eyes rolled into the back of his head and he fell over on his cot in a manner most undignified.
“Mack? Hey Mack? You ok?” Rock leaned over, looking at Mack’s prone form. Honeyberry leaned in beside him.
“How is he?” Honeyberry started, “Is he-” Her eyes widened, irises contracted in terror. Rock wore the same expression.
Mack’s skin had taken on the color and, from appearance, texture, of tallow, almost squirming as he collapsed the rest of the way, his form warping and waving. Both ponies fled the entry cavern, making for the bushes where they promptly lost their lunches. Honeyberry started sobbing.
“Honeyberry, Honey, what did you do? You melted Mack!”
“I-I-I-I followed the directions exactly, Rock, I did, I did!” she sobbed. “I followed it...”
Rock leaned toward his wife, supporting her, tears of his own flowing. “Shh, shh, I know you did. I know.”
***
Mack was floating weightless, but then gravity kicked in. he felt himself plummeting, like the time he’d foolishly bet Grant Thumbler he could dive the waterfall. A two-dollar bet and a ten-dollar broken arm later, he’d decided he wasn’t a gambling man.
Thankfully, he finally slowed to a stop, coming to rest on a plush red carpet, stained glass windows flavoring every beam of light with their particular flavor of color. Ahead of him were two thrones, each bearing a being, one of light, one of dark. As he approached, he realized something: Honeyberry had killed him.
...And God and Jesus were horses.
The two beings staring down at him with compassion were magnificent. each bore a set of wings as wide as a wagon was long, and a horn as long as the head on his pick.
He felt a brief panic, though, at the first words spoken by the indigo mare:
“What are you doing here?”
The white mare laughed, the tinkling of bells on Christmas Day. “Oh, my dear little pony, what my sister means is how have you come here? The humans shouldn’t be able to produce such a mixture alone.”
“Well, missus, I don’t rightly know. My friend Honeyberry had this book that had this recipe she said would keep me from catching th’ Creeping Crud on their side of the mountain. I reckon there was somethin’ not so happy to see me in the mix, as it seems I’m dead as a doornail.”
“Oh, my dear little pony, you haven’t died. In fact-” Suddenly, everything began fading. Mack could no longer hear the two horses as they both apparently began talking at once. He felt himself being pulled up and away, the horses shrinking rapidly away into a mere pinprick.
***
Honeyberry turned page after tear-stained page of her old, old, copy of Super Naturals. She stopped upon reaching the page she’d transcribed from the Old Equestrian. This was the poison she’d brewed for her friend. She reached out with her magic, about to shred the page, when she noticed a small smudge. She rubbed the spot, then gasped.
“Rock! Rockrockrock ROCK!”
Rock Cracker turned to the frantic call of his wife and kicked the ground, speeding towards her. Mack, in life, had warned him of the dangers of the area, from bears to mountain lions to rattlesnakes and he wasn’t about to risk her being injured in this strange, magic-devoid area. It didn’t take him long to reach her, as she’d covered this other half the distance at the same rate.
“Honey! What is it?!”
“This word, this word! Right here, right here! I translated it wrong!”
“What do you mean, wrong?”
“Well, there was this smudge I didn’t notice. When I saw it, I cleaned it off. You won’t believe it!” Honey smiled happily.
“I can’t believe it if you don’t tell me.” Rock fixed her with a bemused glance.
“Huh? Oh! Well, I mistranslated ‘as’ as ‘like’”
“What? What’s that mean?”
“He would have safety from harmful magic damage AS a pony.”
Rock stared at her, unbelieving. “Are you telling me-” Rock was interrupted by a groan from the cave mouth. A rock-grey earth pony with a golden mane stumbled out, falling amongst the rubble and debris. He stared at the two with emerald eyes.
“Honeyberry? Rock? What happened?”
January, 1849
Almost the entire population of Brucker’s Creek had turned out, staring at the small horse walking down the street, twin saddlebags full of golden nuggets, as it walked towards the exchange office. It smiled (how could a pack-pony smile like that?) at every one who walked near enough to see. No one had garnered the courage to halter the beast.
The grey pony sauntered right up to the desk, hopped up and stood there, front hooves sitting on the desk. It ranged the the bell twice.
“Hang on, hang on, I...” The clerk startled at the equine staring at him. “Okay, okay, whose bright idea was this?” He called to the gathered crowd. Surprisingly, no one was laughing.
“Heh, if you’ll excuse me, sir, I need to be cashed out,” Mack told the clerk, who promptly had a near coronary failure. When he came back around, Mack repeated himself. Shaking, the clerk weighed out Mack’s considerable “find” and paid the pony.
“Mack...how...how’d you get all this? Your claim’s never given up anything before,” asked the clerk.
“Do you really want to know how?” Gold Standard asked, a smile on his face.
June, 1849
Gold Standard’s Ponification Center and Elixir Dispensary opened in San Francisco to a massive crowd of excited gold-seekers and immigrants.
