The World Turned Upside Down

A thin sliver of blurred light illuminates the darkness, and I realise that my eyes are finally opening. I can see smudges of colour in the corners, but no details, and I have no energy to lift my head. Whatever I’m lying on isn’t making it any easier, because it’s more comfortable than that beanie Grandma once made for me.

As my other senses awaken, I note that I am definitely not outdoors anymore; the air is cool and has a distinct lived-in smell, as well as the faint scent of freshly baked bread. My head and feet droop over what appears to be the arms of a bench. I’m also made aware that my mouth is dry to the bone, and my throat is just as parched. Trying to swallow what little saliva I have only makes my throat hurt even more.

Eventually, and with great effort, I roll my head over my shoulder and rest my chin on my chest. My sight gradually returns and I find that I am indeed sprawled on a bench, and a small camping blanket has been draped over me. My feet have been left exposed, though, and I can see I’ve been stripped of my socks and shoes.

I’d probably feel a little violated if this were any other day, but right now, I’m too tired to care, and too confused. And not nearly as relieved as I thought I would be…

Before I dwell on the thought, I squeeze a hand into my pocket and pull out my phone. To my muted dismay, it fails to turn on, though I hadn’t expected anything less; dragging them through mud and water would do that. Speaking of which, my clothes are stained with streaks of black and brown, and some patches are still a little damp.

I slump back with a groan, then look around the room.

The clay walls are painted white, bouncing the light that streams through an open window, toward which the bench is facing. My feet point to a hearth with a blackened metal rack hovering above the smouldering remains of a fire. My bag lies in front of it. A short wooden coffee table sits in the centre of the room, obviously homemade, if the irregular shape of its top is anything to go by. There’s an archway behind me leading to what I assume is a kitchen, but I can’t see it well enough to be sure. What I can see, however, is another door, heading outside.

Moving about probably isn’t the best idea, but I really don’t want to lounge around on the bench all day, and the sooner I find my saviour, the sooner I’ll find out where I am.

With a heavy sigh, I set my things on the table, then roll to my left so my arm droops and meets the floor, then my head, and then my bad knee, much to my displeasure. I really should’ve expected that — it can’t have been that long since I fell asleep. Still, it’s too late to back out now, and I don’t have the strength anyhow.

I slide a little further and grimace as the rest of my body meets the timber floor, but the pain is brief, and as I breathe out, all my energy leaves with it. Suddenly, the wood becomes as soft as warm chocolate mousse, and I remember the golden rule of life: anything’s a bed if you’re tired enough.

I knock my head on the floorboards a few times to wake myself up, then wedge my elbows under my chest and try to stand. But the second I balance on anything less than three limbs, I’m overcome with a dizziness so intense that I almost faint. Even if I lean against the bench, it strikes me down with the same sickening ferocity, and I’m forced back to the ground.

Crawling on my hands and knees fares me no better; I have to wait five minutes after every step to make sure I don’t collapse from exhaustion, because I feel more drained than waking up in hospital after surgery.

At least I’m more awake now than when I started.

After about an hour of painstakingly slow progress — or a period of time that feels that long — I pass through the arch and enter what was indeed the kitchen. It lacks the conventional appliances, like a sink, an oven, a microwave, or electricity of any kind, but it’s still, undoubtedly, a kitchen.

There’s a clay preparation counter set against the far wall, with an assortment of earthenware pots and pans and various cooking utensils sitting below it. Left and right of me are two windows, their shutters open and granting me a clear view of nothing but the sky. On my end is the door I saw from the bench, but further down is another archway, granting me a narrow view of what appears to be the pantry.

I linger on it for a moment, realising just how hungry I am, but blink and shake my head, continuing to the door. Hungry or no, this is someone else’s house, and I can’t just take something without asking first. Not anymore.

The door itself is handmade, like the table in the living room — and most things in the cottage, I suspect — with a simple handle and sliding latch, and two small pegs planted in the top and bottom of the frame, acting as its hinges. It looks like a tall picket fence, come to think of it, minus the paint and decorative flare, and if I scoot close enough, I can see through the gaps in the planks. But I didn’t come this far to dawdle.

I reach up, undo the latch and pull the door open.

A field greets me, rolling down a gentle hill in the centre of a forest clearing, with mountains blocking the horizon on the right. The ground is dry, the sun is high, and the storm has long since passed. This is definitely the house I saw, which means I’m still as far away from home as I was yesterday — assuming yesterday was when I found myself here.

With my hopes of this whole experience being a dream most bizarre well and truly dashed, I heave another sigh and try standing up again, using the doorframe for support. It’s taxing and awkward, but after a few slips and dizzy spells, I manage to stand on my own two feet. Or a foot and a half, seeing as my ankle is still rather tender.

I stay in the doorway for a while, swaying unsteadily as I grow used to being so high off the ground, and then step into the outside world. I stumble forward, but manage to catch myself before I tip over, and instead fall on my rear, wracking my brain with another headache that chimes my skull like a bell. It’s nowhere near as bad as the ones before, but pain is pain, and I’m in no mood to compare. My hands cradle my temples as I lie back on the grass.

Perhaps I’d been overzealous, trying to skip the rest and relaxation phase of my recovery. But it’s nice out here, basking in the warmth of the sun, with wispy clouds floating by, a cool breeze that brings fresh, dry air, and small birds singing in the background.

The word ‘picturesque’ comes to mind, and I have to admit, if it weren’t for my current predicament, this would be a good place to call home. For the holidays, at least — any longer and I’d probably lose what little interest I have left in the great outdoors. Yesterday had dealt a pretty savage blow on that front already.

A sound cuts through the idle doze I’ve found myself in. A voice, maybe, possibly in song, but I can’t say for certain.

I slowly roll over and look around on my hands and knees, but there’s nothing I haven’t seen before. The sky is still as blue as ever, the trees and grass still sway in the wind, and the cottage is still there on the hill, waiting for me to crawl back inside.

