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Never say goodbye!
Camaraderian expression predominantly used for wishing good luck.
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The pony parted the low hanging branches and squeezed through the tangled hedgerow, emerging from the forest with heaving breath. Straight away she marvelled at the sight of the nearby garden cottage that shepherded the stream. The little bridge too looked unfamiliar, carrying the muddy lane across to where it wound uphill in a lazy S-shape. On the horizon, where the sun was at its most fierce, the village's first rooftops peeked over the hill.
Adhering to the lane, she searched for some sign unmistakable and true that proved she approached the village she had meant to. At the same time she was also wary of trespassers, ambling forward cautiously. Nopony trod the hill and none hid behind the garden trellis, but this wasn’t cause for her to lower her guard. The rows of flowers glistened vibrant reds and golds, and nest boxes hung from wooden beams - and was that a henhouse to the side of the cottage? It was obvious to her that these pots and plants were far too delicately organised to belong to anypony so threatening. As she passed this strange new house, she thought to herself, Look at this thing erected so close to the forest, lingering in the sun as though there is nothing to fear. What could it be that tempts it to such imprudence?
She had forgotten in her travels under the protection of the forest that the sun could burn this brightly, but it came back to her soon enough. Gaining altitude, the shingles and thatched roofs doubled and then did so again, and great towers pushed up from among them as they grew. Was this some other land then, so flooded with light only in its infancy? She shielded her eyes and could not believe what she saw. The village had grown monstrously since last she visited, but still there were traces of its heart unmistakable and true. The well and its encircling orchardy blooms lay as she had remembered them, but there were so many houses now - too many to count - pushed close like a rowdy crowd around a campfire. On her left the farm road snaked past the great many more lemon bricks and posts and, though they were to her squinting eyes as broccoli and little toys, she could see well enough the ripening fruit on the apple trees and several of the accompanying sheds and barnyard halls sprouted from the earth.
Looking around herself again she was amazed further at how different it had all become. Even the birds, who’s whistling had been but a dull murmur before, were so close-by still obscured by some hanging plant or lamp post, fence or wall. Look here, she thought, is it so lazy a summer’s day that none ventured out from their homes?
But there, on a bronzen bench and shaded by a thick, slanting oak tree rested the first Ponyville inhabitant she had come across. The zaffre blue mare could not be far beyond her teenage years, but this was not a problem: her own blue coat may have become pale as mist, and her mane and tail may have been unkempt and at places even brittle to the touch, still the visitor knew she looked younger than she was.
Approaching the young pony it was obvious that she was asleep, her eyes closed blissfully and her chest rising and falling steadily. For all the sights unexpected, this one to her was strangest of all. For a moment the visiting pony stood there, halfway under the shade of the oak, wondering where the guards were; or even just the sight of a single, well-muscled stallion with a rake at hoof to keep miscreants at bay. Did this new generation then have no memory of Timberwolf or other stray beast? Was there truly nopony to protect this young mare, or keep watch of the chickens back at the cottage? What if she herself had meant her ill?
So lost in her thoughts she became that she had for the moment forgotten her surroundings, and when the young mare yawned, she suddenly thought, What if this pony slept here as a trap by magic or cunning? And she jumped up with a start, her wings spreading with the dull blow of fast-asleep musculature. She had not used her wings in days. ‘Oh, hello,’ the young blue pony muttered, her hoof to her mouth again. She was not truly alarmed, but then perhaps she had expected somepony she knew, and her eyes had not yet fully opened. The green streaks of her mane fell halfway over her eyes as she jerked her head sideways. She yawned a third time. ‘It was such a beautiful afternoon,’ she explained, ‘that I guess I just sort of fell asleep here, I guess.’
For a moment she anticipated an answer, but the startled pegasus scraped her throat for quite a while, allowing her ample opportunity to stretch herself on the bench. She must have been asleep for over an hour. The pony before her stood against the full beam of the sun and she could see little more than a shadow and errant feather. Still there was no response from her and she said, almost as much to herself as to the pegasus, ‘I was having the most amazing dream that I had all these biscuits, and I got to eat them all, and there were crumbs all over my hooves but I had all the time to lick up every last one of them. I finished the whole bag.’
It was hard to speak as she had not spoken for some time. Although the words came easily to her, it was difficult to realise what they would mean next to what the young pony had said, and her mouth was dry and sore. ‘Biscuits?’ she managed uncertainly, knowing full well what biscuits were.
In some nearby alley, an indignant cat hissed and grumbled.
‘That’s right,’ the young mare answered, rising to her hindquarters and sliding her head further across the bench. She pulled out a wrinkly white paper bag, folded over several times, and quickly began to unscrunch it. She looked back up, though she could still not see much from under the fierce sunlight. ‘What luck! I still have some biscuits left.’ She half-giggled, like a near-sneeze swallowing a laugh, and concluded, ‘Seems like it was only a dream, after all!’
‘Is there food nearby?’ The pegasus leaned forward, smelling the paper bag, and her eyes glowed with interest.
‘Why yes, of course. Why, over there’s where I got my biscuits; right there on the end of that street, up to the square, you know? It’s right around the corner.’ She smiled and held out a biscuit. ‘Did you just come in today? Why don’t you have a biscuit?’
‘I will need larger supplies,’ she said, scraping her throat once again. ‘I’ll follow your directions, thank you.’
‘Well, if I don’t see you again, my name’s Pagotó!’
The pony named Pagotó looked after the other pony expectantly. ‘Bye,’ she whimpered. Her voice had sunk even before she had said this one word, and the strange and most curious pony did not turn her head as she went.
It was a strange and most curious thing to meet such a bright pony. Admittedly, she had met before many fillies and colts that were cheerful and jesting as they grew, often even playing pranks through mock-fights and singing merry tunes well into their adult years, but these occasions seldom were one alone; seldom if ever they were somepony surrounded by none but herself.
In the shade between two large houses she counted the violet flowers and the passing ladybirds, ants, and winged crawlers. Not yet was she in any hurry. There were many voices at the end of the street, and now and then she glimpsed between the narrow lanes she crossed ponies cantering to and fro and dawdling past. She knew she had to get food if she were to successfully complete the Country Circle as she intended to. She would need at least six large bars of cereal or mashed nuts in total, and preferably several packets of juiced apple, just to be on the safe side. In addition to these things she needed a map and a compass, but those she did not expect to find at the shop.
Where the alley merged into the larger square her eyes fell on a broad-shouldered mare pulling a cart, trudging between the fountain and the terrace behind it. There were many more ponies there on the cobbled square: in their variety they were altogether too many ponies for the visitor to keep track of any more of them in particular, and gladly she turned into the open-doored shop she was told would meet her step.
The shop was rife with the smell of herbs - something the pony thought a good sign indeed - as well as the chatter of townsponies. There were three wooden tables, each decked with cloth and small flower pots, and there was a birchen counter fronted by, presumably, the shop’s owner. She too was not a particularly mature looking pony, her lush beige coat milky and supple, yet all the same she did carry herself with the air of somepony who knew well what she was doing. She was talking to one of the other customers over to the side as she searched below the counter itself. Some of them were admiring at leisure the many little boxes shelved against the wall, but one of them sat removed, and it was this pony sitting at one of the tables that the shop’s owner addressed. ‘What was your name again, sir?’ she asked politely, ‘if you just give me your name again I can tell my brother to expect you. Otherwise, they might be booked out by the time you arrive, and that would really be a bother.’ She held up a notebook as proof and added, ‘I’ll write it down right here.’
The stallion nodded carefully, as he was wearing a tall hat and he did not want it to fall. ‘I appreciate that,’ he said in a low, confident voice. ‘My name is Rind. Rind Pickles.’
‘Certainly. Please get yourself comfortable and I’ll be right out with your tea.’ She then turned her head to the newly arrived customer and said, ‘I’ll be right with you,’ swivelling round again to tend to a bowl of water.
