I. What's Past is Prologue

Cantor poked his head into his third pub since leaving the graveyard.

“I’m looking for a … uh … friend, he’s … probably not doing too well.”

The unicorn bartender continued polishing mugs, holding the rag with magic. The room was oddly quiet for a Friday night. Well, technically Saturday morning, Cantor supposed. The bartender jerked his head towards the back room. He gave a little grimace as well. Already this looked more promising than the last stops.

“Oy! Found ‘im!” Magpie poked her head through the wall from the rear room. That was always a bit distracting, even when she wasn’t emerging from a framed poster of Luna.

Cantor hobbled to the back. His limp was always worse when he was tired, and right now he was bone weary.

The back room was deserted, save for Jon Quill. The reporter was slumped over a bar-table, half-empty bottle in hoof, weeping. His hat, and the press-pass he usually had tucked into the brim, were stuck to a dart board by a dozen darts. Most of the stools around his table had been knocked over. His note pad had fallen to the floor, and his pencil had been broken in two. A fruity smell hung in the air.

Cantor took a deep breath and steeled himself. If Jon snapped, it wouldn’t be the first time Cantor had received a beating for acting as a go-between from the great beyond.

“Hey, Jon … are you all right?” Cantor packed as much soothing concern as he could into the phrase … well, as much as he could apart from using magic. Jon was in no fit state to lean on that way. The backlash when a minor friendship charm wore off would undoubtedly be far worse than just taking up front whatever fear or rage Jon needed to let loose.

Jon’s head snapped up from the table. His eyes were wide, red and bloodshot … from tears and drinking both.

“You!” Cantor had rarely heard somepony slur a single syllable word. That took skill. And dangerous amounts of booze.

“Yes, Jon. It’s me.”

“You knew!” Jon sounded outraged. “You knew!” He sounded hurt. “You … knew ….” He sounded betrayed. He was also swaying on his seat.

Cantor hobbled over and took hold of one of Jon’s shoulders, steadying him. From the growing bruise on the side of his face, the reporter had already slid to the floor, hard, at least one time too many this night.

“I knew. I’m sorry.”

Jon started to cry again.

“Sh-shut up … you … you …” Jon took another long swig from his bottle. Peach schnapps. That was a little surprising, Cantor would have figured Jon for a cider stallion.

“’e a lightweight or sumthin’?” Magpie sounded curious.

“I doubt it, judging from the shattered glass in the corners, I’m guessing that’s his third bottle. Maybe his fourth. Even little earth ponies can usually hold their liquor surprisingly well.” Morari sounded reflective.

“I say, Morari, will I become thirsty? I had not even considered that. How would I go about eating or drinking?” Fairweather was suddenly a bit worried.

“No, Admiral, you shan’t become thirsty, nor hungry, nor sleepy. Many of the ruder drives and passions that come from having a body are no longer a source of trouble or inconvenience.”

“Ey, now! Don’t’cha glare at me when yer talkin’ about ‘rude passions.’ I ain’t that sort o’ filly!” Magpie was all affronted marely dignity.

“I wasn’t … hmph … you’re incorrigible.”

Jon finished his drink, “You … knower!” The amount of schnapps in the bottle had noticeably diminished.

Cantor carefully removed the bottle from Jon’s grip and used his magic to screw the cap back onto it.

“Easy, there Jon. You’ve had quite a shock. You’ll pull through, though, I’m sure of it,” while Cantor sounded sure, his expression seemed a bit doubtful. “Right now, though, we need to get you back to bed. It’s late.”

“’s early.” Jon corrected him somewhat petulantly.

“Quite right. It’s very early and you ought to be sleeping.”

“Sleepin’? S-sleep? ‘e’s …” one of Jon’s hooves shot out in an accusing manner, “ ... tha one what … what ought to be sleeping!”

“Why is he pointing at you, Morari?” the Admiral’s expression was quizzical.

“I have no idea.” The old scholar was mystified.

“Prolly ‘cause that’s the direction of the corpseyard.” Magpie squinted one eye and looked over at Morari, calculating the relative position of the drunken reporter, the graveyard, and ghost. She shrugged and added, “… roughly. Pretty good sense of direction fer somepony five sheets to tha wind.”

“Is it not ‘three sheets?’” The Admiral raised one eyebrow in an inquiring fashion.

“You see ‘ow legless ‘e is? That’s more ‘n’ three I reckon.” Magpie nodded sagely.

“How ‘m I s’posed to sleep knowin’ … knowing … know. No. Thing. Nothing!” Jon giggled and leaned heavily against Cantor’s shoulder.

