The door handle. It was a plain old thing no one thought about. Look at it, scratched and dirty from usage – Featherweight used it every day. But he was struggling to use it now, and although that sounded strange, it really wasn’t – not for him, anyway. This was routine. He was being stupid was the consensus. No one said it, but Featherweight could tell they thought so – his mum, his dad, his counsellor. Just do it, they would tell him now. He raised a hoof.
But he couldn’t bring himself to. What if it had rusted on the back and he picked up a scratch? What if that then became infected? What if someone had smeared the handle with poison while he’d slept? He knew no one was trying to kill him, but – well, he didn’t know. Yes, he was unimportant in the grand scheme of things, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t a potential victim. Ponies died all the time because they assumed they were safe from their fellow citizens when, in fact, they weren’t. And when they weren’t being murdered, they were having accidents – most of them self-inflicted due to a combination of lack of vigilance and clumsiness. Pebbledash, for example, didn’t think twice before kicking a safe he couldn’t open – he died from a hoof infection. And no matter the circumstances, Hilda always wore her long scarf – she broke her neck when it caught on the wheel of a cart in which she was a passenger. The world was jam-packed with dangers, and if you wanted to stay alive, you had to treat everything as such. For anything could be dangerous, and if you recognised that and took the appropriate measures, you’d survive.
But surely, there was a balance. Over the years Featherweight had identified dangers by the thousand, and ninety-nine percent of the time he was wrong about them, which meant he’d spent a significant portion of his life living in fear. Not that that bothered him, but it did his mother. That bothered him. She was the only pony in the world – the only thing, really – he could trust. If she was worried, so was he. If she told him he had a problem, he believed her. If she said he was running away from life, he . . . no, he couldn’t believe that. But it made him uneasy, and it made him wonder whether he exercised extreme caution a step too far. Surely, there was a balance.
Balance? Balance meant risks! Where had he picked up that phrase? It was dangerous! Perhaps there had been more to those one-on-one sessions with Dr Moon than advertised. Brainwashing? He should have been more careful. Featherweight made up his mind on the spot – he was going to wait for someone to open the door. Why had he doubted himself?
No, no – he was panicking. Calm down, he told himself. Just calm down. Balance. There had to be balance. His mother was right. He was running away. He was –
No! Mister Comet – killed by a tennis ball. Sunrise Storm – cremated in her flat. Doubloon – crushed by his cow. Featherweight – found dead by his bedroom door.
He wasn’t being stupid. He wasn’t running away. He was living – he was making sure he lived.
No! Stop it!
‘Mum!’ said Featherweight. ‘I’m having another episode!’
He could hear her hoofsteps. He waited for the door to open, but it didn’t. Instead there was a gentle knock.
‘It’s the handle again, isn’t it?’ said his mother quietly. ‘Featherweight?’
‘Yes, Mum?’
‘This will be difficult, I know, but please listen. The handle is safe, I promise. You must open the door yourself.’
Featherweight gulped and rubbed his sweating forehead. He raised a hoof but once again found he couldn’t continue.
‘I can’t!’ he gasped.
‘Sweetie, I promise it’s safe. You can start your count once you’ve done it.’
Featherweight whimpered. Then, as quickly as he could, he grabbed the handle and pushed down. He kicked the door open with a cry and closed his eyes, fearing the worst.
No rust. No scratch. No poison.
‘One,’ he said, shaking his head clear. ‘I – I did it.’
She embraced him.
‘You see? Safe,’ she said, smiling. ‘I’m proud of you.’
The count. Dr Moon had introduced it as a means of showing Featherweight how often his behaviour was unnecessary. Each time Featherweight suspected something of being dangerous and was proven wrong, he would count. And at the end of each day, he would write down that day’s total of counts. Dr Moon had said it would help. Featherweight hadn’t been so sure at the time, but now he knew it did. The count kept him balanced – or as close to balanced as possible. It served as concrete proof – Featherweight was running away, and it was eating into his life.
He took a deep breath and let it out, then walked downstairs to eat breakfast.
Judging by the uncleared table, his sister had already eaten. She was cleaning her fish tank, which instantly set off alarm bells inside Featherweight’s head.
‘Which bowl did you use?’ he asked.
‘What does it matter?’ said Nancy without turning around.
‘Which bowl?’
‘One I got from the dishwasher.’
Featherweight bit his lip.
‘Did you wash your hooves before handling it?’
‘Yes!’ she said impatiently. ‘Look, just give one a rinse and be done!’
‘I will,’ said Featherweight, walking carefully over to the sink in search of washing up liquid.
A few minutes later he was eating cereal from his own supply, which he kept sealed within sterile bags inside a glass box on the top shelf. He’d washed his spoon and his bowl and dried them with a brand-new towel. He didn’t trust the dishwasher, inside whose plumbing all sorts of filth surely lurked.