The other group of ponies, three of them they were, were chattering agitatedly about restaurants now, though it was hard to tell if their troubles concerned some past trial or instead was a matter future or present. It was exactly the kind of buzz that made the pony turn to other thoughts, namely those of names. Rind Pickles, Pagotó... even the shop itself must have had a name, though she did not glean it coming in. In Ponyville it paid to have a name; to have something to distinguish by parlance one from the other. Now what did I go by before? she asked herself, and though on this she was not quite certain, a new name did come to her swiftly. For the moment at least, “Whisper” would serve her well enough.
She returned her eyes to the shopkeeper, who had filled a big mug with steaming water and now placed a biscuit on the matching saucer. Resisting the impulse to introduce herself with her new name, she instead put out her chest and leaned forward. The shopkeeper once again raised an apologetic hoof, turning to the other ponies who she realised now she had been talking to. ‘But what do you mean,’ she persisted, ‘when you say “take me to a real restaurant”? Surely this place counts as real, doesn’t it?’
Whisper could not see clearly the pony who she had addressed specifically, for she stood just behind the tall pillar at the end of the counter. ‘I meant no disrespect,’ a young, raspy mare’s voice replied, ‘but ponies expect a certain something when you say you’re taking them to a restaurant. Like, multiple courses, table service, and maybe a salad bar. Like one of those salad bars they have at Scalogno’s...’
‘I thought you said she was taking you?’ one of her unicorn companions whined.
‘You can order an indefinite amount of courses,’ the shopkeeper noted, her amber eyes glittering intelligently, ‘and if you’re nice about it I’ll even service you right there at the table.’
‘I meant no disrespect,’ the girl repeated, patting one of her friends on the shoulder. ‘But like, we gotta trot now. I told Jangly we’d be at the party by five. Get, y’know, an inventory of the kitchen and seating situation?’
Apparently none of this included a real question, and so there was no answer and the three girls did in fact trot out, sliding past Whisper as they went. The shop had become quiet enough to hear the porcelain set on the table, as well as the deep sigh that crawled out of the stallion’s mouth. ‘It must be exhausting to run your café by yourself,’ he said, ‘with all these customers and you just by yourself.’
‘You have no idea, sir,’ she replied earnestly, ‘I mean I don’t know what it is with these girls or even why they come here. They never ever buy anything, and it’s obvious they have no respect...’
‘No respect. Is that so?’ He made an ah sound and sniffed the hot brew at his table. It was obvious to Whisper that this fernish looking pony was accustomed to being an authority.
‘That is to say, I don’t want to presume you don’t have it harder, or that there’s no bigger trouble to put up with. It’s just a small thing, running my café.’
‘I don’t think it is a small thing at all, dear lady, in fact I can see it well enough: you’re accosted to not being a real restaurant, and thereby not being truly a real restaurateur. That is no small matter at all. Why, if I’m honest with you, I could not stand these ponies. You see, I had to walk in tow of them on the way here, and they would not let me pass even as I spoke to them.’
‘But speaking to them is the worst part, though I don’t know what it is about them exactly...’
‘It’s like having the answer or returning statement ready at all times, yet still having to wait minutes to get your turn. If ever it comes...’
‘My Celestia, that’s exactly it!’
‘And then--’
‘Celestia?’
Both of them turned to this other customer that they had for the moment forgotten. It must have been her that uttered the princess’ name, but it did not show on her face. The stallion made himself sniff his tea once again; a flowery and fruity sort of fragrance Whisper decided from her position. It is only fitting, she thought to herself of the chatty girls and their aftermath: everypony always had so much to say before. There may have been simply too much of it for one to be able to in a lifetime.
The shopkeeper briskly slid behind the counter and explained, ‘It’s an expression. I’m sorry for making you wait there. How can I help you?’
‘Oats, if you have them,’ Whisper said. She attempted a smile, but her face did not yield. ‘Or do you have nuts?’ She could store at least three packets of nuts in her tasselpouch, provided they were not very large.
The shopkeeper’s warm smile did not waver in its courtesy. ‘You mean a pie, right? I do have some pie...’
‘Smashed, dried, or in a cereal bar or other sort of packet.’
‘The pie? That would be a waste. Anyway, I only have apple pie, but I promise you it’s very good. It’s my grandmother’s recipe and it’s made just this morning.’
But Whisper did not understand what this talk about pie was about. It was strange to her as a moon that hung before the sun itself. At length the shopkeeper said, ‘I mean, this is a café. Can I get you anything? We have a lot of flavours of tea, if you’re interested.’ She waved a hoof towards the wall of little boxes, ready to make further suggestions.
Then Whisper glimpsed for the first time a black board to her side that listed the various drinks and baked goods for sale, and each of them having a price marked next to them. ‘I’ll go now,’ she announced, staring blankly as she went.
Through the open door she could hear the stallion call, ‘I’d love some of that pie you just mentioned, my dear...’
It could not be efficient business to obtain single pieces of pie and small cups or mugs of flavoured water, or even to produce them on demand. Whisper wondered if perhaps these customers that had come in before had entered the store disappointed by the wares and prices therein. There must be other shops, Whisper thought to herself, but maybe I need to find a hiking shop and go from there.
She decided that such a place as faintly she remembered Ponyville to have would know about the Country Circle and as such have readily in supply all manner of useful items. Surely there would be understanding ponies there, and they would gladly offer her all that she needed at a fair price. These ponies would be very different from the ones she had met so far today.
‘Excuse me,’ the deep voice called behind her. The fern green stallion had come out steadying his hat, and out under the sunlight it was as though he had moss growing on his skin. ‘Excuse me,’ he said again, ‘but I saw you from the window, standing here looking for something, and I thought maybe I could help you in some way to find what it is you’re looking for.’
‘I’m not sure,’ Whisper said, deciding instantly not to tell this stallion about the Country Circle. She was certain he would not know about it anyway. ‘I think I’m just looking for something interesting right now,’ she went on, looking over the terraces on her right, where straw chairs had occupied even the mouth of the neighbouring street. The ponies there too were content with their straws and lemon parts, their paper umbrellas and ice cubes. It was hard to imagine for her that these same ponies would ever do much of anything.
‘Really now?’ the stallion said after a short pause. ‘Well, just now I came in by train this morning, but already I’ve been to this old tower. Look here, my lady, if you turn your head this way... there, over those reddish shingles there, see that little balcony there, that hangs like a sagging cheek? That’s the old bell tower, actually, right there. It was a school once, I believe, but it was also where ponies of old gathered in the event of some crisis. There are lots of old paintings and artefacts from those days there, and the view up there is truly something to behold. Really, you cannot go wrong paying a visit, even if it’s only a brief one.’
But although Whisper thanked the kind stallion for the suggestion she did not go towards the tower. In looking around the fountain square from where she stood, she had already decided on the street across from her. There was a hiking lodge that came back to her now, and it was this street she thought likely to lead her somewhere near its doors.
‘Farewell then, my lady,’ the stallion had said vainly, and onward she cantered over the cobbled square.
It was a barnlike stall rife with talk of the Country Circle, where ponies of all shapes and sizes loaded up for their walk. Clanking pints of cider filled each pause of breath and song. One of them had said boisterously,’I just had to explain the Circle to this pony that’s been here her whole life. Went in deep too, cause I kept expecting her to catch on at some point and remember, “Oh, yes, the five days round in the Everfree Forest; the trail that everypony comes back to every couple of years,” but of course she never did.’ But then Whisper realised that it was she who had had this exchange, and it was she who had tried in vain to explain the Country Circle to the townspony.
The street stretched on tirelessly in its slight curve, and although there would be more than enough room for another pony to pass her there were none but her that traversed it. Already she had begun to picture the lodge standing ready just beyond the bend on her right, awaiting participants with cosy candles and peanuts on the box-tables. No matter the many steps she cantered still she expected each moment to see its great wooden frame appear before her eyes, booming with laughter inside.