But then there’s a flicker of movement — just a hint — from the other side of the roof. It was brief, fleeting, but I saw it.

I pick myself up and stagger around the house, stopping to rest a moment against the wall. First impressions don’t really matter to me — besides, finding a stranger passed out on the front lawn probably wasn’t the best way to start things off — but I want to at least have the strength to stand on my own when I introduce myself, and the patience to deal with another language, just in case I’m further from home than I ever should be.

With a determined huff, I limp onwards and turn the corner.

And then I freeze.

There’s a creature in front of me.

Not the one I saw yesterday, no. This one is completely different.

It has four legs, a head, a tail, a mane, two eyes, two ears, and a snout with two nostrils and a mouth, which are all fine by themselves, but that’s where normality ends.

Its legs are unusually thick — proportionally speaking, at least — with no toes and no obvious ‘foot’, if that makes any sense.

Its head is almost perfectly rounded, like a soccer ball, but not quite.

Its tail flows like silk, but keeps its form even when there’s no reason to.

Its mane thickens at the scalp and droops over the brow, like human hair.

Its ears, though familiar enough, seem a little too plump.

Its snout is incredibly short, with a nose that seems too small for its size, and a small mouth with thin lips.

Its coat is the colour of honey, and the hair of its mane and tail remind me of fire.

And its eyes are abnormally large, with pupils bigger than my fist, and irises that are a deep, rich, regal blue in colour, like the flame of a pilot light.

It also has wings. Real birdlike wings folded at its sides.

The creature stands atop a wooden ladder leaning against the cottage, sorting out a pile of thatch on the roof. But it’s not using its mouth; it’s using its forelegs — its toeless, fingerless forelegs — picking up a bundle of straw in the bend of its ankle, or wrist, or whatever I’m supposed to call it, and replacing the older patches. Occasionally, it lowers its head and tugs at a few strands with its teeth, but that’s all.

It looks bored. And tired.

When the work is done, it spreads its forelegs to a degree any worldly quadruped would find impossible, grabs the rails of the ladder and begins descending. But as it glances down, it sees me, and stops a rung lower.

“Finally decided to wake up, did you?”

I feel my insides hollow and a chill dance across my shoulders. That thing… spoke. And it spoke to me. And I understood it. And… I feel faint.

“Something got your tail in a twist?"

My eyes and mouth are all wide open, so I shake my head and try to recompose myself. This is bizarre, sure, but… it’s bearable. I just have to come to terms with the fact that I’m face to face with a creature that I’ve never seen before that has wings and magic arm-legs and knows fluent English…

And sounds oddly feminine.

Perfectly feminine, actually. I mean, if I were listen to the voice alone, I don’t think I’d be able to tell the difference between a human and this… thing. It even sounds about my age. I don’t want to presume anything, but I’ve played enough games and seen enough shows that have pulled the same trick, so it’s hard not to.

“Well?”

I realise I’ve been staring into empty space and turn back.

The creature has an impatient look on its face. Or her face, as the case may be. “You going to introduce yourself or what?”

I lower my eyes and try to focus. Time for speculation will come later; right now, I’ve been asked a question — a very simple question — and I have the answer. All I have to do is say it. “Adam,” I reply, meeting its eyes, and I’m relieved to hear myself speak normally again, if a little croaky.

The creature waits a moment, and then angles its head and rolls a forefoot expectantly.

“Mackenna. Adam Mackenna.”

It narrows its eyes and states very frankly, “That has to be the weirdest name I’ve ever heard.”

I wince. I don’t feel so much offended as I do surprised, but I know that’s a pretty upfront thing to say to someone you’ve just met. Still, it raises an interesting question. “Well then, what’s yours?”

“Amber Dart.”

“…You’re joking, right?”

“You don’t believe me?”

I say nothing.

After a brief pause, the creature sighs. “Is it really that obvious?”

I give a slow shrug.

It looks away, staring at the distant mountains and thinking to itself, as if it’s trying to convince itself that telling the truth wouldn’t be so bad. “Trail Blazer,” it finally says, looking at me indignantly, like I’d backed it into a corner. “That’s my name: Trail Blazer.”

“…Is that, like… a stage name, or something?”

“Excuse me?”

“Well, you know, it seems a bit too… flashy, I suppose, to be a real name, so… I don’t know, is that, like, your alter ego, or whatever you want to call it?”

The creature’s eyes narrow to slits. “My alter ego?”

I shut my mouth.

“You know what? Fine.” It turns back to the ladder and finishes its descent. “Fine. Believe me, don’t believe me — what do I care? It’s not as if I saved your life or anything.”

“Wait a second, Blazer, I didn’t—”

“Don’t call me that!” it snaps, wrenching the ladder onto its side and marching on all fours towards me. “Don’t ever call me that! It’s just Amber Dart to you! You hear me?! Amber! Dart!”

I shuffle a step back. On the ground, the creature’s no taller than my shoulder, but I know it doesn’t have to be bigger than me to hurt me, and I get the feeling it would be more than willing to demonstrate.

It shoves its nose a hair’s length from mine and glares at me with its disturbingly massive eyes. “If you ever say that name again, so help me, I will kick your flank to the moon and back. So, shut up and leave me alone.”

My fears confirmed, I quickly nod.

It holds my gaze a moment longer, testing me, before blinking and striding past.

I stare ahead, waiting until the orange blur is gone from my sight, then turn my head as it disappears around the corner.

That creature, whatever it was, behaved and sounded just like a human, but wasn’t. And I feel so very scared and confused because of it. Not just because I’d lost the argument, whatever it was about, but because it means I’m not on Earth anymore. I can’t tell if this is some distant world or a parallel universe or what, but this isn’t my home, in any sense of the word. And my only source of information — my last vestige of sanity, insane as it may be — is currently walking away from me.

The front door is shut and, presumably, locked. Between the planks, I spy a shadowy figure sitting against it. Taking a deep breath, I lift my fist, then take another, and then knock.

There’s no response.

I knock again.