“Easy there, Jon. Easy. I’ll get you home. Where are you staying?”

Jon mumbled something largely indecipherable.

“Did any of you catch that?” Cantor quietly asked. Had any other ponies been present, they would have likely found it strange that Cantor was addressing what appeared to be the empty places in the room.

“Don’t know, don’t care.” Magpie answered.

“Magpie!”

“Wot? ‘s wot Master Quill just mumbled. ‘e don’t know and ‘e don’t care.”

“Oh.” Cantor sighed. He thought for a moment. Then he grimaced. “Well, Jon, I wager the floor of my suite is more comfortable than this place. It’s certainly less sticky. And there are pillows to go with the carpet.”

“’illos!” Jon smiled. Then frowned. Then glared. “Knower!” he hissed, which was, Cantor thought, rather impressive given that under normal circumstances that word had no sibilants whatsoever.

Cantor got one of Jon’s forelegs over his shoulders. Between Jon’s drunken state (legless, Cantor found himself thinking, was a very good term for it) and Cantor’s old injury, the two of them made quite a sorry sight as they began a slow, lurching progress out from the back room. Cantor had fetched Jon’s much perforated hat and pass with his magic.

Thankfully, the bed and breakfast was only about two blocks away.

Less thankfully, the bartender interrupted their progress towards the door with a very authoritative sounding, “Excuse me, sirs.” It wasn’t a yell, as such, but the tone was on the harder, louder, and more unfriendly side of ‘civil.’

Cantor stopped, Jon’s head came up and cracked Cantor a good one in the temple. Wincing, Cantor replied, “Yes?”

“Shite. ‘e want’s money. Shoulda tried ta find a way out the back.” Magpie muttered more to herself than the others.

“Somepony is going to need to pay for all of that,” the bartender jerked his head to indicate the backroom.

Jon was muttering. Nothing helpful, unfortunately. “’Suppos’ta … ta be a dark ‘n’ schtormy night. Why’snot schtormy?”

“Alas, my friend here is in no fit state to make proper payment. I am sure he will be more than happy to arrange to make it up to you come morning.”

Cantor leaned. He leaned as hard as he could with what mystic strength remained in him.

The bartender’s eyes started to glaze over, then he shook himself a bit and gave Cantor a deeply suspicious glare. “Here now, sir. None of that! Payment. Forty bits.”

“I say! That is some expensive schnapps!” Fairweather sounded surprised.

“It did look like the good stuff, Admiral. Top shelf. And prices have changed a bit since last you had cause to go shopping.”

Cantor winced. This was hardly an auspicious time for that charm to fail.

“I do not have that kind of money on me, sir. And neither does he.”

“Cantor, you do still have that ring I told you to pick up.” Fairweather was frowning contemplatively.

“What? Are you sure?” Cantor lowered his voice, but the bartender’s suspicious glare grew more unfriendly. Ponies who talked to themselves were usually trouble.

“It should more than cover the tab. Leave it as collateral and this … you said his name is Quill? … this Mr. Quill can redeem it come morning.” The Admiral gave Jon and Cantor a considering look. Noting the lateness of the hour, Jon’s stupor, and Cantor’s exhaustion, he amended his earlier statement, “Make that ‘reclaim it tomorrow noon.’”

“What’s this, then?” The barkeeper made a move to come out from behind his bar, but Cantor forestalled him with a raised hoof.

“This should cover it, I believe. And then some. Consider it collateral. Mr. Quill here will be by tomorrow to repay you and retrieve it.” Using a touch of levitation, one of the simplest magics available to any unicorn, Cantor took the ring from his satchel and passed it over to the frowning bartender.

The bartender appraised it quickly, noting the age and the rubies set in it. Both his eyebrows went up.

“If you please, sir, it’s late. I need to get Jon to bed. Tomorrow will be a long day. And it will be here far too soon.” Cantor, in the midst of his exhaustion, spoke with a quiet dignity.

The bartender hesitated for another moment. Then he nodded. He took the ring.

“Very well. Move along, and mind your friend doesn’t make a habit of this. He was raving some nonsense about spooks and haunts when he came in here. We’ve heard far too much foolish talk like that around Whitstable this past month. He could get into a lot of trouble if he keeps it up.”

“Thank you, sir.”

It took two stops for rest, and one for Jon to be sick, but they made it back to the bed and breakfast. Cantor arranged an improvised blanket pile, a handy bucket, and some spare pillows for his unexpected guest and then he fell onto the bed.

