Dead Nuthatch
by Present Perfect
Washing dishes was one of Fluttershy's favorite activities. Few things could rival the pure delight she felt when caring for her animal friends, but that care required a great deal of effort. Not to mention, though the circle of life was something she had made peace with long ago, animal work was rife with sadness and loss. Breaking a dish was no cause to mourn.
Beyond simple avoidance were the touch and sound of water running in her sink, the rhythm of scrubbing, soothing her. And as with healing a sick or injured animal in her care, so too did she derive pleasure from making dirty things clean again. Cleanliness: the one domain in which she could truly exert control over the world at large. It was preferable, even, requiring no one be hurt.
Enjoyment, then, was the excuse she used for letting dishes build up for days at a time. Yes, she was often legitimately distracted by the chores required to care for her animals, or by spending time with her friends, or by the vagaries of being an easily distracted, silly pony, and the work would pile on itself. But an overflowing sink promised half an hour of soothing, watery, scrubby joy at the very least, which she would miss had she done the dishes immediately upon dirtying them. Nothing was less satisfying than wetting her hooves only to have to dry them a few minutes later. This is what she told herself every time it happened.
On this particular day, Fluttershy was washing dishes when Angel Bunny approached her in an uncharacteristic tizzy. His insistence alone caused her to drop what she was doing -- not literally, thank goodness -- and follow him to a window, drying her hooves on a towel the whole way.
Outside, a single white-breasted nuthatch sat on the ground beneath her main bird feeder, poking at spent sunflower seed shells, bobbling from side to side as though new to the concept of locomotion.
Needing no further explanation, she dropped her towel and flew for the front door. Nuthatches were adept tree climbers; Fluttershy never failed to smile when she saw one clung to the side of a trunk, skipping its way up and down the bark as though under the sway of its own personal gravity. But that same arboreal prowess put them at a disadvantage on the ground, and even when trying to perch on the spokes of the feeder. Hence, the nuthatch out her window, so like a small toy yanked about on a string.
By the time she had made it to the feeder, the nuthatch lay with its face in the shells, wings outspread worshipfully. Fluttershy's heart clambered into her throat as a chipmunk zipped out of hiding, slamming full speed into it. Another emerged from elsewhere, doing the same and flipping the nuthatch onto its side.
"Stop!" she shouted, loud as she could, and both chipmunks dove for the underbrush. No other animals had been in the clearing, but the woods around her house immediately stilled. All eyes were on her as she approached.
"Are you all right?"
A pointless question to ask, yet she had asked it anyway. The bird lay still and unbreathing. She moved upon it warily, as though it might spring back to life at any second. Again, a pointless notion, but one she could never shake when encountering a dead animal. Maybe it was just wishful thinking.
Fluttershy, after all, was a hopeful, silly pony.
She sighed, scooping the thing into her hooves. Even when alive, birds are weightless, ephemeral; the nuthatch was little more than a black, grey and white puff of cloud. She sifted through its feathers gently, finding no breaks or contusions, no sign of illness, nothing to suggest why it had ended up on the ground in the first place. It wasn't one of her usual comers; she didn't know its name. It still weighed nothing as she cradled it in her forelegs.
"I'm so sorry," she whispered, throat clenching and eyes burning. "This shouldn't have happened. You didn't deserve it. I don't even know if you had a family. I'm sorry."
Fluttershy scanned the ground at the treeline, awaiting the small, furred bodies reasserting themselves. Inwardly, she filed through what she knew about nuthatches and how they preferred their dead be handled, not to mention the locations of her personal animal burial grounds. A tiny portion of her mind considered taking it to one of her carnivore friends, only to dismiss the idea immediately. Almost all of them preferred their food fresh, and certainly not second-hand.
"Whoever did this," she said to no one in particular, her voice low and dangerous, "had better come out here and apologize."
From her hooves, tendrils of magic, sullen as always, tugged at the earth in time with her words. Much like earth ponies themselves, earth magic was proud. It resented being tethered to Fluttershy, being commanded by her. But ponies were creatures who lived on magic as much as air, water or food. A pegasus for whom five wingpower was a good day needed something to fill the void left inexplicably in her soul.
