The armies of those I love engirth me
There once was a mare in the tiny port town of Simonville who swayed and swished her tail in time to the universe. Or at least when ponies asked her what she was doing this was the explanation she always gave with a smile.
It wasn’t hard to find her. A few questions around town, and most ponies would say that it was in fact rather hard not to bump into her at some point if you spent more than five minutes in Simonville by the sea. She seemed to be everywhere, like a sort of easily-ignored omnipresence. You would be minding your own business, barely aware of the world apart from the long shopping list that somehow existed in your brain, and then there she would be. Swish swish sway, not walking so much as proceeding down the dirt roads between the wooden shops towards the bay, the mare who heard the world’s heartbeat kept time to a rhythm that no one else heard.
What do you mean, the universe? They would ask her time and time again.
Everything! And nothing! The space between and phenomenon itself! She would always answer them in such ways and laugh. Further inquiries did little to shine light on such strange, nonsensical replies. Eventually, the ponies of Simonville stopped asking questions of the Mare Who Swayed.
But ships always brought new ponies, ones who had never asked the questions and never received the answer.
So when a bright young bespectacled unicorn stepped off the boat, it was practically already a certainty that the Mare would have a new round of conversation.
His name was Haycart, and he was on his way to the city of Hoofington to study the standard track of the arcane sciences and intricate argumentation expected of a pony of his lineage. He had originally been dismayed at the prospect of traveling by such pedestrian means as common sailships, but the rustic charm of his long journey had grown on him. Such fascinating creatures, these earth pony bumpkins! He had joked more than once that their salt-of-the-earth wit had been the origin of their tribe’s name.
Haycart hummed a few bars of one of the last grand Canterlonian symphonies he had sat through as he strolled down what passed for Simonville’s main street. The rains had been through recently, but not so recently as to reduce the roads to muddy quagmires, and though he loathed this lowlander climate, he found that he quite enjoyed the warmth of the sun on his back and the salty air of the sea.
A charming place, looked at through the right angle.
Lodgings for the night were easy to find--Simonville had but two inns--and comfortably cheap to boot, and so Haycart decided that a nice stroll to enjoy solid land again was in order after his bags had been dropped off.
The locals called the place where he met the Mare simply “The Square”, though he did not know this. It was just a small opening where the dirt turned to overgrown cobblestone with a fountain in the center. Officially, it was Lycaeon Square, but almost nopony in town even remembered who or what Lycaeon was. Had he known this, Haycart might have stopped to make some kind of deceptively poignant remark, but he did not know, and so the passing ponies were spared his pontification.
At first, he saw nothing out of the ordinary. Just a nice sunlit square with a few benches and a modest fountain. He already saw her, but to his unwary eye she was just another silly, charming provincial. Perhaps it was just another one of those oddities of country life beyond Canterlot’s pristine walls.
But soon he noticed that her gait was not some little country dance. It was too wild, too energetic and unschooled in the way no traditional dance would be--far, far too free. So with curious intent, he watched her swishing tail and pondered it.
“Madame,” he said, and she turned towards him. She swayed still even as she stood in place. Her tail swished from side to side. “Madam, please, might I ask you a question?”
She nodded, and her smile grew. “Of course, good sir!” Swish swish.
“Why are you moving in such a strange way? Oh, dear, I do not wish to be rude. I’m simply curious.”
“Oh, this? You mean my dancing?
“Why, yes! That dancing is a curious thing.”
She giggled. “Well, stranger, I’ll tell you what I tell everypony else: I’m dancing to the beat of the universe. Do you hear it?”
He blinked.
“Come again?”
Her sunny disposition did not in the slightest diminish. “Do you hear it?”
Haycart shook his head. “Madame, I’m afraid I don’t quite know what you mean.”
“Do you have a heartbeat?” Swish swish. She drew closer slightly, still swaying ever so slightly. He found it oddly hypnotic.
“Well, of course I do. I’m alive, after all.”
“Then you can hear it too!” she said. She laughed with obvious delight, almost foalish in its openness. “You can hear it.”
“I’m afraid I don’t, unless you’re implying the two are the same. How would the universe have a beat?”
Now it was her turn to blink in puzzlement. She cocked her head to the side. “Why wouldn’t it? Everything has a rhythm! The seasons move in proper order, the clouds march to their thunderbeats, and ponies walk in one-two one-two. And I swish with the beat of all of those things. The universe has a rhythm.” She leaned in conspiratorially and winked. “The universe has a heartbeat too.”
Well, she was mad. He was quite convinced of it.
“Ah. I see,” he said. (He did not, of course.) “And only you can hear and dance this beat?”
“Not at all! Anypony can! And most ponies do! But only for a moment or two,” she added, and for the first time her smile slipped just a bit. “But anyhow! I have places to be, good sir.” She curtsied, which was a strange sight to see combined with her vigorous bouncing, and before the stallion could say another word, she was gone.