She had mistaken one street for another, for there was little but an impressive, far-reaching wall of ivy at the western edge of the old village. She stood there undejected, impossible to shake by such misfortunes. It felt odd to her to think of it only just now: the reason she did not come with map and compass in hoof was precisely because she did not need them. She was certain in fact that as her bearings would come to her during the Circle, so too would she have ample opportunity to forage for food. She was an expert hiker and did not fear challenging herself during the allotted eight hours of rest per night. In high spirits then it was that Whisper began her trot southwards around the village’s perimeter to where stood the Country Circle’s starting post.
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There was an ice cream window opposite of where the Country Circle would start, and Whisper remained at a distance. In fact she already leaned into the undergrowth itself, shaded in some small way by bold offshoot fronds. Here she waited for a long time, watching the thirsty ponies come and go, many littering as they went. She did not think of asking any of them about the Country Circle and whether its starting post had moved. They were most of them too young, anyway, but even then there was to her something... obvious about them.
She deduced that Ponyville’s few outdoorsy ponies must all have joined the Country Circle, and it must have been them who removed the starting post. It made sense well enough, as they all already knew where the Circle began. She herself was confident she had found it too, though there was no trace of where its roots had been but fine dirt and sand. Considering these things, Whisper realised that if these ponies all had left earlier on the day - not expecting anypony else to appear - she had no reason to wait any longer.
She threw one more glance to the few streets visible from the edge of Ponyville and, seeing there nopony but a pair of dawdling foals fussing with a ball of water, she set out at last on her walk. Following the way into the bush, she beat her way onto a semblance of path several leagues ahead and there joined an easy-going bend deeper into the forest. On her right she could still spy between the trunks and branches the farmland and its apple trees, but now the farmland also was some way below her. Another deep breath and onward she went down the shaded path.
There grew a calmness in Whisper that steadied her, allowing her to canter easily and so conserve her strength for the less ruly stretches of woodland the Circle promised. Her confident pace continued for well over an hour, and she considered that if the group had started three hours before she might catch up with them before dusk. After all, she knew that the larger a group was the higher would be their number of breaks and the slower would be their pace. Whisper on the other hoof carried no conversation and for the moment needed no break.
Only when the path met a patch of thorny thistles and low hangers and danglers did Whisper consider that perhaps the Country Circle had on this occasion begun at a considerably later hour than it did previously. Her own pace then would suggest that she would be likely to stay ahead of them for its entirety. In this reference she permitted her first break, trudging back through the thorny underbrush so that, in the event of their appearance, she could show this other party the way forward.
For those that braved the Circle these were not unusual customs. Indeed, many unwritten rules existed and had been well-practised before, such as the sharing of a third of one’s water with any solitary walker one came across, or lending a spare towel or knife or another such utilitarian item. And if ever there would be somepony beseeched on the trail obstinate to part with direction or water though they were not lacking in either, a great wrath they would incur from the Foretrekker and indeed anypony else on the Country Circle.
Among a colonnade of pearlescent flowers there peeked out several clusters of reddish droplets. Carefully she picked the fruit from the higher stems and pushed them into her tasselpouch. I might not even have any water, Whisker thought wryly, but this way if I do run into somepony, at least I’ll have something.
But she knew she was an elite hiker and that this would be so too for at least half of them. Indeed, each time she walked the Circle there was a steady increase in experts, converting some from casuals and tourists that had walked previously, as well as consistently attracting out-of-town thrill seekers capable enough. Conversely, the amount of townsponies that sought to whet their curiosity decreased over time, so that there were less inexperienced hikers on the trail now and indeed it could well be possible that Whisper would not encounter any of them.
Again trotting onward, she decided she had been unduly considerate: with such a concentration of expert hikers among the others, it could well be that even if their party started some time after she had, there would have to be many among them more equipped to help than even she was herself. She summarised the relevant rule to herself, almost singing it under her breath: Of the stragglers none shall there be, they who trekked none too many. It sounded like a nursery rhyme to her now, but its wisdom still clung to the earth.
The new path arched not yet so deep into the woods, and Whisper sensed alongside her still the perimeter of the Everfree Forest. Its branches however took no heed, reaching further and further all the while, so that several times she had to scrunch into the undergrowth in search of where the path resumed, and yet again several times she had found herself mistaken in her best estimation and was forced back crawling through twisting tendrils. Throughout these minor hindrances, however, she remained adamant not to have wasted too much time. She could feel the familiarity of her route: no matter the advancing roots and vines overtaking the path as she went, she knew she had walked it before.
Gradually, the jungle of the whistlers had changed its tune, suggesting dusk was not far behind. Among the deserters could well have been the incidental notes that came from outside of the dense forest. Whisper was considering for a moment the merits of such different musics when she suddenly heard the rustling of leaves behind her. Wisely she did not immediately turn with a start, instead slowly angling her soft steps over time so that she could more easily cast an eye towards the sound while still trotting forward. She decided it must have been a pretty big animal, but then it could also have been a pony trying to test her mettle by following her.
If she had less honour with the Circle’s code this would be cause for launching herself above the treetops and getting a good bird’s eye view of any passengers on the path behind her, or even in front of her. But as it was, she bore these shortcomings as though they were precious merchandise and kept her eyes out for anypony - or indeed anything - who’s attention she had attracted. Over the greater distance, she told herself, certainly they would not be able to keep up with her.
Night announced itself by the whitish gleam of the setting sun. So dark had the path become that were it not for this final luminous assault, Whisper could not have told its exact arrival. She made a conservative estimate of the hours that remained and decided she would make camp in as little as two or three hours, when the route would become unsafe to navigate.
Brekex, brekex...
Whisper was pleased to hear the reedy song. They were the first frogs she had heard and their land could not lie so far inwards. Secret devourer of music, the frog always did betray his past prey the cricket, and by their song also travelled their invitation. Soon however, she realised that the lake would not be easy to filter, especially not at eventide. No matter, she thought, it’s good enough to know it’s there, albeit lurking like a sullen sibling.
She was reminded of the berries she had picked earlier and snacked on them as she slowed to a canter. She was already enjoying herself. The sweet red smell came to her well before the pulpy innards sloshed fully over her tongue, and it singed her cheeks and bit her tongue. She crushed the little seeds within between her teeth and they too tasted sharp and bitter. Only slowly did she grow accustomed to the powerful flavour and found it at last invigorating and quenching. It would surely stay her until tomorrow, and tomorrow she was likelier to meet water and stragglers.
Brekex, brekex...
For a short while it would have seemed to novice walkers that the lake came closer, but Whisper knew the path would soon turn away again, for indeed what path would flirt overtly with swampy ground? Now a woodpecker hammered in the distance and it was night truly. On previous engagements she had amazed others with her sound vision in the dark, but even she had to admit now that it would be inevitable for some cobwebbed branch to snag her mane, or that she might even stumble over some stray rock or stump of a tree. Her pace had slowed further and she tasselled her pouch again, hooves ready. Thankfully this isn’t tomorrow’s route yet, she thought to herself, or was that the third day?
She was thinking of the black rock faces, smooth yet unforgiving they lay; the little bridges that crossed the river or else lead nowhere; the precarious, slick pillars through which one was expected to ford. No, at least for now there was no real danger. She decided she would continue for one more hour, watching for some likely space near the path.
A fallen, hefty trunk obliged Whisper for a while to stumble again between brambles and nettling branches in search of the path, and this time Whisper took particular care in her orientation, knowing full well that without the aid of a compass it would prove most trying to regain her bearings. It was in so meticulous an advance that she could faintly make out the outline of a curious trunk down among the nettles. The thin tree was devoid of branches or any knob or knar, running smooth from top to bottom, and even in the darkness Whisper could see it was but one shade of brown all the way across. Crouching in the prickles she recognised it well enough: she had found the severed starting post of the Country Circle, splintered at its root. But how it came to be here, or why it was so... she could not fathom this, and seeing the path continue beyond, she left the post where she found it.
These were more disturbing thoughts than any that had crossed her so far today: who would go through the effort of dragging the post all the way into the woods in such a manner? Was there some saboteur truly so dedicated? She could not fathom it.