Still nothing. And then a faint, exasperated sigh.

“I can see you in there.”

The figure groans, “Go away.”

“You know I can’t do that.”

“Oh, it’s simple: you just turn around and start walking. Forever.”

“I just want—”

“Oh, for the love of…!” It stands up and sticks its head through the kitchen window. “What part of ‘leave me alone’ don’t you understand?!”

I flinch, but continue, “I just want to ask you something.”

“No.” It slams the shutters and latches them. “Shut up, go away, leave me alone.”

I try to keep my irritation hidden, but a frown sneaks through. Still, getting mad won’t help unless I have the upper hand, and I most definitely do not have the upper hand. I close my eyes, take another deep breath, and try again. “Listen, Blazer—”

“Amber Dart!”

“Amber, Amber, sorry, yes, Amber. I’m really sorry about what I said earlier — whatever I said — I’m just… new to this. I don’t know where I am or what you are or what the heck is going on, but this… isn’t what I’m used to. At all. So, please… can I ask you something? Just one thing. And then I’ll be out of your hair for good. Please.”

The creature makes no response for a good, long while, and then answers reluctantly, resentfully, “One question.”

Just like before, I hide my relief and focus on the task at hand. I’m walking a very fine line here, and I’ve never been the world’s best wordsmith, or ever wanted to be. I want to trust my gut, but it’s flip-flopping all over the place, and my head is this close from doing the same, because what I’m about to ask is so simple, so benign, that I have no idea how she’d react. All I can do is hope I’m saying the right words, and using the right tone. “Are you a girl?”

I’m met with a tomblike silence.

This was a stupid idea. Who was I kidding? Of course it was going to fail. Just because I survived the total shutdown of my body didn’t mean I’d have any more luck dealing with strangers, and erratic ones at that.

But then slow, hesitant footsteps approach the entry. The latch slides out, the door creeps open, and a face peeks through the gap, staring up at me with a cautious, confused expression. It feels like hours before it speaks. “What kind of dumb question is that?”

I pause, and then answer with sincerity, and a hint of desperation, “A really, really dumb one.”

Amber studies me, glancing up and down, the guarded look slowly giving way to wary interest. “Yes, I’m a girl,” she says eventually, returning her eyes to mine. “You mean you can’t tell?”

“I could guess, but… I just wanted to be sure.”

“Where did you grow up that you can’t tell the difference between a boy and a girl?”

“No, I know what the difference is, it’s just… I’ve never seen anything like you. Ever.”

“That makes two of us.”

“…So, what are you, anyway?”

“I’m a pegasus.”

“A… pegasus?”

“Yeah.”

“You mean, like… a winged horse?”

“Winged pony,” she retorts. “There haven’t been horses around here for… ages, really, let alone winged horses. And quit interrogating me. I have questions too, you know.”

I shut my mouth again and bow my head slightly.

“What’re you?”

“A human.”

She studies me again, and then shakes her head. “Never heard of them.”

…Well, that figures…

“Where are you from?”

“I’m from… out of town.”

She replies with a face of utter disapproval.

I look away in shame. In retrospect, yes, that was a needlessly cryptic way of putting it, but I don’t want to risk what little connection I have by blurting out that I may or may not have come from another dimension. I’m not really sure I believe it myself, but I know for certain she wouldn’t; she’s just not the type. Not that I’ve ever been a great judge of character, or had any experience with… creatures like her. That being said, I can’t beat around the bush forever. “I’m from—”

“Never mind.”

“…I’m sorry?”

“Never mind. You’re not from here; that’s all I need to know.”

“…And where is ‘here’, exactly?”

“Equestria.”

I stare at Amber, then straighten up and take another look at the world around me. Nothing has changed, physically speaking, but it all seems different now — somehow more… I don’t know, foreign. Peculiar. Alien.

“You really are a long way from home, aren’t you?”

I look back down at Amber to find the door a little further open. She has dark freckles across her cheeks and snout, I realise, and a hint of concern in her eyes. Just a hint. “Yeah, well, I’m not in Kansas anymore, that’s for sure,” I say with a nervous laugh, but my smile fades when I feel the fear return, crawling its way under my skin.

“I told you, I don’t need to know where you’re from.”

“It’s not where I’m from, it’s… just…”

“Just what?”

“…A phrase,” I finish. Barely. “It’s just a phrase.”

“Hey,” she stamps a foot twice on the floorboards, “you’re not going to start crying, are you?”

“No, no, I just…” I begin, but then my hands start to shake, and my breathing deepens, and my heart pounds, and my head feels both heavy and light at the same time. “I need a moment.”

“Alright.” Amber shuts and locks the door and walks away. “Knock when you’re done, okay?”

I stumble forward and lean against the house, then slide down the wall until I sit on the grass. I know I’ve been snubbed, and I know it should bother me, but I’m too overwhelmed to care right now.

I’ve never had a panic attack before. Secretly, I’ve always wondered what it’s like, but now that I do, I wish I never did. A cold sweat builds as my insides hollow and I tremble and gasp, finally understanding how dire my situation is.

I am alone, in a land I know nothing about, stuck with an injured leg and no means of treating it, and no means of contacting anyone I know. I could… not make it out here… and nobody would have any idea — to them, I’d have simply disappeared without a trace, and they’d never be the wiser.

It would almost certainly have happened already, if it weren’t for her.

Eventually, the fear subsides. It leaves me shaken to the core and breathless, but I’m not afraid anymore, just recovering. And after a while, I’m back to my regular self, staring at the land before me, chin up, arms folded, eyes half-closed.

I don’t feel dejected, so much as I feel… disappointed. In life. Because, really, what did I do to deserve this? Sure, I’ve done some stupid things in the past — some I regret, some I don’t — but so has everyone else, so why would the universe choose to banish me out of the billions of humans on planet Earth, of which there were millions more deserving?

It’s not fair.

Life never is, but this is ridiculous.

Cruel and unusual punishment of the unprovoked variety.