He was asleep almost before his head hit the pillow.

The sun was shining brightly, the gulls making a merry ruckus outside the open window, and the salt sea air was blowing cooly in when Cantor abruptly sat up in bed.

“Jon Quill!”

Cantor looked around. There was no sign of the reporter. The blanket and pillow pile was messily empty. At least it didn’t look like Jon had been sick again.

“He is downstairs, chatting up Mrs. Muir, the mare of the house. As of the last report, he is on his second round of breakfast, and is getting a tray together for you. I hope you are fond of blackberry jam. That disreputable young filly Magpie is keeping a close watch on him. Morari is graciously running reports up to me. I am admiring the view. And you have just awoken after some much needed sleep.” Admiral Fairweather ticked off the points one at a time. He then turned back towards the open window.

The ghost adjusted his hat. Odd that he should still have it, and his formal dress jacket (complete with a considerable display of medals), when the other two wore no spectral clothing, apart from Morari’s glasses. Cantor supposed the attire must have been quite important to him in life.

“The sea remains beautiful. And perilous. The sea never changes, yet it is always changing.” The Admiral was smiling. He looked peaceful. Contented.

So why couldn’t they be returned to their supposedly eternal rest? Cantor shoved that thought to the back of his head. There were other matters of greater immediacy (if not greater urgency) to attend to.

“Is he … coping?”

“He has got two heads on him.”

“Pardon?”

“The aftereffects of too much strong drink. He suffers them.”

“Oh, yes. Hungover. He would be. I meant about last night.”

“He seems to be fine. I could not say for sure.”

“And you?”

“It was a rude awakening. I am adjusting.”

“I’m sorry for that.”

“This is far better than remaining trapped in that terrible half-sleep would have been. Thank Celestia I do not remember any of it clearly. No, you have nothing to apologize for, Mr. Mortalis. Thank you for your assistance. I will not forget your aid. And Gentlecolts, as I said, repay their debts.”

The Admiral paused, his expression became serious – almost lost in thought. “Also, when you speak to Jon next kindly convey my deepest apologies for the nature of our … introduction. I … “ Fairweather struggled for words, and concluded with a sigh, “… I was not myself.”

“I’ll tell him.”

“I gather from what was said that, after your examination of my tomb in the small hours of the night, you gleaned nothing of use or significance from it?”

Cantor winced and nodded.

“So, then, have we a plan for what to do next? I trust I do not overstep the bounds of taste and courtesy by including myself in this ‘we.’ From what Morari says, the researches you are about will be of very direct and personal concern to me. I would be included in your efforts, and render what aid and assistance an old war-horse like myself can provide.”

“I’m always glad of the help. And yes. Unfortunately. The plan at this stage is to fall back to Lunadun and try to make contact with some dear friends of mine there.”

“Pardon, Cantor – but you do not sound enthused.”

“I’m not, Fairweather. I’m not.” Cantor’s voice found a mix of bitter and sorrowful that shaded into wry. “You might not have noticed, but my presence and activities are not universally beloved. The reactions other ponies have to what I do … well … disbelief and ridicule are on the kinder end of the spectrum. Frequently, those who think me mad do so because they are giving me the benefit of the doubt.”

Cantor took a deep breath. “My friends themselves walk upon a knife’s edge. The barest breath … the merest hint of scandal, could push them into the abyss and destroy everything they’ve spent so much time building. A fall would cost them their livelihood. Their place in the world.” Cantor swallowed once, hard. “It would cost some of them their lives.”

“Ah. I understand now. You worry your reputation – whether as a mad-pony or as a consorter-with-spirits – will tarnish theirs and bring them to ruin. I see the time honored tradition of guilt by association is alive and well in this modern Equestria. Would that it were deader than I.”

“That would be a relief, to be sure!”

“Good morrow, Cantor. Glad to see you’re awake. Master Quill is ten paces behind me.” Morari, having walked through the door, settled himself onto the room's lone chair.

“Good morrow to you, Morari. And thank you for the warning.”

Jon Quill didn’t bother knocking. He was juggling a tray that was particularly full of breakfast. There was rather a lot of blackberry jam for the hot buttered toast. Magpie trailed in behind him.

“Good morning Cantor!” Jon sounded surprisingly chipper. Especially considering that he was also obviously nursing a massive head-ache. The sound of his own voice made him wince, but he bore the discomfort like a stallion.

“Good morning, Jon.” Cantor pitched his voice low and soft. Jon gave him a grateful nod, and began unloading the tray onto the table beside the bed.