‘Shut up,’ he said aloud.
‘Excuse me?’
‘Speaking to myself.’
Why couldn’t he stop worrying? One second, he felt like the most justified pony in Equestria, avoiding its many perils. The next? He was cursing his stupidity. And that was all his life was just now – a seesaw between those two states of mind. It was just –
‘Nancy!’ said Featherweight, freezing. ‘Nancy!’
‘What now?’ said Nancy irritably.
‘Look!’
Featherweight pointed at the floor next to his chair, on which a yellow-shelled snail crawled. He backed away, frightened.
‘Get it away!’ he snapped. ‘It’s poisonous!’
Nancy rolled her eyes.
‘Only if you’re stupid enough to put it in your mouth.’
‘They’re always doing that!’ said Featherweight, sweating once more. ‘Why can’t you k-keep the silly things under control?’
‘They’re trying to find a water source is all. Don’t be so mean.’
‘What’s wrong with their tank?’ said Featherweight, recoiling.
Nancy’s horn glowed. The snail was lifted into the air. Then it fizzed towards the tank but, just before crashing against the glass, stopped. Nancy chuckled and dropped it into the water.
‘I’m getting better, aren’t I?’ she said.
Featherweight did not respond.
Nancy was the paradigmatic example of a child gone right. She was bubbly, confident and talented, with an aptitude for magic so obvious it drew compliments by the dozen. Their parents were so proud of her – she’d finished school with good grades, and now she was waiting to hear back from universities. Featherweight, on the other hand, was a – well, a freak. He knew it. Nancy knew it. They all knew it. He didn’t have the ambition or the courage to pursue anything.
Featherweight frowned. No, that wasn’t true. He was no coward – he was merely prudent. He simply acted with care – with thought. His methods, albeit constraining, were – no, no, they weren’t. Constraining? What was he saying? He acted with purpose! His methods ensured he lived through the moments during which so many others perished! His . . . he . . .
He supressed a sob and buried his face in his hooves. Unfortunately, Nancy noticed.
‘Are you all right?’ she asked.
‘Y-yes. Yes, it’ll pass.’
‘Another episode, eh?’
Nancy drew up a chair and sat down.
‘Come on, big brother,’ she said. ‘Fight hard. Who cares what we think? Do yourself proud.’
Shivering, Featherweight managed to prise himself free of his own grasp. He sighed and tried to hide his face. Nancy was having none of it. She gave him a stiff jab, smiling.
‘Just like that,’ she said. ‘Nice one.’
‘Second time today,’ said Featherweight, grimacing. ‘But there wasn’t even a danger – I’m getting worse.’
‘Ah, now, that’s just being negative.’
‘I thought – realistic, maybe.’
‘Reality is whatever you want it to be,’ said Nancy, grinning. ‘Isn’t that in one of your books?’
Featherweight nodded. Nancy’s grin widened.
‘Negative, then.’
‘Yes,’ conceded Featherweight, and he grinned too. There was a pause.
‘So,’ said Nancy briskly. ‘Do you think Princess Twilight will like my magic?’
Featherweight nodded routinely and said, ‘Of course. Who wouldn’t? We’ve been through this before.’
‘But this time it’s different,’ said Nancy, with the faintest air of I’m-not-telling-you-something.
Featherweight frowned.
‘What’s the catch?’
‘She’s coming. The postie told Mum ten minutes ago.’
‘What?’
‘Princess Twilight’s coming back to Ponyville,’ said Nancy, her eyes sparkling. ‘Isn’t it great? All that time away doing Celestia knows what – she’ll get to feel like a normal pony again.’
‘And you’re going to, what, surprise her with an impromptu magic display?’
Nancy beamed and said, ‘Why not? If I practise hard – play my cards right – who knows what the future will bring?’
‘I thought you were going to study law,’ said Featherweight, unable to hold back a smile.
‘Right,’ said Nancy, ‘but I want to study magic more than anything! We’ll see how things go.’
And with that, she got to her hooves.
‘Now, I’m supposed to help Mum do the hoovering. If you need anything – or anyone – just give us a shout, all right?’
Featherweight nodded.
‘You sure you’re OK?’
‘I’ll be fine,’ he said. ‘Enjoy your – hoovering.’
‘That’s the spirit,’ said Nancy, and she was up the stairs in seconds, humming. Featherweight yawned and stretched. Then he froze.
Princess Twilight was returning to Ponyville. Princess Twilight – no longer the meek and helpful librarian of old but a mighty spell-warrior in whose wake countless dangers followed. Very, very slowly he sat up straight.
The ceiling. It was a plain old thing no one thought about. Look at it, dry and, in places, crumbling from being lived under – Featherweight lived under it every day. But he was struggling to live under it now, and although that sounded strange, it really wasn’t – not for him, anyway. This was routine. He tried to move.