But it is the mark of a virtuous man, to do what he can with what has been done. Or so some bearded philosopher once wrote in his diary a couple thousand years ago. I think. Or maybe I’m mixing up my quotes and I actually saw it on a loading screen for a game. Which was quoting said philosopher. In any case, sulking will get me nowhere, not that I know my destination.

I reach out and knock on the door.

No reply.

I sigh and knock a little harder.

“Yeah-yeah, I hear you,” Amber huffs, setting something down on the living room table and walking to the kitchen. “Don’t need to tell me twice.”

Obviously, I do.

The door opens and she pokes her head out to see me. “Better yet?”

I give a thumbs-up.

She raises an eyebrow.

I glance at my hand, lower it, then look back to Amber. “Yeah, I’m better.”

“Good. Because I don’t do therapy.”

I frown slightly.

“Just putting it out there.”

“Could be a little nicer about it.”

“Excuse me, who saved who again?”

Grudgingly, I shut my mouth.

“I’m being nice enough as I am, thank you very much. If you don’t like it, you can always take that leg of yours and limp three days west, because that’s the closest hospital you’ll find around these parts, and I won’t be there to hold your hoof.”

I look down at my knee and ankle. There’s still a long way to go yet.

“It’s your choice.” She opens the door a little further and leans a shoulder on the frame. “So, are you coming inside or what?”

I duck through the doorway and re-enter the kitchen. Thankfully, the tapered shape of the roof grants me enough room to stand comfortably, otherwise my head would be scraping the ceiling.

“Quick tour,” Amber declares. “This is the kitchen, over there’s the pantry. On your left is the living room, and through there’s my bedroom. Don’t go in my bedroom.”

“Wasn’t planning to.”

“Good. At least we agree on something. Now, sit down, get some rest. I’ll be making dinner.”

“Dinner?”

She buries her face in a foreleg. “Please tell me you have dinner where you come from.”

“Well, yeah, it’s just…” I glance through the open door. “It’s a bit early, don’t you think?”

“Early?”

“It’s still midday, isn’t it?”

She blinks. “It’s six in the evening.”

I look outside again. No, it’s definitely midday.

“Seriously, have you been living under a rock all this time?”

“…Let’s say I have,” I reply, turning back. “For argument’s sake.”

Amber stares at me incredulously.

“Again, I come from a place where… this… isn’t normal. Where seeing something like you isn’t normal.”

“You don’t have pegasi where you come from?”

“Uh… Yes and no. Yes, I’ve heard of them, but no, I’ve never seen one before.”

“You were expecting flying horses.”

“Basically.”

She holds my gaze for a moment or two, then turns away and heads for the pantry. “Well, excuse me for being such a disappointment.”

“Hey, I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Oh, I’m not holding it against you. It’s not your fault you don’t know anything.”

I scowl. “I’ll be in the living room.”

“Suit yourself. Don’t touch anything.”

I duck through the archway and look around. There isn’t anything to touch, besides the bench, the table, my things, some firewood, a timber armchair I’d somehow missed, as well as a door, which I can only assume is the entrance to the bedroom. I consider taking a peek, just to snub her back, but think better of it and flop down on the bench, then pick up the blanket from the floor, roll it up and use it as a makeshift pillow. “Can I have some water too?” I ask when I’m settled.

“Sure. Whatever.”

“And some ice-cream?”

She doesn’t answer.

“And a martini, shaken, not stirred?”

“Would you like a hoof sandwich instead?”

I stifle a snicker.

“Didn’t think so.”

I wait a while for the air to clear, but I hear slow, methodical chopping from the kitchen, and a question comes to mind. “What’s for dinner, anyway?”

“Garden vegetable soup.”

“You grow your own food?”

“Yeah. So?”

“Oh, nothing, I just thought… you know, you being a… pony, right?”

“Right.”

“…That the grass would be fine enough.”

The chopping stops. “What?”

I shut my mouth.

“You think that just because I live out here, I eat grass all day?”

A pang of shame hits me. I really shouldn’t have assumed anything, and I had a feeling I was crossing a line, but it’s too late to back out now. “I just thought ponies ate grass.”

“…Well, yeah, I could… if I wanted…” she answers, returning to her work, “but it’s like an edible doormat: you wouldn’t unless you really have to.”

“Ah.” I nod to myself. “So, what do you grow?”

She sighs. “Potatoes, tomatoes, carrots, beans and cauliflower.”

“That’s all?”

“What were you expecting, a farmer’s market?”

“…No, just… more variety.”

“Too bad.”

And the attitude’s back. I sigh to myself and look about the room again, wondering what I can do to pass the time. My eyes settle on the table; my phone, which I specifically remember setting face-down, is now face-up. The dots connect, and I realise what that sound was I heard from outside.

I lean over and retrieve it and flip it over in my hands. There’s nothing wrong with it as far as I can tell — besides the fact it won’t turn on, but that’s not her fault — so there hasn’t been any harm done per se. But knowingly or unknowingly, she had tried to use something of mine without permission, and that’s something I can’t abide, no matter how ‘gracious’ a host she may be.

I frown at the archway. I could raise the issue now, but perhaps it’s best saved for later, when she can’t spit in my food. “So, it’s six o’clock, is it?” I wonder aloud, returning my phone to the table.

“Yep.”

I glance out the window. “Then why isn’t the sun setting?”

“Give it a minute.”

“You’re not using daylight savings, are you?”

She pauses again. “Daylight whatsits?”

“…Never mind.”

She waits a little longer before chopping more vegetables. “You’re not making a lick of sense. You know that, right?”

“Speak for yourself.”

“Oh really? And who’s the one who’s forgotten how the flipping sun works?”

“Then enlighten me, why don’t you?”

Amber sets down the knife and marches through to the archway, gawking at me with the same incredulous look. “You really have been living under a rock, haven’t you?”

“Please.”

“…The sun rises at six and sets at seven,” she explains sceptically. “It takes an hour to rise and an hour to set. Between then, it doesn’t move. Usually.”

