Snow And Sand: A World In Two Shrouds

The path felt good beneath his hooves, feeling the flattened dirt beneath him over sand or snow was a welcomed change. He was sure Steorra welcomed it too, even if he wasn’t thinking it. It would be wrong to call Ponyville a speck of life amongst a vast desert… it was so much bigger. Ponyville had the ever present hum of life. Arim had it, but only during the day when there was work to be done. No, Ponyville was different. There was always something that had to be done. It was more alive in Ponyville than anywhere else, and Sunder appreciated that. There was a resilience in the North, Ponyville especially, that rivalled even the most Southern villages. They weren’t built hardy in Ponyville, but they were diligent, and hard working; ascribing to themselves the desire to attain the five most important virtues they believed necessary to survive. While true not all attempted to reach these goals, they knew of them, and knew that they were good and to be valued. He’s always wondering, Sunder thought, looking at his son with a reserved smile. Steorra looked as though he had a twitch, his eyes staring overlong at anypony who passed them on the narrow road, before flicking to a random vendor or house. Probably thinks Northerners hate space, he thought, himself too, curious about something; in particular the mind of his son. Probably likes the colours… he mused whilst glancing up at the somewhat transparent coloured tarp joining between the buildings. Sunder knew it was for the shade, otherwise walking or even living in this city would be arduous.

“Why are they naked?” Steorra asked out of the blue.

Sunder kept his eyes straight ahead. He knew it wouldn’t be long before he started to ask questions, but fortunately for him, most of them could be answered with a simple two-word answer. “Too hot.”

“But what if when it snows?”

“Too hot to snow.”

“Rain?”

“No rain,” he replied, his ear twitching at the familiar sound of rushing beneath his hooves, “they have the rivers for water. Irrigation ditches run along most of the roads, sometimes under them.”

“But what about when the river freezes during the third quarter?”

“It doesn’t.”

“Why?”

“Too hot.”

The questions continued to pour forth from the colt’s mouth, and he answered them to the best of his ability, however menial. The colt had taken a keen interest in the Northerners and the city, and he found a pleasant elation in pleasing his son. He knew Steor grew impatient when he would tell him that he didn’t need to know everything at once. He’d make a great teacher, Sunder thought, and found his son’s constant inquisition of the world to be admirable. When the path split into two, rejoining into an oval shape, with many more paths coming off of it; the colt’s questions finally came to an end. Sunder walked forward of the path’s junction, hooves stepping onto cobblestone, allowing a pause in the journey to satiate the colt’s curiosity.

In the middle of the roundabout, they both landed their eyes to a stallion standing upon a podium in the full fury of Tia’s light. The stallion was old, visibly so, a large white wispy beard hanging down from a face that was partially hidden in a satin hood. The white smock he wore covered his entire body, only his muzzle was visible, and sewn in from hood to flank were five coloured stripes. “And The Rainbow, whose loyalty to the citizens of this world was so great, that she granted every pony a colour from her mane. And when they bred, colour spread, spreading to all corners of this world. And in those ponies, the ones in who she granted her gift, she too instilled loyalty, for no stronger bond exists between ponies than that of parent and child; for this, we have The Rainbow to thank!”

“That’s a priest of The Five,” Steorra said, preemptively answering before his son asked, “follower of the five Goddesses.”

“Five Goddesses?” Steorra asked, and Sunder heard the confusion in his voice. “I thought there was only one.”

“Ay, there are five to the Northerners. The Rainbow, The Orchard, The Diamond, The Butterfly, and The Merry,” he listed them off, glancing to the priest before looking down at the colt. “Yes, there may be only one Goddess. She who lead us to life at the ending of the world. She who was born from the light of stars, coming to us when we needed it most. Bringing us under the night sky so Her stars may watch over us, protect us.”

The colt remained silent, looking up at Sunder, head tilted. “May be?”