The path ended in a small semi-circle devoid of much green. The ground below her had taken a crunchy quality and must have been much dryer than the soil surrounding it. She was not concerned: she remembered next day’s path would lie very near to those rocky surfaces, and under the light of day these would be easy to see even through the thick foliage that lay in between.
She relieved herself and tunnelled through the brambles in search of a secluded spot without so much underbrush. Of course she had not brought much of any tools for her camp, but she realised that there was no need for a fire or even a tent. It had not yet become terribly cold and she had no food on her that needed warming: all that she needed at the moment was sleep. Now if only she had brought a tent or a sleeping bag. The bag could easily be snaked onto the forest floor, weedy though it was, and even the tent could be pitched well enough if it did not prove particularly big. It would only take a little work for the larger bush to accommodate its presence, and then she would clamber inside and negotiate the ground through the tent’s bottom and maybe even catch the faintest yellow glow of moonlight that penetrated in some small way the thin fabric. She sank into the mossy side of a big tree’s knot and realised that these things did not matter because she was terribly tired. So tired...
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She was beat. Indefinitely beat. Just how much longer would she have to tread through these woods dark, bright, away and back inside its grasp again? But she knew now she no longer had to walk: she had just climbed in through the hiking lodge’s marehole cover. The greying sign read THE LODGE and promptly she was inside its noisy hallway. It was built up horizontal, much like the lodge itself. All logs had been stacked diligently in this manner, and the lodge stood at an impressive six logs tall, excluding of course the brazier basement below. As she remembered it, the basement had been dug out of the earth and thoroughly fortified with clay and stone, for it was necessary for the flames not to reach the wooden structure above. Still she could feel the warmth rising up from under her hooves as she wandered across the floorboards.
A radio flared up now and then, but she could not make out the words, only that the transmission came from multiple directions. Beyond the hallway a great many ponies had gathered to play cards and discuss the Country Circle. She approached carefully, about halfway towards them, listening to their serious talk only to discover they were not discussing the Circle at all, for what need had there been to discuss such a thing directly? Either somepony would know about it, and words were but a paltry companion to their experience, or they in fact did not know and had strayed into the lodge by accident. For the latter, no words would suffice: they would simply be unable to understand.
‘I can see what you’re saying, though,’ one of the voices went on, ‘these distractions take away from the fight more than they add to it. Do we really need to hear the same catchphrases over and over again for us to know something is objectively awe-inducing? I mean, most of us would agree the best moments in a fight have always been the ones so impressive that everypony just automatically shuts the fuck up. That is awe.’
As Foretrekker, he possessed the voice of a drifting, patient cloud, pre-ordained to be pregnant only with a sparse tinkle; a quality ever bequeathed by successor to successor. But though it would take considerable evil to turn his sentiment, wisdom steered one well clear from his anger. Worse even than this chimerical fury, however, was even the mere thought of disappointing him.
A weary disappointment it was to him, yet still his words soothed her ears. ‘It keeps happening, too,’ the Foretrekker lamented, ‘he would open his mouth and poof! gone’s that big fight feel, or really any feel.’
Another voice piped in over the din of the shambly radio broadcast and their companion voices. It was harsh and rugged, as though its owner had a can of nails in his mouth and did not care one bit about it. ‘It’s worse than that,’ he declared, ‘way worse. What was it he said last week? “Just ripped,” he said first of all. I don’t know how often he repeated that he’s “just ripped”, but you know how it goes. Then he said, “You can’t make it in this industry looking just ripped but this guy be looking rocks and sticks ripped, the whole package.” What the fuck does that even mean?’
‘Did ya hear what he said? What was it...’
She could hear the laughter that propelled from them, but she could not hear the quote itself as the radio had leapt up at that very moment, clouding the lodge with black static. She suspected somepony had their hoof on the volume knob and could not resist dialling it back and forth over the course of the conversation.
‘And the rest of the booth just fall over themselves to try and patch that up. I forgot what happened in the fight. Who was it that said... shoot! I forgot...’
The voices had quieted and Whisper advanced even further, following the hallway into the communal chamber only to find it was merely another corridor with a little deck chair pushed into the corner. It was all right by her: she was tired enough to sit on a chair, uncomfortable seating though it looked. The sharp voice returned: ‘You’re talking about Iron Mic? Yep. He put it like, “At best he’s hilariously bad, at worst he’s like white noise; sputtering at inconvenient times.” Right on the money.’
‘On the money,’ the Foretrekker agreed. Was that what was on the radio then? The radio must have been in the communal chamber further inside the lodge, and that was why she could not fully hear the fight. Putting her ear to the logs, she listened carefully. Slowly it rose over the murmur, so briefly she could hear the faint traction of hooves on canvas, but then it died down again. But ah... one of the chattering constants in the din was not in fact a pony inside the Lodge, but rather a commentator for the fight featured on the radio, and it was this excited little voice that peaked so considerably that it became somehow impossible to hear anything else from the broadcast when it spoke. It was fast and brash and repeating, hammerlike in its crude power. The commentary itself, however, was nothing she could make out: she only heard enough to know that it was there, worming away in her ear.
It was all so far away, this other cosmos, or was it she herself that floated above the lodge, and only inside its wooden prison did the ponies hear, see, and smell what the fuss was all about? She floated starlike, tethered only to the distant radio waves that receded through the cold vacuum of space. It was warmer than she had expected up there.
Whisper woke smacking her lips, the taste of yesterday’s fruit syrupy and chewy in her mouth. Thin beams of light broke the foliage and sweatened her neck: it was morning. Standing up she jerked her frame, shoulders aching from her poor posture. But sure enough, there between the trees she could see parts of the smooth black rock. From where she stood it reminded her of some wave breaker she had seen once, looking down on some coast somewhere, only here she looked straight ahead and the dark stone climbed towards the highest treetops.
Although she could see her destination clearly enough, still the terrain was thick and rife with caterpillars and spiders, and it took her at least half an hour before she reached the crag. She found it no fun at all pulling up her hooves for each step and so negotiating herself across, and when at last she had made it through she sat down on one of the lower stone edges tired and irritated.
Her back to the cliff side, she knew that behind her lay the smartest route across the river, and there’d be ample opportunity to drink from it along the way. Still, with these several routes available she considered carefully the possibility of a party some way still ahead of her. The way she had come at least had been to her instincts undisturbed by other hikers, but it was true that the river could well have been approached from the southern path and she would have been altogether unaware of their advance. That way however was not a recommended route, the land boggish and duplicitous and likely to cost a party considerable time and stamina. No, it was more likely that she was leading the Circle, and would continue to do so until she crossed the finish line.
She climbed the surface easily enough, her hooves darting from stone to stone. The free air above instilled in her the feeling of escaping some dark tunnel, and reaching the little plateau above, she enjoyed a good clearing’s worth of unobstructed view, the surrounding pine trees for now at least keeping a respectable distance. A violet moss dared grow between the cracks of the black stone, and Whisper also spotted a skittish squirrel leap down out of sight. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and began the descent on the other side, the rock surface creating a natural path between both sides of encroaching trees as it sloped down at an awkward angle. This way forward soon became darker than even the shaded path of the day before, its many branches entwining overhead. Taking this decline, Whisper had to watch carefully that each black stone she thought to burden was not instead some treacherous gap on the path. Many a time she would steady herself by a neighbouring branch and could glimpse briefly some jagged drop between stone and brambles. She would then take a deep breath and look to the next likely hoofstep.
It was perilous going but at last the earth drew level again with the stony path, and Whisper returned to a healthy rhythm of comfortable steps. She felt refreshed again. The only thing that nagged on her was the absence of river sounds below, but then she had not walked this exact way in a long time, and it could well be that soon she would reach the river.
Gradually the slick path gave way for gaps and loose rocks again, obliging Whisper once more to test every step before committing to it. The coniferous tunnel opened up to the first of many bridges, carried by tout rope and sure-looking boards. Before she crossed it, she craned her neck over the edge and looked down. Massive black tendrils burrowed into the gully below and there was not a sight of water to be found. It’s been a very dry summer, she thought, so perhaps I won’t see much of the river after all.