“Breakfast in bed, eh?” Cantor shook his head in bemusement.

“Least I could do.” Jon settled into the chair. Morari, knowing that Cantor found looking at a pair of overlapping ponies rather disconcerting, sighed, stood up from the chair, and went to stand by the Admiral. It was a nice view out the window.

Cantor started eating. He was a lot hungrier that he had expected. Five minutes into his breakfast he realized that he had never seen Jon Quill keep this quiet for this long. A long drink of tea later and Cantor tried to think of a way to broach the topic of the previous night’s revelations.

“So …” Cantor began, but couldn’t find anything else to say.

“Yes.” Jon nodded. “So, indeed. So about last night.”

“Yes,” Cantor replied.

“The Trotting Dead.” It wasn’t exactly a question.

“Yes.”

“The Trotting Dead!”

“Yes, Jon. One of the Trotting Dead. What about him?”

“Him?” Jon sounded rather shocked. “Don’t you mean ‘it?’”

Cantor sighed and took another sip of tea. It was good. He might need another pot before the morning was over.

“No, I meant him. You saw the vortex of unnatural energy. You saw the blackened bones of a pegasus hovering there.”

“It was horrible!” Jon shuddered and looked away.

Cantor paused for a moment. Long enough for Jon to turn back and meet his gaze.

“It was far worse for him.” Cantor’s tone was solemn, his voice quiet. There was a finality about his statement, Jon felt.

Jon blinked, suddenly unsure of what to say. The stabbing pains in his head didn’t help matters much.

Cantor sighed. “I know what you saw. Do you want to know what I saw?”

Jon actually thought about that for a moment. When he spoke, it sounded almost as if his own answer was a bit of a surprise, “Yes. I do.”

“I saw Admiral Fairweather, one of the great leaders of the Wonderbolts in a bygone era. A stallion of grace and greatness. A gentlecolt. A legend.”

“But … but that … that thing …”

“I saw Admiral Fairweather. He was screaming Jon. I could hear him, even if you couldn’t. He was stuck in that terrible magic and he was screaming. I hope you never have cause to truly understand his terror, his pain, his confusion. The living cannot scream like that. The living have to pause to draw breath.”

Jon said nothing. His face still wore an expression of horror, but the type of horror … the reasons for it … were starting to shift. Jon Quill was concentrating, Cantor saw. He was listening. Really listening. Jon Quill was beginning to understand. To think through the ramifications of what he was hearing.

“Ponies think me mad because where they see nothing … or they see one of the Trotting Dead, I see the pony themselves, whether in or out of their bones. I hear them when they speak, and they respond to me. They listen.”

“Sweet Celestia …” Jon barely whispered.

“Admiral Fairweather asked me to pass on a message to you Jon.”

Jon started. “To … me?”

“Yes. Admiral Fairweather wishes to convey his deepest apologies for the nature of his introduction to you. He wishes you to know that he was not himself at the time.”

“I … uh … thanks?”

Cantor nodded. He took another few bites of fruit.

“I’ve got some questions, Cantor.”

Cantor smiled. “I figured you would. Ask away.”

“You were using your magic on that th- … on the Admiral. What were you doing, exactly?”

“I was helping free his mind and, thus, his spirit from the magic he was trapped in. I soothed and quieted him. I convinced him to rest, relax, and let go.”

“Oh. O.k. … uh … did … did that work? Is he back in the afterlife? Or, you know, whereever?”

“It worked in that he’s not trapped in the vortex any more. And he’s not clinging obsessively to his bones. He has been recalled to himself. But no. The Admiral’s shade has not yet been properly laid to rest.”

“Can you lay him to rest?”

“I don’t know. I haven't had any luck with his particular sort of haunt.”

“Are there others like him around?”

“Yes. At least two.” Cantor looked suddenly distressed, “Possibly more. I don’t know.”

“Is this … normal?”

“No. It’s not. It’s very, very wrong.”

“So, why is this happening?”

“I don’t know.”

Jon paused to consider. Considering make the pain in his head worse.

“Uh. How long has this been going on?”

Cantor frowned, “Hmm. I don’t know – I first found one of those vortexes fairly late last year. I’ve been talking with dead ponies ever since I got my cutie-mark, but I’d never seen or heard of anything like that before.”

“And you’ve found …” Jon labored to recall what had been said moments before, “ … two more, yes? Three total?”

“Yes.”

“Is it … is it something … uh … natural? Or is somepony doing this to them?”