Sunder scoffed. That crone has got him scared, even half a world away, he smirked, shaking his head. “The crone and her purple pointy hat aren’t around these parts, boy. I’m safe from her cane,” he said with slight arrogance, sighing at the colt’s instinctive flinch. Scared she’ll appear out of thin air to smack him. The Gods were a pensive topic, a topic he didn’t spend a lot of time devoted to, especially not as much as he should. “Come on. Let’s go before he starts to sing. They’re all singers up here, and seldom any of them sing good, especially old stallions who sing of the gods.”

As Sunder walked off the cobble and back onto the road, Steorra lagging behind. Probably wanted to see a Northerner sing… he rolled his eyes, but carried on, continuing down the Westernmost path. The entire narrow road was beneath an orange tarp. Sunder knew where this path leads and knew it was long. Not a problem for him, but he didn’t need to look to know Steorra was desperately trying to pass the time by looking at the environment. Sunder guessed that his son found Northerners weird.

It wasn’t too long until they passed from out of the shade back under the light of Tia, and felt the sand beneath their hooves. Surprised he’s kept quiet this long, thought Sunder, looking ahead to the tilled hills. As they got closer to the gate, the only one for several miles of fencing, they were passed by a cart being pulled by a pair of stocky red hued stallions; the bright red stamp on the side of the cart indicating where they were heading.

“This here is Sweet Apple Acres,” Sunder said, looking at the colt sideways, “when we get to the front gate, keep your mouth shut, okay?”

“Okay,” Steorra replied, acquiescing, and Sunder saw the colt purse his lips.

Sitting next to a white-painted five bar gate was the largest stallion Sunder had ever laid eyes upon. The stallion sat on a stool, his back leaning against the fence, his head down; he was the objective epitome of the word gargantuan. The stallion’s coat was brown, the same as wet mud, and his contrastingly blonde mane fell down his neck; his face obscured by a hat not dissimilar to the one Steorra wore. They’re certainly not prudes around these parts, Sunder thought, his face scrunching up as the sight of the stallion’s parted legs. He appeared to be napping, but as they neared him, the stallion moved, his jaw beginning to gnaw on nothing as he looked to Sunder, his eyes a distinctive green.

“Howdy,” the stallion greeted, his voice was lacking in anything Sunder would call warmth, and full of husk.

“Howdy,” Sunder mirrored, the word leaving a strange taste in his mouth. Damn, Apples and their greetings.

“And you are?” The stallion queried, arching a brow that was then lost under the brim of his hat.

Sunder raised both of his brows and gave him a tight lipped smile. “Friend of the family.”

“That doesn’t answer my question, friend,” the stallion replied, stressing ‘friend’ with a frown. I don’t think he likes me. Sunder felt his own face going neutral. “I much care for what you think your relationship with my family is. Your name. Give it.”

I don’t much care for his tone. Sunder smacked his lips, and smiled. “Think you could extend the same courtesy, friend,” Sunder retorted.

The stallion flared his nostrils and jutted out his jaw, huffing. “Big Macintosh,” he began, his monotone drawl was momentarily dropped in favour of a prideful tone, his chest momentarily puffing out, “the twenty-fourth.”

“I’m Sunder, and this is my boy, Blessed-Of-Her-Light,” Sunder informed, his lips curved into a coy smile, before he looked from the colt to the stallion with a shrug, “or Steorra, if you’re inclined.”

Big Macintosh jutted his jaw out as he frowned, ceasing his chewing and casting a lazy eye to the colt, lingering, before looking back at Sunder. “I’m not an educated stallion, but doesn’t take one to see that colt's a Southerner,” Big Mac squinted an eye at the colt, and Sunder felt his expression go lower, “Mane’s too light, coat too. Name aside.”

“Ay, he is,” Sunder confirmed. He didn’t appreciate his tone.

“So mind explaining to me, why by the Five’s holy tits would anypony of my ilk would be associatin’ themselves with Southerners?” Big Macintosh said with a clear tone of ridicule, his face contorted into a smarmy smile.