“…And that’s normal here?”

“Yeah. Why? What’s normal where you’re from?”

“A sun that behaves like an actual sun. Or a planet that…” I close my eyes and rub my brows. “Never mind. This is doing my head in.”

“…Okay, so, I’ll keep making dinner, if you could just keep your mad ramblings to yourself.”

“Sure.”

“Good,” she says, then heads back into the kitchen.

A long silence permeates the house, broken only by the noise of cooking as vegetable after vegetable is diced up and poured into a container. I hear water slosh in next, and a grinding sound, and lopsided footsteps as Amber returns, holding a small pot to her chest with a foreleg. She walks to the hearth and sets the pot on the rack above it, then tosses in a few small logs, pulls out some kindling and two stones, sits down, and strikes them together.

There’s something about watching her work that I can’t help but gawk at. At first, I think it’s her impossibly flexible joints — almost humanlike, perhaps — but the longer I stare, the more I realise that it’s her front feet I find the most interesting. Specifically, how she can grab things with them, either in the bend of ankle or on the flat of her foot, and they never lose grip unless she wants them to. Like magnets that work on everything, and only on her say-so.

Sparks fly, the kindling ignites, and soon the hearth glows. Satisfied, she replaces the stones and stokes the flames with a charred stick, then turns back to the kitchen. Before she can begin walking off, however, her hindleg knocks over my backpack and she stops mid-step, glancing down at it.

“Planning on having an adventure, were you?” Amber probes, raising an eyebrow at me.

I hesitate. “Not like this, no.”

“Hmm.” She tosses the bag to me. “Well, here you go.”

It lands in my lap and I reach down to retrieve it.

“And don’t worry, I didn’t look through it.”

I stop and look at her. “…Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” she says, and then continues on her way.

I follow her as she leaves, and stare at the archway a little while longer. She seemed more… mellow, this time, for whatever reason. Maybe she just needed time to cool off. As did I.

Amber returns about a minute later with a cup of water, which she sets in front of me on the table, then walks around and sits by the hearth, facing both me and the flames, watching the fire burn. She looks like she’s trying to relax, but can’t, and I can’t tell why.

I’m not normally one to break silences, but I feel compelled to this time. “Thanks again.”

She turns to me.

“For the water.”

She makes no response, and instead goes back to watching the hearth. “I told you to give it a minute, didn’t I?” she says after a short pause.

“Sorry?”

“The sun. It’s setting now.”

I look out the window to find the light is, in fact, fading. It’s only been, what, fifteen minutes since I last checked, and already the shadows are growing and the clouds are tinged with gold.

She stokes the fire again. “It’s been like that for as long as I can remember. How you don’t know about it, I have no idea.”

“Living under a rock, remember?”

Amber stops and frowns at me. "Don’t push it.”

The little smile I have shrinks. "Sorry.”

She lingers on me for a moment, then replaces the stick and watches the fire again. She’s sitting on her haunches — not unlike a dog, come to think of it — with her forelegs straight and her tail wrapping around her side. I’m not really comfortable calling her a pony just yet. Granted, there are similarities, but in the same way a T-rex is a giant chicken: you wouldn’t think it at first glance. Or maybe that’s just me, I don’t know — I’ve never been great with subtlety anyway.

“What did you say this place was called again?”

She sags and groans, “Equestria.”

“Are there other—”

“Moon above, do you ever shut up?”

“…Sorry, I just—”

“No. No more questions. Just stop talking. For five minutes at least, please.”

“Fine, alright, sheesh. No need to be a jerk about it.”

“I’m not being a jerk; I’m being direct.”

“Too direct.”

She scowls at me. "I could have left you out there, you know.”

“I know.”

“But I didn’t.”

“And I thank you.”

“Because I’m not a jerk.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Do you want dinner or not?!”

“Case in point.”

With a sudden burst of speed, she darts around the table and lunges at me, pinning me down with a forefoot as she stands on her hindlegs, winding the other up for a punch.

I barely had enough time to widen my eyes.

She glares at me with utter contempt and flares her wings. “Do you want me to hit you?!”

“No,” I choke.

“DO YOU WANT ME TO HIT YOU?!”

“No!”

“GOOD! Because I won’t.” She backs away with a shove and settles down on all fours again, wings folding by her sides. “Because that’s something a jerk would do. And I’m not a jerk. I’ve gone out of my way to help your miserable flank because that’s what any good pony would do — all I ask is that you show me a little respect. So, when I say ‘stop talking’, I mean stop talking. Got it?”

I nod vigorously.

She leans in, "Don’t make me say it again,” then strolls back to her place by the fire.

I sit up and stare at her in shock. I knew she was touchy, but not this touchy. Okay, I pushed her, perhaps a little too hard, so part of it was my fault, but did that really give her the right to threaten me with a broken nose?

Maybe I’m biased, but I don’t think it does, and I don’t think it loans much credit to her argument. That being said, I’m not about to challenge her on it, but what I need to do is find a way out of this ‘no talking’ business without being obnoxious.

My eyes fall on my bag. It’s still in my lap, and, if Amber is to be believed, untampered with, which means she’d have no idea what it holds.

I watch her as I reach down, making sure I’m not breaking some other rule I’m unaware of, but all the protest I receive is a brief, dirty, sideways glance. I pull it closer and unzip the front pocket, and from it, I produce another bag, which is actually more like purse, and intended to carry only one thing.

I unzip this bag in turn and retrieve the device from the solitary pouch, then look it all over, checking for damage. I don’t find anything, nor had I meant to, but so long my little display grabbed a certain someone’s attention, I’m happy taking all the time in the world.

“Is that a camera?”

I freeze. Curiosity, I’d expected, but knowing what a camera was? Not so much. Then again, all that I’ve seen of this world has consisted of a mountain range, a thunderstorm, the mutant wildlife, and a ‘pegasus’ with an attitude problem, so who am I to say what kind of technology could be found elsewhere?

“That’s a camera, isn’t it?”