“I don’t know.” Cantor heard his voice crack under the strain – the feeling of helplessness, the lack of progress ... most of the time Cantor tried not to let it show. He took another sip of tea to calm himself. “Sisters preserve, I just don’t know.”

After a moment of quiet. Cantor added, “You aren’t taking notes?” Tone and cadence. It was clearly a question.

Jon Quill began to chuckle, then laugh. It wasn’t a happy sound. More the noise accompanying a painful joke at one’s own expense.

“Notes? Notes? And whatever would I do with notes, Cantor?”

Cantor was surprised at the harshness in Jon’s voice, the bitter mirth as the journalist bared his teeth at the world in something that was almost, but not quite, like a grin.

“All my life I’ve wanted a true mystery. A story with teeth. Something real and wild and wonderful. Now I’ve got it. And it’s, like, super important. The Trotting Dead are real! They aren’t fables, or bogey-men to scare misbehaving foals. They aren’t just Nightmare Night stories. They’re real. Really real. Ghosts, zombies, skeletons, spirits ... all of it!”

“The Trotting Dead, Cantor. The Tartarus Damned Trotting Dead.”

“And me? I’m a reporter … a reporter,” and the bitterness dialed up another notch, “… for the Yellow Star.”

There was a brief pause.

“I can’t write about this, Cantor. I can’t.” Jon brushed at his eyes, wiping away the start of tears.

“No one would believe me. And this is too big, too bad, too important a thing not to believe. It’s the story of a lifetime, and I can’t even tell it.”

Cantor considered this for a moment.

“Well … what if you wrote a shocking expose about how, in spite of all the rumors, the disturbances at Admiral Fairweather’s grave had nothing whatsoever to do with the Trotting Dead? Chalk it all up to mass hysteria? School-pony pranks? Swamp gas?”

“Could you get that story printed in the Star?”

Jon’s eyes grew wide. The grin that slowly spread across his face was a delight to behold. He leapt from his chair and gave Cantor a somewhat too enthusiastic hug (much to Magpie's delight), then began to dance around the room, while proclaiming, “Cantor! You madpony! You maniac! You genius! That’s brilliant! That’s perfect!”

Cantor smiled. “You’re welcome.”

“If there’s anything I can ever do …” Jon trailed off.

“Well … actually …”

“Yes?”

“I have to get back to Lunadun. My personal resources are exhausted, and this trail has come to a cold, hard end. To have any real chance of figuring this out, I’m going to need help.”

“You’ve got mine!”

Cantor blinked at the sincerity of Jon’s enthused exclamation.

“Th-thanks, Jon. I don’t usually hear that … well … not from the living anyway.”

Jon nodded graciously, then winced as he sat down hard in the chair again. “Woo … oh, my head. Shouldn’t have oughta have had those last … uh … few bottles?”

“It was a rough night.” Cantor felt this was something of an understatement.

“Yeah. Anyway, what can I do to help?”

“I’ll need somepony to stay in Whitstable and dig up more information about the initial event. Who was involved, what they saw, were there any other ponies that seemed to have … I don’t know … precipitated the whole thing.”

“Like a cult? An evil necromancer?”

Cantor rolled his eyes. “Yes? Maybe? I don’t know. Regardless, you’re better suited than I to make those inquiries.”

“Will do! Anything else?”

“The Admiral paid for your bar-tab last night with a signet ring. Would you kindly retrieve it for him by making good on your bill?”

Jon blushed. “Of course. What will you be doing?”

Cantor shook his head. This was a path he hadn’t wanted to take, but all the other roads had led nowhere. And it wasn’t like he could just sit at the crossroads and do nothing, nor could he walk away and pretend there wasn’t a very real problem that somepony had to address. Cantor only hoped that this last road didn’t lead to the gallows.

“I’m heading back to Lunadun, as I said. I’ve some friends there who could potentially help, although getting them involved in this kind of mess is very risky. For them much more so than me. But I’m officially out of other options.”

“Excellent.” Jon’s eyes narrowed. “Say, you’re not just trying to ditch me, are you?”

“Oy, yes!” Magpie sounded quite certain on that point.

“ … maybe?” Morari sounded more doubtful.

“I say, that is not very sporting you two.” Fairweather was displeased.

Cantor grinned, “I doubt I could manage it if I tried. When you’ve got something to report, go to the National in Lunadun, leave the message for me there. Assuming things go well, it will then get to me.”

“And if things aren’t going well?”

Cantor snorted, “Check the papers! There will likely be some shocking story about it all.”