There were several leaps Whisper had to negotiate on the other end of the bridge - the renewed path had cast down many of its first stones - but thereupon she became aware of a shift in the greens around her: ferns fanned out lush and hale, and the pines were joined by a number of willows. So there was water then, but simply less of it; not enough of it to make much sound as it flowed. It could not be long.
She soon reached another day two checkpoint, where the stony path evolved into a white semi-circle of finer gravel. Dirt speckled the crumbly remains it enclosed. Doubtless the resting spot came from a time when the area was used as a park of sorts, before it was reclaimed by the forest. Perhaps a precursor to a gazebo? There was no longer a roof, but she could imagine sitting here, admiring the sky above.
She cursed herself now for not getting any of the supplies at the shop. True, she had no bits on her, but surely the mare at the shop would have accepted some other form of payment she could readily accommodate. And though she would not have juices and oats then, even a piece of the crusty apple cake on display would have served her well. It did look the part of something rich and nourishing, and she had no need anymore to watch for excess baking salts and sugars. In all, it would have made for a very satisfying and pleasant respite.
Remembering a nearby cave she slid round the back of the ruin and descended among a thinning line of pines. The cave, she knew, not only lay near the source of the river but in itself would prove an insightful glimpse into the lives of the ponies that had lived here once. Sure enough, its sunken rock bed crept out from under the sloping hill, betraying right away the roof of the cave mouth. Fruitlessly she looked for some trace of the river, but then she had not yet searched thoroughly. Spore pods surrounded the entrance and perhaps it was this that made the cave smell even more musty and ancient.
She took several steps inside the dark tunnel and stopped, peering into the black. Catching no smell or sound of laired animals she went deeper into the cave, looking back to see the bright ball of light that lead outside, already a considerable distance away. The floor crept in a gentle decline, slow but surely digging beneath the forest floor. Stalagmites and stalactites multiplied but still there was no sign of some long ago pony inhabitants. She wondered if she had entered a different cave, or even if her memories were mistaken and these rotten benches and smudgy tar wall paintings that she recalled lay instead in some other deep place underground, be they dungeon or masonry cavern.
Despite this disappointment, still she would readily have explored deeper inside the cave’s recesses were it not for the pools of water she came across. Still and cloudy, she knew them as a portent of misgiving; something to do with the air in the cave that suggested it was not safe to breathe much further down, and certainly not to drink the water itself.
Retracing her steps and making it back up around the little stone ruin she quickly made out the path eastward. Still she did not fully believe she had been mistaken regarding the cave, especially as she had such strong associations between the underground remnants she remembered and the checkpoint. She decided that if the white stone and gravel was part of a park once, its rulers would surely have used the cave as a shelter in times of war, and it would not make much sense then not to find some additional use for it.
She began her march east and soon forgot about these observations. Several times she stopped to regain her bearing, as much like before the dirt path she had joined did not squirm through the forest uninterrupted. She knew she would require some water eventually, despite her excellent pace and so far seamless journey. Indeed she felt stronger than ever before and did not truly worry the absence of proper supplies in itself. Rather, she had grown accustomed to treating these facets as part of the larger Country Circle experience and as such was compelled to treat them with due respect.
It was early to think of this - it being but halfway through the second day of the Circle - but she could not help but imagine for a tidy moment her arrival at the finish line. It would be evening by that time, and the many coloured lanterns would be arranged like a wall, marking the way to the lodge. It was true that there would be less ponies there to welcome the walkers than she would have expected to find the previous time she walked the Circle, but still there would be a cosy enough gathering. Songs would trumpet will and merriment, several young foals would lie sleepy but nonetheless kept their eyes open to celebrate the occasion. Almost she could smell the smoky fragrance of lemon incense. Whisper decided it would be a glorious showing.
Now she arrived upon the more open terrain, where bygone swamp land had been claimed gradually by firmer soil, and already Whisper could glimpse the sloping fields of verdant green. It was an opportunity to breathe the fairest air in all of the Everfree Forest, and each breath she took in the gently rolling breeze eased her mood and cleared her head.
After such a hike the likes of which she had already completed, the trees beyond the fields looked close-by, yet she knew they would take three quarter hours’ worth to reach. Considering the time of day - or at least its brightness - she had expected some animals bold enough to graze or elsewise prowl these slopes, but it was not so on this occasion. It was a situation Whisper described to herself as haunting; the ground hardly lay barren, nor was it fickle or foul. Still, for Whisper at least, the grass was a welcome cool mush underhoof, for despite the fierce summer the stems remained damp and voluminous.
Steadying her eyes on the line of trees where the path began anew, Whisper thought of the night to come. Some way beyond these trees she knew there to be several adjoined oaks that offered ample shelter. Shelter then was no cause for concern, but by this point she had long passed the rivers. She would have to hold out to well into the third day for another chance to drink her fill. She made a mental note then to be on the lookout for fruit, familiar or otherwise, and to carry as much of it with her as she could find, and afterwards eating any more she would come across that her pouch could no longer hold.
Halfway across the fields Whisper suddenly stopped. She did not know why she did so; only that she ought to. Along the bright grass she probed, and did she see some creature there at last? She shielded her eyes and it was a pony of some sort that stood not so far from the trees, poised with the single raised hoof as she met her gaze boldly. Neither advanced nor turned from the other and for a while they were locked together, as though their stare it was that froze one another. Whisper thought to herself, She must be living somewhere in the forest, with her odd stripes and jewels, and she must call it home.
She did not seem to Whisper so young as to be a new arrival, rather looking the part of somepony who knew well the hidden roads of the forest, as well as a great many of its other secrets. It was an odd thought that came to her then, staring at the striped pony as she did onto her, and it was as though her coming here that had made this mare appear on the fields. At last she lowered her hoof, neither too fast nor too slow, and instantly the odd pony darted into the woods. It was hard to shake the trance brought on by the pony’s peculiar bearing and for a moment she stayed where she was. More prospects came to her, progressively more unsettling. What would one have to do to live in so dangerous a land? What would drive one to choose such a fate? And how, how would they be after twenty, or even forty years among Timberwolves and serpents? No, she whispered to herself, maybe this creature did appear by my passage here, and it was me that awakened it from some dark slumber, deep within the forest’s furthest reaches.
Whisper turned her head and could no longer see between the foliage the green shimmer of the field. Maybe it was coming across the black and white pony that every so often made Whisper look over her shoulder: despite there not having been so much as a rustle, each time she fully expected to meet a fellow walker that had sneaked up behind her. Wasn’t it only just the last time that she had walked the Circle that she met somepony in just such a manner; turning her head to find somepony had emerged from the underbrush? It must have been.
She tried to push on in such a way even as the light of day had turned a tenebrous blue, and the canopy above was persistent and thorough. The way forward then, and indeed the entirety of the woods that surrounded her, ever darkened to her wearied eyes. What would she say now, if she did chance upon somepony in need of her assistance? This was what she asked herself, and nothing much of value came to her.
There was a camp that needed making and yet Whisper delayed her business as though she were waiting for a guest to show up, ambling along the narrow path for a few paces only to stop again and look around herself slowly, turning her head sideways and swinging round. But there appeared no guest, and only time had passed.
There was no longer much point in keeping her eyes open. She stretched her wings and jerked herself forward awkwardly. More aggravated than exhausted it felt to her, and she pushed her back against the gnarled roots of what could well have been a great oak. Firm and close, the deafened tout skin and bone and bark of the Everfree Forest.
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She remained on the trail, and she was fairly sure that by now she had crossed over half of the forest. It was her unbroken trot that kept her warm: the night before especially had been considerably colder, so that all through the morning Whisper shivered cold sweat. Had she already completed three full days? It should not surprise her to even think it, for as an experienced hiker - and particularly one so confident of the terrain as she - it would naturally be an easy task to breeze through the first days of the Circle. Onward she marched, holding close to her these assurances.