I stare at Amber.

She stares back.

I slowly nod.

“Where’d you get it?”

I pause, then raise an inquisitive eyebrow and gesture to my mouth.

She glowers in resentful silence for a long while, but then stomps the floor, looks away and lets out a maddened huff. “Fine,” she growls, turning back to me, “you can talk.”

I hide my relief with a mollifying bow of the head.

“So, where’d you get it?”

“Home.”

Amber blinks, and then slaps her forehead. “Okay, look, I get it; it’s fun to be mysterious,” she grumbles, dragging her foot down her face, “but this is just ridiculous. Spill the beans and play it straight, or you will go to bed hungry.”

“I’m not trying to be mysterious, Amber, I’m just… not sure you’d believe me. And besides, you told me you don’t want to know.”

“Yeah, well, now I do. So, where’d you come from?”

I hesitate. I don’t want to tell her, for obvious reasons, but at the same time, I do, because I can’t lie to save my skin. I mean, sure, I’ve lied before, and convincingly, but they were usually small and hard to prove, and often meant to buy me time so I could make them true. If I wanted to lie to her now, which I don’t, I’d have to stack lies on top of lies, and I’ve never been good with that — there’s too much information to memorise, and not enough privacy to keep a written record.

But telling the truth is just as daunting. Putting myself in her shoes, if I’d rescued some weird four-legged alien creature and it claimed to come from another dimension, with technology that looked like mine but not completely, I’d… probably believe it, now that I think about it. I know that doesn’t mean she’d fare any better, but any hope is better than none.

Swallowing my pride, but only just, I give my answer with as much conviction as I can muster. “Earth. I’m from… a planet called Earth.”

The incredulous look returns. “We are on Earth, dingus.”

I blink in surprise, but then shake my head and try to correct myself, “No, I mean, uh… another Earth, a… a different Earth. One where things… creatures like you… don’t… really exist.”

Although her expression remains the same, her eyes have gone blank. At first, I think I may have broken her, but then, slowly, stiffly, she rocks back on her haunches to look at the roof, and then slams her head down with a loud thud. She lies with her rump in the air, her forelegs stretched out beneath her, and her face embedded in the floor. And from under a mop of fiery hair comes a long, pained moan.

“You okay there, Amber?”

“Why me?” she sobs. “Why’d it have to be me?”

“I tried to warn you.”

“Not helping.”

I sigh. “I know how crazy it sounds, Amber, but… it’s the truth. I come from a place where… pegasi… aren’t real. Outside myths, at least. And they definitely don’t look anything like you.”

She rolls her head to the side and looks up with an exhausted frown, then rolls back onto her face. “I don’t believe this.”

“You think it’s any easier for me?”

“But I’m not the one who’s insane, am I?” she says gruffly, pulling her forelegs out and sitting back on her haunches. “Next thing I know, you’ll be saying magic isn’t real.”

My face goes blank.

Her eyes narrow, then widen. “Oh my stars, you can’t be serious.”

“…What kind of magic are we talking about?”

“Magic,” she says again, as if repeating herself is all the explanation I need. “You know, the… stuff that unicorns use.”

“Unicorns?”

“Oh, for crying out loud!”

“No, wait, there are unicorns here too?”

“No! Enough questions!”

“Amber, I’m sorry, but… I really don’t know anything about this place.”

“How can you not?! If you said you came from a distant land that no pony has ever been to, fine, I can roll with that. But no; apparently, you’ve travelled all this way from some alter-Earth parallel universe where there’s no such thing as freaking magic. Excuse me if that sounds a little outlandish to me.”

“…Also, ponies don’t talk where I come from.”

She blinks in disbelief, then shuts her eyes and gently shakes her head. “I’m done.”

“Amber—”

“Stop.” She lifts a foot to silence me. “Just… stop. I’m done. With you, with… everything. Just shut up so I can pretend you aren’t here.”

I feel empty. I want to say something, to apologise, but I know I can’t. And even if I somehow made it up to her, I can’t not ask about this place, or the people — or ‘ponies’ — who make it up. I mean, magic and unicorns? Who wouldn’t have any questions? Where would I even begin? Is magic real, or is it this world’s explanation for natural phenomena? And if it is real, how does it work? And are unicorns here the kind from my Earth, or are they more… visually intriguing, like Amber?

It’d only be a matter of time before my curiosity got the better of me.

After the pot’s been boiling for a minute or two, Amber slides the rack out with small, careful tugs. She returns to the kitchen as it cools off, hobbling back with two bowls, one in her mouth, the other to her chest, which she sets down on the table. When the steam rising from the lid thins out, she pours the contents into both bowls evenly, then slides one to me and takes the other with her to the armchair.

I retrieve my serving and stare at Amber’s handiwork, then smell it, then dip my finger in and taste it. True to her word, there are potatoes, tomatoes, carrots, beans and cauliflower, but it’s not so much garden vegetable soup as it is garden vegetables boiled in flavoured water, though I can’t really tell what that flavour is. I’m tempted to say ginger, and perhaps a little salt, but I wouldn’t know — I’ve never cooked anything besides breakfast, lunch and TV dinners.

Shocking, I know, but such is the life I live. Or used to live, until now, and hope to live again as soon as possible, especially if she’s all the company I have.

It’s not that I hate her, because I don’t, but I definitely don’t care for that temper of hers.

I glance at her out of interest, but my gaze lingers when I notice something.

She’s sitting on her haunches again, with her bowl held between her forelegs in front of her. But she isn’t eating. Instead, she’s staring at the table. More specifically, at my phone. There’s a jaded expression on her face, similar to the one she had when I first saw her, but I see wheels turn in that head of hers. Reluctant, cynical wheels, but turn they do. At least, until she sees me. “What?” she asks, somehow sounding both apathetic and annoyed at the same time.

I hesitate, but come up with a reasonable response. “You don’t happen to have any spoons, do you?”

“What’s wrong with your mouth?”

“It’s just… I’m used to using a spoon.”