"I will find you."
It wasn't like she could control it very well anyway. To other ponies without a talent for handling animals, her abilities no doubt looked effortless. But every word teased out of high-pitched chatter, every attempt to have a request, to say nothing of demands, understood, was squeezed through a sieve woven of earthen strands that resisted her at every turn. Sometimes, she could hear the magic crying out, furious at the usurper who dared take animals under her sway. Sometimes, it almost wasn't worth the effort to determine whether Angel was talking about her house or someone else's. Far too often, she wished on falling stars that she could wield the magic with more finesse, like Applejack.
If she could, maybe this wouldn't have happened.
Slowly, as sullen as the magic through which she bade them, the two chipmunks emerged from the underbrush. Behind them massed the myriad birds and rodents who had watched from afar, now wanting a front-row seat. The chipmunks, a mated pair, approached low to the ground, more fearful than remorseful. She held the nuthatch out at arm's length. Its rigid, skeletal legs pointed accusingly at them.
"Look at what you did." She kept her voice low, barely holding her tone chastising rather than angry. "I would appreciate an explanation."
The female chipmunk looked around, as though reprisal of the same sort might come from anywhere at any moment. Then she began to squeak and chitter. Fluttershy, in a remarkable show of self-control, let her have her say.
"That may be true in the forest," she said finally, her jaw tight, "but that's not how things work around here. I know you're both new, so I want to make this very clear. This--" again, she thrust the nuthatch at them; again, it judged them-- "is not acceptable. If you want to stay here, you have to learn to share. You'll still be welcome here, if you promise not to do anything like this again." Her words shook. "Otherwise, you'll both have to find somewhere else to live. Do I make myself clear?"
The chipmunks looked at one another, then nodded at her. Birds immediately returned to the feeder, and squirrels moved in to sort through the fallen seeds. The mood in the clearing was nevertheless subdued as Fluttershy tucked the nuthatch under her wing and rose. The two culprits slunk back into the foliage. The magic receded, snarling to itself.
Fluttershy let out a sigh and nodded to Angel Bunny. He'd remained by her side the whole time.
"Thank you for telling me, Angel," she said with a tiny smile. "Don't feel bad, okay?"
Somberly, he saluted and hopped back around the cottage to the front door.
Don't feel bad. Easy enough to say. Living as she did in the center of life's panoply meant that Fluttershy had to accept the bad with the good. Animals were simply shorter-lived than ponies, and she had learned long ago to cope with their inevitable deaths. It was the way of things.
It still didn't make her feel any better whenever one of her birds or otters or, yes, chipmunks, died from old age, accident, or attack. She mourned every loss quietly, and alone. Sometimes, she would mourn many at once; the dead nuthatch, nestled cool against her side, would be given tears meant only for it.
Still, she couldn't help feeling bad for the chipmunks. Life outside the little patch of ground influenced by her stolen magic was considerably more difficult. Eat or be eaten was the law, and there wasn't always enough to go around. Fluttershy had a suspicion that she might never see those two again; a chastisement so public may have made them feel unwelcome. She may have let more anger show in her voice than she had intended; she could never be sure. But it had been a dire situation, one she hadn't had to deal with in years.
Eat or be eaten. If she never saw the chipmunks again, well, she wasn't sure how she might feel about that. The magic snickered. She wished she could tell it to be quiet.
As Fluttershy carried the nuthatch to the southeast burial ground -- the sunniest one -- she reflected on that. She was, after all, a very tired, very silly pony.
Author's Note
The other day, I was washing dishes when I saw a nuthatch on the ground. It was strange; I'd never seen one be on the ground before. The dumb thing was waddling around like it couldn't figure out how to walk. "Haha," I thought, "what a dumbass."
A little later, it was laying in an eerily perfect representation of the cover art. (Does that pose happen often? It's kind of freaking me out.)
A little later, I saw a chipmunk dart at it, rolling it onto its side. It didn't move.
I didn't know what to think of the scenario, so I decided to throw Fluttershy at it and see what she would do. No one proofread this but myself. If you liked this and would like to read the same idea done better, please read Five Hundred Little Murders, which I quite likely cribbed unknowingly.