But he couldn’t bring himself to. What if the ceiling fell in and he was crushed beneath its weight? What if it was so unstable that the slightest movement triggered its collapse? What if –?
No, no, no! Calm down, he told himself. Just calm down. He was being stupid again! Very, very stupid! He got to his hooves.
Next second, he was on the floor, gasping. He’d simultaneously tried to stand and sit, but his mind hadn’t decided which decision to heed. He opened his mouth to call for his mother, for Nancy, for anyone. Then he stopped and moaned, his eyes curling irresistibly upwards to gaze at his latest danger.
The ceiling. Danger. Danger indeed. He couldn’t shout. Not only would no one hear him over the sound of the hoover but he couldn’t risk reverberating the structure in such a way that would cause a cave-in. He was stuck.
Breathing as deeply as he dared, he cast his mind back, urging himself to think straight. Dr Moon’s face swam into being.
You’ve got to count.
He knew! He knew he had to! The ceiling – it wasn’t, couldn’t be – dangerous – but . . .
‘Help,’ he sobbed. ‘Help!’
‘Two,’ he muttered once his mother had saved and hugged him. Another danger revealed to be a figment of his imagination.
No.
No, that had been the figment, for neither his mother nor Nancy had come downstairs. He was still on the floor – and panicking.
No! Get a grip, he told himself. Just get a grip.
But it was no good.
His eyes were wet, and his mouth was dry. Featherweight licked his lips as loudly as he dared, supressing a whimper. What had started it? The episode. He cast his mind back.
Twilight. Twilight Sparkle. The princess of terror. The bringer of doom. Wherever she moved, everything of which Featherweight was afraid descended. He knew of ponies who had met their ends owing to Twilight Sparkle’s adventures. He didn’t want to be one of them. All right, he thought. That was rational enough. But fear of the ceiling wasn’t.
‘Irrational,’ he whispered.
Nothing happened.
‘Irrational,’ he said, a little louder.
Still nothing. He closed his eyes.
And leapt to his hooves, fearing the worst. But the ceiling did not fall.
‘Two!’ said Featherweight triumphantly, and he collapsed into his chair, massaging his forehead. He couldn’t go on like this. But he knew he could, for he thought the same thing daily and never changed. But he wanted to change. But he couldn’t. But he wanted to. Oh, it wasn’t fair! How could a pony be so conflicted?
He licked his lips again. He was thirsty. It was time for his morning tea. But could he make it? He eyed Nancy’s empty mug, which she’d left on the table, along with her bowl and eggcup. Nancy was still alive. At least no one had poisoned the water supply.
He took a deep breath and got to his hooves – properly this time. And he froze.
The kettle. It was a plain old thing no one thought about.
‘No, no, no, no, no,’ said Featherweight. He slapped himself gently. It felt good. ‘No!’
He reached for the kettle and gave it a shake. He felt water move inside. Good. He placed it back onto its stand and prepared to switch it on. Then he froze.
He always changed the water in the kettle. Each morning, every day. He couldn’t remember ever not having done so. Each morning, every day. This – making tea – was always the longest episode of them all. Poison. Pollution. Infection. Disease. He tried every time to convince himself he was being stupid, but every time he tried he failed.
So why, just then, did he feel nothing?
He’d said no – he had. He remembered saying no. Did that mean – had he actually –?
No, it was too good to be true. Surely, suspicion at this deviation would creep into his being within seconds. He waited, holding his breath.
But none came. He was standing by the kettle, readying to make tea – and he was totally OK with it.
No, no, no.
Daisy – poison in her tea. Dandelion – poison in his tea. Chervil – poison in his tea. Sainfoin – poison in his tea. Ragwort – poison in his tea. Buckthorn – poison in his tea. Clover – poison in her tea.
Featherweight . . .
No poison in his tea. Nothing. He was . . . safe.
‘Mum!’ he yelled, his heart racing. ‘Nancy! Come down! Come and see this!’
He flicked the switch and – completely by accident – laughed. He was safe. He poured into his cup once the kettle had boiled and stirred, grinning brighter than a sunray. He wanted to change – and he could change. He took a sip.
Immediately, he knew something was wrong. There was a nasty, bitter taste to the liquid. Featherweight gagged. He dropped his cup. It shattered, its contents spilling all over the floor.
‘Mum!’ he croaked. ‘Nancy!’
He threw open the lid of the kettle. Floating in the water was what looked like a bloated, fleshy slug, and at the bottom sat something yellow.
‘Featherweight!’
His mother had entered the kitchen, her expression puzzled. Featherweight mouthed wordlessly, then staggered sideward.
‘Featherweight!’ cried his mother, alarmed. ‘What’s going on? Nancy! Nancy, get the phone! Featherweight!’
Featherweight stumbled towards the fish tank, his eyes wide. He pressed his face against the glass, gasping for breath but not finding it. The snails.
He counted only four.