“Well, too bad — all I have’s a ladle.”

“No spoons at all?”

“They’re more of a fine dining thing.”

“…And I take it you’re not the classy type?”

She gives me an unimpressed look. “Shut up and eat your dinner.”

I turn back to the bowl in my hands, suppressing a smirk, then bring it to my mouth and drink. It’s rather bland, which is a little disappointing, but I can’t care any less, because I am hungry.

When the soup is drained, I ready my fingers to start picking out the vegetables and beans, but stop when I realise how filthy my hands are. I spit in my palm and rub my thumb all around, from wrist to fingertips, and sure enough, the dirt peels away. It’s an old trick I learned when I was trying to deal with some calluses in grade three, and I’ve used it as a quick fix ever since. It may not be the most hygienic solution, but it gets the job done.

“That’s just gross.”

I pause, and then start working on my other hand. “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.”

“It’s still gross.”

“And cooking with unwashed feet is any better?”

“…That’s different.”

“How so?”

“It… just is, okay?”

I sift through what’s left of my soup for a potato cube. “If you say so.”

“…And they’re called hooves, by the way.”

I pause again. I’d hardly call that little slip-up worthy of complaint — they’re still her feet, after all — but if it really meant that much, I suppose I could humour her. “Alright.”

“Just so you know.”

“Yep.”

“Because… that’s what they are.”

“Okay.”

“…Got it?”

I look back with an eyebrow raised.

Amber meets my gaze with a determined face. But it seems… a little… forced.

And then the penny drops: she’s trying to one-up me. To put me in my place. To show me that she’s still in charge. As if I’d challenged her on something, and she was taking it personally. Whatever gave her that idea, I know it’s best not to upset the established order, even if I hadn’t agreed to it. “Got it.”

“Good,” she says, with a sense of finality, and turns back to the hearth. But just as she’s about to start eating, she lowers her bowl and looks at me again. “And what did I say about not talking anymore?”

I raise a hand defensively. "You started it, not me.”

“Yeah? Well… stop.”

I frown slightly. "So, it’s my fault if you’re the one asking questions?”

Her visage breaks for a moment and she looks away. It was only for a moment, but in that moment, I saw fear. Not the kind that said she’s afraid of me — because she obviously isn’t — but the kind that said she’s not used to being put on the spot like this. “…No…” she admits hesitantly, and opens her mouth to elaborate.

But nothing comes out. And even after several attempts, I’m given no further response. She appears lost, in fact, and her ears slowly folding back against her head only confirm it.

Although she’s been… difficult, to say the least, I can’t help but sympathise with her.

“How do you do that, anyway?”

Amber meets my gaze again, markedly less confident than the first time. “Do what?”

“That thing with your arms. Or forelegs, or whatever you call them.”

“…Forelegs,” she replies, ears perking up again. “And what ‘thing’ are you talking about?”

“You use them like hands, but you don’t have any fingers.”

“…Well, duh, they’re my hooves. What am I supposed to do, use my mouth all the time?”

“No, I mean, how are you holding onto things?”

“They’re my hooves. They’re supposed to hold onto things.”

“But how?”

“…They’re my hooves. That’s how they work. Honestly, do I need to spell it out for you?”

“It’d help.”

She stares at me, speechless, and then slowly shakes her head and returns to the fire. “You’re unbelievable,” she murmurs, before sipping her soup.

And just like that, power was restored; all I had to do was ask a dumb question and let my curiosity take over. Sure, we might not be on equal footing, but as much as I don’t like being talked down to, I didn’t come here to shake up someone’s lifestyle. And if anyone had to be in charge, it’d be better for the both of us if that someone was a local.

It’ll be tough getting any information out of her, and I can’t promise myself that she’ll have an answer to every question I have — as she very well demonstrated — but after what I’ve been through, hospitality of any sort is welcome.

Even if it doesn’t come from the most agreeable of hosts.

The rest of dinner is a short, quiet affair, in the sense that Amber eats hers far faster than I ever could by burying her snout in the bowl, and I can’t help but watch in silence. Before she looks up, however, I turn back and shovel down as much as I can as fast as possible, just to make it seem like I haven’t been focussing on her table manners, or lack thereof.

I don’t find it displeasing; rather… interesting, to see such behaviour in front of a stranger. Then again, I don’t think she cares what others think of her, so long as she’s top dog. And, at the risk of repeating myself, I haven’t seen much of the world beyond. For all I know, pigging out might be the norm for informal engagements.

One thing’s for certain, though: she’s definitely not the classy type.

I finish my soup by scooping the beans into my mouth. It wasn’t bad, nor was it great, but it was food. “Pretty good,” I say, sucking my fingers and drying them on my shirt. “Could use a little spice, though.”

She doesn’t reply, licking her bowl clean instead.

I don’t think I want to know how she can stand the earthy tang I assume she’s tasting, but there is something I do want to know. Sooner, rather than later. “Can I ask you something?”

Amber looks up with a stern expression.

On the other hand, perhaps later is better.

Her stare continues as she wipes her mouth with the back of her… hoof… and sets her bowl on the floor. “Depends what you’re asking,” she says flatly, returning to her doglike posture.

“…Do you know what a toilet is?”

She pauses, but doesn’t react. “I do.”

“You don’t happen to have one around here, do you?”

“I have a bucket.”

My face goes blank for a second time.

She cocks her head and gives me another unimpressed look. “We’re in the middle of the woods, dummy. Figure it out.”

“Oh,” I say, turning away, and I can’t help but grimace as the full reality dawns on me.

“You don’t need to go now, do you?”

“No.”

“Good. Then maybe I can ask you something.”

I turn back. “Uh… Sure.”

She sits up and relaxes her expression somewhat. “How’d you get here?”

I hesitate. “I’m not really sure.”

“Fine then, what are you sure of?”

“…That I woke up yesterday and found myself here. But not here, as in, this clearing, I mean… somewhere further south, I think. Stumbled around for a few hours until I reached this small lake, and this really weird… dragon…chicken… hybrid thing.”