“You grew up into a right twat, you know that?” Sunder fired back, the grin returning to his lips, “I remember when you were only four, suckling from your mother’s tit. You were a big colt back then too. How is she?”

Big Macintosh creased together his brows, and Sunder saw his face go neutral, stoic. “Dead. Seven years back.”

“I’m sorry,” Sunder replied, soft. Gonna miss her, he thought, the idea of her gone forever leaving a sour taste in his mouth. “She was a great mare. The world is a worser place with her gone.”

“And what’d you know ‘bout her? You could be feeding me a croc’a’shit for all I know,” Big Mac spat, and Sunder cringed for his colt. I hope he doesn’t get curious about that, too young for cursing.

Looking to his colt, more specifically his hat, and gripped the rim of the hat between his teeth; yanking it from the colt’s head and tossing it to the ground before Big Mac’s seat. “Here’s your proof.”

“What’s this?” Big Macintosh asked, kicking off his stool and landing to the ground with a heavy thud, looking to the ground with an arched brow.

Big Macintosh knelt down and picked up the piece of apparel between his teeth, sat on his haunches, and then held the hat in his hooves. “A parting gift,” Sunder answered, taking a step toward the farm pony.

Big Macintosh looked at Sunder, and despite his stoic expression, Sunder felt the eyes of the stallion drill into him; his brow rising as he flipped the hat and looked inside. “Well, I’ll be…” Big Macintosh said, and Sunder heard the earnesty in his voice. Big Macintosh looked up, his expression softer, kinder. “You must have been some kinds of special.”

“No, not special. Just a couple of strangers down on their luck,” Sunder corrected, “she was a good mare. Applebloom, what was it, the nineteenth?”

“Twentieth,” Big Mac corrected, a smile coming to his features, but Sunder still read regret on his face. “Any friend of the family is a friend to me. Sorry for not believin’ you.”

“No need,” Sunder insisted, closing the gap between them, the large stallion standing an entire neck length higher than himself. “You’re related to The Orchard. You’d be putting her memory to shame if you believed every claim to be a truth. Being honest means nothing without there being liars in the world.”

“You some kind ‘o priest?” Big Mac asked, “I swear, we get the same folks coming to our gate every now and then spouting off the same nonsense.”

“Nonsense? You don’t believe in the Gods?” Sunder looked at Big Mac with a quizzical expression. “The Orchard is your great-something-grandmother, isn’t she?”

“That’s the thing, ain’t it? Can you imagine a God on her knees, getting mounted from behind?” Big Mac sniffed, sucking on his teeth. “They out there think we’re related to a Goddess. But when I see the caricatures, the blonde mane I see in my relatives, where others see holiness, I see only a mare.”

“I can see that. Don’t imagine those folks over at the Amethyst Temple would,” Sunder said, following the stallion as he readied to open the gate. As Big Mac turned, Sunder took a quick look at his cutie mark. A plough. His mother was an apple.

“Well, if they gathered a mob, they can suck my cock and starve for all I care,” Big Macintosh said, joking, but Sunder knew it was entirely within his capacity to do so; regardless, Sunder chortled. “Come now, I’ll take you to the farm house.”

“Ay, let's,” Sunder agreed, following the stallion.

“That young colt of yours must be thirsty, being a Southerner and all,” Big Mac said, crossing the threshold of the gate whilst looking over himself, Steorra going bug eyed at being in the sight of such a giant. “Ain’t you little guy?”

“Yeah,” Steorra stuttered, shy. Sunder felt him brush close to him, and he chuckled.

“Kid’s shy around strangers,” Sunder informed, passing by the stallion who kept the gate open.

“Is that right?” Big Mac chuckled, closing the gate as Sunder and the colt passed by him.

As Sunder and Steorra passed by him, Big Mac planted the hat back on the colt’s head, who shrunk under his touch. “Here's the hat. It’s yours now anyway. I know how you guys are under Tia’s light.”

“Thank you,” Steorra replied, still meek, although Sunder saw he didn’t shy away behind him when he answered back. He curled his lip, sighing. It’s progress.