Although Whisper would tell herself her strides were powerful and consistent, she could not deny she had become increasingly uncomfortable ever since the trail had twisted deep into the forest a day or two before. She pictured then the railroad well beyond even its outermost southern reaches, but she could not imagine what it would be like to dash out onto the plains. It would be some fierce woodland beast she would meet there, and surely not a train speeding over the metal framework. No, she could not imagine anything out there at all.
When she stopped to rest, as she had forced herself to now more regularly, she calculated how she would still make her checkpoint easily enough in spite of these frequent breaks. It was after all a journey inexperienced hikers could complete as well, be they at least disciplined in their pursuit and humble enough to accept assistance where it was needed. But though she did not contest this, still every time she caught her breath in such a way she felt a nerve pressing against the back of her right hind leg, crushing her heel and upwards. It was as though somepony had stepped on her, or continued to stomp even as she put her weight on it. I need to keep going, she thought to herself, so it’ll get used to the pressure.
But though this was a prudent course of action for avoiding an injury in the short-term, she could not so easily neglect the rest of her body. After all, if she would not force any rest at all she could well collapse in fatigue, far from the nearest source of water. This was the balance she preserved.
Right beside the trail there hung several rosehips, ripe and overripe alike. They sagged over the path invitingly, but although the path was very narrow still the flowers had not managed to cross to the other side. On her left fernlike leaves guarded the perimeter, blossoming into forbidding thorns as glistening blue petals sprung sure with poison.
Vitamins, she reminded herself. It was a tasteless fruit and chewing it did not give her much idea of gaining strength or staving off hunger; it was more a tedious distraction to her, though this task too she assigned herself. She had to be diligent to complete the Country Circle, and regardless of the stinging ache in her leg, she could not waste any opportunity.
Now and then a small woodland creature startled her, and she spun round fully expecting to find another hiker on the Circle or even an emerging party of several ponies. She read in her mind several directions she would give them if they chose to complete the Circle, and for a while she considered which of them suited her best. But what if they’re not walking the Country Circle, she asked herself then, and instead hike some alternative path? With some shock she realised that she herself might have been treading some other such path, and this was why she had so far not encountered anypony else besides the curious striped mare on the field.
In order to satisfy her doubts she abandoned for the moment the path and beat outward, knowing that the outermost path would almost certainly be that of the Country Circle. However, not finding any other path on her way, it occurred to her that the path she had come from had at that point winded inward, and so she might in fact in her confusion have gone in another direction entirely. She beat her way back with some difficulty then and crossed the path to the opposite side. Her restlessness annoyed her, yet with a snarl she remained determined and reminded herself she would soon resume her route again. But her doubts were not so easily satisfied, and the second path she came across could as easily have been the very same one she had come from, be it some point she had left or another that curved back alongside it in its twisting trail. Hours must have passed in making sure her route was correct, and every time she stopped to verify her bearing her leg whined that it was tormented by somepony with a vicious chisel. Once she even cast wary eyes all around, realising too late that the rustling that had drawn her attention came from her own hooves. In the end she lost track of exactly what part of her location she had intended to verify, or rule out entirely.
The stars were deceptive that night, and she was forced to make camp where she found herself then, forgetting for the moment the task of finding any path. Luckily there was the small patch where a trunk had fallen, toppling two neighbouring trees as it was struck down by lightning. That way at least was how Whisper determined it had been, though under the cagey light she could not be certain. Her body complained at her sinking to her haunches, yet through this scolding she was no longer bothered by the uncertainty of her surroundings. She decided it looked like something of a clearing, elliptic like a chamber, where the collapsed trees took the part of a vast dining table.
She reposed to the throb of her legs, injured or inflamed, and the heaving of her chest. It was a big drum to her, like the beat of a parade. Empty plates would litter the forest floor, like these pebbles she was sure were near. It was a big picnic with oblong flags hung from the branches overhead, and the candles that decked the vast table did not need to be lit for the crowd to see what was in front of them: it was a luminous festival, and everypony had brought their own lamps and candles, torches and boxed tapers.
The music grew in volume and the flutes were as whistling birds, whereas the percussion flew in as the wind itself, swift and often to arrive and again abrupt in its departure every occasion. Of course everypony was merry, speaking in whiskers and clapping freely under the jovial glow of sight and sound. It was difficult to make conversation down where she sat, but she enjoyed being at something of a distance: it gave her the opportunity to see all that happened, and she did not feel outcast. Still one of them had sneaked away from her group for just a moment and skipped her way. Her name escaped her for the moment, but she was sure it was something short and punchy. She was after all a short and punchy sort of pony, her streaks of black and pink punctuating everything that was already immediate about her. ‘Say, you there,’ she called as she shuffled near, ‘have you seen Ghostercoaster before today? They’re touring all over Equestria these days.’
There was a foreign sound to it, but she could not fathom its origin. A tentative nod meant the story could continue: ‘But it’s right here where they made their first performance outside of the drummer’s basement,’ the pony explained. ‘Not gonna yap your ears off about that, but I just thought I’d tell you so you know, and if you don’t want to step over to see them, at least you’ll have a better idea of what you’re missing.’
She laughed smugly and darted back to the table, her little hooflight swinging to and fro. Without looking back she shouted, ‘Your decision!’
So she knew the name of the musicians then, but she did not feel this had changed much of anything. Actually, it was impossible for her to imagine the tones that drifted her way had been planned at all, or even performed before their current conception. They existed only now, and that was why their patterns were so impossible to comprehend, and also it would mean they were not so much foreign as they were wholly alien.
It was her own fault for keeping to the side that allowed her to miss the feast itself, and the few ponies that still lingered around the table talked to one another as though they simply saw no need to move away from where they were when they did have their picnic. No matter the empty plates: if by the time the music had long ceased and the festival was over and done with there had still been nopony to collect them, wild animals would soon come to clean them out.
In the next forest room a tidy crowd had gathered, walled by two full wagon trailers with oil lamps fixed to their panels. They were circled round two big stallions she could see now locked together in a test of holds. I wonder why there are tables here, she thought to herself, if everypony chooses to stand up.
Indeed the room had caved in its centre and, subtle though it was, it allowed the ponies in the back to look down over their companions’ heads before them and see well enough the spectacle below. To her eyes it appeared as though so contested was the grasp the competitors shared that they had dug themselves a crater out of sheer strength and power.
On the neatest of the tables stood the prizes that awaited the competitors, and both the golden goblets were shaped like pineapples, though it could be that the prize that awaited the winner was slightly bigger than that earned by the runner-up. It were these treasures that brought back to her something she had been told long ago that she had to admit in all honesty she did not understand. ‘Re-enacting great battles,’ her friend the black and pink girl had explained, ‘have been a time-honoured transformative art, and they had to change for us to keep up with their memory.’ It was curious, but though she held great interest in these ‘battles’, she did not see in them any trace of what had come before.
The crowd cheered and jeered, changing direction like a swaying sail that billowed from one side to the other. One competitor wore black bands around his chest, accenting fiercely his periwinkle coat, and it was he who had three hooves crabbed around the others’ waist, though he for the moment still drew breath easily enough. It was a pivotal moment in the contest, and the tension palpable in the room all hinged on whether or not Violet Violence could transition fully into a Constrictor Strangle.
She had intended to watch closely if perhaps the weakened Sunbeam Jnr could still find the means to shift his weight from his own hind leg instead against his opponents’ shoulders and so force him to break the hold altogether, but even as this test of guile and strength was contested it dawned on her that on the table to her side were not only the golden cups, but also sat one of her most reviled enemies: the lord of the ludicrous and simultaneous pain poet Storm Brat himself.