“A cockatrice?”

“A what?”

“You saw a cockatrice?”

“Uh…” I hesitate again, then shrug. “If that’s what it’s called, yeah. I guess”

She stares at me blankly, then shakes her head with a smile. A small, condescending one, but a smile nonetheless. “Don’t try that on me.”

“Try what?”

“Just how gullible do you think I am? Seriously, a cockatrice? This far north? Ooh, ooh, let me guess: you fought it.”

“…No, it… stared at me.”

“Stared at you?”

“And then it ran away.”

“Ha!” She claps her… hooves together, then settles back down, looking at me with that same smile, which I’m starting to dislike more than her frown. “Well, isn’t this a surprise? I have sitting before me the next great heroine of Equestria, who came from a land beyond the bounds of the known laws of physics, and can outstare a cockatrice. What next? Chocolate rain? Time travel? The possibilities are endless!”

“…I’m a guy, you realise.”

Her smile fades into a look of annoyance. “That’s what you pick up on?”

I don’t respond.

“Whatever,” she says dismissively, looking down and rubbing her brow. “So, what happened after you… did battle with this so-called cockatrice?”

“…After it ran away, I started heading off again. But then I had these severe headaches, and then I lost control of my legs, and then I couldn’t speak, and then I couldn’t move, and then… I passed out. So, yeah, that’s my story. Thrilling, I’m sure.”

“My heart is racing.”

“Yep.” I sigh and turn away again. “Thought as much.”

“What did you expect? Of all the absurd things you’ve said today, that takes the cake. So, don’t go playing yourself up like you’re some heroine from the old days, because you’re not.”

“I wasn’t trying to. And what’s so special about a cockatrice anyway?”

“Don’t play dumb with me.”

“I’m not playing dumb — I am dumb,” I retort, turning back to her once more, straining to keep my frustration in check. “How many times do I have to tell you? I have no idea what’s going on, or what Equestria is, or where it is, or why I’m here, or… anything. Do you think I like asking you to fill the blanks all the time?”

“I think you need a therapist.”

“After what I went through yesterday, yeah, probably. But that’s beside the point.”

“And your point is?”

I pause. I’ve forgotten where this little tirade was supposed to be going, and now I just feel lost and foolish. But I can’t admit it, because that would lose me what little credibility I have with her, so I have to say something. “I’m scared,” I answer honestly. “I’m really, truly scared.”

Amber holds my gaze, considering my response with an unreadable air about her, then blinks and looks away, facing the hearth again. “You’re weird,” she says, but without much weight behind it.

“So are you,” I reply, just as meek.

A long silence follows, broken only by the gentle crack and sizzle of burning timber. The sun has practically set now, leaving only the faintest trace of blue in the sky, which is quickly filling with stars. The room is almost completely dark, barring the orange glow of the fire and the soft moonlight that trickles through the window. It’s peaceful. And if I close my eyes, I can almost imagine I’m home.

Almost.

Amber hops down from the armchair and closes the shutters, sliding the latch in place, then returns to her spot by the hearth. She has that jaded look again, but it seems more… forlorn, this time. I think. It’s hard to tell in the flickering light.

“Why’re you out here?” I quietly ask. “By yourself, I mean.”

She doesn’t react, watching the dancing flames instead. “I like the space,” she finally replies, matching my volume. “And the silence.”

“What if you get hurt?”

“I’ll manage.”

“And if you can’t?”

“I’ll manage.”

I would have said the same thing yesterday. “Are you alright, Amber?”

She looks at me and frowns. “Yeah.”

“It’s just…”

“Just…?”

“…Nothing. Nothing, never mind.”

She stares a while longer, watching me with a sceptical eye, then shifts on the spot to face me. “I think we need to set some ground rules.”

“Ground rules?”

“Yes, ground rules. This is my house, after all, and you’re my guest. It’s only fair you follow the law of the land, isn’t it?”

“…I guess…”

“Good. So, Rule One: no getting personal, because I don’t want to hear your life story, and as soon as that leg of yours gets better, you’re gone. Rule Two: you do what I say when I say it. Not in five minutes, not in six hours — when I say it. Rule Three: don’t touch my stuff without asking. Rule Four: don’t touch me, ever. And Rule Five: no going in my room. And if you break any of them, I will kick you out, and then you can have a nice, jolly time finding your way back to civilisation on your own. Are we clear?”

“But you can touch my stuff without asking, right?”

“Excuse me?”

I retrieve my phone and hold it up. “Don’t think I didn’t notice.”

She scowls back, but says nothing.

“There’s one thing I hate more than small spaces, and that’s double standards, and people who think they can rub it in my face and get away with it. But I’m willing to let this slide, just this once, because as much of a pain as you’ve been… I don’t want to hate you. Are we clear?”

Her glare is spiteful and bitter, and yet, she remains silent, even as she stands up, storms toward me and stops beside the bench, her face a mask of utter disdain.

I feel the urge to shrink away, or prepare to defend myself, but I stand my ground and try to stay strong. If I show any sign of weakness, she’ll take it as all the justification she needs to boss me around to her heart’s content. In words and in force.

She reaches out, but instead of grabbing the collar of my shirt, she yanks the bowl from my lap, her eyes still locked with mine. Then she turns away, picks up her bowl from the armchair, and disappears into the kitchen, flashing me a vengeful glance as she passes through the archway.

When she returns, the bowls are gone, but the hostile look remains. She doesn’t stop, however, and marches past me, pushing open the door to her room and slamming it shut, and latching it for good measure. I hear some footsteps come from the other side of the wall, and then rustling sheets, and then there is silence once more.

“Good night, Amber,” I call out peevishly.

A loud, violent thump is all the response I get.

I sigh and put away my things, stuffing them back into my bag, which I set down on the floor. Then I take out the blanket from under my head, drape it over me — or as much of me as it can cover — and lie back down with another, heavier sigh.

This is going to be a very long, very tiresome venture.