As they walked the earthen path, a rarity in the desert, that any inch of the ground remain sandless at all, Sunder felt the physical weight of the silence on his shoulders. “So,” he started, attracting the larger stallion’s attention, “how are things?”

Big Mac let his eyes lay on Sunder for a moment, before he sniffed, looking around him to the fields. “They say that back in Her day, we had apple trees planted as far as the eye could see. The orchard covered the entire west side of the world from North to South,” he monologued, looking to the workers in the fields, “of course it’s probably a load of horse apples, but still. At one time the apple orchard was beyond anything we could have now.”

Sunder couldn’t help but glance to the farmland as he said that. There must have been a hundred or so trees, each under a translucent white paper to help fend off Tia’s unrelenting harassment. However, the trees were only a tiny portion of the farmed land, with an uncountable amount of plots dedicated to something else he imagined, irrigation ditches spanning the length of the field. “So how are things now?”

“We get by,” Big Mac replied with a shrug. “One hundred and forty trees. Many of the fields that once held apple trees have been replaced with wheat, lemons, and the like.”

“Doesn’t sound bad,” Sunder stated.

“Because it ain’t,” Big Mac replied frankly, a small smile on his lips. “Grandma told us, as foals, how much our family, the world even, struggled at one point. Struggled for food, struggled for water, struggled to survive. At first, a great fire consumed our fields, the smoke blackened the sky. Then a great storm wracked the whole world, uprooting our trees and burying our crops.”

“You always take this long to answer questions?” Sunder quipped.

Big Macintosh chuckled, shaking his head. “What’s on my flank, Sunder?”

“A plough.”

“Eeyup. A big one. Times have changed a lot since we struggled. We carry the name still, we even carry their names, me included. But we’re apple farmers no longer. So to be candid… not so hopeless.” He replied, and he looked at Sunder, curling his lip. “We’re feedin’ half the city, the other half feeds itself. All because she so long ago chose not to give up. I guess, in a sort of way, them kooks at the purple temple are right…”

Sunder grumbled in reply, nodding. He looked out to the fields. He saw dozens of ponies in wide brimmed hats, slaving away in their toil under the ever harsh gaze of Tia, and Sunder felt justified in his respect for this family.

It wasn’t too long until the farm house came into view, but to Sunder, it was more a humble generalisation of what it really was: a castle. The center was the beginning, and like branches of a tree, it expanded over the centuries to house the growing family at the center of it all. Like the family itself, the attachments were an amalgamation of characters and personality. Angles clashed with the neighboring constructs, and as a whole, it looked a shambles. Yet like the family again, despite the hectic nature of it all, it still managed to serve its purpose. There was a charm present, no doubt about it. Attempts to renovate were visible, even from a distance, with myriad paints on splintered wood and fresh wood contrasting next to the old. No coordination, he smirked. One pony would work on something, get busy, and not come back to it. What was admirable is that they constantly did work, and if he knew anything of that family, it was that they liked it.

They passed under a wooden archway, nailed from end to end were various insignias of fruits, vegetables, and work tools; atop, bright red and distinct, an apple. Sunder recalled each belonging to what essentially amounted to a cadet branch of the Apple family, hundreds of years of marriages, colts and fillies finding that their interests extended out of the usual familial skills. It would seem the fields aren't the only thing getting ploughed…

Around the homestead dozens of foals ran amok, laughing and playing their games. He looked to his colt, and saw his eyes slightly widen. First time he’s seen ponies his own age in weeks. “You can play in a bit, Steor.”

“What if they make fun of me, for bein’ a Southerner?” Steorra asked, sounding concerned.

“Boy, at your age being an outsider will make you the most interesting thing they’ve seen in their entire lives,” Sunder said. “They’ll probably want you to like them, just to hear your stories of the dark and mysterious South.”

Steorra laughed at Sunder’s funny voice. “Okay, father.”

“We need to get something in your belly first,” said Sunder.