Haycart found himself in the inn he was not planning to stay the night in, still thinking about his daytime encounter with that curious mare. The local beer was, as he had expected, absolutely terrible. Before, he might have taken a kind of observer’s twisted pleasure in its lack of quality, or seen it as some sort of “roughing it” and felt positively superior.
But at the moment, his mind was filled with other considerations, ones that for a brief moment in time had managed to push away his Canterlonian snobbery.
He had never met a pony who was insane before. He had also never thought that series of words in anywhere near that order before--life had become suddenly strange, and he was rather looking forward to when it stopped being strange and went back to being predictable.
He pushed away his drained mug and sighed. The mare behind the bar raised her eyebrows slightly and collected it. She stood there, her back to him, doing whatever it was barmares did--it wasn’t as if he had paid attention to a spot of honest labor in his life, after all, honestly!--and he looked at nothing.
She spoke at last. “So, sighs are chatter?”
Ears perking, Haycart looked up. “Your pardon, miss?”
“Sighs and chatter. I see you and your dramatics, boy.” She turned and winked at him, “And for that matter, if you’re up for chatter, I’ve still got plenty on tap.”
Haycart considered being offended at having been smirked at by a pony whose entire town his family could afford to buy rather easily, but in the end he just shrugged. “Only if you have something better than, ah, this. Or that, rather, seeing as how it’s gone now.”
She rolled her eyes, but he had a sense that it was more good natured than anything. “Sure thing, sug. I’ve got some brandy in from the ship you were on.”
He nodded and after a moment he had a nice glass of brandy before him. The sounds of chatter and light laughter drifted away, and there were only two ponies in Haycart’s world for just this moment.
“You look like a pony who has a lot to say,” he said mildly, and tested her brandy. Startled, he pulled back, smelled it slightly, and sighed in a much happier manner. “And I am impressed. This is excellent. Where is it from?”
“Canterberry,” she said as she leaned on the bar. “Surprisingly cheap, considering. You’re right, after a fashion. I do have a lot to say. I just don’t always say it.”
“Have you seen… ah, I don’t know her name. Unfortunate. There was a mare earlier who I ran into in that lovely little square. She danced. I suppose you could call it dancing, with a healthy helping of charity. It was more a kind of hypnotic swaying.”
“Oh, you mean Electric? Dear Electric?” The barmare laughed a bit too loudly for his tastes and then gave him a knowing smile. “And let me guess, stranger: you asked her what she was doing, didn’t you?”
“I did. Her answer was baffling. Is it the custom of these parts to allow madponies to wander if they are of no danger to others?”
She shook her head. “She isn’t mad. Strange, yes, but she’s not harmful or addled. Ask her to do sums if you see her again, and you’ll see that her mind’s sharp as a whip’s bite. She simply has some strange ideas.”
“And a metaphysic that is either childish or insane,” Haycart grumbled. “I mean, honestly my good lady, a heart beat of the universe. The universe, existence if you will, having a heart. Dancing to the rhythm of the world. It’s... “ he shrugged again. “But there is something about the way that she said this that makes dismissing it as lies or as madness difficult. Her manner, her smile, her tone all stick in one’s craw. If it is a lie, then to what purpose? She gains nothing, and perhaps loses in her charade. If she is mad, then how so very narrowly mad? This one delusion and otherwise rather normal. She did not even seem to notice me until I said something. She did not rave to anyone or accost others in the street. No, she is genuine. She must be.”
More brandy. His furrowed brow and set face made him seem almost ridiculous, but of course nopony told him so.
“So she is either mistaken, or… no, she is merely mistaken. This is simple earnest error. A mare caught in the vice of superstition. I wish I could see her, that I might talk with her at length. A bit of learned discussion and I could chase these ghosts of unknowing away.”
She chuckled at him and pushed off from the counter gently. “I’m sure you could. If you’d like a chance, well…” She pointed, and he followed her hoof to see the mare herself swaying in the doorway with a little smile.
“Ah, fortuitous,” he mumbled.
“Fate, probably,” snarked the barmare. “She seems to always be around when ponies discuss her. Mostly because they’re always discussing exactly what you’re so hung up on. Electric! It’s good to see you.”
As she called for the swaying mare, Haycart finished what was left of his brandy and grimaced slightly.
Electric hummed as she sat on the stool next to him. “Hello again, stranger. Hello, Ruby. How is your daughter doing in Hoofington?”
Of course, even seated she moved ever so slightly, still compelled by the silent music.
“Haycart,” he said and offered her hoof. She tapped it and giggled.
“Electric. Dear Electric. It’s nice to meet you with names and everything! But that’s not what you’re interested in, I think.”