She had never liked Storm Brat, for he was ever too boisterous for his limited accomplishments to warrant, and now he had arrived to make a mockery of this contest as well. As expected, he commented on each and every exchange that could only have come before. It must have. With exaggerated tenor, he bellowed, ‘Cry for bleeding mercy! That merciless A-class class-apart Violet, why, he’s riding and driving those patented violent shins like a tootsie roll! But what’s this? It’s Sunbeam! He’s packing meteorites in his hooves! He can’t just lift him up and transition into a Solar Powerbomb! He can’t! He’s got him spinning to the mat and... boom!’ Even his posture, so laid back and yet so animated, inspired in her a distrust and loathing the likes she had never felt before. ‘It’s unbe-can-you-believe-it-able! What’s the champ gotta do to put this stallion away?’
An intense, rolling wave of fiery emotion overtook her again, grinding teeth and clenching hooves irrepressibly. She needed to lash out but it was dark and lonely and her moment had passed; gone was her chance to slash neck, bash brain, club bloody tendon and bruise, bruise, bruise splintered skull and ego. She wheezed and dulled her mind to the sensation, pretending she had not been there herself.
The moon was little more than a waning, fearful disc. The match must have been concluded some time ago, she decided. There was no more music, and the clinking of glasses that she heard must have been empty. She thought of them as the score of a closing tavern. Elated murmurs slid out of hearing, yet still she waited for who she had expected to show. It was not that she particularly wanted to, but there was a job to be done and she was not one to quit now. After all, how would she ever complete the Country Circle ever again if she decided that it was all well and good, but that she had by now seen and done enough; if she had decided that there was nothing more to be asked of her now.
Only the campfires of the festivals’ organisers glowed now. Still some paces away from where she waited, their orangey flickers whisked up the night air with pleasant snaps of the brittle wood. Storm Brat did not feel he had to announce his arrival in any one specific way, such was their arrangement. This too she hated, for it had contrived it so that she even hated herself for this. By the time his figure finally slipped out of the darkness she was ready to do just about anything.
Tacitly he indicated some way further back, and they cantered for a moment to where they could see the beginnings of a path. Had they truly crossed the river then, just a day before? It was hard to tell now, but she was positive at least that this was the trail of the Country Circle. ‘Help me out here with this,’ Storm Brat called in his speaking voice, and she could now see that he had been dragging a long signpost over his shoulder. She had not expected him to be able to so comfortably lug such a hefty object, and this too irritated her: she did not like to be surprised by those she loathed, and on this occasion even this one physical feat was loud and sardonic.
And so they held the signpost and dragged it over the underbrush where she felt the sting of ivy and nettle alike. ‘Let’s toss it to the side here, lengthwise,’ Storm Brat commanded, and already he began to swing back and forth so that she had no choice but to follow the motion, or else drop the heavy post entirely. ‘One, two, three,’ and away it went, landing with only the dullest of thuds. Swallowed by the green and deep earth.
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Whisper came to her senses to the not so distant cry of a bird of prey. She winced. Morning, but just barely, she decided. She had not been where she thought she was. Evidently she had cantered past the little clearing with the slumped tree trunks, but she could not see any path now or even tell with any degree of certainty the way she had come from. She was glad to be on her hooves at least, trudging the way she faced and able to watch her step.
As she could not find on herself her blanket she had slept uneasy, a storm picking up to susurrate again and again. It was as though somepony would poke her repeatedly, and yet there was no reason to awaken and confront them. There were only a few drops of the rain that had made it below, though nonetheless it was a long night bereft of any comfort or indeed any sleep deep and meaningful.
But had it truly been rain or was this another night before that came to her now? In the restless dawn it did not seem to Whisper that any sort of dampness hung from the leaves, and the soil under her hooves felt to her again without any give to speak of. She must have imagined it then in her near sleep, much as she could well have dreamed up the striped pony on the fields before; the one that to her memory already appeared as a black shape blinded by the fierce light of the sun behind her, and indeed not unquestionably even a pony in the first place.
She knew hiking long distances in the manner of the Country Circle was queer that way, and often one would keep going even when they stood absolutely still, or conversely, tread forward thinking themselves entirely unconscious. Even the sense of being itself was servant to the higher goal, and the higher goal itself was second again to the trod of her hooves.
She paid no more special heed to her leg now: it had merged with the rest of her limbs, muscles, and bones, many of whom she had forgotten were hers. Before long, and indeed longer ago already than she could readily dredge up, she had neglected each separate ache. Chugged and quaffed and gulped and devoured they all were, ingested to burn again as one.
The earth itself here was mulchy and unsure of its own integrity. It must have been this way for a long time. Proceeding carefully, she could only hope it would lead her towards one of the fifth day’s checkpoints. She dared not hope it to be either of the final two; dared not think long of the lumberjacks’ range or the disgruntled wolves they had once dared to keep; the residue of wizards’ tricks and even betrayed flowers or toppled dreams themselves, all lodged in stone. She banished these places from her mind: to her they had no right yet to exist. But perhaps, and only maybe, she would soon reach the lake where the blackbirds tapped the water with their pronged beaks and launched out into the air like astronauts. That would prove a sight to behold! It would make it an easy task to complete the Country Circle on the fifth day as she had set out to. One more step, reminded the familiar refrain, always one more step.
To Whisper’s absent mind returned the pony she had chanced upon the previous time she walked the Circle. She came back to her unbidden, too absorbed by her stride to think of anything else. She had turned her head at some sound or smell to see the pony clambering out from the foliage, but now she could no longer remember her face. Did she accept her guidance in the end? In place of an answer she thought only of her malnourished gait, dragging and jerking, lost and mad and yet to her memory still but a wispy visage. What other cause but madness could there be that made one refuse the path so readily? And why else be so repelled by her help? Whisper shook her head as she pushed on, for again and again she had at that time given directions to the lodge, only to be met on each occasion with stubborn vows that said she could tread where she would and there had not yet been born one that could stop her. She had not a care in the world.
Even as she pushed on in her pained trance she knew well enough that through all the years of the Circle there were plenty that endangered themselves on the trail alone, overestimating their ability as they rambled and ever ignored the experience within the Lodge. They did not honour the pain and sacrifice that came with the trail; they did not prove themselves ready for the Country Circle, and most certainly and most important of all, they were unworthy of it.
She had not thought much of other sights within the forest itself: she had not allowed it. Had she intended to expand her walk, she would have likely broken some unsung rule of the Country Circle, and she did not trust herself not to stray from her routes even for just one such a sight, such as the other side of the birds’ lake or the old diamond clefts deeper in the forest. Then she would linger and forget the time of day as well as the path she had previously walked on, and this she knew would only be the beginning.
No, lost or not, still Whisper spun distances, hobbling and shuffling as she added and subtracted in her head. She figured that in actuality she could well be half a day behind schedule. If this was even the least bit true, it would prove very difficult to complete the Country Circle in time. Her consolation would be that if it turned out she did finish late, at least she could say to herself that she finished not so far behind. And what of it if it turned out worse than that? She would remind herself that she finished at all.
It occurred to her then to turn right and dash out of the Everfree Forest entirely, rushing towards the Rambling Mountains without regard for what lay in between. And now she could picture indeed the formidable mountain range, if but for a moment. Its precipitous stone beige under the sun as the pass teemed with antlike soldiers, marching in quadruple file, shining armour and feathered spears in hoof.
She shook her head and even this simple instinctive act was strenuous. The mountains had gone. As soon as she thought of this distance in itself, it became obvious that to betray the Country Circle only to end up hiking almost as great a distance in the end was senseless folly of the worst kind. Onward she plodded, applying herself again to this singular purpose. Eyes on the ground and one step at a time, she told herself, and this time you will not beat me.
Was it hunger that made her stark in her stride? She asked herself these things as she was accustomed to, but she was hardly shocked to remember that she had not had a proper sip of water for days. Three, four, five days. That ought to be a record, she decided, and it ought to mean something for the Country Circle. The lodge would swell with sympathy for just about anything at all remarkable, even if it was but the matter of a broken leg or the carrying a small foal on one’s back that made one finish late or not at all. And were their laughs untrue or their compliments false? Was it not the Foretrekker himself who had said always that the point of the Country Circle was not to finish exactly on time, as fast or as well as was equinely possible? And he said that it lay rather in the spirit of committing one’s thoughts to the Circle and the Circle alone; to focus one’s entire self far away from other concerns. Maybe there was more wisdom to it than could be understood at the time.