“Yeah!” Steorra concurred, licking his lips.

“I’ll get Crescent Sickle to fix you up a glass of apple juice. Even got some ice to put in that drink. Got to admit, being a descendant of a Goddess has its perks,” there was a slight smugness in his voice, and Sunder smirked.

The trio made their way over the tall wide doors of the farm house. They’re never closed. They’re always running about up here. A rowdy group of stallions passed by them as they entered through the doors, momentarily pausing to acknowledge Big Macintosh as he passed by them. The farm house’s ceiling was so tall that rafters appeared to disappear into a void, the columns taller than trees. The windows were slits high in the walls, leaving the interior pleasantly dim, but not so as to leave the eyes straining to see. Despite having the bearings of a great drinking hall of sorts, the inside just looked like a great expansive living room. Areas were cordoned off for couches, tables and chairs, even the odd foal’s cot was placed haphazardly around the room. There was definitely the ambience of family and care in the room, added to only by the fact foals and their mothers were together in groups in random corners of the room. In the center, there was a large water basin, filled to the brim with coals; the fire strangely absent.

“Sickle!” Big Mac called out, his voice orotund and loud, being carried far in the room.

From the other side of the hall, peeking from behind a column, a lime green mare with a peach coloured mane looked at Big Macintosh with elation. “Love!” Exclaimed Crescent, her voice carried pleasantly in the air, and reeked of kindness. The mare cantered from her position to meet the three, her expression mellow, and Sunder read her as saccharine. “Who’re these strangers?”

Before he could answer her question, the mare went onto the tips of her hooves to plant a peck on the stallion’s lips, who then grinned down at her with a tinge of pink on his cheeks. “Friends, and our guests. Colt here is parched. Mind fetching him somethin’ to drink? Maybe a bite ta eat too.”

“Well ain’t you just the cutest little thing!” Crescent cooed, leaning down eye level and pressing a hoof to the colt’s cheek. “And just what is your name lil’ one?”

The colt seized up, and Sunder smirked. “Steorra,” he answered, glancing to the mare, “he’s shy.”

“Well I know what’ll loosen you right up,” Crescent emphasised with pokes to the colt’s chest, and she smiled wide. “In the pantry, we have a jar of sugared plums for special occasions. I’d say good friends visiting counts, wouldn’t you?”

“Y-yeah,” the colt replied, voice weak, but a smile graced his lips.

“Well, come with me, little guy, and I’ll take you to the pantry,” she turned around, taking a few steps away, before looking over shoulder. “Well, are you comin’?”

Steorra remained by Sunder’s side, looking up at his father with knitted brows. “Go on, lad,” Sunder nodded toward the green mare, smirking at the colt’s hesitance. “You don’t need to worry about anything. You’ll be safe with her. Go on.”

“Just come with me, sugarcube,” Sickle cajoled. Steorra’s steps were stunted, reluctantly following her as she walked away.

After the pair of them walked out of view, Big Macintosh turned to Sunder, wearing the eyes of a stallion expecting something of him. “Good kid.”

“Ay,” Sunder agreed, watching as his colt left through doors at the far side of the hall.

“So what brought ya here in the first place? Ponies just don’t make the journey North jus’ for a friendly visit,” Big Macintosh stated bluntly, the space between his brows creased. “Can’t imagine what you’d want though.”

“We can have this conversation sitting,” Sunder said matter-of-factly. “We needn’t be standing when talking of these affairs.”

“Alright,” Big Mac agreed, lightly nodding. “Why? How long do ya’ expect to have my attention?”

“For as long as I need it,” Sunder was honest, frankness in his tone. “What I aim to do is impossible without your help.”

“Ah see…” Big Macintosh shifted where he stood, nodding in understanding. “Alright, we can talk over there.”

Big Mac had started to walk off mid-conversation, and Sunder followed. It was a nondescript sitting area, the couch was simply shoved against the room’s corner, with a simple brown carpet on the floor in front, a faded green stain standing out in the center.