He cocked his head to the side. “Come again?”
“For a learned pony, he does seem puzzled often,” remarked Ruby behind her bar. She laughed and went on to the next pony, again leaving Haycart’s world confined to just two.
“The universe told me you had things to say, so I came by. Sometimes ponies need to say things as much for their own benefit as for others.”
“Ah.” He coughed and then straightened himself. One foreleg rested on the bar as he swiveled to face her. “Can I get you anything?”
She shook her head. “No, but thank you Mr. Cart. I don’t drink. I mostly come by to see Ruby and eat.”
“Fair enough. I did want to talk to you about your, ah, metaphysics. This rhythm that you hear.”
She stuck out her tongue playfully. “Of course.”
“What is it? Surely the talk of heartbeats and such is a metaphor.”
“Well, if you mean to ask me whether the whole universe has a heart like you and me? Then no, not at all. Not like you and me. No flesh, but still a rhythm.”
“Yes, that part I can grapple with. A rhythm.”
“Hmm. Alright. Look over there.”
She showed him a table where a hooffull of sailors sat laughing among themselves. Quietly, the pair observed them. After a moment, Electric spoke softly for only him.
“There’s a rhythm to this. A pace that they set. It’s in line with everything else’s right now. If you want, you can close your eyes and maybe you’ll hear it. You’ve been ignoring it your whole life up to this point. Try and listen.”
“I can’t listen for what isn’t there, good Electric.”
“That’s Dear to you,” she said quickly, as one does who has told a joke three times too many. “Now, listen. If it helps… ah, I know. Do you know what brackets are?”
“Well, yes. Of course.”
“Bracket out… everything. Bracket out yourself as best you can. Take the parts of you that have opinions and tidy them up and put them aside. You can come pick them up later if you want to. Bracket out what you think about the sailors, and their jokes. Just experience. Things happen, and you listen and see and experience, and you record up in here.” She tapped her forehead. “The more you try to quibble, the less you’ll understand, Mr. Cart. You can’t separate the world out the way you want to.”
“Who says so? Well, besides you, of course. You just said so. Aren’t you also picking the universe apart? Unless you aren’t apart of it, and you obviously are.”
“Indeed I am, and so are you!”
He nodded. “But the idea that you can simply experience perplexes me. What you call quibbling, I call investigation. Perhaps by just experiencing, I gain some knowledge. But what good does it do me? What utility is there in experience that can’t be surpassed by studied inquiry?”
She hummed. “Have you ever heard of that old joke, the one about it being turtles all the way down?”
He snorted. “Of course.”
“Getting out your measuring tape isn’t bad. I wouldn’t say that.” Electric stroked the bar with her hoof. “Without that sort of thinking, we couldn’t have made this. Or any of this building, or any of this town. Measuring everything down to its final point, cataloguing every detail in little notebooks, going at things only in straight lines…” She shrugged. “It does work! But it’s not finished. It isn’t complete.”
“What is left after a thing has been examined and understood? It’s context and substance are the key to that.”
She smiled at him. “Who said that you understood it?” When Haycart looked at her blankly, she continued. “You’ve described that thing. You know where it comes from. But have you said anything about the thing itself?”
“In of itself? But… But…” he gestured vaguely. “That phrase. What does that even mean?”
She chuckled and glanced over his shoulder for a moment before turning her eyes back to him. “Do me a favor, Mr. Cart?”
He locked eyes with her and nodded. “Of course.”
“Stay here for awhile. Listen. Don’t try to think too hard about it just yet. Don’t pick it apart immediately. Just experience it as close to blankly as you can manage. I think that the only way for me to explain what’s useful about experience is, well…. experience.”
And like that, she swiveled back into place and tapped the bar. “I’m off, Ruby. Please send my love to your daughter. And Mr. Carts? If you come back by, I’d love to see if you’ve heard it. I must be off.”
He tried to offer her a meal, a drink, some other way to get her to stay so he could talk some more, but she politely refused. She had other places to be, she said. But before she left him, Dear Electric extracted a promise to see her again whenever he passed through.
And, like that, she was gone.
He felt more confused and troubled than ever. But there was nothing for it. He couldn’t argue with absent madness. So instead he continued watching the sailors.
He even tried what she had said. He tried to push himself, the parts of him that quickly translated the world, out of the picture.
He listened to the conversation. He listened to the laughter and to the music that started soon after. The clinking of glasses, the soft sighs of rest after a long day, the rain that started as he grew weary, the pattering of it on the windows.
But inevitably he rose and paid his tab. He had sleep ahead of him, and a long journey after. But as he did so, he felt the smallest sense of loss. The pleasant haze of the evening was receding.
And perhaps as he thought of that, he caught just the barest hint of a dance in his own steps out the door.
Author's Note
I Sing the Body Electric