No further hunting cries; it was all whistles now, and Whisper could not keep apart the different refrains, atonal, shrill, or otherwise. It would be afternoon then, though even under the light that trickled through the canopy she felt cold and brittle. She did not like to think of her bones, knotted together and linking her insides, but as her aching flesh rode against them with each laboured breath, she could not escape the thought of them. She would have to keep a solid pace in spite of the trapping soil, committed to this straight line she was on. Before dusk she needed to reach at least some point of recognisance.
Bland though it was, she finished the rosehip that remained in her pouch and, thanks to the strength she imagined bestowed by it, she ascended the sloping hill she approached presently. It was quite possible of course that upon reaching the top she would see little there of note, but even if she would see only yet another hill to climb at the end of the gully, at least this would give her another obstacle to aim towards. Where will I tell them to go then, she thought suddenly, if I come across somepony unsure of which way to head? At least I won’t be alone then.
But she did climb the hill alone and she felt under the earth the strictness of stone, where the sun harshened it and yet more light penetrated the forest. She thought its glare foreboding, and when she held her hoof to her eye she had not expected to see much to brighten her mood. Yet even such a small thing, could it make such a difference? Just below her she glimpsed the remains of the old lumberjack hut, nestled deep within the surrounding trees. Webbed and ragged though it lay; practically cocooned under the rapacious ivy and fern, still it was for Whisper unmistakable. She could not believe her fortune; could not believe that she had been mistaken so enormously. Some way, somehow, she had in the days past cut through the heart of the Country Circle; torn through it like an unarmoured impact at a joust. To think it! she thought, stupefied, in less than an hour I’ll have completed it.
She double-checked the adjacent path to make sure she would not go the wrong way back, but already she could sense the path winding round the rocky hill beside her, beating its C-shape towards the village. It was dismal terrain to traverse, the undergrowth unruly and bold, but she did not feel it. Knowing her destination to be so readily at hoof she could have trekked on for another full day and not mind it one bit. Still, she could not deny that there had been an unusual challenge in this Country Circle she had walked and so nearly completed now, though she could not articulate to herself quite what it was. It was important to her that it was its own Circle, and not merely a repeat of the one that came before.
Rounding the bend she could see the rooftops below, sooner even than she had expected to. Dreamily, she reckoned these songs around sung by town's birds, and the rabbits and squirrels that bounded across did so not as true denizens of the Everfree Forest. These were those that were well accustomed to ponies, although perhaps they did not anticipate them on these forest roads. So solitary had this walk been that she was glad of the sound of ponies’ talk not far from the forest’s threshold. This would be the finish line then, she thought wryly as she met an insignificant grey boulder, lodged halfway up the hill with nary a tree around for company, and she turned right, skidding down the village road in a full gallop.
It was only a short trot across the town that she envisioned for herself - again she was dumbfounded by how much bigger it was than she had remembered it to be - but she could not find the lodge. Maybe it was that she did not try nearly as hard as she ought to have, or maybe it was that she was grasped so suddenly by the sight of the blue pony she had met before that any more thought of the lodge flew from her mind. Animated in some jubilant discussion, the pony cantered the cobbled street alongside her friend, who’s near-complete pastel rainbow mane complemented the two colourful streaks already present on her own head.
‘Pagotó!’ she called shrilly, running up the street in pursuit. It was only a short sprint, yet her heart threatened to pound through her chest and each breath she drew was thick and raspy. Sure enough, the pair turned their heads and Whisper was glad she had not been mistaken: it was indeed the pony she had met previously.
‘Oh, it’s you, isn’t it? Of course it’s you!’ The mare before her looked more tattered than she had been that afternoon a week before, and did she near-tremble in the way some ponies did after guzzling one too many espressos? But there had been nothing but gladness in her voice: for Pagotó many ponies she met were like penpals she had written to once but never got to see. Her next letter then would beg to ask how it came to be that her leg looked so poor, but even for her this would be impossibly tactless to post. And so she tried to think of something more that she could say to her in its stead.
Her friend too radiated uncertainty and she did not know even where to keep her eyes. For the moment they landed on the other side of the window beside them, where shovels and rakes were displayed in dubious discounts.
‘That’s right,’ Whisper answered slowly. Mushy fruit dribbled out of her mouth and she spitted but could not find the spit to spit with. She swallowed and tried once more. ‘You are not mistaken. I met you not so long ago, on the other side of the village.’
Pagotó nodded and then elbowed her friend. She had never liked it when she got bored and stared zombie-like, but she knew she could not blame her. She said, as much to her friend as to this extra pony, ‘Why don’t you join us? We’re seeing a movie and--’
‘We’re not seeing a movie, Pag, we’re picking up Coco from the guest house an’ we’re gonna play cards...’
‘Pay no attention to Toola Roola, she’s just surly cause she wants to hoard me all to herself. And Coco of course--’
‘I’m not surly!’
‘A movie or cards, does it matter really?’ She chuckled and again elbowed her friend’s side, though it was easy to tell they were only kidding. To Whisper she said, ‘Like to come with? Oh, and we could get a drink first, of course! You look like you need it.’
She closed her eyes and for just a moment the many ponies of Ponyville were as cheerful, unified song in the Lodge, where bravado ever overflowed and spilled onto the streets and the land itself. The cider tap tapped from barrel and apple fermented to content of heart and yes, yes it would have continued to, if only it could.
‘It does sound... engaging,’ Whisper admitted when she opened her eyes, but she knew that she would be odd company to the pair of them. Indeed, perhaps in pretending to herself to head down to the lodge, she might have taken her up on her offer, but this she could do only if Pagotó had been by herself. Another time then, she thought wistfully. ‘But right now I intend to go up to the old bell tower I have heard about.’
‘That’s not a bad choice,’ Pagotó agreed, and if she had been disappointed or relieved, she was careful not to let it show.
‘Well, a good day to you then,’ Toola Roola said off-hoof, putting her hoof back down on the cobbled road and turning to go.
Pagotó turned also, albeit only halfway. On her face was written a niggling doubt, but still she attempted an honest smile. Maybe it was that she had indeed wished for Whisper to join them on to their games or movies, but Whisper could not be certain. At last Pagotó followed after her friend, and she said, ‘Yes, goodbye, you!’
‘I will go to the tower then,’ Whisper called softly, ‘and you will go to your theatre,’ and she watched them stroll for a moment their merry canter.
The old bell tower housed several dust-coated paintings and statues, but these were stacked and disposed seemingly at random. Like stray barnyard tools she thought them, incidental sister to the weakly looking helmets and shields that littered the little niche near the building’s sole, grimy window. It was a sorry sight, Whisper admitted, and she scrutinised the rotting stucco ceiling and the crumbling walls wholly displeased and pitying.
It may have been an old, quirky tower, but at least the staircase felt natural as such a staircase should. Indeed, the polished incline of each step in itself betrayed obvious devotion. Perhaps it was then that the ground floor had once served as but a shelter for refuse, or as a paltry bolthole as she was told it had been, but this tall staircase was hers now, and this staircase she would climb, stubborn leg or not.
The tower’s little balcony hung snug just below the bell, and the warm breeze touched Whisper both from the air around her as well as it did from the attic. She leaned over the balustrade and regarded well the distance, gazing past the lines of treetops and further still towards the black tips of two of the castle’s tallest towers. For a while she admired the scene from this vantage point, and she felt it important that she could see the forest under the full light of day and with the sounds of the town below her.
A dog barked and an old stallion yelled some obscene reprimand. The clanging of a garbage can or maybe some steel plate dropped on the pavement, so close to the edge of the woods.
It did look impressive, she decided, but she also knew that it was about time now for her to go. She found she was not weak or even exhausted, though her hooves still gnawed the bone and her neck throbbed dully. Calmly she trotted down the staircase and on towards the Everfree Forest.
'I did it,' she said aloud, and began the long walk home.
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