“I want to just thank you beforehoof for hearing me out,” Sunder said, sitting on the seat like he would the ground.

“You’re jus’ lucky Ah am. Another stallion walks into a stallion’s home and asks for more than a guest and friend is entitled… that’s just bad manners,” Big Mac chastised, looking at Sunder sideways. “Although I suppose I’m curious more than anything.”

“‘Bout what?”

“What’s a Northern stallion doing with a Southerner’s colt?” Big Mac craned his neck to look straight at the stallion.

“He’s my son,” Sunder retorted, his teeth grit.

“So you mind telling me that story?” asked Big Mac.

“It’s not relevant,” Sunder stated directly, shaking his head.

“You want something from me, and you’re not willin’ to tell me something I want to know? Now tell me why the heck I’d just give you what you want,” said the farmer, his look that of condescension. “Your name wasn’t the only one written into that hat. It was joined with another. A Southerner.”

“Ay, you’re right about that. But that remains with me, and me alone,” he fired back sternly, his expression matching.

“You’re the shittest story teller I ever heard,” Big Mac commented, sitting back smirking.

“Same to you and your respect for my private affairs.

Big Mac tutted, his jaw tight. “So you just expect me to give you what you want?”

“Ay, because it isn’t much.”

“And what would that be?” Big Mac looked at him sideways, looking exasperated.

“A way North.”

“You could just walk,” Big Mac quipped, a half smile on his lips.

“Ay, but you know that those who try to cross the great desert die more often than not. No. You know what I seek,” Sunder leered at the hulking stallion with furrowed brows.

Big Macintosh sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, throwing down his hooves. “Could you at least tell me one thing?”

“What?”

“Why you doin’ this? Ponies don’t just travel North ‘cause they feel like it. There’s a reason, an’ Ah want to know.”

Sunder grumbled, his expression sour. “You saw what was on Steor’s head. That bump.”

“I didn’t want to say anythin’...” Big Mac shifted awkwardly in his seat, eyes averted.

“You know it. I know it. He’s a unicorn.”

Big Mac scoffed, “A unicorn hasn’t been in Ponyville for hundreds of years. There’ve been plenty of frauds and liars though.”

Sunder sighed. “Steorra’s a unicorn, Mac. And I’m taking him up far North. Up there, to a city.”

“Vanhoover?”

“Further, to the top of the world. Where they say snow remains still, where magic makes it cling to ground, unmelting.”

“That’s a myth,” Big Mac scoffed, shaking his head. “A story they tell to foals to get them to sleep. What? You’re going to see the dragon and his princess too?”

“Ay, because she told me it was real. Swore it. On her deathbed, right to me, choking on her own tongue. She swore to me, and made the last thing she heard from me a promise.”

“You’re chasing a story, Sunder,” Mac warned. “Unicorns, princesses, magic, dragons. All legends and fairytales,” Big Mac listed off the machinations with a sneer, condescension clear in his voice.

“Then why do you care!?” spat Sunder.

“Because you’re going to kill yourself and that colt by going that far North. Just because of a pipedream and the words of a dying mare,” he was direct, jutting out his jaw.

“And hope, dammit!” Sunder exploded, huffing. “Hope. If we can save our crops from the frost, heal our sick, and stop barely surviving every passing year… it’s worth it just to try.”

Big Macintosh released a sparse chuckle, looking away with a shake of his head. “You’re risking not just your life, Sunder. That colt o’ yours… How did the ponies back where you came from react to this?”

“They were none too pleased,” Sunder answered honestly, “but I had to do this. For both his sake, and because I don’t break my oaths.”

“Then swear to me, right here, right now, that no harm will come to that colt,” Big Macintosh urged. “I will give you a way North, but I won’t have the blood of a child on mah hooves, Sunder.”

Sunder bore in Big Macintosh with fixed eyes. A steadfast and certainty in his visage, as well as the natural love a father had for his offspring. He lingered in his stare and exhaled, nodding his head. “I promise.” I promise you Esther.